The Awkward Wife

An Awkward Wife

Sophie drifted upward through layers of pain and noise, like rising from the black depths of a cold village well.

Mrs. Hartley, can you hear me? We can see from your monitors that you’re awake. Try to open your eyes, an unfamiliar voice echoed, muffled and distant.

She tried, but her eyelids felt forged from lead. Her body was no longer hersheavy, unresponsive, each muscle aching with a dull, viscous pain that seemed to saturate her very bones. There was an incessant, high-pitched ringing in her ears.

The hospital smell was unmistakablesharp steriliser and something bitterly medicinal.

Thats it, the voice rumbled closer, comforting in its certainty. Youre breathing on your own. Thats good.

With effort, Sophie fluttered her lashes and peeled her eyes open. Flooded by bright white light, her instinct was to shut them against the hazeceiling and walls blurred into water-stained ivory; a line ran from her hand to some machine.

Leaning over her was the face of an older man, face carved by deep folds, silver eyebrows thick above intense grey eyes. His white cap and mask, hanging beneath his stubbled chin, marked him for a doctor.

Where am I? Her whispered breath barely disturbed the aira dry, rustling leaf.

In Intensive Care, the man said evenly, adjusting something on the monitor next to her bed. St. Johns Central.

An accident she murmured. There was an accident

A memory flared and faded: sunshine on the windscreen, the roada sense of heading somewhere important. But where?

Yes, an accident. Do you remember?

I was driving to my appointment. My husband and Iwe were hoping for IVF. We had troublewith children.

Correct, the doctor nodded. Im Dr. Bernard Ingram, your consultant anaesthetist. You were in a serious crash.

Clarity crept back as did fear, coiling cold around her heart.

My husband Does he know? Is he alright?

He knows, Dr. Ingrams tone grew even drier, sterner. He wasnt harmed. In fact, he wasnt with you in the car.

Sophie frowned, piecing fragments of memory together. Yes, Jamie was to meet her later, coming straight from the office. She was alone.

How longhow long have I been here? The sickly dread followed each heartbeat.

The doctor looked away for a moment, sighing heavily, so that the background beeping seemed all the louder.

Youll need your strength, but you have a right to know. What Im about to say may come as a shock.

Please, Sophie mouthed.

The accident happened some time ago. Youve been unconscious for a long while.

How long? A week? Two?

Youve been in a coma for three years.

The world collapsedshe fell back into the darkness that had only just released her.

No her lips trembled. You must be wrong. Oris this some kind of joke?

Three years, Dr. Ingram said. You suffered severe head trauma, multiple fractures. We barely saved you. Your life hung by a thread.

Three years.

Sophie stared at her handpale, thin, but alive.

You were lucky, the doctor softened his tone. Your blood type is extremely rare. You needed rapid, massive transfusions, but the bank had none.

He paused before continuing.

Your husband saved you. He happened to have a match. He donated as much as possiblemore, really. A real hero. His blood brought you back.

Doctors words settled on her like a fog. Jamie the donor saved her

And yet, instead of relief, a chill stirred deep inside her. Sophie remembered her blood typeJamies was different, she was certain.

She hadnt the strength to argue. She slipped back into the soft, drugged twilight.

The next time she woke, the room was quieter. The machines beeping provided a rhythm, familiar now. Someone stood at her bedside.

A whiff of bitter cologneher husband’s scent.

Jamie. She knew even before opening her eyes.

He stepped closer, familiar face looming out of the shadows: sharp features, perfectly combed dark hair, chin set and determined as always. But somethingsomething was changed.

His face, always so controlled behind a veneer of businesslike calm, was now twisted with an expression new to her: cold, almost contemptuous cruelty.

A nurse hovered nearbya sturdy woman in her fifties, eyes kind but weary. Sophie thought she remembered her name: Valerie.

Jamie leaned in so close she felt his icy breath.

Darling, he said softly, the only audience herself, good to see you at last.

He smirked.

While youve been lounging about on a drip for three years, Ive managed to secure the inheritance.

Sophie blinked, struggling to follow.

What inheritance? What do you mean? Her tongue felt wooden.

The papers, Sophie. The ones you ever-so-trustingly signed before you went off on that little journey. Jamie shrugged lazily. Remember? Youd always sign anything. Power of attorney, the works.

I I didnt

Thank you, really. His whisper was thick with venom. Never thought your innocence would yield such a windfall.

