‘The bride has collected antique fabrics for years, and her grandmother gave her some interesting samples, too. She wants all the bridesmaids’ dresses made from them, a kind of patchwork of memories of her family’s life.’
‘That’s lovely,’ Beth replies. ‘And so unique.’
‘She’s having a peasant-style wedding,’ Jo explains, pulling up some pictures on her phone of the mood board the bride sent through for inspiration. ‘She’s going to arrive at the village church on the back of a horse-drawn hay wagon. All the flowers are going to be collected from the hedgerows – cow parsley mainly – and there’s going to be a hog roast and a folk band in an old barn afterwards. Firepits and all.’
‘Nice,’ Beth says, nodding her approval. ‘Reckon I’d like that when I get married. If I get married,’ she adds with a laugh and a wink. ‘No man ever seems to stick around long enough to ask me. They all piss off for one reason or another. The last idiot ghosted me and— Oh God… I’m so sorry,’ she says, checking herself and blushing. ‘That was utterly insensitive of me, Jo.’ Beth carefully lays the little dress back down on the table. She’s new, but Margot had filled her in on what had happened to Jo when she first started.
‘It’s fine,’ Jo replies in a voice she hopes will ease Beth’s guilt. ‘I don’t want people treading on eggshells. Not any more.’ She looks up at her, feeling her faux pas pain.
‘Tell me to mind my own business, but are you OK?’ Beth says, touching her shoulder. ‘I mean… you know, as OK as you can be? It’s just that before, when I brought your tea, you seemed miles away. You didn’t really seem present.’
‘Oh,’ Jo says, laughing it off, ‘don’t mind me. Daydreaming, most likely.’
‘About him?’
‘Yeah…’ she replies with a shrug and a half-laugh. She can hardly tell Beth it’s because of the photos of Will on another woman’s mantelpiece.
‘Hi, Mum,’ Jo says, pinning her phone to her ear with her shoulder as she riffles through her wardrobe. Everything reminds her of Will. This is the dress I wore on our last meal out… this is the top I made from the fabric he bought me as a surprise, remembering how much I’d loved it. She was gathering a few items together to take away. ‘Everything OK?’ Her mum only usually called if something was wrong. Or to check if she’d met someone else yet.
‘Yes, darling. And don’t say it in that tone of voice.’
‘What tone of voice?’
‘Your tone of voice.’
‘You mean, just my voice?’ Jo steps back from the wardrobe, sitting down on the bed, repressing the heavy sigh she wants to let out. She holds the phone against her ear with one hand, rubbing at her neck with the other.
‘Now, now,’ Elizabeth Langham says. ‘That’s just what I mean, darling. Sarcastic and, well, a bit bitchy, if I’m honest. It’s upsetting.’
‘Bitchy?’ Jo says, closing her eyes and counting to ten. ‘Mum, you know I’m the least bitchy person around. Is that what you called to tell me?’
‘No, no, of course not. Can’t a mother call her daughter once in a while without an ulterior motive?’
‘Of course, Mum. I’m sorry.’ In another life, with another mother, Jo would pour her heart out – how she’s been upset, deeply upset, since she saw Will’s photos online; how she may, in a couple of days, discover what happened to him – that he’s living a perfectly happy life with another woman and not giving her a thought. About how she would have to go to the police if she found him – how she should go to the police right now. But she can’t – she can’t tell her mother, or the police, any of that. Not without discovering more first herself.
‘In another life what?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You just said “in another life”.’
‘Oh, I—’
‘Now, the reason I’m calling…’
Here we go, Jo thinks. Disaster or demand. Which will it be?
‘The Cresswells are having a party at the weekend. An engagement celebration for Phoebe. Everyone will be there. And so will you. You might meet someone, Joanna. It’s the right set.’
‘What?’ Jo’s head thrums. Demand, then, she thinks. ‘I can’t come, Mum. I’m sorry.’ And I don’t want to meet anyone. I’d quite like to have my husband back, thank you. Not have so-called suitors thrust in my face, Mother.
Jo claps her hand over her mouth. Please don’t let me have said all that…
‘Why can’t you come?’
