A Good Wife

Chapter One

One year ago

Gloria pulled a length of wool from beneath her arm, letting her eyes linger over the unopened lemon creams in her underwear drawer.

She placed her phone on the polished chest of drawers. Georgie, are you having me on? she said, selecting the loudspeaker functionality that would free her hands to crochet lilac loops. As a rule, she didn’t do handiwork. Her intention, though, was to distract herself from eating. Her waistline had thickened in the past ten years, and with mere months before turning sixty, she wasn’t about to give in to her body’s wish to explode, no matter how hard it was attempting to do so.

The hook worked effortlessly in breaking open the biscuit wrapper. Gloria took two. One was such an awkward quantity when it came to lemon creams. There was comfort and irony in knowing she’d kept to her latest diet’s golden rule, self-appointed, that is, of not touching, looking at, eating from, sobbing over, or even caressing the biscuit tin – or, for that matter, any lurking packets – for the next six weeks. Roger would be proud she’d kept to it. Not that he minded, or even mentioned her fuller figure . . . too often, that is. The main thing was, she wouldn’t have to lie – to herself or to him. That was the key to their marriage. No lies, no secrets.

No, I’m not, Georgie said, her voice rising before ending with a defining t.

Gloria was sure her neighbours were now in on the conversation. For not even the distance between houses, with their established foliage and aged trees filling the depths of manicured gardens, could contain Georgie’s heightened state.

Gwen is dead, Georgie repeated, mid-morning, today.

Gloria felt her body slumping. That puts paid to our Kreef Bay weekend then.

Are you serious, Gloria? That’s all you’ve got to say?

Gloria’s eyes flew open. No. No. I mean. Of course it’s not. It’s just that, well, she was perfectly fine when I saw her yesterday. We’d met for a coffee at that new place in Rondebosch, Blossom’s. The reviews live up to reality, by the way. A mixture of modern and Victorian. A touch of flowery wallpaper and matching china. Amazing place, considering it’s along Main Road, next to that awful shoe repair bar. The brownies … Gloria stopped to gasp … I tried Gwen’s, only a corner, mind. You’ll love them—

Gloria! Georgie interrupted, once again engaging the neighbours.

Gloria pulled a face. Sorry. Yes, where was I? Oh yes. Gwen. Yes, later she popped in at the house to ask Roger to check over some paperwork; they were laughing together in his study. I left them to it. Don’t tell me it was her heart. She brushed crumbs from the duvet. I remember her telling me how she hoped her death would be dramatic, trampled by elephants while on safari – something like that. Are you sure she’s dead?

Georgie’s voice sounded tired. She was at her swimming class.

Gloria needed her phone against her ear to continue this conversation. Really? She couldn’t swim?

Gloria!

Didn’t anybody see her struggling in the deep end?

Gloria, you really are an insensitive cow. It’s no wonder Roger is away a couple of days a week.

Gloria chose to ignore the jibe. I think we should meet at Gwen’s house. Gwen-too and Mabel need our support. I can be there by eleven.

No. Gwen-too said wait until she’s ready.

Really? We’re practically family. There when she was born … powdered her bottom over the years. And Mabel’s.

Practically or not, she said she needed time alone. I’ll speak to you soon.

Gloria sat with lilac loops in her lap. Gwen was dead. And she couldn’t swim? Gloria had been friends with Gwen and Georgie since college days, where they’d met, having simultaneously arrived in South Africa from the UK at the end of their teens. There had been an instant bond between the three girls, based – they’d agreed over the years – on a reluctance of sticking to the norm, to all that was good, and of course their forced upheaval to follow parents seeking a new life under the premise of creating a good future for their children in a nice country like South Africa.

The irony of this, Gloria had been known to add, was that so many families had left nice South Africa, quickly, eager to return to stewed cups of tea. Unable, or dare she suggest, unwilling, to acquire a taste for the humble cup of Rooibos, and of course coils of wors and open-fire cooking, so loved by their new countrymen.

Even her own parents had eventually returned home. To retire, they’d said. To stoke a coal fire and mull over the Queen’s speech once a traditional Christmas lunch has been enjoyed. Her mother had ended Gloria’s pleas of Stay a few more years! by stressing such meals and festivities could really only ever be enjoyed in a cold environment, where the wearing of your father’s hand-knitted jumpers and long, thick socks is required. They were hardly reasons to return, and Gloria had waved them off shortly after returning from her honeymoon. Now, Gwen and Georgie were far more her family, in her life for over forty years.

