The Difficult Wife
Sophie surfaced slowly from the mist of pain and bleeps, like she was rising from the bottom of a very deep well.
Sophie Andrews, are you with us? The monitors say you are. Try to open your eyes, came the muffled, distant voice of a stranger.
She triedreallybut her eyelids felt as if they’d been cast from lead. Her body seemed foreign, aching in every cell, while a persistent, piercing whine echoed in her ears.
The place smelt of hospitala sterilised, medicinal tang between bleach and something bitter, unmistakable and, unfortunately, familiar.
Thats it, the voice rumbled closer now. Youre breathing on your own, thats brilliant.
With effort, Sophie forced her eyes open. Instantly, a blinding light smacked her retinas, and she squeezed them shut again. The world looked like a watercolour in a thunderstorm: white ceiling, white walls, some tubing deliciously and pointlessly plumbing her right arm.
Staring down at her was the face of an older man, creased with years of frowning. His serious blue eyes peeked from under a pair of defiant, grey brows. White cap on head, surgical mask below chin.
Where…am I? The breath rasped out of her, so faint it was barely a breath at all.
Intensive care, replied the man, twiddling with the monitors on a tripod beside her bed. Central London Hospital.
Accident she managed. Wasnt there an accident…?
The memory flickeredblazing sun, windscreen glare, the road, her drivingbut the destination had dropped out.
Yes, a car accident. Do you remember?
I was on my way for a check-up. We wanted to try IVF. We couldntwell, have children, you see
Thats right, the consultant confirmed, deadpan. Im your doctorDr. Barry Knightley, consultant in intensive care. You were in a very serious crash.
As her mind began clearing, the memories returned, one after anotherfollowed closely, as if on a lead, by a cold, creeping dread.
My husbanddoes he know? Is he alright?
He knows, Dr. Knightley said, even drier than before. He wasnt in the car. Didnt get so much as a scratch.
Sophie frowned, trying to fish out memories scattered like an upended box of puzzle pieces. Oh, right. George was meant to join her at the clinic after work. She was driving solo.
How longhave I been here? The sticky chill of panic crept from chest to fingers.
For a moment, Dr. Knightley paused, sighing so heavily the hissing equipment almost seemed to hush in respect.
You need to get stronger. But you must know: what Im about to say will be a shock.
Say it, Sophie whispered, as if bracing for a cold splash.
The accident was a long time ago. You were unconscious for a very long time.
How long? A week? Two? she ventured, sure she couldnt be far off.
Youve been in a coma for three years.
At that, Sophies world fell through itself, dropping her right back to the void shed crawled out of.
Nono, that cant be. Thats notthis must be a joke
Three years, Dr. Knightley said, with firm finality. Severe head injury, lots of broken bones. You barely pulled through. We thoughtits no good to sugarcoat. You were on the brink.
Three years.
She glanced at her hand on the starched NHS blanketpale, thin, but hers. Alive.
You were lucky, the doctor allowed, voice thawing just a tad. Youve a rare blood group. Needed transfusionsand the blood bank didnt have any.
He paused, then added, Your husband saved you. Same blood group, luckily. Donated as much as he could. Proper hero. His blood pretty much brought you back.
The words drifted down, heavy and surreal. Georgedonorsaved her life.
Curiously, the thought brought no comfort at all. Oddly enough, a kind of unease stirred at the edge of her mind. She was almost certain their blood groups didnt matchbut she had no energy to argue. She slid gently away, back into the elixir-soaked drowsiness.
When she surfaced again, the ward was quieter, its droning bleeps now just part of the scenery. Someone stood at her bedside.
That familiar, slightly bitter scent of expensive aftershave. Her husbands cologne.
Georgeshe knew it, even before seeing his face.
He stepped closer, features appearing in the half-light: the same perfect nose, determined jaw, hair so neatly parted it could have been drawn on. But his face was changedharsher, colder, like someone else’s.
A plump, middle-aged nursekind lines but tired eyesshuffled about, swapping drips. Sophie vaguely remembered her as Valerie.
George leaned in so close, she could feel his chilly breath on her cheek.
Darling, he purred, just for her ears, So good to see you at last.”
He smirked.
While youve been lounging about here for three years, Ive already inherited everything.
She blinked, not quite taking it in.
Inherited? What are you on about?
You knowthe papers, Soph. Those forms you so sweetly signed before your little sabbaticalremember those? You always did sign first, ask later. Power of attorneyover absolutely everything.
I I dont
Thank you for that, by the way, he whispered, poisonously pleasant. Didnt expect your naivety would ever be so profitable.