A memory: the A&E, pain, Jamie bent over her stretcher.

Sophie, sign here, hed urged gently. Its a consent for surgery. Just routine, love.

Her shaking hand had signed a wad of documents, never reading a word.

My fathers company, Jamie now explained, catching her confusion. Remember? Jack Preston left you his logistics firm. Small fryyou never bothered about it. A pity. In three years, I turned a pittance into a goldmine.

He grinned.

And now its all mine. Entirely.

Sophie stared at him; terror iced her veins. This wasnt the Jamie she married. Not the man she thought she knew.

You couldnt she whispered.

I could. And I did.

He straightened, adjusted the cuffs on his crisp white shirt, nodded at Valerie:

Look after her, please, Valerie.

Sophie closed her eyes, pretending to drift off. She couldnt bear to look. Tears leaked from the corners as Jamies shoes clicked across the tile, fading until she was left alone with her nightmare.

A warm hand dabbed at her cheeks.

Hush now, duck, hush, murmured Valerie. Dont weep. Dont waste your tears on him. Not worth it.

Thank you, Sophie whispered, fighting back the sobs.

Later, as Valerie changed her dressing, she leaned close.

Hang in there. Youre tougher than you think. If you came back from all that youll weather this too. And your husband? Let me tell youhes hardly the first nor the last to pull such tricks. Your only job is to get well. The rest will follow.

Those plain, kindly words were the first sliver of daylight in Sophies darkness.

Valerie? Sophie asked quietly.

Yes, love?

The doctor saidJamie was my donor.

A hardness flickered in Valeries expression.

Who said that?

Dr. Ingram.

Valerie pressed her lips together, shaking her head.

Listen to me, she dropped her voice, Jamie didnt give a drop. Didnt even know his blood group. I was here that day. I asked him three timeshe just brushed me off.

ButDr. Ingram

He must have been misled, or had paperwork muddled up. Your husband likes putting on a showhero act for all the staff, how he saved you. Dr. Ingrams a brilliant doctor, but hopeless with admin. If hes told husbands a donor, hed record it.

Then whose blood?

From the blood bank. Anonymous donor, arrived just in time. Pure luck.

She touched Sophies shoulder.

You owe him nothing. Remember that.

Sophie nodded, numb. All a lie. His heroicsfake as the rest.

That night, as the beeps sounded loudest, she lay awake, trying to fathom how she could have been so blind. How did the Jamie shed loved become so cold, so callous?

As if to mock her, memory offered up their very first meeting.

Four years agoa lifetime distant.

Sophie was charging down a rain-soaked tube escalator, late for a big interview at a translation agency. At the very height of the crush, her heel snapped.

Oh, fantastic, she muttered, clutching the rail for balance.

One shoe dangling, hair disheveled, she hobbled to the platform feeling ridiculous.

Cinderellas lost her patience, not her shoe, came a velvet voice beside her.

A man stood there, immaculate coat, smell of expensive cologne and certainty. Not classically handsome, but exuding power and charm that left her breathless.

Im about to burst into tears, she admitted, trying to laugh. Ive got an interview in fifteen minutes. Looking like this

He regarded her, not unkindly but assessing.

They wont hire you, he said flatly.

Thanks for the support, she bristled.

Im not here to flatter, Im practical. He offered a hand. Jamie. Jamie Hartley.

Sophie, she replied.

Let me drive you. Well sort your shoe on the way.

I cantI hardly know you

You do now. His smile was disarming. Think of it as an investmentin your future. International relations, right? Translator?

Yes, but

No butstheres just time to make the best decision of your life.

That was Jamiedecisive, sure, solving problems in a moment. He drove her across town, ducking into a shoe shop along the way.

Ignoring her protests, he bought her smart black pumps.

They cost a fortune, Sophie whispered, aghast.

Looks like a small price for your future job, he said mildly.

She landed the job. That evening, Jamie called:

So, how are the shoes? Brought you luck?

How did you get my number? she laughed.

Sophie, I know everything, he teased. Dinner tonight?

Pause. She broke the silence first: Alright.

One dinner dissolved into a storm of datesJamie wined and dined her, surprise weekends, lavish bouquets of rare flowers, gifts that swept Sophie off her feet.

Her younger sister Mary, observing with dry scepticism, thought the old saying that love is blind mustve been coined by someone with experience.

