His Other Life

by Beth Thomas

  BETH THOMAS

  His Other Life

  Copyright

  AVON

  HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2015

  Copyright © Beth Thomas 2015

  Cover images © Nikki Dupin 2015

  Illustration © Helen Musslewhite 2015

  Beth Thomas asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780007544844

  Ebook Edition © March 2015 ISBN: 9780007544837

  Version: 2015-01-08

  Dedication

  For my Babbagee.

  You may be a sour-faced puss,

  but it’s not your fault.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Keep Reading …

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Beth Thomas

  About the Publisher

  ONE

  There’s a text on my husband’s phone. It’s lying on the counter near the kettle and I just heard it vibrate. He’s turned the sound off, probably thinking I wouldn’t hear it – that’s the only reason someone would put their phone on silent, right? – but I still can. It sounds like an automatic gun; our neighbours probably heard it. Pam and Mike next door are no doubt up off their sofa already, frantically dialling three nines before you can say Crimewatch.

  I look over at the phone but it’s face down, probably so that it doesn’t light up noticeably when texts or calls arrive. Bit of a pointless precaution if you ask me, given that it sounds like a horse falling downstairs. Maybe it’s also a precaution against someone – well, let’s be honest, me – getting a glimpse of the name of anyone who might call or text.

  Eventually the glasses and cutlery stop rattling from the aftershocks and I glance over at hubby to see if he’s noticed. Of course he’s noticed; the house shifted on its foundations. But he’s not going over there to read the message, or even check to see who it’s from. Why is that?

  ‘I think you just got a text,’ I say über-casually, then pick up a tea towel and saunter over to the draining board. ‘Want me to see who it was?’

  He’s working on getting a particularly stubborn bit of baked cheese off the side of the lasagne dish and doesn’t look up: this job apparently requires full concentration. ‘Oh, did I? No, no need,’ he says lightly. ‘I’ll have a look in a minute.’

  I nod slowly. ‘Oh, OK.’

  Adam finishes the dish, carefully rinses the soap off under the cold tap, then places it gently upside down on the draining board. He empties the washing-up bowl, turns it over, wipes its base, then wipes the excess water from the draining board. Finally he turns and walks to where I’m listlessly drying a wine glass. He’s smiling as he reaches out towards me but I don’t move. As soon as his fingers touch the tea towel in my hand, they stop approaching and intertwine themselves into the fabric, drying off.

  ‘Great grub, Gracie,’ he says, then grins and raises his head to look at me. ‘And I’m pleased to announce that the Wife of the Year award goes to …’ He performs a miniature drum roll with his index fingers on the kitchen side. ‘Oh, well, no surprises there, she’s been the hot favourite right from the beginning, it’s last year’s winner, it’s Mrs Grace Littleton!’ He raises his arms and makes whispery crowd cheering noises in the back of his throat, while glancing around the kitchen at his imaginary audience. I smile at him, charmed by his boyishness as usual, and, for the moment anyway, the mysterious text message goes out of my head.

  ‘Come on,’ he says, jerking his head towards the door, ‘let’s watch the lottery. Did you get the ticket?’

  ‘Yep, it’s in my bag.’ I retrieve the ticket from my handbag on the kitchen chair and follow him into the living room.

  Adam and I have been married just a year – today is our first anniversary actually. We exchanged presents over dinner. One year is paper – I know this because I Googled it a few days ago – so I bought him a book called Keeping the Magic Alive: How to Get and Give Satisfying Lifelong Sex by someone called Dr Cristina Markowitz. On the front there was a full-colour photo of a pair of gorgeous naked models pretending to be a satisfied married couple, and the whole thing was wrapped in clingfilm, presumably so that people couldn’t sneak into Smiths when they ran into difficulties, read up on a couple of tips, then dash back home again to finish the job. There was a nasty moment when I was paying for it involving Chloe on the till holding the book up in the air and shouting at top volume down the store ‘BRYONY! HOW MUCH IS THE SEX BOOK? BAR CODE WON’T SCAN’, but eventually I’d carried it home (in my fingertips, like a hot coal) and wrapped it in cool blue shiny paper, releasing a tense breath once it was finally sheathed. A small part of me half expected the steamy photo on the front to burn through the wrapping paper, like the lost Ark of the Covenant, leaving a naked-body-shaped scorch mark on the outside.

