by Nicola Marsh
The Last Wife
An absolutely gripping and emotional page-turner with a brilliant twist
Nicola Marsh
Books by Nicola Marsh
The Scandal
The Last Wife
Available in audio
The Scandal (Available in the UK and the US)
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
The Scandal
Hear More from Nicola
Books by Nicola Marsh
A Letter from Nicola
Acknowledgements
For my boys, with love.
Prologue
Hatred is a living, breathing entity. It festers, sometimes for years, and if allowed can take on a life of its own. At least, that’s what I think happened. I let my hatred grow to monstrous proportions, until I lost control of it.
That’s where I am now. The point of no return as I watch her stroll toward me, completely and utterly clueless.
I don’t want to hurt her.
But I have to.
I like to think I’m an open-minded person. Generous, almost. I see the good in people, until the inevitable bad rises to the surface and obliterates everything.
We’re all the same, liars at heart. Wearing masks. Uttering falsehoods. Pretending to be someone we’re not.
She catches sight of me. Her step falters, like she’s unsure. Then her stride quickens as I call out to her, injecting the right amount of urgency into my voice.
She doesn’t see me smile.
I’ve hidden a lot behind that smile over the years.
Rage.
Jealousy.
Derision.
Loathing.
My smile broadens. This isn’t about revenge or vindictiveness or hatred. It’s about one thing.
The only thing that matters to me.
Family.
1
Ria
Adrenaline makes my fingers tremble as I bring up the screen to submit my third article for the day. Nothing beats the buzz of seeing my byline in the Chicago Daily News and I work longer and harder than everyone else to ensure my name is prominent in one of the city’s biggest online news channels.
I have little doubt this article will be accepted and published like all the rest. I’m good at my job, one of the best freelance journalists in the city, and I’m paid more than the average, which is just as well. The money helps keep the doubts at bay when I lie awake at night in my renovated terrace house in Brunswick, a trendy suburb on the fringe of Chicago’s Central Business District, wondering how my life has come to this.
I had it all planned out once. Marry the perfect guy, raise the requisite two perfect kids, live the perfect life. Pity Grayson Parker, my ex-husband, didn’t get the memo.
“Focus,” I mutter, annoyed I let my concentration lapse for a moment. Thinking about Grayson and how he abandoned me five years ago isn’t conducive to good work practice.
I’m over it. Almost.
My fingers fly over the keyboard as I edit an article about flimsy firewalls, then move onto the final proof. The owner of a large private investigation firm had been more than forthcoming with answers to my questions considering the sensitive client information they store. Surprisingly, their cyber security had been woeful. I’m no computer whiz so I paid one of the newspaper’s IT guys to see if he could breach the firm. It hadn’t been difficult to hack into their client database and my article will highlight the vulnerabilities of companies like this.
I love writing articles emphasizing online flaws, proud that I’m using my skills to educate people. I’m almost done with proofreading, giving me plenty of time to drive crosstown to attend my mother-in-law’s birthday this afternoon. May is a stickler for her family getting together regularly and I can’t say no, despite my complete lack of enthusiasm. An afternoon with the Parker Posse isn’t my idea of fun.
Satisfied everything I’ve written is grammatically correct, I save the article, attach it, and hit send. I exit the newspaper’s login screen and am about to shut down my computer when an email pings. I should ignore it but it could be a tip-off to another newsworthy story and I can’t resist taking a peek.
That’s when I see it.
The sender’s name.
I freeze. A chill sweeps over me and I rub my bare arms. I blink, refocus, but it’s still there. Taunting me. Haunting me.
I’ve only seen that name once before and it turned my life upside down.
The subject line, THE PARKERS, has my stomach clenching with nerves. Five years ago, the subject line had read GRAYSON and the accompanying picture ensured that the sorrow over my husband leaving me had turned to disgust.
My finger hovers over the delete button. Whatever is in this email may not be good, though Parker’s a common enough surname in Chicago. It could be nothing.
But instinct tells me it’s not and I scroll down, my gaze drawn to the startling images. Three photos, of my sisters-in-law in compromising situations, and I press my hand to my stomach to calm it.
I grew up a foster kid and don’t have siblings so I’d been so hopeful when Grayson first told me about his large family. I’d envisaged fun bonding sessions with my new sisters-in-law, Ashlin, Shamira and Christine: girls’ nights out, spa days, long lunches, and reciprocal childminding.
It didn’t take long for reality to set in.
