The Man She Married (ARC)

by Alison James

  Predictably enough, he’s not back from South Africa by the twenty-third of December, leaving me to fly out alone to St Anton and join Milan and Matt. JoJo is not with me either, having instead been whisked off to the Caribbean by a new flame.

  We have a jolly time as a threesome, punctuating our skiing with candlelit sleigh rides and plenty of glühwein, but I swing between missing Dominic terribly and feeling furious and abandoned.

  When I return to Waverley Gardens on New Year’s Eve, the lights are all on in the house. My first thought is that it must be burglars, but would they really go around turning on the lights?

  I unlock the front door cautiously.

  ‘Hello?’ I call.

  ‘Surprise!’

  Dominic appears in the hallway, wearing sweatpants and a hoodie. His tanned face is stubbly, but at least he has shaved off the hideous beard he was growing before he left.

  My shock is quickly replaced by delight. ‘You’re back!’

  He comes forward to take my suitcase from me, then envelops me in a hug. ‘I got in this morning. Couldn’t face seeing in the new year without my beloved wifey.’

  ‘How’s your brother?’

  He shrugs. ‘Oh, you know… getting there. Improving slowly.’

  ‘That’s good news, at least.’

  Dom’s embrace is so warm and enthusiastic that I relinquish some of my resentment over our separate Christmases. He presents me with gifts from the trip: a set of colourful woven baskets and a white gold eternity ring studded with South African tanzanites.

  ‘It’s beautiful!’ I sigh with genuine pleasure, holding out my right hand to make it sparkle under the light in the hallway.

  Dominic sweeps me up in his arms and carries me up to the bedroom, where we have intense and enthusiastic sex.

  ‘Sorry about being away,’ he mumbles into the side of my neck afterwards. ‘I know the timing sucked.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I sigh. ‘The boys and I had a good time in St Anton. It was fun.’

  ‘Let me know how I can make it up to you,’ he says, stroking my forearm.

  To me the answer is obvious, since I’ve had little else on my mind for the past few weeks. I raise myself on one elbow. ‘Can we think about having a baby?’

  He hesitates a second, before kissing me on the forehead. ‘Soon, I promise. Very soon.’

  * * *

  ‘Our second anniversary would be the ideal time, don’t you think?’ I ask JoJo when we meet at Bean & Beaker a few weeks later.

  ‘Perfect time for what?’

  ‘For trying to get pregnant.’ I stir my cappuccino dreamily. ‘Dom said “soon”, and our anniversary’s next month. Which is soon, right?’

  JoJo nods. ‘Right.’ She extends the word to show doubt.

  ‘What?’ I demand.

  ‘I mean, should you really be second-guessing the right time to do this? After two years together. Is there really still no plan in place?’

  ‘Dominic wasn’t ready,’ I say, aware I’m sounding defensive. When I’m with JoJo, I seem to be constantly defending my marriage. ‘But at New Year, he said he’d be happy to go ahead in a few months. So, give or take a few weeks, that coincides with our anniversary. We’ll have been married two years, so it will be the perfect time.’

  JoJo shrugs. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I’m not going to make it a big deal; I’ll just stop taking the birth-control pills. Chances are nothing will happen for months anyway.’

  She gives a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, raising her coffee mug as if in a toast. ‘Might as well crack on with it then, girl, you’re not getting any younger.’

  ‘Exactly. I thought it would be nice to go away to the country for the weekend to celebrate. Maybe to the Cotswolds.’

  JoJo’s eyes light up. ‘You should totally go to Gray’s Farmhouse.’ She names the rural outpost of a well-known private member’s club in Central London. ‘They’ve only just opened, and apparently it’s fabulous.’

  I reach in my bag for my iPad and we both inspect the photos on the Gray’s website. It shows a large golden stone building surrounded by well-tended green space, in rolling Oxfordshire countryside. There’s a little chi-chi ‘market’ selling overpriced organic produce, and an on-site spa in a timber-framed building in the grounds. The luxurious rooms are chintzy, but in a minimalist way that nods to the company’s urban roots, and for those seeking total privacy, there are a few self-contained cottages. To keep the guests occupied during their stay, there’s a state-of-the-art gym, a pool, a boating lake, cycling and riding.

