The Last Wife: The addictive and unforgettable new thriller from the Sunday Times bestseller

by Karen Hamilton

  ‘You sound like you blame yourself for a lot.’

  ‘Nina told me that the holiday ruined her life.’ When I tried to remind her of all the good times and how she wouldn’t have met Stuart if we hadn’t chosen that particular trip, or the bar where we first met him (true serendipity), or as a result of their meeting have had her beautiful children, she was dismissive.

  I falter. I don’t know why I’m talking about this, it’s so long ago. It’s Camilla, she’s riled me.

  I glance at the clock. Thank God we’re nearly out of time, because I know how it works. Christian will gently discourage me from getting into anything too upsetting at the eleventh hour. Since I know I won’t have the opportunity to dig too deep, or elaborate, I take a breath and get something off my chest.

  ‘The end of the holiday was truly dreadful, though. Perhaps it was inevitable that it eventually soured everything, in one way or another.’

  Delighted when the session is finally over, I leave the past behind with Christian, an exorcist with my ghosts.

  The future – Felix and Emily – are what matters. I don’t want to dwell on loss any more, I’ve been surrounded by too much one way or another. I’m going to be brave and start putting pictures of family life on social media. I thought that it would be insensitive and too soon, but why should I hide my pride and joy? If I fade into the background, it’s giving the impression that I have something to be ashamed of. Which I don’t. Nina didn’t hold back when it came to sharing things and she didn’t ask me not to. I should celebrate their lives and achievements.

  I stop at a supermarket, a more expensive one than my usual. As I push my cart around the aisles, I feel absurdly content. I’m going to cook us all a special family meal tonight. As I consider all the products Nina would’ve bought – she was big into brands – a thought occurs.

  I replace ‘her’ choices back on the shelves and instead, select all the ingredients I need for cottage pie, substituting the mince with a vegetarian alternative. No one will notice because I’ll use one of Nina’s recipes. I made it often enough when I babysat. While Nina got ready (she was rarely on time for anything), I’d take over in the kitchen. Stuart would sometimes assist, one of us would stir, one would chop, and we’d have shared at least one glass of red by the time Nina appeared.

  I pick up a behaviour chart and pop it in among the groceries before I head for the checkout. Hopefully, it will encourage Emily to become a nicer child. I’ll continue to put these small, yet positive, changes in place. I love thinking like a mother: the children’s welfare always at the forefront of my mind. It’s no longer all about me, and that can only be a good thing.

  My phone rings.

  ‘Hi, Stuart.’

  ‘Felix is ill, he’s got a temperature. I’ve picked him up from school, but he’s really not well. I’ve got an emergency appointment at the doctor’s. Are you OK to pick up Em?’

  ‘Of course. Poor Felix, keep me updated.’

  I pay for my shopping, shove everything into bags and rush to the car.

  Emily is unusually quiet. She helps me prepare dinner, I give her little jobs, which she usually enjoys, but she is half-hearted and abandons stirring the carrots and onions halfway through.

  ‘When will Felix and Daddy be back?’

  ‘Soon,’ I say.

  ‘What if they don’t come back?’

  ‘They will, darling. I promise.’

  ‘I want my mummy.’

  I force back my tears and give Emily a hug, but she pulls away. She rushes upstairs. I follow quietly behind, uncertain what to do. Leave her for a few minutes or comfort her? I stand just outside her door. She is lying on her bed, face down, sobbing.

  I want Nina back, too, no longer for me, but for her daughter. What if I can’t do this? There’s so much to learn, so many things to get wrong. The vibrant undersea mural Nina painted on Em’s wall is exquisite. I couldn’t paint anything nearly as good. Self-doubt gnaws. It’s not too late – yet – to gently back off, ease myself out, but the thought of venturing out again into the unknown, possibly throwing away my one chance at being a mother, is terrifying. Why risk it? I must consider the long-term.

  Outside, I hear a car on the gravel. It must be Stuart and Felix, thankfully.

  I rush downstairs and fling open the front door, but there is no one there and no car. Wishful thinking has played tricks on me. Except . . . I know what I heard.