‘Because I’m going away.’
‘Where?’
‘Just a little holiday, on the South Coast.’
‘Well, how can you afford that? You say you can’t afford anything any more.’
‘Mum, can I call you back later? Someone’s… someone’s just rung the doorbell.’
‘Well, I didn’t hear it.’
‘I’m upstairs. Mum, I’ll call you back, OK? Bye.’
Jo taps the red button to hang up, flopping back onto her pillow. She can’t stand a grilling, can’t take the questions, the disapproval that would inevitably follow. She knows exactly how the conversation would play out.
If that stupid man hadn’t abandoned you, then you wouldn’t need to be cleaning up dog mess, pretending it was a holiday. You should be sunning yourself in the Caribbean, darling, not being a skivvy. If you’d married someone decent, like your father and I told you to, then none of this would have happened, would it?
No… no, Mum, it wouldn’t, Jo thinks in response. Because if I hadn’t met and married Will, I’d still be searching for the love of my life, just like I am now anyway.
Ten
It’s raining – driving columns that come at Jo from every angle as she walks briskly home from the bus stop. She is taking the bus more and more now, the fare cheaper than petrol and parking. She knows the car will soon have to go, but not before she’s made the long drive down to Hastings to find out about…
‘Oh, just get in!’ she says, frustration taking hold as she fumbles with the key in her front door, struggling with her bag as it falls off her shoulder, her umbrella straining in her hand as the wind whips up. She’s trying to keep her hair dry as there’s no time to shower now before she leaves for Hastings, and she doesn’t want to turn up looking like a drowned rat.
What if she’s faced with Suzanne and Will when she gets there? This Suzanne woman looking glamorous and groomed, holding onto Will as he slips his arm around her waist, pulling his beloved new woman away from the wet, dishevelled, sobbing creature at their door? Jo imagines Will whispering to Suzanne that he has no idea who the crazy woman is, that they should lock her out, call the police.
‘Christ,’ Jo says once she’s inside, catching sight of herself in the hall mirror. She leaves the umbrella on the mat and kicks off her soaking shoes. ‘If only I’d left work five minutes earlier,’ she says to herself.
But then she’d never have encountered the panicked bride – a young woman getting married tomorrow, rushing back into the shop with her gown for a last-minute alteration. Jo had told her that it looked fine at the fitting earlier in the week, that she didn’t feel it warranted any adjustments, but the girl had been insistent.
‘It’s just that… just that…’ She glanced around the workshop, trying to make eye contact with someone – anyone – who might understand her. But it was only Jo who was listening. ‘It’s just that my mum sent me, said that if I don’t get the waist nipped in a bit, I’m going to look like a…’ She’d hesitated before letting out a little sob. ‘A doughnut,’ she whispered to Jo, her face contorted with worry.
The young woman was beautiful, Jo thought, looking her up and down, and very far from a doughnut. But she could hear her own mother saying something similar, delivering a crushing and personal blow that was supposedly ‘just a joke’ and that Jo always knew was anything but. She knew just how the bride felt – that cutting comments were hard, if not impossible, to unhear. And Jo didn’t want her walking down the aisle in a gown she’d made feeling like a doug
hnut.
‘Right, come on,’ Jo said, touching her arm and glancing at the clock. ‘Let’s go out the back and see if we can’t make you believe you’re the beautiful woman I’m seeing, eh? You show me where you want it altering and I’ll see what I can do.’
Jo had left Sew Perfect an hour after everyone else, sending a very happy bride on her way as she wished her well for her big day tomorrow. She’d gone round locking up, putting on the alarm and just missing the bus home. She’d had to wait twenty minutes for another and then, while the bus stop-started through the Friday traffic, the heavens had opened.
Jo stares at the empty suitcase, then at her wardrobe. She shivers, though it’s not from being soaked through. What does one wear to face the woman your husband has run off with?
Jo opens the wardrobe door and grabs a few hangers, whipping the clothes off and roughly folding them into the small suitcase. A couple of pairs of jeans, two sweaters, a few tops, underwear… then she gathers up some toiletries and make-up from the bathroom, dropping the items into her cosmetics bag. None of this matters, she thinks. And none of it will matter when I’m faced with the unbearable truth.