  ‘All that activity,’ JoJo groans. ‘You’ll end up exhausted.’

  ‘I’m kind of hoping we won’t leave the bedroom,’ I counter, with a smirk. I’m already filling in the online reservation form for the last weekend in March.

  JoJo is standing up. ‘Got to run, chick, but I’ll see you at the sherry thing just before then, okay?’

  ‘The sherry thing?’

  ‘The tasting night. We were going to try and get out more and be less boring in 2018, remember?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I agree. ‘We were.’

  * * *

  A couple of weeks later, our joint credit card statement arrives in the post. I feel a rush of shock at the four-figure total when I open it, then I see a payment to South African Airways and realise that Dom must have charged the return flight to Johannesburg to that card.

  I go into the study to file away the credit card statement, pulling open the wrong folder and discovering it’s the one that contains Dom’s bank statements. As I go to put it back on the shelves, I can’t help but run my eye down the debit column. On the day after his salary lands in the account, there’s a payment for £2800 to an offshore account, simply tagged as ‘Galea’. Every month.

  ‘What’s Galea?’ I ask Dom over supper that night.

  He stares at me, his fork paused halfway to his mouth. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I was cross-checking something against our Amex card statement and I got your bank statements out at the same time. I assumed it was the pension fund, but that’s Scottish Widows, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh that,’ he says. ‘It’s a private equity fund that was recommended to me by someone at work. I’m using it to top up the pension fund.’

  ‘It’s a lot of money,’ I say, as equably as I can.

  He shrugs. ‘If it doesn’t warrant the investment, I’ll switch the funds back to the pension account. No worries.’

  ‘What’s the name of the fund?’

  ‘Galea. Galea Securities. But they’re pretty discreet. Offshore stuff, you know. So you probably won’t find them listed anywhere.’

  Sure enough, when I do a Google search the next morning, I can’t find reference to Galea Securities anywhere. A faint sense of panic rises in me, but I repeat Dom’s words to myself. They’re discreet. They won’t be listed.

  Even so, it’s a little unnerving. As if they don’t exist.

  Ten

  Alice

  Then

  ‘This has been the best evening for… for ages. So good to have my wing woman back.’

  I grin at JoJo and drape an arm round my friend’s shoulder. The two of us have just left ‘the sherry thing’ – a tasting event at a hip new Spanish sherry bar in Shoreditch. Dominic is on a work trip to Southampton, so JoJo and I pressed ahead with our New Year’s resolution to try new things.

  ‘It was great fun. Well done you for coming up with the idea. Even if all that sherry has gone right to my head.’

  I don’t want to provide grist to JoJo’s mill by saying so, but privately I’m thinking that this is probably the happiest I’ve been for a while. It’s been ages since Dominic and I had any fun, though I’m hoping to rectify that with our imminent baby-making weekend in the Cotswolds, booked after JoJo suggested the venue.

  She pulls my arm away and turns to look me straight in the face. She’s suddenly serious. ‘Are you okay, hun?’

  ‘What
d’you mean? Course I am.’ I’m slurring slightly.

  ‘Only, I don’t know… I worry about you sometimes. Are you sure you’re happy? You know, at home.’

  ‘I’m fine. Everything’s fine,’ I say. To be honest, JoJo’s expressions of concern annoy me a little. She’s always been possessive of me and doesn’t like sharing me with other people. That includes my husband.

  ‘You going to tube it back?’ she asks me.

  ‘Think so, yes. I can jump on the Central line at Liverpool Street – shouldn’t take too long.’

  ‘I meant with, you know, the mystery attacker, wouldn’t it be better to get a taxi to your door? That’s what I’m going to do.’

  There have been a series of violent rapes in West London in the past few months, with one victim dying from her injuries. The most recent attack took place only the previous night.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ I say, with more bravado than I feel.

