The Trapped Wife: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller with a mind-blowing twist

by Samantha Hayes

  You there? M xxx

  ‘Mick hassling you about golf again, is he?’ I’d shoved the phone under Jeremy’s nose, wanting to ram it up there.

  He grabbed it, examining the message alerts on the screen. ‘I don’t know who the hell this is.’ His voice was deep and resonant, commanding and convincing.

  ‘Well, it’s the same number that “M” texted you from before, and you seemed to know who it was then.’ Whoever ‘M’ was clearly wasn’t stored in Jeremy’s contacts. But I’d remembered the last four digits of the phone number from the previous time: 6184.

  Jeremy had pulled a pained face then – no, a pitying face as he loomed over me, as if I was the one with the problem. ‘I can’t stop weirdos texting me. Someone must have the wrong number.’ A hand on my shoulder then, warm and comforting.

  ‘Open it. Open your phone,’ I’d demanded, refusing to be fooled yet again.

  ‘Jen, you’re embarrassing yourself. Really, it’s nothing. Why would I have an affair when I’ve got all this to lose?’ His hand swept around him then settled back on me.

  Then the landline had rung, providing Jeremy with the distraction he needed as he answered it, and Kieran had appeared in the kitchen doorway, saying Caitlin had texted, asking if she could cycle over to hang out.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ I’d said, touching my head, feeling frazzled and distracted. After hanging up on what was nothing more than a spam call on the landline, Jeremy had strode off then, calling out he was going outside to sort out the fencing, muttering something about me being mad as he’d left. He’d slammed the back door behind him.

  Then I was alone in the kitchen. I noticed he’d taken his phone with him and, as I peeled some potatoes for later, I wondered if I’d imagined the whole thing, and whether I was indeed going mad.

  ‘There, there,’ Scott says, sitting next to me at the kitchen table. ‘That’s better, isn’t it?’ He butters me another piece of toast and spreads a thick layer of jam on it. My hands shake as I sip my coffee.

  Maybe I should just succumb, I think, watching him as he brushes crumbs off my robe. Let him take care of me and the baby, have him help around the house. In time, perhaps I’ll forget what he did to me, maybe the flashbacks will stop and he’ll destroy the incriminating photos and videos, and one day we’ll look back and laugh as we watch our little son or daughter playing happily.

  ‘Karma…’ I say, taking myself by surprise. ‘Do you believe in it?’

  Scott takes a moment to think. ‘No,’ is his decisive answer.

  I try to fathom something behind his blank stare, but I’m struggling. Scott’s manner is distracting and deceptive – as though he’s a master illusionist. For a moment, it feels as if I’ve known him forever – but it’s not his face that I recognise, rather something else about him. But I put it down to my mind playing tricks, processing the things my unconscious won’t allow my conscious self be privy to.

  ‘I am one hundred per cent certain there is no such thing as karma,’ he adds.

  ‘Do you take comfort in that?’ I ask. ‘Or is it a convenient way to deny things you don’t want to face?’

  Scott laughs. ‘You’re so serious this morning, my love,’ he says. He reaches out and unties my ponytail, arranging the strands around my face. ‘I love your long hair,’ he says, gazing at me. ‘As for karma, if it were real, then I would not be sitting here with you in this beautiful house, with our baby growing inside you, our wonderful future ahead of us.’ He pauses and, for a moment, I almost see compassion inside him. I’m about to ask what he means, but he says, ‘Come on, drink up. It’ll do you good.’

  Then I’m back there again – the noise of the bar pulsing through my head, the alcohol in my veins. Drink up… he’d said, holding out my glass. I’d not really wanted it but had forced it down, any shred of self-control long gone. I’d knocked it back – plus whatever he’d spiked it with.

  My head swims, just like it did that night. I put down my mug, not feeling right, not feeling myself. It could be morning sickness, or it could be fear, anxiety… or all of these. I drop my head down between my knees, feeling a hand gently rub my back.