Jo glances at the bedside clock. Twenty past six. She should have left nearly an hour and a half ago to get there by nine. She pulls up the House Angels app on her phone, knowing she’ll have to send a message, warn Suzanne she’s going to be late.
‘A great start,’ she whispers to herself. ‘Letting the woman down before I’ve even arrived.’ Because, of course, a part of her hopes that Suzanne is entirely innocent and has nothing to do with Will in a romantic sense, that the only reason she has his photos on her mantelpiece is because he’s a passing acquaintance, or the mate of a distant cousin of hers, or… or…
‘Or perhaps she saw him in a play, or when he was on TV a while back,’ Jo says, mulling over the possibility. ‘And maybe she developed a crush and sent off for some signed photos or printed them off the internet herself.’
That’ll be it, Jo tells herself unconvincingly, shaking her head as she zips up her case with one hand, her phone in the other. Suzanne is just an innocent fan and me seeing his photos is a crazy coincidence. Though Jo knows as well as anyone that Will’s acting career hadn’t exactly been at the dizzying heights of garnering fans. He was hardly a household name, Jo thinks as she opens up the House Angels messages.
But Suzanne has beaten her to it.
A quick heads-up. Can’t be there tonight to greet you so Simon, my neighbour, is going to let you in and show you the ropes. He’s got keys and will sort the animals this evening so no rush on your part. I forgot to send my number last time. Any problems then contact me on 077…
Jo breathes in and out heavily, adding the number to her contacts. Suzanne will not be there, she thinks, not sure whether to feel relieved or not. And if the neighbour is letting me in, then it doesn’t sound like anyone else will be there either – including Will. So it’s unlikely they’re living together, unless he’s away with Suzanne too…
‘For heaven’s sake, stop overthinking this,’ Jo tells herself, lugging the suitcase downstairs. ‘Just get there, find out what you can – which may be nothing – do your job then come home and get on with your life. And who knows, maybe you’ll even have a nice time.
‘And stop bloody talking to yourself,’ she says as she pulls the front door closed, locks up and heads out to her car.
Eleven
Jo has never minded long drives. Thinking time, talking time, she and Will always used to say. Their holidays together had never been lavish – far from it, with a teacher and a dressmaker’s salaries not stretching to the glamorous and expensive getaways her mother envisaged them having. But they’d always had the best time together, whether it was in a little caravan by the sea, a budget B & B in Wales or a last-minute deal on a city break. They’d always returned home refreshed and more in love, if that was even possible.
Jo grips the steering wheel. The rain is still coming down hard and her wipers are on full pelt, squeaking with every stroke. She’s been meaning to get the blades replaced, plus a couple of other things that need fixing, but she’s not wanted to put the car in the garage, have questions asked. Besides, every penny has counted lately, and she doesn’t drive far these days anyway. Except tonight. The three-and-a-half-hour journey south suddenly seems as if she’s set off to cross a continent, especially without Will by her side. She glances across at the empty passenger seat. Usually she’d be the one sitting in it, with Will behind the wheel. She’d take her turn, of course, but Will enjoyed driving. Said it made him feel free. Free and in control, Jo remembers, wondering what he meant.
And then she shudders, remembering that night…
‘Christ!’ she cries, jamming on the brakes, lurching forward. She nearly ran a red light. ‘Focus, woman. You’ve barely even left home yet,’ she mutters, turning on the fan as the windscreen fogs up. She puts on the radio to distract herself from her own thoughts, to try and shove thoughts of that night back in the box. In the days and weeks afterwards, she and Will had barely mentioned it – each of them believing that if they didn’t speak about it, then maybe it hadn’t even happened. Correction, Jo thinks. I did try to speak about it, but Will was having none of it. ‘He was just scared,’ she says, turning the radio up even louder to drown out her thoughts.
But the music suddenly cuts out as the Bluetooth takes over and her phone rings. She presses the button on the wheel to answer.
‘Jo-jo…’ comes Louise’s voice. ‘What’s occurring?’