A memory flashedA&E, her pain, George leaning over her.
Just sign here, love, hed murmured then, gentle and urgent. Consent for surgery. Routine.
Her hand, trembling, had signed anything put in front of it.
Your late fathers business, darling, George explained, seeing todays confusion. Andrew left you that silly old logistics company. You never even cared. But I did. Turned it into a very, very lucrative affair.
He grinned wolfishly.
And now its mine. Entirely.
Fear thickened; she barely recognised the man shed married.
Youcouldnt have she gasped.
Could, did, done, he replied, straightening his immaculate cuffs. He glanced at Valerie: See to her, would you, Val?
Sophie squeezed her eyes shut, pretending sleep, unable to look at him. Hot tears stung trails down her temples.
His expensive shoes clicked away, echoing on the tiled floor. The nightmare was hers again, uninterrupted.
Valeries warm hand gently wiped Sophies cheeks.
There now, love. Dont cry. Save your strength. Hes not worth those tears, the nurse soothed.
Thank you Sophie barely managed, holding back sobs.
Later, as Valerie changed her dressing, she leaned in, whispering:
Stay strong, petal. Nobody gets through all that and then falls to bits over a bloke. Trust me, hes neither the first nor the last to play that trick. Just get well. Itll all look up soon.
That everyday comfort, from an ordinary nurse, was the tiniest spark of light in the gloom.
Sophie called softly, Valerie
Yes, sweetheart?
The doctorhe said George was the donor.
Valeries expression turned firm.
Who told you that?
Dr. Knightley.
She shook her head, lips pursed.
Listen, duck, she murmured, voice low even though the ward was empty, George didnt give a drop. Didnt even know his blood group when I asked. Three times, mind. He just shooed me away.
Thenwhy did the doctor?
Mustve been told so. Probably by your George himselfloves playing the hero. Dr Knightleys brilliant with patients, not so much with admin. They said husbands the donorhe scribbled it down.
Then whose blood?
From a donor bank. Anonymous. Dodgy timing; you were lucky.
Valerie lightly patted her.
So, you dont owe him your life, love. Dont owe him a thing, actually. Got it?
Sophie nodded slowly. The heroic story was all fraud, like everything else.
That night, when the ward was darkest, she lay staring at the ceiling, trying to work out how she could have misjudged someone so badly. How had the George shed once loved become this cold, calculating stranger?
Almost as if her own memory was trolling her, it dragged up the very first day theyd met.
Four years ago, another lifetime.
Sophie had been running down the escalator at Oxford Circus in the rain, late for a big translation job interview. The crowd was squashed. Her heel broke.
Oh brill she muttered, swinging from the handrail.
Her shoe dangled uselessly, hair limp, umbrella a floppy mess.
Looks like Cinderellas not lost her slipper but her will to live, came a silky, sarcastic male voice beside her.
She looked up. Man in a tailored coat, wafting expensive aftershave and self-assurance. Not conventionally handsome, but big on impact.
Looks like Cinderellas about to cry, Sophie admitted. Ive got an interview in fifteen minutes. Like this
He scanned her up and down. Not critical, justsurveying.
You wont get it, he pronounced.
Well, cheers for that, mate, Sophie retorted.
Not rudeness. Practicality. George, he offered a hand.
Sophie, she replied, on autopilot.
Come on, Sophie. The tubes not for you today.
Sorry?
Ill give you a lift. And well sort the shoe issue as well.
I dont know you
You do now, he grinned, a smile that simply refused to take no. Consider it an investment in diplomacy. Youre a translator, right? Am I right?
Er, yes, but
No buts. Minutes ticking to make the best decision of your entire life.
Hed steamrollered through her protests that daydrove her to the interview, stopped for a posh pair of court shoes en route.
They cost a fortune! shed whispered.
They cost about as much as your future career, dont they? he replied.
Shed landed the job. That evening, George rang:
How did the shoes do? Lucky?
How did you get my number?
Sophie, darling, I know everything. Laughter. Dinner?
A long pause. She ended it first.
Yes.
Dinner led to a torrent of dates. George courted her like nobody beforegiant bouquets of rare flowers, dinners at swish places, surprise weekends away. She was swept up in a tidal wave of attention and charm.
Her younger sister, Anne, watched all this play out with a skeptical eye, quietly thinking that whoever had come up with the saying, love is blind, had probably had someone like George in mind.
Then came meeting the in-laws.
Georges father, David, was a stern, silent, outmoded type, peering at her across the table as if about to set her a maths test.