Then came meeting Jamies family.

His father, Richard, was a stern, silent old-school man, fixing her with a penetrating stare.

A translator, is it? he grunted over dinner. Not a proper job. Women should raise families, not chase contracts.

Dad, Jamie rolled his eyes. Were working on it.

Work, bah! Richard muttered. In our day, we just got on with things.

Jamie’s mother, Elizabeth, a gentle, cultured woman, immediately warmed to Sophie.

Im nearly a colleague of yours, in a manner of speaking. Taught English literature at the grammar school all my life.

Really? Jamie never mentioned, Sophie exclaimed, surprised.

Nothing to brag about, Richard interjected. Meagre wages in schools.

Not true, his wife countered. I loved every minute. And I see a kindred spirit in yousharp eyes. You love language, dont you?

Yesvery much, Sophie replied, feeling her tension dissolve.

She and Elizabeth spent the evening discussing books, quickly finding a bond. Richard, however, remained stony.

Empty-headed, Sophie overheard him mutter as she left the kitchen. Pretty, but empty. Not made for serious business.

It wasnt long before Jamie pushed for Sophie to quit her job.

Youre meant for better things, hed say, kissing her knuckles. Youre the heart of the home. Youre far too clever to waste energy on contracts. Focus on yourselfart, charitywhat you choose.

But I love my work

Youll love your new life more.

And she believed him. She resigned, threw herself into running his country house, hosting perfect dinner parties, dazzling at soirées.

Then came the desire for children.

A year of bitter disappointment. Then another. The doctors verdict: infertility.

Its my fault, Sophie sobbed.

Nonsense, Jamie comforted, though his hugs turned formal. Well get the best treatmentIVF, whatever it takes.

Sophie clung to hope for a baby, ignoring the creeping coldness, Jamies growing absences and irritation.

At the same time, Sophies father, Jack Preston, fell seriously ill.

She and Mary took turns by his bedsidethere was no one else. Theyd lost their mother younga sudden infection, then pneumonia.

Jack, a self-made man, had climbed from plant engineer to businessmannot wealthy, but independent.

He died three days before his fiftieth birthday.

The funeral blurred past Sophie. Jamie was polite and attentive, but his focus remained on legal technicalitiesdetails of the inheritance.

Sophie, numb with grief, didnt noticea mistake, she now realised, as she lay in her hospital bed.

Her father-in-law, she thought, had been right from the startshe was just an ornament, an accessory to an affluent husband.

Her days in hospital ran together. Jamie never returned. Once stable, Sophie was moved to a general wardfour beds, the smell of tea and soup, and the bustle of shared life cutting through her gloom.

On the first day, Mary came to visit.

At first, Sophie barely recognised herthree years ago shed been a teenager, now a grown, exhausted woman.

SophieSophie! Mary threw her arms around her, sobbing.

There, there, Sophie murmured, stroking her hair. Whats happened? Youve changed so much.

Three years, Sophie, Mary wept. I was so scared Id lost you

Pulling herself together, she sat on the bed.

Sophie, I have awful news.

Worse than already? Sophie managed a lopsided smile.

Jamieyour husbandhe threw me out, Mary whispered, shaking. From our home. Dads house.

Sophie froze.

What do you meanthrew you out? Thats your house too. According to Dads will.

He claimed its all his now. Said you signed over your share three years ago. I didnt believe himbut he had paperwork. Changed all the locks. I came back from Unimy things were in bin bags outside.

Paperwork again.

And theres more, Mary produced a battered envelope. Hes filed for divorce.

Sophie took it, hands trembling.

Whats it say?

He accuses you, Marys voice broke in anger, of moral negligence and ingratitude. After his heroic act. Hes told everyone he saved your life.

How charming, Sophie muttered. Where are you living?

In halls, Mary admitted. Sharing a room with a friend, at her mercy. Jamie took everything. We have nothing now.

Well see about that, Sophie said in a low voice, fierce new defiance rising inside. If I have breath left, well see.

Mary shrugged doubtfully, worried if her sister could withstand any more.

Time at the hospital stretched on, rubber-thin. Thankfully, Sophies young body stubbornly healed, giving hope to both staff and herself.

Jamie never visited. Everything he needed, he learned from her doctor, keeping his distance.

Sophie realised, frankly, that Jamie had only waited these years for one thing: for her heart monitor to flatline for good.