Jo smiles at Louise’s silly accent, grateful for the distraction. She doesn’t think she’ll make it through the drive if her thoughts are left to themselves. ‘We’re all going on a summer holiday…’ she sings in reply, forcing herself to sound bright. ‘Except, of course, it’s not really summer yet and there’s no all about it. And it’s pissing down. Just me on my way to the house-sit. So not even really a proper holiday. How’s you, Lou?’
Silence, and Jo isn’t sure if it’s bad reception or if Louise just isn’t saying anything.
‘How did it go with Bertie Barrister the other day?’ she says to break the silence. It was the last time she’d seen her.
‘Sorry, what?’ Louise replies.
‘You know, after we’d had lunch and—’
‘Oh, yes. That seems ages ago now. It went fine.’
But Jo doesn’t think Louise herself sounds fine. She knows her well enough to read beneath the cheery veneer.
‘Spill,’ Jo says, glancing in her mirror before changing lanes. She’s relieved that so far, the traffic is light.
There’s a barely perceptible sigh. ‘I had a hospital appointment today.’
‘OK…’ Jo says in a way that indicates she’s listening, that she’s here for her friend. ‘How did it go?’ If Louise needs support, she’ll turn right round and go back to help.
‘My blood pressure’s up a bit.’
‘Really?’ Jo says, not knowing what the implications are. ‘Can they do anything for it? Is it dangerous?’
‘They’re worried about pre-eclampsia. If it keeps going up, they’ll maybe have to take action and deliver early.’
‘You mean as in—’
‘A Caesarean, yes.’
Jo knows Louise has been set on a natural birth from the start. Has had her birth plan signed, sealed and delivered almost as watertight as a legal document approved by the courts for months now. Woe betide any midwife or obstetrician who goes against it. Archie was in two minds whether to deliver the baby himself, but as well as considering the ethics, he decided that he’d rather have the father’s role in the birth of his child, rather than that of the professional. And of course, if needed, he’d step in. He was top in his field.
‘Lou, I’m so sorry to hear that, though you know they’ll look after you and do what’s best for the baby and you.’
‘I know, I know…’ Louise replies. ‘But it hardly seems like a minute since I got pregnant, and to have him o
r her whipped out because of…’ She trails off.
And what a day that was, Jo thinks, reminded of when Louise had told her the news – two bombs dropped. She’d just been informed of a lead on Will’s whereabouts, a possible sighting after she’d done a leaflet drop in the area of Birmingham where his parents had lived before they died. She wondered if he’d gone home, somehow dissolved back into Solihull, where he’d grown up.
And then the call came – a woman who thought she recognised him from the hundreds of printed flyers Jo had distributed.
‘I swear I saw him on the bus yesterday,’ she told Jo, breathy with excitement at being able to help. ‘The one going between Solihull and Hall Green on the way to the city centre. I only remember because he got quite shirty with the driver, arguing about change. He was a tall man, a good-looking man. And a dead ringer for the chap in your flyer.’
That doesn’t sound like Will, though, Jo had thought, suddenly deflated, although she thanked the woman after taking her details. The Will she knew was kind and laid-back, rarely getting angry. In fact, the only time she’d ever seen him properly lose it was when… She’d had to pull her thoughts back from the brink then, not associate Will’s disappearance with that. Though she couldn’t deny it; it concerned her. That what had happened that night and Will going missing were somehow linked. But there was no way she could tell the police. She and Will had made a pact.
And shortly after the woman had hung up, Jo’s phone had immediately rung again. It was Louise.
‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ she’d said, after ten minutes of preamble. Ten minutes of idle conversation that Jo saw straight through, even though her mind was still reeling from the previous call. Louise never phoned without reason. Louise didn’t waste words or time. Even her personal life, it seemed, was on a billing cycle, costing everything out. ‘It’s not time well spent,’ she’d once told Jo when she was going off on what seemed like wild goose chases in her search for Will. But it’s time well spent for me, Jo thought though didn’t say. But she’d sounded nervous on that call. And that wasn’t like Louise.
The Happy Couple: An absolutely unputdownable and gripping psychological thriller Page 6