Translator, eh? he grunted. Not a real job. Women are for family. Children.
Dad George winced. Were working on it.
Working on it! Back in my day, we just let things happen.
Georges mother, Margaret, a retired English teacher, looked at Sophie with immediate warmth.
I suppose Im almost a colleague! Spent my life in the classroom, teaching English Lit, she said.
You taught? George never told me!
Whats there to tell? David interrupted. She sat in school earning peanuts.
Not true,” Margaret replied gently. “I loved my job.
And then, to Sophie, You have that look. You love words, dont you?
I really do, Sophie confessed, finally relaxing.
She spent the whole meal talking books with her would-be mother-in-law, who saw right through her. Not so much with her father-in-law, whoSophie later overhearddismissed her as, Pretty but hollow. Not useful.
Soon after, George insisted she quit her job.
Sophie, youre made for better things, he said, kissing her hand. Youll be the jewel of our home. Too smart for contracts and invoices. Do what you loveart, charity. Anything.
But I love my job
Youll love your new life more.
She believed him. Left her job. Became the perfect hostess at Georges country house, glittering at parties and galas.
Then came The Trying For A Baby phase.
A year went by. Then another. Doctors were blunt: no children.
Its my fault, Sophie sobbed.
Its nonsense, George consoled herbut his hugs grew formal, his patience thinner. Dont worry. Best clinics, best specialists, whatever it takes for the heir.
She wanted a child so desperately, she stopped noticing the coldness in his eyes, the frequent business trips, the simmering irritation.
At the same time, her father, Andrew, fell ill.
Sophie and Anne took turns nursing himno one else to help. Their mother had died of pneumonia from a random mushroom years agoclassic bad luck.
Andrew had risen from factory engineer to mid-range businessmannever arrogant, just comfortably independent.
He died three days before his fiftieth, just as Sophie and Anne were planning a blow-out birthday for him.
Funeral and grief blurred together for Sophie. George was impeccably polite and attentive, but mainly obsessed with the fiddly details of inheritance.
In her mourning haze, Sophie barely noticed. She regretted that deeply now, lying in hospital.
Back then, her father-in-law had been right: on paper, Sophie seemed a decorative accessory for a wealthy husband, nothing more.
Two days in hospital flew by in a blur. George never reappeared. Once she was stable, she was shunted off to a bustling four-bed ward, the whiff of toast and life a welcome upgrade from deathly quiet.
Anne visited that first day.
Sophie barely recognised her. Not the 19-year-old uni kid she remembered, but a worn, adult woman.
Sophie Anne fell into her arms, sobbing.
There, there, Sophie soothed, stroking Annes hair, Whats happened?
Its been three years, Soph. Ive been so scared for you
They sat down together. Anne steadied herself.
I have horrible news, she said.
Worse than all this? Sophie forced a grim smile.
Its himyour husband
What about George?
He chucked me outkicked me out of our home. Dads home.
Sophie froze.
How could he? Its yours too. Dads will
George says its all his now. Said you signed your half to him three years back. Showed me the papers. Changed every lock. I came home from my degree and all my stuff was in bin bags, out the front.
More papers. Always papers.
And thats not even all. Anne handed her a crumpled envelope. Hes filed for divorce.
Sophie read the letter, hands trembling.
What does it say?
He accuses you of being emotionally bankrupt and ungrateful. After his heroics. Annes voice shook with fury, The mans told everyone he saved your life!
Well, thats rich, Sophie muttered. Where are you living now?
Student digs. Sharing a room with a mate, if you can call it that. Hes taken everything from us, Soph. We have nothing left.
Well see about that, Sophie hissed, a steeliness emerging shed never known. If I cant walk, Ill crawl.
Anne shrugged, terrified it was all too much for Sophie.
Time in hospital ticked past like cold treacle. Thankfully, Sophies body was as stubborn as she was; she began to rally, giving hope for both her and the nurses.
She never saw George again. He carefully obtained all updates via her consultant, never exposing himself to uncomfortable contact.
By now, Sophie realised her husband had been biding his time, waiting for the heart monitor to go flat.
Two weeks later, she was discharged.
She stood outside the hospital gates, a little holdall in handValerie had packed it on the sly. She returned her gown, inhaled city air, and rang George.
Oh, youre out, he said, breezy as a spring breeze. Lovely.
George, Ive no money. My bank cards?
Blocked. You were gone three years, after all, he replied, with the sort of amusement that implied this was all really her fault.
He paused.
Lets be honeststart prepping for divorce. Sorry, but three years is a bit much to wait for a ghost. My solicitor will be in touch. Please dont call again.