I’m an introvert at heart but love socializing and making new friends, probably because my job is solitary. Reaching out to the girls had seemed natural considering I’d soon be part of the family. But apart from Shamira they’d been aloof, reluctant to do anything other than swap pleasantries when in enforced proximity, and my visions for us to play happy families dissolved, alongside my self-esteem.
I’d known that hollow feeling of being second-best growing up, when at age three I’d been dumped by a father I barely knew and entered the foster system. Being shunted from home to home didn’t enable the forming of close bonds and I’d craved attachment. Grayson had provided that. His family hadn’t. Except my mother-in-law May, who accepted me despite knowing the truth about my upbringing. I love her for it.
Shamira is kind and welcomed me into the family, but Ashlin and Christine had been condesc
ending, deliberately ostracizing me with talk of polo tournaments and sailing regattas and celebrity gala balls, knowing I couldn’t contribute.
Ashlin had been the worst. The beautiful, thin, blonde took one look at me and I could’ve sworn her upper lip curled. I knew the look well. I’d seen it enough times when I first entered a foster home and the resident biological kids stared at me like I’d invaded their privacy. The older kids wanted to establish who was boss by bullying and the younger ones felt like I was taking attention away from them; I’d hated it.
My past hadn’t endeared me to Ashlin, who comes from old Michigan money. She eyed me like she expected me to make off with the Parker silverware and her shoddy treatment hasn’t changed since.
I never let her know it bothers me.
My gaze is drawn to the photos again. Who would want to tarnish these women and why? And why send this email to me?
Five years ago I’d tried to discover who was behind the email that devastated me. I’d used my contacts at the newspaper, experts who can usually trace anybody. But they’d had no luck and I hadn’t found out who’d sent that incriminating photo of my husband.
It had bugged me for months, when I’d craved answers. Even now, a small part of me wonders where Grayson is, what he’s doing, why he didn’t love me enough to tell me the truth. I’m proud of my independence and the secure life I’ve built for our daughter Shelley, but while I hate Grayson for what he did to us, I can’t help but wish I knew why.
Whoever sent that shocking photo of my husband has now sent this. I may not be as close to my sisters-in-law as I’d like but if someone is targeting them… I need to know what I’m dealing with.
Another email lands from the same sender. The subject line is ASHLIN.
I don’t want to look. I shouldn’t. Then I remember all the awful things she’s said to me over the years and, worse, how she treats my daughter.
I’d been told by Ashlin in no uncertain terms when her girls were toddlers that she didn’t want my crappy presents, so carefully chosen by me, for their birthdays or Christmases. She wanted money. Which I delivered on time—despite being outraged at her obvious insult for my poor taste in choosing gifts—with cards posted snail-mail, the old-fashioned way.
Worse, despite her demands for what I should gift her girls, she always forgets Shelley’s birthday and I have to remind her. Every year. Until last week when my sweet girl turned ten and nothing arrived yet again. No money. No card. Nada.
I’m done.
So I start reading.
The first screenshot lists everything from her cosmetic procedures to her favorite personal shopper, from where she enjoys her skinny lattes to her preference for low-carb wine.
And more; the kind of information that could destroy her.
I blink and knuckle my eyes but when I open them the revelation is still there. I should feel vindicated, somehow, that she’s as vile as I always suspected. Instead, I feel hollow, sorry for her girls. And Justin.
My heart gives a little twang like it always does when I think of my brother-in-law. Which is why I don’t.
I may have problems with Ashlin but this could ruin her, and Justin too.
And if someone knows her secrets, they might know others.
Stifling the foreboding that this could be the start of some weird vendetta against the Parkers, I save the emails and shut down my computer. I’m desperate to discover who’s behind this but if I start investigating now I’ll be late for May’s party.
So I’ll put in a brief appearance, do my duty as a good little Parker minion, before trying to discover who knows secrets about my family and what their end game is.
2
Ria
Shelley bounds ahead of me as we enter the elaborate gardens of May’s impressive Ash Park home. I follow at a sedate pace, inhaling the soothing fragrances of jasmine, daphne and freesia, admiring the riotous purple hydrangeas, the crimson roses and the vibrant fuchsia stargazer lilies. Every time I set foot in these manicured gardens I experience a little stab of envy.
I’m not jealous of May’s wealth, but it’s a poignant reminder of the yawning gap between us. She’s never alluded to my past or condescended in any way, yet I can’t help but feel inferior when I enter her twenty-million-dollar home. It’s perched high in the bowl of a crescent with similar multimillion-dollar mansions flanking it. Ash Park is one of the most expensive suburbs in Chicago and is renowned for flashy cars, massive houses, and elite families who date back to when the city first settled.