  It’s as I shut the door that I see it: a blank white envelope. Assuming it’s a random advertising ploy, I pick it up intending to place it straight in the recycling. Yet, curiosity takes hold. I open it. It’s a photo of this house with Nina sitting on the stone steps leading up to the front door, both arms around younger versions of Felix and Emily. She’s smiling, happy. For such an innocent picture, its delivery method turns it into something sinister, a seemingly unmistakable message to me that I don’t belong.

  I stand still, staring.

  ‘Marie!’ Emily’s voice.

  ‘I’m coming,’ I shout back automatically, folding the picture in two before shoving it into my jeans pocket.

  I read Emily a story, but my mind most definitely is not on wizards or witches.

  ‘They’re home,’ I say to Emily when I hear the front door open.

  She has stopped crying but has exhausted herself, so remains on her bed.

  Stuart is carrying a sleeping Felix upstairs in his arms.

  ‘It’s just a viral infection,’ he says quietly. ‘He’ll be fine. He needs to sleep it off, apparently.’

  I help slide off Felix’s shoes and put him into his pyjamas before Stuart goes and settles Em.

  Stuart and I are both quiet over dinner. It’s not the time to mention the photo. I’m horribly aware that if I wasn’t around he’d give in to his grief. He’s going through the motions of eating dinner, being civilized. I need to give him time alone. I wasn’t privy to Stuart and Nina’s final conversations and wishes, obviously. Stuart has seemed fine on the whole, yet this evening has been a wake-up call. There’s so much to adjust to and it has made me reassess. Fresh determination to look out for and nurture Nina’s family takes hold. It’s reassuring to realize quite how much they all need me here.

  ‘I overreacted,’ he says. ‘Nina was amazing with them when they were ill.’

  ‘So are you. We’re both a bit shaken by this evening,’ I say. ‘But it will be OK.’

  Stuart gives me a weak smile. His face is pale and he looks like he needs a decent sleep.

  ‘You go to bed,’ I offer. ‘I’ll clear up down here.’

  ‘I think I’ll take you up on that. Thank you.’

  As he stands up, I feel afraid of being left alone downstairs. The photo has shaken me because I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it, and I’ve got a horrible feeling that it’s not going to be a one-off.

  ‘I’ll set the alarm,’ I say, before quickly adding, ‘Deborah told me that it wasn’t the first time someone had tried to break in.’

  He throws me a look of . . . confusion? Mistrust?

  Surely it’s inevitable that I will take over even more of Nina’s roles? I hope I haven’t overdone it.

  ‘The code is Nina’s birthdate, but I haven’t bothered with it much of late. It was Nina who decided she’d like the reassurance. Deborah is correct but the damage was minimal and nothing went missing.’

  ‘I’ll leave it then,’ I say.

  ‘Fine. Whatever.’

  ‘Call me if you’re worried or need help in the night with Felix. I’m here for as long as you need me. I’m not going anywhere.’

  Every word is true. I promised Nina I’d look out for her family. No matter what, I’m here to stay. I’m becoming more convinced that it’s what Nina would’ve wanted, even if some people won’t see it that way.

  I take the photo and pin it to the corkboard. It’s now hidden behind the bin collection timetable until I decide what to do with it.

  I check the doors are all locked, t
hen do so once again before persuading myself that I’m overreacting. Anyone can tell that the photo is not the best quality and could well be from a clumsy well-wisher, assuming that Stuart and the children would appreciate the memory. If a mysterious someone really wanted to be threatening, they’d have written something, whether cryptic or openly threatening. It’s what I would do.

  The heart and soul has temporarily disappeared from this house, and I am the only person who can replace it. Nina had a black sense of humour, which only got darker as her illness took hold. Her own personal brand of gallows humour, as she would refer to it when I – or someone else – was shocked, unsure of how to react. She told me once that it was a good job she was on her way out as someone had it in for her. I didn’t push her or take it seriously. I wish I had because what if someone was after her and now that person is after me instead?

  The sense of unease that has been building all day is heightened as I head upstairs. A guilty conscience is relentlessly unsettling. I stop. Listen. Nothing.