Gloria was confounded she hadn’t known Gwen couldn’t swim. For goodness sake, they’d graduated together, partied together, shared just about everything together. They even all shared a G at the beginning of their names. Why couldn’t she swim?

Gwen had been the one to introduce Gloria to Roger. He’d been a friend of a friend who’d stood him up. Oh no, Roger. How would she tell Roger? She would be matter-of-fact about it. Roger liked that. No fluffiness, no tears, no emotions. When they’d first met, she’d cry often over a love story or a dying plant, but he’d taught her not to. Never good to have puffy eyes, or let your opponent know you’re weak, he would tell her.

He’d never believe Gwen couldn’t swim. Did he know she couldn’t swim? Surely not. He’d be upset, though, having spent many a day and night babbling on about the rights and wrongs of conservation and the depleting ozone layer with Gwen.

Gloria took a deep breath and got up. How fickle life is, she thought. How little we know about each other. Why on Earth didn’t Gwen know how to swim?

She turned back to the lemon creams. Two more wouldn’t be too hard to work off. Would they?

Gloria heard Roger pulling into the garage. He was, as expected, on time. Always six pm, never a moment earlier or later. She closed the novel she’d been holding for the past couple of hours. A novel she was only three chapters in, and a novel that was thus far page after page of boredom.

For heaven’s sake, she’d said to Alice at book club three weeks ago, how many pages does Muriel Childworth need to discuss her year-long retreat amongst an order of nuns advocating a vow of silence?

Alice inhaled before inhibiting a – slightly – muted sigh. You don’t get it. Her whole being was full of disdain. Muriel is a legend when it comes to anthropology and exploration. Read it, Gloria. Get it, Gloria.

Get it, Gloria said. There’s not a lot of chat to share and get, is there? Even their hand signals were limited. She’d backed this up by flicking through the pages and pointing out photos of Muriel in a variety of settings, her hands palm-up to the sky in every one.

If she had any hope of chairing the book club discussion next week, she’d be Googling reviews by the weekend. Or even better, she’d make a stop at the library to question the staff. They always seemed to have opinions on books such as these. Boring books. At least Ms Martiz did. Oh, how that woman enjoyed her status of book carer, taking the position of chief librarian so seriously by stereotyping herself with a tight bun to the back of her head, and half-mooned glasses perched on her nose. It would be worth talking to her, if only to watch the veins at her temples pulse when she realised she was required.

Gwen had told her once that Ms Maritz was in her late twenties. Gloria had argued this wasn’t possible, as nobody that young would dress in wool stockings all year long, and in such a hot climate. The three of them had been in the library at the time, browsing rather than choosing. Georgie had interjected by suggesting they were held in place with a garter belt. Gwen had laughed so hard they’d been asked to leave. They had, sniggering as if they were young girls again, instead of the almost-pensioners they were.

Gloria removed the beginnings of a smile when she thought of how she would be disclosing Gwen’s death shortly. She would laugh with Georgie over Ms Maritz and her garters later. Now was time for composure.

Roger filled the kitchen as he came in. Gloria noted the lines around the corner of his mouth as he smiled. They’d been married thirty-five years this past July. He’d aged well. The folded newspaper he’d carried was dropped on the table next to the condiments.

Let me help you with your tie. Gloria brushed her lips over his as she loosened the silk fabric. Cape Town busy today?

Roger nodded. Always is. People scurrying here and there. Money to be made. He slipped his tie over his head. Something smells nice.

She ran her fingers across his cheek and over his chin. You smell nice. New aftershave you’re trying out? Rather sweet, don’t you think?

Roger slipped his suit jacket onto the back of his chair. Probably from an intern at the coffee machine. Thabo, my predecessor, he’s initiated a continued series of them. Young, keen, they are. He lifted the glass Gloria had poured. Closing his eyes briefly, his nose trembled as he inhaled the contents. The merlot. My favourite.

The last bottle, I’m afraid. Do you think we could get a case this weekend?

Roger didn’t reply. What’s news with you today?