  ‘Have you got a rape alarm?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Here – borrow mine.’ JoJo rummages in her handbag. ‘In fact, you may as well hang on to it. I’ll order another one on Amazon in the morning. While it’s still dark so early, you’re going to need it.’

  * * *

  It’s unseasonably wintry for late March; raw and cold with a chilly drizzle. I turn up the collar of my coat and hunch my shoulders as I trudge home from Queen’s Park station. There are still people about and businesses open on Salisbury Road, but when I turn onto Waverley Gardens, the street is quiet, apart from the sound of leaves being whipped across the pavements by a north-easterly wind. The residents are inside; lights on, TV screens flickering.

  As I round the bend in the road, reaching instinctively for my keys, I see a figure, half hidden by shadows, on the pavement outside my house. I drop the keys and reach instead for JoJo’s rape alarm.

  It’s okay, I tell myself, the lights are on next door. I can go there.

  I hesitate, instinctively slowing my pace, and as I do so, the figure steps under the street light, and I can see that it’s a woman. A young woman.

  ‘Can I help you?’ I ask, pausing next to the front steps of our neighbours’ house, just in case.

  ‘Are you Dominic Gill’s wife?’

  I nod slowly.

  ‘Can I have a word?’

  I step a little nearer. The woman is somewhere between twenty-five and thirty: quite heavy-set, with her reddish-blonde hair in an unflattering bushy bob. ‘What’s this about?’ I ask her.

  ‘I don’t really want to talk on the street.’ She has a faint accent, though I can’t quite pinpoint it. South African? She indicates the front door of the house with a nod.

  ‘I’m sorry, but whatever you have to say, you can say here.’

  I’m being appraised, with a look that takes in my expensively cut hair and my Miu Miu boots, but she says nothing more, so I turn and walk briskly up to the front door. She follows me, grabbing hold of my shoulder as I try to put the key in the lock.

  ‘Hey! Get off!’ I instinctively raise my voice.

  A few seconds later, Jeremy, my next-door neighbour, opens his door and sees me scuffling with the woman, trying to free myself and get into the house.

  ‘Everything okay, Alice?’ he asks.

  ‘No,’ I shrug my right shoulder to push the woman off me. ‘This woman’s trying to get into our house after I asked her to leave.’

  Jeremy, a portly barrister in a pinstriped suit, strides up my garden path and grabs the woman’s coat, marching her back onto the pavement. ‘Now clear off!’ he says sternly, pulling his mobile from his pocket and waving it in her direction. ‘Right now, or I’ll be calling the police.’

  ‘Call the police?’ She gives a grimace, smoothing down her coat. ‘Now that would make for a very interesting conversation… Especially if it’s about all the stuff your husband’s been up to!’

  Jeremy starts to dial, but I shake my head at him, heading back down the garden path towards the street. ‘Hold on!’ I shout after her. ‘Exactly what do you mean by that?’

  The woman has already started walking east along Waverley Gardens in the direction of the main road, but she doubles back a few paces. ‘I told you, we can’t talk in the street,’ she says, not unpleasantly. ‘If you really want to hear what I have to say, you can come and meet me tomorrow. The Novotel, London West.’

  She turns again. ‘Wait a moment,’ I call after her. ‘How will I find you?’

  ‘Room 422,’ she says, reaching into her bag and scribbling something onto a scrap of paper before walking back and handing it to me. It’s the address and a mobile number. ‘Text me to arrange a time.’

  I grab it from her and hurry back towards my front door, relieved to see that Jeremy is no longer watching this domestic drama but has gone back into his house.

  The woman cups her hands round her mouth to ensure her voice carries. ‘Oh, and make sure you tell hubby I said “hi”.’

  * * *

  ‘Oh God!’ Dominic is actually laughing. ‘I can’t fucking believe it. Don’t tell me – she had a Scottish accent? Reddish hair?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I say. ‘Sort of. Except I thought she might be South African.’ I’m thrown by his reaction.

  ‘That’ll be Shona. Shona Watson. She’s someone who I worked with in Scotland. A total bunny-boiler.’

