Look to Your Wife. Paula Byrne

clad in a half-devoured dress, severed arms and legs. Why did he love this so much? She wondered about this side of Edward; a side she didn’t really know.

      ‘That spear’s rather phallic,’ she joked.

      ‘The whole thing is beautiful, astonishing.’

      Lisa was glad of the cool, a respite against the burning heat of the day. She lingered to buy a postcard. It was time to tell her parents that she had quietly remarried.

      ‘Let’s find a bacari. I’m desperate for a drink. Edward, it’s my honeymoon.’

      Edward disapproved of lunchtime drinking. He could be such a Puritan. He liked breakfast, lunch, afternoon tea, supper. Sometimes, when she offered him an early aperitif, he would say that he’d prefer a cup of tea. He would drink two glasses of wine over supper. He never liked to feel out of control.

      As they walked along the Salizada Sant’Antonin, Lisa spotted a dress shop called Banco Lotto n. 10. In the tiny window was a beautifully cut cashmere coat. There was a notice pasted on the door saying that the clothes sold inside were made by the female prisoners of the Casa di Reclusione Femminile. Lisa pushed the door open and walked in. The woman behind the counter spoke English, and she explained that the Guidecca’s Women’s Prison was situated behind the walls of a former thirteenth-century convent. There were about eighty inmates who ran a tailor’s workshop and then sold their goods in the little shop. Even Edward was intrigued.

      There were rails of organza dresses and coats, hats and scarves. Lisa bought a couple of silk scarves and the cashmere coat. She vowed to herself that she would try to discover more about the prison workshop and the women who made these beautiful clothes. Maybe she could write an article about it for Textiles magazine.

      That evening, Edward and Lisa went to the Teatro la Fenice. Chuck had made them promise to go to the theatre, as it was one of his favourite opera houses in Europe. They had smiled when they heard that Verdi’s Otello was being performed. They decided to dress up for the occasion. Edward wore black tie, and Lisa a backless Helmut Lang maxi dress of black, draped jersey. As Chuck had predicted, the theatre was indeed fabulous, if baroque was your thing. The gilded private boxes and crimson velvet seats, and the painted ceiling were opulent, though it was not Lisa’s aesthetic. Edward looked happy; he was glowing, and looked so handsome in his dinner jacket and bow tie.

      The opening was spectacular. The Cypriot crowd anxiously waiting for Otello’s ship to come in, singing the storm in a swell of percussion and brass. There was Desdemona, wearing a fish-net veil over her bright blonde hair, peering out looking for her husband, and then, there he is, the crowd are giving thanks and rejoicing. But something is wrong. Lisa sensed her husband stiffening beside her. His mouth was set in a hard line, his eyes angry.

      ‘We’re leaving,’ he whispered.

      Thank heavens they were sitting in the end seats. It was bad enough enduring the black looks of the audience as they left, without having to squash past a line of angry Venetians.

      Once outside in the balmy air, Lisa learned what had upset Edward. He spoke quietly, calmly.

      ‘He was blacked up. Can you believe it? I thought they’d put a stop to all that. It’s fine for a white man to play Otello, but why cover his face in soot? We’re supposed to be colour-blind.’

      ‘Edward, I barely had time to notice before you dragged me out. I understand why you’re upset, but shouldn’t the best singers have the best roles?’

      ‘Yes, of course, but, for God’s sake, it looked like shoe polish on his face. He looked absurd. And Verdi’s Otello is not particularly interested in race. Otello is the archetypal jealous Italian husband.’

      At that very moment, a gorgeous black man in a sharp suit walked past them, looking every inch as if he’d just walked out of Shakespeare’s imagination. He gave a barely perceptible nod in Edward’s direction, and an appreciative glance at Lisa. She was mesmerized.

      ‘Crikey, look at him, why didn’t they drag him off the streets and into the theatre!’

      They both burst out laughing, and the tension dissipated. Edward smiled and enveloped her in his arms. He gently kissed the top of her head. They walked home to bed.

      CHAPTER 5

       ‘I’m Going to Rescind that Ticket, Sir’

      The postcard of St Augustine in his study with his little dog, sent from Venice, was signed Mr and Mrs Chamberlain. Lisa waited for the storm to break. Her mother wanted the details. She tried not to feel disappointed that her daughter had married in a register office. Lisa told her that she didn’t want a fuss. She told her mother that after the ceremony, they ate thin slices of veal, sipped champagne, and gorged on confectionary from a corner shop. It was exactly how she wanted it. Her mother forgave her, even though she knew that the Pope wouldn’t. She had always worried that there weren’t going to be grandchildren with Pete, and she had a mother’s instinct that it would be different this time around.

      Lisa was pregnant when they returned from the honeymoon. They called their daughter Emma.

      Lisa loved her with a visceral passion and ferocity. She herself was born in August, a Leo, and although she didn’t hold much faith in astrology, she was a lioness through and through. She had flaws aplenty, but she also had loyalty and courage in spades. Her revered Coco Chanel was a Leo too, and collected lions, and used them again and again in her work. Lions embroidered onto bags, costume jewellery, even jackets.

      It had been a tricky start to motherhood, however. Emma was premature and tiny. Her lungs were not developed, so she was whipped away into intensive care before Lisa could bond with her. There was a terrible moment when she experienced a fleeting desire to grab the baby and smash its tender skull on the hard hospital floor. The feeling went as quickly as it came, but it horrified Lisa. Is this how an animal feels when confronted with the runt of the litter? It was a Lady Macbeth moment. She dared not tell a soul, not even Edward, who understood her so well, and would never judge. She felt a deep sense of shame.

      The love for baby Emma came later, but, when it did, it was all-encompassing. It was the truest, purest, love of her life. Emma was her Achilles’ Heel. She would die for her. The difficult first few months – Emma in an incubator, with the only possible contact through a tiny finger-hole in the Perspex casing – brought her close to Chuck, who had by now been promoted to deputy head. He had become Edward’s trusted confidant.

      Chuck had lost a baby. A boy. The baby had been three weeks old when he and Milly found him lifeless in his cot. Cold as any stone. Chuck – smart-talking Chuck, the coolest dude to come out of South Carolina – still cried when the boy was mentioned. His marriage to Milly had foundered under the strain, though they would always remain the best of friends. Milly ran a small local charity for battered wives. Edward arranged for it to be the school charity, supported by cake-sale days, and sponsored walks along the banks of the Mersey.

      Some of Lisa’s colleagues disliked Chuck: he was too American, too forthright, too clever. But she knew what he had suffered. She sympathized, and he in turn revealed a tender side as baby Emma struggled to pull through those first weeks.

      Despite this, Lisa was never entirely sure that Chuck could be trusted. Soon after arriving at St Joseph’s, she had been warned by a colleague to be wary of him.

      ‘Do you know what he said about you?’

      ‘No, Jan, and I’m not sure I want to. I’m insecure enough as it is.’

      ‘Well, I’m going to tell you because he’s no friend to you. He doesn’t like women, Lisa.’

      ‘What do you mean? He’s not gay. No one has a better gaydar than me. Go on then, what did he say?’

      ‘Well, it was at your book launch party.