He hung up.
Sophie sank onto a bench. It was May. Three years and three springs simply erased.
hours later, Anne scooped her up, with old jeans and a t-shirt for disguise.
Come with me to halls, Anne said.
Sophie, fragile and uncertain, half-hoped shed wake up back in hospital, for all that was preferable.
Their student room was tinytwo beds, one desk buried under fabric and sketches. Anne was studying design now.
Sophie, pale and wobbly, perched on the bed, staring out the window. Everythinghouse, parties, stylish clothesfelt like a cardboard set that had collapsed.
I need a job, Sophie announced that night.
Dont be daft, you need to restyoure barely upright, Anne protested.
Doctor said Im fine to work. We need the moneyI know three languages, after all.
So she fired up Annes battered laptop, loaded a random English site, skimmed some sentences, and felt satisfaction: she understood every word.
There we go! she said, relieved. I remember everything.
She opened a text editor to translate a paragraph, and then froze.
She knew the words, knew the English, but couldnt form any sensible phrase in her head. The words muddled themselvesungraspable, like a will-o’-the-wisp.
Whats wrong with me? she whispered, panic rising. She tried French. Same result. She understood, but couldnt bridge the gap from comprehension to communicationlike banging on a locked glass door.
Next morning, Sophie trudged back to the hospital.
Dr. Knightley listened, frowned, put her through some tests, and finally said:
Im afraid this is the after-effect of the trauma. Bruised the language centre. Its a kind of aphasia.
Im a cripple now? she asked.
No, no! he insisted. You understand everything. It should be temporary. Not permanent. You need patience, practice, rest. Itll come back, in time.
But I need a job now, she almost wailed. Money, worknow, not in some fuzzy future!
Easy, no rush, he said gently. Just get better. The rest, well sort.
That evening, Sophie asked Anne:
If I cant translate, what can I do?
You ran Georges big house, remember? Anne said quietly. And you cook like a dream. You made a home out of nothing.
Housekeeping experience, Sophie sighed. Better than nothing.
The next day, she went to a domestic staff agency.
The woman at HR gave her a look over the top of her glasses: skeptical.
Work experience?
I kept a large home ticking over, Sophie replied, test-piloting diplomacy.
All right then, housewife,” the lady snorted. Not a real cv entry, is it? Anything else?
She noticed the faded scar on Sophies temple.
Whats that, then?
I was recently discharged after an accident, Sophie admitted, not bothering to embellish.
Hmmm the woman pursed her lips. You look, frankly, not brilliant. Fragile. We need energetic staff. Well be in touch.
Please Sophie pleaded, wringing her hands. Ill take anything. Im tidy, can cook, clean, good with children.
The woman sighed; maybe Sophie’s desperation swayed her.
Theres one. But tricky. Consultant surgeon, Dr. Lionel Brown. Needs a governess for his daughter. Girls nine.
Ill take it.
Hold your horses. The woman lifted a brow. Its a tough gig. The last three nannies fled after a day. Wife passed in a crash, he works round the clock, daughters clammed up, barely speaks. See how far you get, if he gives you a shot at all.
The Browns riverside flat was large, slick and utterly soulless.
Dr. Lionel Brown was tall, severe, his weariness visible in every line. He didnt do small talk.
Youre Sophie Andrews, he announced, as if reading her name from a spreadsheet. Youve been briefed. Rooms on the left. Jessicas in the last one. Get on with it.
He vanished.
Sophie knocked timidly.
Jessica?
No reply. She cracked open the door.
The little girl, all thin limbs and two plaits, sat on the floor glued to a tablet, ignoring everything.
Hello Jessica, Sophie cooed. Im Sophie. Ill help with your schoolwork.
Jessica bristled visibly but resumed staring at the screen.
Brilliant. This was going to be a long job.
Days blurred together. Dr. Brown left before dawn, returned after dark. Jessica gave nothinga few yes/no grunts, otherwise silent. She ate, bathed, did homework mechanically, then retreated to her gadgets.
Sophie, with her fresh scars from hurt and betrayal, recognised the mute ache in the little girl all too clearly.
She snapped after three evenings and stormed in, unannounced.
Jessica, enough with the tablet now, Sophie said gently but firmly.
Jessica flashed a wary, animal-like look.
When I was little, Sophie continued, ignoring the stare, I loved making things from clay. Guess what? I think youve got something like that on your shelf.
Sure enough, there was a box of clay and modelling tools. Sophie took a lump, plopped down on the rug.