  Here, drink up… remembering how I’d said the same words to Jeremy, not long before Rhonda and Chris were due to arrive that Sunday afternoon. Half an hour before, he’d come in filthy from the paddock. He’d gone straight upstairs to shower and change, and then appeared in the kitchen as though nothing had happened earlier in the day, as if those texts I’d seen from ‘M’ had never existed. For my own sanity, I’d gone along with it. Our friends would be arriving soon. He’d told me he was going to his study to sort some papers before the others arrived. That’s when I’d taken him a glass of red wine. A peace offering.

  Drink up…

  He’d started, not realising I was standing right in front of his desk. I hadn’t crept up on him as such, but had been careful to tread lightly. In front of him was his manuscript – open somewhere in the middle – and he was hunched over it, concentrating hard. He’d printed out a fresh copy only yesterday.

  But instead of reading his own work, Jeremy appeared to be reading a letter sitting on top of the stack of papers – that’s what it looked like when I held out the wine glass. But I’d only got a glimpse of it.

  Drink up…

  As soon as he realised I was there, he’d quickly shoved the letter inside the manuscript and stacked it all into one pile, planting both hands firmly on top. It all happened so quickly, but I spotted his nervous look, the way his jaw clamped tightly shut.

  Then his trademark smile broke. ‘Thank you, darling,’ he’d said, taking the glass of red. ‘I should be in the kitchen helping you, not sitting here.’ He’d stood and come round from behind his desk then, putting a hand in the small of my back as he guided me into the kitchen. I’d glanced over my shoulder at his desk as we’d left the study, making a mental note to dig out whatever it was he’d been reading later. My mind was already in overdrive as I imagined a letter from Madeleine, perhaps something about their upcoming trip, her professing her love for him. But then Rhonda and Chris had turned up, the wine had flowed, we’d eaten my lamb stew and, by the time I remembered it the next day, the manuscript was gone from his study.

  ‘Morning,’ Rhonda says, coming into the kitchen. Her eyes dance between me and Scott, sizing up the situation. He’s cut my toast into two pieces and is holding one out for me, as though he’s coaxing a child to eat.

  I give her a brief smile, snatching the toast from Scott.

  Rhonda clears her throat. ‘Right, well, Caitlin and I are heading off now. It was fun last night… pizza and games, just like old times. Let’s do it again soon.’ She zips up her padded jacket and heads for the hall, ignoring Scott when he says goodbye. Caitlin comes down the stairs, pulling on her hoody and stuffing her feet into her trainers.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ Rhonda says at the doorstep, once Caitlin has got in the car. She tips her head towards the kitchen. ‘Things seemed a bit tense just now.’

  ‘It’s all fine,’ I reply quickly, clamping my arms around my body, shivering inside my dressing gown. ‘Really.’

  Rhonda narrows her eyes at me before giving me a peck on each cheek. She turns to go, but stops. ‘You know that Evan Locke boy?’ she asks in a low voice. ‘Did Jeremy know him?’

  ‘I have… I have no idea,’ I tell her, frowning. ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, no reason…’ she says, before walking over to her car. She flicks me a wave and toots her car horn as she drives off. Then I shut the front door harder than intended and lean back against it, wondering what the hell I’m going to do.

  Thirty-Four

  Rhonda

  Rhonda arrives at the café fifteen minutes early, having driven for over an hour to get to Reading. She’d checked it out on Google Maps before she left, so she knew exactly where she was going and where to park. It had taken a few days to build up the courage to do it in the first place.

  At the counter, she o
rders a latte and sits down at a table near the back of the coffee shop chain, giving herself a good view of the entrance. Her heart thumps as she sips on her drink and she has to hold the cup with two hands, she’s shaking so much.

  Jen would kill me if she knew, she thinks. But if she’s right, then ultimately she will thank her. She glances out of the large front window, eyeing her car, having parked as close as possible to the café in order to be able to drive off as quickly as possible if phase two of her plan is needed.

  Phase two, she thinks, inwardly rolling her eyes. As if there’s actually a phase one. She’s kicking herself now for being so reckless, but something doesn’t sit right and she can hardly ask Chris for help. Not yet. Reporting everything to the police would, she supposes, be phase three.