  We’re in the kitchen the following evening. It’s the night before our anniversary trip away and Dominic is just back from his business trip, his unpacked suitcase still on the front mat. Armed with a glass of wine, I confronted him the minute he came through the door.

  ‘So you’re saying you do know her?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve never been involved with the mad bitch.’

  ‘So why does she want to talk to me? She even gave me her number.’

  ‘You didn’t call her?’

  I shake my head. ‘I wanted to speak to you first.’

  ‘She came down to London to try and reconnect with me, and because I knocked her back, she’s gone feral. She’s a stalker.’

  ‘So she wants to talk to me… why?’

  ‘Well, I’m assuming it’s just to make trouble. The best thing you can do is to ignore the cow.’

  I hesitate a fraction of a second too long.

  Dominic comes over to me and takes my wine glass from me, setting it down on the table before enveloping me in his arms. ‘You silly chook. Listen – I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. You can’t get a restraining order without making a complaint to the police first, but I’ll take the first step. As soon as we’re back from the weekend, I’ll go to Paddington Green and file a report. In the meantime, please just ignore her if she gets in touch again.’

  I wriggle out of his embrace and look up at him. His gaze is calm and steady, and he is clearly completely serious.

  ‘You can come with me if you like. It will probably carry more weight if we both complain. You can tell the cops what Shona said to you.’

  ‘She didn’t say a whole lot. Just where she was staying. She gave me this.’ I go to my bag and pull out the scrap of paper.

  ‘It’s up to you… but I think this needs nipping in the bud. And I don’t want you having any doubts at the back of your mind.’

  ‘I suppose I could come with you.’

  ‘That’s my girl.’ He kisses me on the forehead, then takes the slip of paper and throws it into the kitchen bin. ‘And you won’t be needing this.’

  Eleven

  Alice

  Then

  The place could not be more perfect.

  I arrive at Gray’s Farmhouse at 6 p.m. the following evening, alone. Dominic has a meeting in the City and is unsure what time it will end, so we’ve agreed to make our way to Oxfordshire separately.

  ‘You’ve been upgraded to the bridal suite,’ the receptionist tells me, with a smile. ‘Really?’ I don’t even try to hide my delight.

  ‘The note on your reservation said that this was a wedding anniversary cel
ebration, and since we don’t have any weddings this weekend, we thought you might like the suite.’

  Inside, the bridal suite is a tasteful haven of cream, duck-egg blue and softest beige. Vases round the room are crammed with fragrant blooms, and there’s a heart made of cream rose petals arranged on the huge bed. A bottle of Dom Perignon is chilling on a silver tray next to two crystal flutes. It’s beautiful. I wonder if I should wait for my own groom’s arrival to pop the cork but decide I need something to help me relax and get my mind off Shona Watson. Dominic won’t mind. He’ll soon catch up.

  He texted me half an hour ago to say that he was leaving his meeting and would be here in around an hour and a half. This is also perfect. It gives me time to shower and change out of my work clothes into something a little more seductive.

  When I see the bathroom, I decide to take a bath instead, pouring scented Diptyque unguents into the claw-foot tub with one hand and holding a glass of the ice-cold champagne in the other. It takes quite a long time for the bath to fill, but I occupy myself by looking at the menu for the restaurant and deciding what I’ll choose when we eat later. The cucumber and wasabi gazpacho to start, perhaps, or the chicken liver with sherry jam. For my main course, I’m torn between the guinea fowl with morels, or the Cornish monkfish with watercress velouté.

  A few minutes after I’ve lowered my body into the scented foam, my cheeks already slightly rosy from the champagne, my mobile rings. From the bedroom. Cursing under my breath, I haul myself to my feet, splashing water over the bathroom floor and groping around for a towel.

  I manage to reach my phone just as the call is about to be cut. ‘Hello,’ I gasp, the warm water rapidly cooling on my body.

  ‘Babe, sorry…’

  My heart sinks.

  ‘Look, I’m on the North Circular approaching Hangar Lane, trying to get onto the A40, but there’s a road closed up ahead. I’ve been sitting here at the roundabout not moving for about twenty-five minutes.’