I try not to ogle at the immaculate gardens, the expansive tennis courts and the Olympic-size swimming pools I glimpse when I drive into this crescent, but even now, after being part of this family for longer than a decade, I know I don’t fit in.
I loathe self-pity, especially considering how far I’ve come from humble beginnings, and I perk up as Shelley, who’s waiting for me to catch up, waves.
The gardener has water-blasted the sandstone pavers. They gleam in the late afternoon sun as I stroll toward the front door, letting the serenity of the garden wash over me. I’ll need it if today’s gathering is anything like the usual Parker shindigs.
The ornate double front doors swing open and Ashlin’s daughters rush out. They wave at Shelley and almost tumble down the carved marble steps, skipping every second one. Shelley craves affection as much as I do and she rushes toward her cousins and hugs them both at once.
Ashlin steps out onto the front porch and my joy at witnessing the girls’ effusive greeting wanes. She hasn’t spotted me yet and I’m grateful for the momentary reprieve, all too aware my patience will be tested several times during the afternoon. I’m tolerant and accepting of most people, yet Ashlin pushes my limits.
Shelley releases the girls and spots Ashlin. Her genuine love for family fills me with pride as she jogs up the steps to hug her aunt, arms outstretched. Ashlin balks, her imperious glance sweeping Shelley from head to foot, before she offers a half-hearted wave, turns her back and walks inside.
Shock renders me useless. I will my feet to move but I can’t, I’m rooted to the spot. Shelley glances over her shoulder, toward her cousins.
Her bewildered expression guts me.
Desperate to comfort my daughter, I finally take a step forward but thankfully she’s a resilient child—she definitely gets that from me—and forgets her aunt’s deliberate snub as she links arms with the girls and heads for the house.
I won’t forget.
Anger is a wasted emotion, along with bitterness and regret. I should know. I dealt with all three growing up, wishing my mom hadn’t died after having me, wishing my dad had stuck around, wishing I hadn’t been shunted from home to home, feeling unwanted and unloved.
But in that moment when Ashlin stared at my beautiful, kind daughter like something nasty she’d stepped in, I experienced a surge of fury so strong I could’ve hurt her.
I need a drink and follow the paved path around the side of the mansion toward the back. I hear muted chatter, the clink of glasses and a string quartet. The music’s probably recorded but with the Parkers I never know. Their wealth makes Chicago’s upper echelon look like paupers.
I reach the glass-enclosed conservatory that opens onto a stone-flagged terrace, wishing I could look forward to this more. An afternoon spent with family, being plied with gourmet finger food and expensive alcohol, should be a cause for celebration. It isn’t and I learned that the hard way.
As I catch sight of Christine near the makeshift bar, Shamira draped over Trent, Justin in deep conversation with his mother and Ashlin now posing on a sunlounger like a swimsuit model, I’m catapulted straight back to the first Parker party I’d attended.
Back then I’d been wide-eyed and optimistic. I’d spent a month’s wages on an exquisite Vera Wang maxi-dress, hired a designer handbag and snared a pair of barely-worn Choos from a local secondhand shop. I’d had my make-up done at my nearest Estée Lauder counter and paid for a sleek blow wave at one of those chea
p hairdressers that specializes in staff turnover.
My first glimpse of this house twelve years ago had daunted me, with its imposing French provincial façade and extensive gardens. It looked like something out of a magazine but I’d hidden my gaucheness and pretended like I visited mansions every day of the week. It had helped that Grayson never made me feel inferior and with his arm around my waist I’d quashed my usual insecurities as I strode into their party, determined to make my future family like me.
I’d failed miserably.
May had welcomed me unreservedly, Christine, May’s only daughter, had been guarded and stiltedly polite, Shamira and Trent had been shy but sweet, Justin had been overly-effusive and his wife Ashlin had stared down her aristocratic nose and made me feel cheap and insignificant despite the effort and money I’d spent on looking good to impress.
After that, I wore whatever I wanted, intent on being me whether they liked it or not. And I’m always polite, to prove a point I’d never stoop to their level. I play nice whenever I see them but I’m saddened that out of three sisters-in-law I’m only on friendly terms with Shamira. We try to catch up for regular coffee dates and I invite Ashlin in the never-ending hope she’ll accept me as one of the family, but she always has some excuse. Shamira and I are usually relieved. Christine lives too far away to be included. I think she prefers it that way.