  I turn around and retrace my steps before jabbing the familiar digits of Nina’s birthday into the keypad, changing my mind (again) and resetting the code to my own birthdate. The immediate reassurance it offers is gratifying, and some of the tension lifts as I creep to my room.

  Chapter Eight

  Nina and I slipped into our roles at school from a young age. We had a rhythm, a natural partnership. I did my homework in advance, she relied on me for all the times she ‘hadn’t quite got round to doing hers’. I was loyal. In return, she was there for me and shielded me when things felt too overwhelming.

  One particular instance was during an English lesson when I’d been asked to analyse a passage out loud. I dreaded being picked. Only one sentence in, I froze. I couldn’t do it. I looked up at Mrs Palmer. Everyone was staring. I wanted to run out of the room, slam the door and hide. A nightmare come true: I was the sole focus of hostile amusement. I anticipated chants, some kind of fist thumping on the tables. Blood rushed to my face.

  Nina’s hand shot up to save me, but I could tell it was forced. She looked embarrassed. Of me.

  I was asked to stay behind, which filled me with further panic. If I couldn’t find Nina in the playground afterwards, I’d have to eat my lunch alone, hang out in the loos or the library, acting busy, disguising my lack of friends.

  Mrs Palmer had kind eyes, but her tone had changed to the one people use when they’ve had enough. No matter how much encouragement she gave me, I didn’t ‘get it’. It wasn’t that I didn’t try, it was that I found lessons a struggle. I was never able to explain all my fears articulately enough. Not to anyone.

  ‘Marie, I’ve been wondering, are things all right at home? Is there anything in particular troubling you? Are you still seeing the school counsellor?’ she said.

  As if I would have spoken truthfully to, or trusted, the school counsellor! There was nothing wrong with me. I was only referred to her because of a misunderstanding when the PE teacher had allegedly overheard me ‘telling a story’ that couldn’t possibly have been true and he ‘was concerned’. I pointed out to the counsellor, quite rightly, that all anyone had to do was listen in to any conversation at break time. Everyone exaggerated. Everyone wanted to be seen in the best light, to pretend that they’d gone somewhere exotic for the school holidays or that they’d been invited to the popular parties or some exciting event. And everyone also knew that the majority of us stayed at home most nights watching TV or being nagged to do our homework. Yet, unlike most people, I was forced into my exaggerations because my mother was at her happiest when I was safely at home.

  When I shook my head in answer to all Mrs Palmer’s questions, she shared something that did actually resonate and eventually helped: no one surrounds themselves with clingy people. Apparently.

  ‘It drives them away, Marie. Pretend you’re OK no matter how much you have to fake it. Nina can’t always be there for you. You have to learn to stand on your own two feet, however hard it is. You must learn to tough it out.’

  When I escaped, I found Nina had been waiting for me outside. I wanted to hug her with sheer relief. But I didn’t. I put on a brave face – acted happy. The incident taught me to say only what people wanted to hear and hide my true self. I’ve often wondered if Deborah was behind it, if she’d been in to talk to the teachers about Nina ‘being allowed to widen her friendship circle’. I’ll never know for sure.

  When Stuart and the children appear for breakfast in the morning, I head off for a shower, making sure I don’t come back down until they’ve all gone. I ignore the abandoned cereal bowls and the scattering of Cheerios across the kitchen worktops. I’m on a mission to try to sort out some of Nina’s affairs. Not to mention that Christmas is six weeks away and Stuart’s parents’ arrival is imminent. I’m nervous because I want them to like me. We’ve only met once before, at Stuart and Nina’s wedding. I’m going to devote time to making them welcome and plan interesting family days out, especially when Stuart is working.

  I lift the lid on Nina’s old laptop. The battery is dead. I hunt round in her kitchen drawers (which need a good clear-out as it’s where she stored stuff) but there’s no sign of a charger. Annoyed at the waste of my time, I step into Stuart’s study and glance at the shelves above his desk. Nothing. I yank open a drawer – he’s so much neater than Nina was – then another. The bottom one contains a twisted mess of wiring. I put them on the floor and sort through them, identifying one that will hopefully work.