Gloria began serving food, concentrating on Roger’s plate first. I didn’t want to bother you at work, but something awful has happened.

Having had all day to work through her own shock and grief, and knowing Roger so very, very well, she was satisfied he would be pleased with her practised emotionless delivery. Anything more, and he would have frowned and sighed. Many, many times. It had been the same when his mother died: no tears allowed; no grief to enter the house. Gloria had not been surprised. Roger wasn’t one to administer compassion.

Roger reached for the newspaper. Tell me you didn’t forget to pick up my dry-cleaning again? I really need my grey suit for my trip this week.

Gwen died. There it was – she could see his frown forming. And then he sighed before he spoke.

Don’t be silly, I saw her this morning.

You did?

Yes, she dropped by for the papers we were going over last night. It was around ten.

She did? I’ve never been to your office.

Well, she did. Come on, don’t joke about that sort of thing.

I’m not. It’s true. Gwen died. At her swimming lesson, Gloria said, shaking her head. The trouble is, I can’t get my head around she couldn’t swim. I mean, Gwen is, was, one of my best friends. Do you think I’m heartless? Georgie does. She paused, as Roger sat back in his chair, his face draining. She reached to touch his arm. Are you okay? You’ve gone awfully pale.

Chapter Two

Georgie rose from her pew. It was true, dark colours were always flattering. Her sheer stockings and scarlet heels weren’t ideal funeral attire, but she’d satisfied herself by wearing a body-hugging black suit to counter the effect. Gwen would have loved it, just as she loved anything that pushed the boundaries of normality.

Taking a slow-yet-deliberate walk towards the pulpit, Georgie exaggerated her hip movement. She smiled as a collective muttering from the pearl set reached her. Georgie liked to think the women were jealous. And why wouldn’t they be? She ran her hands over her hips.

Georgie wasn’t surprised the stone church Gwen enjoyed in Hout Bay was so full, not even on a day when the cold and unwelcoming sea was to be heard, pounding, mere metres from where they sat. Having lost her parents at a young age, and never having had siblings, Gwen had more than compensated by being sociable. Life and soul of the party didn’t come close to describing Gwen – whirlwind of life seemed more adept.

Georgie held her hand to the minister, waiting as he composed himself before he helped her forward; his Bible, she suspected, acted as a barrier between them. Her fingers rested on his arm for longer than was needed and she smiled as his pupils dilated. Mouthing thank-you, she once again listened to repeated mutterings from the first rows. There was, after all, room in this world for those who intended to live, just as there was room for those preferring to tend their grandchildren and shop for comfortable shoes.

Georgie fanned her platinum hair with gloved hands. The leather was high quality, almost skin-like, a must to conceal the single part of her body she was unable to medically prevent ageing. She ran her eyes over the mourners who were waiting for her to begin. Noting Gloria’s rolling eyes, she raised her right eyebrow. Next to Gloria was Roger, deep in thought, unusually quiet. Then there was Gwen’s daughter, Gwen-too, holding the hand of her own child, a sweet thing even by Georgie’s standards, somewhere around five or six, father unknown.

Life, she found herself reflecting, had a tendency to repeat itself. The front row was proof for all to see. There’d been no reason for Gwen-too to follow her mother’s lifestyle. Not even Gloria’s fanciful belief in destiny. Yet she had. Both had never married and both had produced a child of which father remained unknown. Not that anyone had suffered for this, deliberately or not. Roger had stepped in as surrogate father and subsequent grandfather, attending celebratory occasions, quietly content to be referred to as Pops by both.

Georgie heard the minister signalling. She didn’t need to see him to know his head was tilted forward, his hand to his mouth, clearing his throat.

Georgie took a deep breath. As much as she enjoyed the attention, she still felt Roger should have been at the pulpit, his baritone voice comforting those present. It was out of character for him to refuse.

No, he’d said, as they considered the order of service. It really should be one of you. I wouldn’t have suitable words.

Gloria had said she couldn’t either. Wouldn’t.

Stage fright, she said, strings of lilac crochet raised and waved. Georgie, it’s all yours.

Georgie hadn’t needed additional prompting, and had taken some time outlining to them her entrance.

Perfect, Gloria said.

