The Third Wife Read Free

across the toe and a small heel. She was immaculate. Almost unnervingly so.
    They both turned to look at Billie once more.
    ‘So,’ said Adrian, ‘what do you think?’
    ‘I think she’s lovely,’ she said. Then she paused and looked at Adrian. He noticed with a start that her eyes were mismatched: one grey-blue, the other grey-blue with a chunk of amber. He caught his breath. There it was, he thought, the imperfection. Every woman he had ever loved had had one. A scar across the eyebrow (Caroline). A gap between her teeth (Susie). Bright red hair and a violent patterning of ginger freckles (Maya).
    ‘But’, she continued, ‘I’m not sure you’re ready to let her go.’
    He gazed at her curiously, interested to hear the theory behind her opinion.
    ‘How long have you lived with Billie?’ she asked.
    He shrugged. ‘Maya brought her with her. When she moved in with me. So, I guess, nearly four years.’
    He saw her rapidly working out the dates, behind those mismatched eyes. A wife who’d moved in and then died all within the space of three years. Tough stats to absorb. Unlikely and tragic, like a bad movie. But it wasn’t a bad movie. Oh no, indeed. It was his Real Life.
    She shook her head and smiled. ‘She is lovely,’ she said again. ‘But …’
    Adrian watched her forming her next words.
    ‘I’m not quite feeling it.’
    ‘You’re not quite feeling …?’
    He stared at the cat, looking at her objectively for the first time. He’d never been a cat person and he assumed that they were all much of a muchness. Four legs. Whiskers. Triangles for ears. Roughly the size of a briefcase. None of the endless, glorious variations of the dog form: ears that mopped the floor, ears that reached for the moon, flat snouts, pointy snouts, size of a squirrel, size of a small pony.
    ‘The connection.’
    He rubbed the point of his chin between his fingers and thumb and tried to look as though he could see her concern. ‘Right.’
    ‘Can I think about it?’ she said, hoisting the strap of her neat little oyster-grey handbag up on to her shoulder.
    ‘Of course! Of course! Yes, you’re the only person who replied to the ad so the ball is firmly in your court.’
    She smiled at him. ‘Great. Can I come back? Maybe tomorrow? Meet her again?’
    Adrian laughed. What a strange girl. ‘Er, yes. I should think so. Although I’ll be out and about a lot. Have you got my number? So you can call?’
    ‘Sure.’ She gave him her hand to shake. ‘I’ll call you mid-morning. See what we can arrange.’
    ‘Good.’ Adrian followed her towards his front door, opened it up for her.
    ‘Wow,’ she said, looking at his whiteboard, nailed to the wall above his desk. ‘This looks pretty boggling.’
    ‘Yes. Boggling is the word. A little like my life. This’ – he gestured at the chart – ‘is all that stands between me and total existential chaos.’
    She paused, a smile playing on her lips, and ran her finger across the words
Pearl 10th Birthday. Strada Upper St 6.30 p.m
. ‘Have you got her present?’
    He started at the question. So intrusive, yet so reasonable.
    ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Actually I have.’
    ‘Well done!’ she said. ‘Very organised. Right. Well, I’ll call you tomorrow. And thank you. Thank you for giving me time to think about it. Very important decision. Not one to be rushed.’
    ‘No, no, absolutely not.’
    He closed the door behind her and felt compelled to lean heavily against it, almost as though she’d taken his centre of gravity with her when she left.
    The whiteboard had been Maya’s idea. Maya was one of those people who saw straight through to the core of the issue and sorted it. And the issue was that even though all he wanted was for everyone to be happy, he kept doing things that made people unhappy. And he wished he didn’t care. He wished he could just shrug and say, Well, you know, that’s life, nobody’s perfect. But every time he forgot a child’s birthday or an