After a fortnight, she was discharged.

She stood by the hospital gates with a borrowed holdall of clothesValerie had slipped it to her quietly. Sophie returned the hospital nightgown and slippers, took a bracing breath, and rang Jamie.

Oh, youre outthats quick, he sounded almost cheerful. Wonderful.

Jamie, I have no money. My cards

All blocked, he laughed. You were missing for three yearsobviously, everythings locked up.

After a pause, his voice iced over. Really, prepare for the divorce. Sorry, but three years waiting for you to return from the grave was more than enough for me. My solicitor will be in touch. Dont call again. He hung up.

Sophie sat down on the nearest bench. Mays breeze was softthe world unchanged while her three springs had vanished.

Mary arrived soon, with old jeans and a t-shirt.

Come stay with me in halls, she said.

Sophie sighed, realising she felt helpless, like a lost child.

Their tiny room barely fit two beds and a desk buried under sketches and fabricsMary was studying design.

Sophie, pale and shaky, sat in silence by the window. All her former lifethe role of trophy wife, the parties, the clothesfelt as flimsy as stage scenery after the curtain fell.

I have to find work, she said that evening.

You need to rest, honestly, Mary protested.

Stop. The doctor said I can work. We need to live. And I still know my languages.

Sophie sat with Marys battered laptop, opened an English-language website, and skimmed a few sentences. She understood perfectlyrelief washing over her.

SeeI remember everything.

She opened a word document to translate a paragraph but froze.

She understood the foreign words but couldnt string them together in English. It was as if some invisible wall had sprung up between mind and hands.

Whats wrong with me? she panicked and tried French. The same. She could comprehend but not expressthe words slipped like smoke from her grasp.

Next day, she returned to the hospital.

Dr. Ingram listened, frowned, ran some quick tests, and finally said,

Its a post-traumatic effect. The injury hit your language centre. A type of aphasia.

You mean Imdisabled? Sophie choked.

Not at all, he replied firmly. It appears to be temporary. Your understanding proves the damage isnt permanent. Youll need practice, rest, and patience. It should resolve in time.

I cant wait, Sophie despaired. I need work now! We need money.

The main thing is not to rush, he said kindly. Focus on healing. The rest will come.

That evening, Sophie asked Mary,

If I cant translate, what can I do?

You ran that house, Mary replied softly. You manage beautifully and you cook amazingly. You make a home from nothing.

Sohousekeeping experience, sighed Sophie. Its something.

The next day, she went to an agency for domestic staff.

The woman at reception regarded her with scepticism.

Work history?

I managed a large house, Sophie said carefully.

Well just list: housewife. Not really a profession. Anything else?

The womans eyes lingered on the scar peeking from Sophies hair.

What happened?

I was recently discharged after an accident, Sophie admitted.

Hmm. The woman pursed her lips. You dont look well, frankly. We need energetic staff. Wellbe in touch.

Please, Sophie murmured, clutching her hands. Any jobIm neat, I cook, clean, look after children.

The woman relented. One possibility. Difficult placementa surgeons home. Mr. Leo Brandt. Needs a governess for his nine-year-old daughter. Three nannies left after a day. His wife died in a crash two years ago; Mr. Brandts buried himself in work, the girls withdrawn. Hardly speaks. Wellyoull seeif you stay.

The flat was spacious, stylish but soulless. Pricey, echoeyyet completely lacking warmth.

Leo Brandt was tall, taciturn, with shadowed grey eyes carved by tiredness and sorrow.

Youre Mrs. Hartley, he stated. Agency told me. Rooms at the end. My daughters called Lottie. Make yourself at home. Introduce yourself.

He vanished into his study.

Sophie knocked gently.

Lottie?

No answer. She peeked in.

A small, thin girl sat cross-legged on the floor, engrossed in her tablet, blanking her.

Hello, Lottie. Sophie kept her voice soft. Im Sophie. Im here to help with your lessons.

Silence. The girl tensed faintly.

Sophie sighed. This would be tougher than shed imagined.

The first days were ordeal.

Mr. Brandt left at dawn, returned late. He barely nodded at Sophie. Lottie was stubbornly silentshe ate, bathed, did homework, and retreated, clutching her gadget.

Sophie, herself newly betrayed and lost, felt the childs deep grief as her own.

On the third night, Sophie entered without knocking.