How about we build a castle for a princess? With a sky-high tower.
She kneaded the clay. Her fingers fumbled at first, but slowly remembered the moves. Words failed; hands didnt.
Jessica watched, fringe hiding her eyes.
Thats wrong, she piped up suddenly, in a pure, little voice.
What is?
The princess needs the tallest tower.
She snatched extra clay and built it up, expertly.
They sculpted in silence for nearly an hour.
Later, while picking up stray toys, Sophie found a battered album under Jessicas bed.
Ohwhats this? she asked, reaching for it.
Dont touch! Jessica snatched it. Its mummys.
Your mum drew these? Sophie asked softly.
Jessica nodded, hugging the album close. She delicately opened to the first page.
No photos. Instead, exquisite sketches: hand-crafted toys, puzzle diagrams, fabric animals. Beautiful and, oddly, full of purpose.
Sooo lovely Sophie breathed, enchanted.
Page by page, she realised these were more than doodlesthis was a visionary plan for educational games. On the final page was a neat logo: a flying bird with a block in its beak, Eleanors Studio: Clever Toys for Special Kids.
Special? Sophie asked.
Mum wanted a studio, Jessica sniffled. For kids like Michael.
Michael?
My friend. Mums friends son. He doesnt talk. Mum said he needed different things to help him. But Dad said it was all silly stuff.
Sophie stroked Jessicas hair, poring over the designsthis wasnt a hobby, it was an inspired calling.
She hardly slept that night, thinking about the joy these toys might bring, about Eleanor Brown, about Jessica and her silent grief.
She made up her mind: the dream must live.
Next night, she waited for Dr. Brown to come in. He entered the kitchen, scrubbing tired eyes.
Jessica asleep? he asked curtly.
Yes. And I need to speak with you.
He just nodded, barely present.
Sophie put the album on the table.
His hand froze, water glass held mid-air.
Whered you get that? his tone was stone.
Jessica and I found it. Its genius, Dr Brown.
Put it back. Now. Thats private property.
Youre wrong, Sophie found herself saying firmly, surprised at her own backbone. Its your wifes dream. And your daughters.
Keep my wife out of thisyou knew nothing about her!
Maybe I didnt, Sophie cried. But I know your daughter does. She comes alive around that album.
Jessica appeared sleepily in the doorway.
Dad, dont shout at Miss Sophie.
Lionels anger melted into confusion and pain.
Jessica, off to bed. Thats
Mummys album, Jessica protested, holding it close. Were going to make toys. Miss Sophie said so.
She looked at her father with bright, hopeful eyesthe sort he probably hadnt seen for years.
He glanced from Jessica to Sophie. Then heaved a massive sigh.
Do what you want, he said. Not that itll work.
Before Sophie could answer, he snapped: Dont ask me for any money. I wont be involved.
Off he stomped.
Sophie was undeterred.
That evening, she phoned Anne.
Annie, youre a designer, right? Can you help?
In what sense? Anne asked cautiously.
Weve got a project on the go.
So they started together.
The guest room became a mini-studio. Anne, with her laptop and basic graphic tablet; Sophie, with her taste for order and hesitant hands; together they knocked up first prototypes. They squeezed pennies to buy plywood, paint, fabrics.
Dr Brown pretended not to see the sawdust mountain.
Until, one day, Sophie overheard him on the phone: Marina, hi, its Lionel. Got a weird side-project hereJessicas new governess, toys for special needs kids, what Eleanor always wanted Come by, youre the expert.
The following day Marina visiteda child psychologist and friend, with a shy seven-year-old boy, Michael, clinging to her skirt.
Michaels on the spectrum, she explained. He doesnt talk. Usually ignores everything new.
Sophie placed their rainbow-shaped wooden puzzle in front of him. Michael, typically indifferent, gazed at it, then slowly reached out, gently slotting the pieces together.
Marina gasped, tears springing.
He would nevernever, she whispered, watching in disbelief.
For her, it was a miracle. For Sophiea clear proof.
Marina leapt on board, brought more parents. Word spread.
Anne, I think its time we registered as a company, Sophie said one morning.
Ooh! Annes eyes shone.
That night, Lionel, returning late, found an odd sight in his loungea studio littered with fabric scraps, sawdust, and Sophie, Anne, and Jessica giggling as they wrapped their first order in brown paper.
He halted, watching.
Sophie met his gaze. No fear, no need for his approvaljust calm resolve. For the first time, he didnt look away.
Marinais this what you wanted? Sophie asked, clutching their first proper order with hope in her voice.
