My Husband's Wives by Faith Hogan

hollow of despondency, she knew this was an ending of sorts. It was a silent, undramatic parting of ways. All kinds of thoughts were dashing about her brain. Other couples talked about staying together for the kids, or was that just her parents’ generation who thought like that? Wasn’t Paul her parents’ generation? God, she couldn’t think about this now.
    â€˜I get it. You’ve moved on and I’m never going where you want to take us.’ He shook his head. It was the end. Really the end. Paul knew it; maybe Annalise knew it too, but only in a superficial way. Her marriage was dying, slowly, here in the safety of her Miele kitchen. They may as well have been talking about war in Syria. Something distant and terrible. Something that was far too tragic for her to grasp in this moment.
    She thought about ringing her mum. She was certain Madeline would come round, maybe bring a nice homemade Pavlova, her favourite. Tuck her in bed early and offer to take the kids to nursery the following day. On the other hand, maybe not? Madeline had spotted the thaw in her relationship with Paul. ‘He is your husband, darling; sometimes you have to meet halfway.’
    â€˜But this is important to me.’
    â€˜I know it’s not easy, but marriage isn’t always easy. He’s a good man, Annalise, worth making sacrifices for.’ Madeline had never really seen modelling as a career.
    When he left, it was so quietly that Annalise wasn’t sure he’d gone. He took a bag, just the one, emptied out a handful of essentials and left the rest, as though he’d be back after he sorted out whatever hospital emergency called him away. Except it wasn’t work that took him from her. Still, it seemed unreal, had she pushed him away so easily? And for what? For something that hadn’t made her happy before? Annalise moved from room to room. The loneliness was overwhelming, but, being a natural optimist, she convinced herself it would all work out. They’d been together almost five years and this was their first real fight. Come on, she thought to herself, every couple had fights, right? Maybe this was a growing up moment. Annalise hoped he might come back and then it would all be a fuss for nothing if she called her mum.
    *
    Annalise was driving when she heard it. All thoughts of the photo shoot, the magazine spread, the boys, everything left her head for she couldn’t say how long. She fiddled with the car sound system she’d never quite got the hang of, tried to catch the same item on another station.
    â€˜News has just come in of a tragic car accident in the city centre. The victims are believed to be Paul Starr and Annalise Connolly. The pair were leaving the Liffey Hospital when the car they were travelling in collided with a lorry. The driver of the second vehicle is not believed to be seriously injured. Mr Starr, who passed away at the scene, was well known as one of Europe’s leading surgeons, with patients who include international celebrities and royalty. Ms Connolly is a former model and believed to be in a stable condition.’

3
Evie Considine
    Grace Kennedy was not what Evie had imagined. Of course, she’d seen pictures of her in the Sunday papers; she always struck her as a bon vivant, glass in hand, glamourous type. She was smaller, more delicate in the flesh. Evie had imagined her taller, stronger, more garrulous, but this woman was not much over five foot, with long dark hair that gave her the appearance of a student. Her eyes were emerald sensitive orbs that seemed to reflect more than most eyes capture. They sat in dark hollows, the legacy of losing Paul; Evie knew what it was to cry over that. Her voice, low and even, was cool and compassionate at a time when others would be crazy with a mixture of grief and rage. Evie couldn’t help taking in the house. The smell of heavy dark coffee, perforated by the sea breeze and fat exotic candles lingered