Lottie, enough tablet for today, she said gently but firmly.

The girl glanced at her with a wary, animal look.

When I was little, Sophie went on, ignoring it, I loved making things from clay. I think youve got some up on the shelf.

Sure enough, a box of plasticine and clay collected dust there.

Sophie picked up a lump and settled beside her.

Shall we build a princesss castle? With turrets?

Her fingers fumbled, clumsy but determined, kneading clay. Words tangledbut her hands remembered.

Lottie watched from under her fringe.

Thats wrong, the girl said, voice sudden and clear.

Whats wrong?

The tower. The princesss should be the tallest.

Joining her, the girl fixed it deftly.

They built in silence for nearly an hour.

Later, as Sophie helped tidy, an old sketchbook tumbled from under the bed.

Whats this? Sophie reached for it.

Dont! Thats Mums, Lottie snatched it.

Your mum’s? She drew? Sophie coaxed.

Lottie nodded, opening it with surprising tenderness.

It was no photo album; the pages burst with lively sketcheswooden puzzles, stuffed animals, magical scenes.

How beautiful Sophie muttered, awed.

More than picturesthese were intricate designs for learning toys. The last page held a neat logo: a flying bird, cube in beak, Eleanors Studio. Toys for Special Children.

Special? Sophie queried.

Mum wanted to open a workshop, Lottie sniffed. For kids like Michael.

Michael?

My friend. Mums friends son. He doesnt talk. Mum said kids like him need different toys to help learn. Dad thought it was silly.

Stroking Lotties hair, Sophie pored over the drawingsmore than a hobby, this was a calling.

She lay awake all night, thinking of Eleanor and her unfulfilled dream, and of Lottie who needed that hope.

By the next evening, she made up her mind.

She waited for Mr. Brandt to return, lingering in the kitchen.

Lottie in bed? he asked as usual.

Yes. But I wanted to talk with you.

He poured water, impatient.

Sophie placed the sketchbook on the table.

He froze.

Where did you get this? He was cold.

We found it under Lotties bed. Its brilliant, Mr. Brandt

Put it back. Now! You had no right. Its private.

Youre wrong, Sophie said, voice shaking but resolved. Its your wifes dream. And your daughters.

Dont speak about my wife. You didnt know her.

No. But Im beginning to understand Lottie. She comes alive holding this.

Feet pad in the doorwayLottie, in pyjamas.

Dad, why are you shouting at Sophie?

Leos anger flickered, replaced by confusion.

Darling, go to bed. This

This is Mums album, Lottie clutched it fiercely. Were going to make the toysSophie and me.

She fixed her father with a look Sophie had never seenpure, wild hope.

Leo stared from daughter to Sophie, sighed, and finally said,

Do as you wish. Nothing will come of it. But Ive no money for this. Im not involved.

He disappeared into his study.

Sophie didnt give up.

That night, she called Mary.

Youre a designer. You could help?

With what? Whats up?

Weve got plans. Trust me.

The sisters began work in Sophies box-room, laptops and scraps everywhere. On their last pennies, they bought plywood, fabrics, paints. Sophies eye for colour, Marys digital skillsthey made their first prototypes.

Leo pretended not to notice.

Yet one day Sophie overheard him on the phone:

Hi, Marion. Leo Brandt. My governess has this odd projectyes, toys. Like Eleanor wanted, for special needs kids. Can you drop by for a look? As a professional.

Next afternoon, Mariona warm, sharp-eyed psychologistarrived, her hand held by a quiet, rocking little boy.

This is Michael, she smiled. Hes autistic.

Sophie put a rainbow puzzle before hima new prototype.

Michael, who never reacted to strangers, stopped, steadied, picked up an arc, and placed it carefully.

Marion gasped. Hes neverever She wept. Never.

Michael was absorbed, at peace.

Sophie Marion stared at her, amazed. Theres real need for these. Ill tell everyone.

For Marion, it was a miracle. For Sophie, it was proof.

Marion brought more families. Orders trickled in.

Marywe may need to go legit and register the studio, Sophie said after a week.

Marys eyes shone.

That night, Leo arrived to see Sophie, Mary, and Lottielaughing, wrapping their first order on a kitchen table buried in sawdust and offcuts.

He paused by the door.

Sophie looked up, her gaze unafraid, suremeeting his. He didnt look away.

Marion, are you certain? Sophie asked later, holding an order form.