Roger poured them a sherry. You will be marvellous. We will take care of the tea. He handed Gloria her glass. Extra smooth for you. Won’t we?

I can make quiche, Georgie said. Would that help? Her eyes twinkled towards Gloria. Georgie was well aware of Gloria’s limited culinary qualities, her signature dish, beef wellington with garden vegetables – courtesy, that is, of Hannah’s Straight from the Oven into Your Home delivery service.

How was I? Georgie said, welcoming the martini on her lips as she held the tip of one of Hannah’s cheese sticks between gloved fingers. They were back at Gloria and Roger’s, amongst beautiful kitchen appliances that were more display than use. Did I say too much? Was I there too long? I thought Gwen-too appreciated everything I said.

Gloria continued drying the many serving platters the mourners had emptied. Yes, yes, and I’m not so sure.

They get on so well, don’t they?

Gloria took a dry cloth. Who?

Georgie was watching Roger in the garden, his cigar smoke coiling and rising above his head. Gwen-too was there, as tall as Roger, their arms entwined. They had their backs to the house, facing a wall of shedding trees towards the rear of the garden. It appeared as if they were shielding their eyes from the afternoon sun bouncing from the pool. Mabel joined them, kicking the autumn leaves. Roger knelt down and lifted a handful. Mabel squealed as he showered them over her.

Them, Georgie said, folding her arms. You’ve been a saint, allowing Roger to share himself with Gwen and Gwen-too, and now Mabel.

I hardly allowed him. But why shouldn’t I? His heart has always been big enough for us all. And anyway, Gwen was alone; she was a good friend. She prodded Georgie with a spatula. We’d have done the same for you.

Ouch, Georgie said, rubbing her waist. Now you tell me. I’d have had fifteen monsters and dumped them on you, returning for Christmas, bearing gifts before leaving before midnight if I’d known.

If they’d come from you they would have been monsters, Gloria said, closing the cutlery drawer.

Spitting venom, smoking weed, and enjoying martinis from birth. Georgie shuddered. So glad that joy passed me by. What about you? She sucked in air. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.

Gloria filled the kettle. Tea? It’s fine. I’m long over the baby thing. We couldn’t have children and dealt with it.

Georgie reached for some cups, Gloria’s best Doulton, only brought out for special occasions. You tried hard enough, though, didn’t you?

Gloria prodded Georgie once more. Yes, thank you very much. We tried, very, very hard.

You never told us who was the problem. Was it slow swimmers or no eggs?

That’s rather personal, Gloria said, flicking on the kettle.

Georgie filled a jug with milk. Oh, come on. We’ve been friends longer than living memory. You know as much about me as I do. And, she said, catching the spatula and waving it at Gloria, and before you prod me again with this thing, wasn’t it I who enlightened you on electronic pleasure devices when you considered accepting the rabbit you’d been offered by some tele-sales lady? Georgie threw her head back. Mabel was going to have it for her birthday. My word, can you imagine the child taking that to school for show-and-tell.

Gloria flicked her fringe. Yes, and while you did save me blushes with the … the …

Georgie’s hands were in the air. Rabbit – come on, you can say it.

Gloria closed her eyes and covered her ears. Rabbit. She opened them and dropped her hands. Happy? We never asked you to share so much. It comes naturally to you. But, if you must know, we don’t know.

Georgie pulled off her gloves and massaged her hands. What do you mean, don’t know. How could you not know?

We. I, that is. I couldn’t face the tests, or feeling of failure if it was me. Roger didn’t push and, with Gwen-too arriving, she filled a void and we never spoke of it again.

So you’re telling me you will go to your grave never knowing who had the faulty parts?

Gloria stopped the kettle whistling. Yes. Pass me a spoon to stir.

And there’re no regrets?

Georgie thought she caught hesitation before Gloria responded. That was certainly unusual. Gloria was an open book, saw no wrong in any. Blinkered. Georgie wondered if she’d found a weakness, other than Gloria’s ability to be hurt through a frustrating need to trust.

None. Gloria opened her palm. Spoon.

Chapter Three

Are you going to stand there all day, or fill those boxes? Georgie said, securing a black bag of Gwen’s shoes. They’d been sorting Gwen’s belongings all morning, and at this rate would be there for several more days.

Georgie hadn’t been in Gwen’s bedroom