The Dead Wife. Sue Fortin

felt like home to him and, despite his mother’s best intentions to subtly change his perception with her own version of cognitive behavioural therapy, Harry knew the sooner he was away from Conmere House the better he would be. The sabbatical in France with the design company was the perfect excuse to break the family ties. He followed his mother down the path that bordered the lush green lawn and through the open patio doors into the main living room. The three white fluffy hounds scampered back and forth along the path, excitedly announcing the arrival of Harry.

      ‘Oh, thank God you’re here. Mum was about to put out an APB, ring all the local hospitals and get the BBC to reconstruct your last known movements on a special edition of Crimewatch.’

      Harry’s older brother rose from the armchair he was occupying and greeted his brother with a handshake and slap on the back.

      ‘He’s exaggerating. Take no notice,’ said Pru. ‘Now, I’ll make us all a coffee. Are you hungry? I can make a sandwich or get something sent through from the cafe.’

      ‘Coffee will do fine, thanks, Mum. I stopped on the way for something to eat,’ said Harry over the noise of the dogs, who were building themselves up into a frenzy of whining and yapping.

      ‘Oh, the girls are so pleased to see you,’ laughed Pru as she headed out of the room.

      Harry exchanged a look with his brother. A sadistic smile spread across Dominic’s face. He looked down at the dogs and gave a swift kick to one of them, catching her bottom. The dog yelped. ‘Now fuck off,’ said Dominic, holding his arm outstretched. He hustled the dogs out through the patio doors. ‘Jesus, they get on my nerves. They must be the most pampered pooches in the county.’

      ‘I forgot what a compassionate soul you were,’ said Harry. ‘You’d better not let Mum see you do that.’

      Dominic gave a shrug. ‘Anyway, I’m glad you’re here,’ he said, walking over to the drinks tray on the walnut sideboard. ‘I wasn’t sure if we’d actually see you.’

      ‘Really? Why’s that?’ Harry settled himself in the wing-backed armchair by the fireplace, a favourite spot of his late father’s. Max Sinclair had always sat in that seat and woe betide anyone who had dared occupy it. Harry rested his hands on the arms and mentally gave his father a two-fingered salute. He hoped the old bastard could see him now and that he was turning in his grave.

      Dominic paused with a bottle of gin in his hand and turned to give his brother a reproachful look. ‘You really need me to spell it out? How many times have you been back to the estate since Elizabeth’s accident?’

      ‘I’ve been busy in France,’ said Harry, noting the uneasy roll his stomach gave.

      Dominic made a scoffing noise as he returned to mixing himself a G&T. He gestured with the bottle to Harry, who shook his head. Dominic sat down on the sofa with his drink. ‘I’ll tell you how many times … three. Christmas two years ago and twice for Mum’s birthday.’

      ‘I’m a dutiful son,’ said Harry. ‘Like I said, I’ve been busy. Anyway, I’m here now for the grand reopening. What’s the problem?’

      Harry knew what the problem was but acting ignorant somehow gave him an excuse, if only to himself. Of course, everyone knew what the real reason was for his absence but for the most part they skirted around it. Dominic, however, appeared to want to buck the trend. Harry eyed his older brother as he rested his forearms on his knees, his hands clasped around the crystal-cut tumbler.

      ‘Mum misses you,’ began Dominic. ‘She worries about you.’

      ‘She doesn’t need to,’ said Harry. ‘I’m a grown man in my thirties; I don’t need my mother clucking round me. In fact, I don’t need anyone worrying about me.’

      ‘Bit of a selfish attitude,’ said Dominic, swigging the G&T down.

      ‘She worries unnecessarily. It’s suffocating. Why do you think I moved to France?’

      Dominic sat back in his seat. ‘OK, I’ll level with you.’ He gave a furtive glance towards the door. ‘This is strictly between us.’ He took a deep breath and Harry knew he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear. He steeled himself as his brother continued. ‘Mum’s not well. Not well at all.’

      Harry’s body gave an involuntary jolt. ‘How unwell are we talking?’

      Dominic rose and poured himself another drink and this time made Harry a neat Scotch. He passed it over and resumed his position on the sofa.

      ‘Dom, how ill?’

      Dominic gave him a steadying look. ‘The cancer is back.’

      Harry sucked in a breath so hard, he almost winded himself. ‘Prognosis?’

      ‘The worst. Months.’

      ‘How many?’

      ‘Twelve if we’re lucky. Six if we’re not.’

      ‘We’ll get a second opinion. I know some brilliant doctors in France,’ began Harry, allowing his pragmatic approach to jump ahead of his emotions, a trait he’d learned at a young age when dealing with his father. ‘She’ll get the best treatment and fast.’

      Dominic shook his head. ‘It’s too late. Don’t you think I’ve made sure she’s seen all the top oncologists? Nothing more can be done.’

      ‘Radiotherapy? Chemo? Surely there must be something?’

      ‘No. It’s untreatable. Besides, she’s refusing to go through chemo again.’

      ‘On what basis?’

      ‘On the basis of freedom of choice,’ snapped Dominic, and then became calmer. ‘She wants to live her last months to their fullest. She doesn’t want to spend them sick, recovering from treatment which to all intents and purposes is futile. You know how ill she was before. She literally can’t face it again.’

      ‘Fuck,’ muttered Harry as his emotions finally surfaced. He downed the Scotch in one go and rested his forehead in his hand. ‘Fuck.’

      ‘Sorry, mate,’ said Dominic.

      Harry let out a long breath, composing himself before sitting back in his chair. ‘But she looks so well.’

      ‘You know Mum. She’s a trooper.’

      Prudence Sinclair had to be the most stoic woman Harry knew. For a start, when she was just twenty years old she had moved thousands of miles from her home in Texas after falling in love with his father, Max, who was working out there on the family cattle ranch one summer. Harry had never heard her once complain about her life in the UK, and to the outside world Max and Pru Sinclair had had it all – a wonderful life, consisting of a grand family estate and four sons, until tragedy had stepped in with the death of Elliot, the youngest of the boys, who had died at three months old from cot death. A turning point in their lives where nothing was ever quite the same. Not that the outside world would know, but inwardly, behind the imposing gates and high walls of Conmere House, the dynamics had shifted, and the once solid foundations had begun to subside. It was only Pru’s underpinning that had saved them. According to Pru, Max had never got over the loss of their youngest son and had carried his heartbreak to the grave, although Harry had always been sceptical of this and privately assigned his mother’s thoughts to wishful thinking on her part. Harry remembered his father as someone who was hard to please, someone around whom he and his brothers had tiptoed for fear of upsetting him. Max was someone who believed in strong discipline and especially so where his sons were concerned. Harry had long since replaced the ‘strong discipline’ mentality with that of a bully.

      ‘Does Owen know?’ asked Harry, his thoughts turning to his younger brother.

      ‘Not yet. Mum doesn’t want to tell him. She’s worried he’ll start drinking again.’

      ‘He’s been sober for a good eighteen months,’ said Harry. ‘Do you think he would?’

      ‘Who