  It does. The laptop is slow to power up. I wipe the screen with a tea towel as it’s dusty. I switch the kettle on as I wait, hoping that Nina would have had a good filing system on this. She didn’t. Just as I’m about to give up for the day and shut it down, her old email address catches my eye. It is not her latest personal one or the business one. She’d saved all her passwords so it’s easy enough to log in. I scroll . . . She’d last used it the week before she passed away . . . and . . . one of the very last people she contacted was Camilla.

  I click open the email and read. As the words sink in, sickening realization stabs.

  My concentration is killed for the remainder of the day as I desperately search for something to explain what I’ve found. By school pickup time, I have still not succeeded.

  ‘Marie? Are you all right?’ asks Felix.

  I stop. For a moment, I thought he said ‘Mummy’. I carry on heading in the direction of our home. I feel strange, like I’m having some sort of out-of-body experience, as if it’s someone else walking down the lane, holding hands with the children. The conversations between Nina and Camilla are at the forefront of my consciousness. Someone told me once that if we all knew what our closest friends said about us behind our backs, we wouldn’t be friends with them. It doesn’t make sense that Nina entrusted me with her final wishes if it’s true she didn’t one hundred per cent trust me with her fears and secrets.

  The afternoon drags. I let the children watch TV and don’t bother asking about homework or their day at school. I order in pizza.

  Stuart puts the children to bed before hanging around in the kitchen, trying to chat while I attempt to cook, and I can’t do it any more. I can’t act normally. I put down the knife I’m using to chop some red peppers.

  ‘Did you see on the calendar that we have a surprise guest coming round on Saturday afternoon?’

  ‘Kind of,’ he says. ‘I assumed it was Deborah.’

  ‘Well, no, funnily enough, it’s Camilla! You know, Camilla Preston!’

  I smile as though it’s all fine.

  ‘Camilla? The one who moved abroad?’

  ‘Yes, the very same! She’s back. She only turned up the other night at my book group! I was slightly caught off guard when I invited her round. I had no idea that she and Nina kept in touch.’

  ‘You and me both.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s odd that she kept it a secret?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘I wonder why she’s moved back now?’


  ‘Didn’t she say?’

  ‘We didn’t get much of a chance to chat, so it felt polite to invite her and her daughter, Louise, back here. Although she calls her Lulu, such a typical Camilla thing to do.’

  ‘She has a daughter?’

  ‘Yes, and she’s already started at the same local school as Em and Felix. Camilla hasn’t moved back half-heartedly. Book group, school, a home, a job, the whole lot.’

  I pick up the knife and carry on chopping.

  ‘Strange timing,’ says Stuart. ‘And odd, surely, that she didn’t get in touch beforehand? She just showed up? Did she know about Nina?’

  ‘Seemed to.’ I pause. ‘Maybe she thought that catching me unawares would make me more amenable. Did you know she had a fling with Charlie?’

  Sometimes, I get tired of hiding things.

  ‘You mean your Charlie?’

  ‘Yes, didn’t Nina ever say?’

  He shrugs. ‘It was ten or more years ago.’ He frowns, just slightly, as though he’s digging as far back into his memory as he can. ‘I must’ve missed that part. I guess it got overshadowed in the aftermath.’

  Thankfully, Stuart did miss the embarrassing, horribly public, drunken argument Camilla and I had about it. Flashes of unwanted memory reappear. The urge to hit her. Humiliation. The ugly words coming out of my mouth that I knew I should stop, but somehow couldn’t. Nina not backing me up. I appreciate that I’m older and wiser, but there’s something about Stuart that always makes me want to present myself in the best possible light. He’s right, though, about things becoming overshadowed in the aftermath of Charlie’s horrific accident.

  ‘I guess I should move on, the past is the past, forgive and forget and all that,’ I say.

  I put down the knife. The onion is so finely chopped, it’s practically mush. I throw him a questioning gaze, but he doesn’t elaborate. His reply is not what I expect.

  ‘Not necessarily. Forgiveness can be hard. And at times overrated.’

  Still, I don’t want to come across as overly bitter. Even though I do still blame Camilla for robbing me of my future with Charlie. Her selfishness had long-reaching ramifications.