  The café door opens and a young couple comes in, making Rhonda sit back in her chair again. Not her. Soon after, an old woman arrives, holding the door open behind her for someone else, but that turns out to be a delivery driver dropping something off.

  Rhonda glances at her watch. Three minutes to eleven. She sips more coffee, scans the street scene outside for likely figures. She knows who to expect from the photographs, but people always look different in real life. It’s as she’s about to fish her phone from her bag to check the pictures again, to get her face fresh in her mind, that she feels a cold draught of air as the café door opens.

  It’s her, she thinks, shoving her phone away again. She stands up, knocking against the table and spilling some of her coffee. The woman is taller than she imagined and strides straight up to the counter without looking around to see if Rhonda is there. When she has ordered and paid, she calmly carries her cup over towards her table as if she’d known she was there all along.

  ‘Rhonda?’ she says as she approaches. As safe assumption given that Rhonda is the only person sitting alone. She notices the French accent.

  ‘Madeleine, hello,’ Rhonda says, being careful not to bump the table again as she leans over to shake the woman’s hand – a long, slender hand with shaped and painted nails, not too long or short, with the tasteful shade of creamy pink reeking of French chic, which ties in with the rest of her understated yet immaculate outfit. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  Madeleine nods, her glossy chestnut waves rippling to order. As she sits, she adjusts the wide cream trousers she’s wearing and, after she’s removed her overcoat, she unbuttons the matching jacket to reveal a loose grey camisole top. She has a silk scarf tied around her neck, and Rhonda thinks she doesn’t look as though she belongs outside of Paris. It feels as if they should have met on the Champs-Élysées.

  ‘No problem,’ Madeleine replies, though her expression is naturally suspicious because of the nature of their meeting. Her subtle accent makes Rhonda wonder if she’s lived in the UK a long while. ‘How is it I can help you? Your message said you wanted to speak with me urgently about a mutual friend?’

  Rhonda smiles nervously and draws a breath, her mouth opening. But she can’t make any words come out.

  Madeleine takes a sip of her coffee, tipping her head sideways so her almond eyes appear even wider as she waits for Rhonda to speak. She offers an encouraging smile.

  Rhonda feels herself sweating as she clenches her fists under the table, wishing she’d worn something other than jeans and a sweatshirt.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. We have a friend in common, I believe,’ she finally manages to say, hoping Madeleine will pick up the conversational baton and say his name. She doesn’t.

  ‘And who is this friend?’

  ‘Jeremy Miller.’ Rhonda sits up squarely in her seat and manages to bring her cup to her mouth without spilling any, though it does take two hands. Breathe, she tells herself, forcing her shoulders down and her lungs to take in air. ‘Do you know him?’

  Madeleine hesitates, her eyes flicking to the ceiling and then back to Rhonda. ‘Yes, I do.’ Her words are clipped and precise and her expression doesn’t change. There’s nothing for Rhonda to read. ‘How may I help you?’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  Madeleine thinks, her eyes darting about again as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Rhonda notices the large silver earrings she’s wearing, wondering if they were a gift from Jeremy.

  ‘That’s a tough one,’ she admits. ‘A little while ago now.’ She gives a small shrug.

  ‘Can you be more specific?’ All Rhonda needs is for her to say ‘yesterday’ or ‘last week’ or even ‘sometime this year’ to prove her theory that Jeremy is still alive and, very likely, either living with or at least involved with Madeleine – the other woman.

  ‘Maybe some weeks, it’s hard to recall exactly. Perhaps more, though perhaps less.’

  ‘I see,’ Rhonda replies slowly, though she doesn’t see at all.

  ‘Is there a problem? I do not understand why you are asking me this.’

  ‘Are you aware… do you know what happened to Jeremy?’ Rhonda was intending to delay this question, but it’s clear that Madeleine is giving nothing away.

  ‘Happened?’

  Jesus Christ, Rhonda thinks. She sips her coffee, hands shaking. She hopes Madeleine doesn’t notice. ‘I’m afraid there was an accident.’

  ‘Accident?’ Madeleine’s expression remains neutral.

  ‘You don’t know?’

  Rhonda thinks Madeleine shakes her head, but she can’t be sure. Whatever the gesture, it’s non-committal.

  ‘I’m so sorry to have to tell you,’ Rhonda says gently, ‘but Jeremy was killed a few weeks ago.’ She didn’t imagine for one minute that she’d have to break that news and had assumed, bluff or not, that Madeleine would admit to knowing this. She’s a good actress, Rhonda thinks.

  Silence. Madeleine does nothing but blink furiously. She tilts her head. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I was hoping you could tell me that.’

  ‘You want me to tell you if you are sure that Jeremy is dead? How would I even know this?’ She gives a quick shake of her head, her glossy hair rippling.

  Rhonda closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, she places her hands face down on the table either side of her coffee cup. She leans forward.

  ‘Look, let’s not keep this pretence up, shall we? I know you’ve seen Jeremy recently and I know he’s still alive, even though he’s done the most unspeakable thing ever and allowed his wife to believe he’s dead. Christ, she even had a bloody memorial service for him. His parents were there, for heaven’s sake. She’s my best friend and I’m watching her go through hell right now, so I’d appreciate you coming clean and giving the poor woman some kind of closure at least. Then the pair of you can skip off into the sunset happily ever after for all I care, because I assure you, Jen will want nothing to do with him when she finds out the truth. He’s all yours.’

  Madeleine sits there, saying nothing. Her fingers are laced together around her cup, but she doesn’t drink from it. She maintains perfect posture, steady breathing and even her rapid blinking has ceased. But then Rhonda sees it – a swallow, her slender throat rippling.

  ‘Jen’s known you were having an affair with her husband for a long time.’ Even if she denies it, Rhonda thinks, then at least she’s got that off her chest on Jen’s behalf, called her out on it.

  ‘I do not know what you are talking about.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Madeleine. I suggest we get some honesty on the table here.’

  ‘I did not have an affair with Jeremy. Sure, we worked together sometimes. And… and I can’t deny that he tried it on with me once or twice when we were away filming. In our business… that is not so uncommon. But it’s not to say I enjoyed the attention.’ Madeleine’s accent suddenly seems more noticeable, perhaps because she’s stressed. ‘I am so sorry he has passed away. Please send my condolences to his wife.’

  ‘But you already knew he was “dead”. Why the pretence?’ Rhonda uses her fingers as quotes, because she still doesn’t believe he is.

  ‘I… I—’

 
‘I saw you at his memorial service, Madeleine, so don’t pretend you didn’t know he’d “died”. Did you come along to make it seem plausible but you got cold feet? Was that it?’

  Rhonda runs through the possibilities in her mind, remembering when Jen called with the news of Jeremy’s death. She was in a terrible state, saying she’d just had a visit from the police, almost incoherent with grief as she spewed out what few details she knew about the accident. Rhonda had gone straight round to comfort her.

  The next day, Jen said that the head of the mountain rescue team in Switzerland had contacted her. They’d updated her on progress over the next week, until finally they’d given up on recovering the remaining bodies. She’d been informed that they’d ship his few belongings back from the hotel – but then she said they’d never actually materialised. Apparently, Jeremy always had his passport, wallet and phone on him in a security belt while skiing, so it would only have been clothes left at the hotel. It had all been ghastly.

  To think now that it was all staged by Jeremy and Madeleine was almost worse. How the hell could they have pulled that off? Thinking rationally, Rhonda knew they probably hadn’t. But something wasn’t right – especially now she’d found Jeremy’s passport in his study. She can’t see how he could have gone on the trip without it.

  ‘Look, stop,’ Madeleine says. ‘Enough now! You do not know what you are talking about.’ Her hands gesture wildly, the most animated she’s been. ‘But OK, yes, you are correct. I did attend Jeremy’s memorial service. I’m sorry for concealing this fact.’

  She bows her head for a moment.

  ‘I was aware of the… of the tense situation between him and his wife, and I did not want to…’ she trails off, thinking of the correct word, ‘…antagonise her with my presence. She had already warned me off the skiing trip, telling me to stay away from her husband. But he must have changed his mind at some point, because a while after I saw people posting condolences on his social media.