  I’d grinned as Adam opened it earlier, hoping he’d get the joke. I thought it was absolutely hilarious that someone had written a book about it, and more than that, that somewhere people were actually sitting down and reading it. ‘Ooh, look at this one, Steven, do you think we could manage that?’ ‘Oh I don’t know, Barbara, I’ve got that presentation tomorrow. What else is there?’ For crying out loud, people, stop reading books about it and do it!

  Adam looked at me quizzically once he’d unwrapped it. ‘Wow. Um, you trying to tell me something, Gracie?’

  I broke eye contact as I answered. ‘No, no, of course not, but don’t you think it’s hysterical? I mean, imagine Steve and Barb in bed together flicking through the pages …’

  ‘Who are they?’

  I frowned. ‘No, no one, just imaginary people, I’m just pretending.’

  ‘Oh right.’ He opened the book at a random page and read in silence for a few moments. ‘Very interesting,’ he concluded, then closed it and laid it on the table. It practically sizzled when it touched the surface. ‘Thank you very much.’

  I was disappointed. He had completely missed the joke. ‘You’re welcome.’

  If I’m completely honest, I was also hoping he might read it.
The couple on the front looked like they were having such a tremendous time, and I so wanted to experience that. Even though we’d been married an entire year – or only a year, whichever way you look at it – Adam and I did not partake of the old horizontal refreshment all that frequently. From what I’d seen in magazines and films, newlyweds were supposed to be at it like they were stuffing turkeys every day, with great big grins on their faces and sweaty, shiny bodies. But this was not my own experience. ‘Hardly ever’ was closer to my magic number. Of course, films are fiction, and those magazine interviewees could have been exaggerating, knowing that what they said was going to become public knowledge. They probably were – their mates would see it. But even allowing for that, I still felt short-changed.

  My present was a gorgeous bunch of carnations, with guaranteed freshness for seven days. I’d put them in a vase immediately and placed them in the centre of the table. ‘Lovely, thank you.’

  He’d smiled, pleased with my reaction. ‘No problem. Shall we eat?’

  We haven’t won on the lottery again. I never expect to, and would be happy to stop doing it altogether – it seems so greedy when we already have so much – but Adam always wants me to buy a ticket on the way home. ‘It’s fun,’ he says, ‘something for us to enjoy together.’ I’m completely in favour of that, so I oblige, week after week, stopping in at the newsagents on the corner of our street on my walk home from town every Friday. The bloke behind the counter recognises me now, and has started to pre-empt my request with a ‘Still not won, then?’ remark. It irritates me probably more than it should.

  After the lottery results, we watch a cheerful film about a man whose daughter is kidnapped and sold into prostitution, and then we decide to call it a night.

  I’m in the kitchen finishing off the clearing up and, as I’m wiping down the tiles behind the sink, I remember suddenly Adam’s text from earlier. He hasn’t been in here since then so his phone must still be over on the counter by the kettle. I could have a very quick look at the preview, just to find out who it’s from. I won’t actually open it and read it, I’ll literally just look at the name. Of course, the first part of the message will be visible in the preview as well anyway, so it won’t matter if I read that bit – anyone could see it as it’s on display so it can’t be that private, and I won’t be able to help it. I glance up at the kitchen door, listen carefully for a few seconds and, hearing nothing, I move quickly over to the kettle and start hunting around. The phone must be here, but I discover straight away that it’s not where I remember last seeing it. I look behind the kettle but of course it’s not there either. I check the entire length of all three kitchen sides, in the sink, behind the microwave and have a cursory glance into all the cupboards, but it’s not to be found. Where the hell is it? Adam has definitely not come back into the kitchen since we left to watch the lottery earlier, so how could it have moved?

  Unless. A dart of frustration shoots through me briefly. He did get up once during the film, to go to the loo. ‘Ooh, pause it a second,’ he said, ‘need a wee.’ Then he was up and out of there like his trousers were on fire. Strange for him to move like that, just for a wee. But now it’s obvious: he must have suddenly realised his phone wasn’t in his pocket, and rushed to pick it up from the kitchen on his way upstairs. Bloody hell, that was probably my only chance to find out who the text was from. Although the three times that I’ve actually managed to get my hands on his phone since I’ve known him, it’s had an impossible-to-break screen lock code on it. No amount of combinations of his birthday, my birthday … well, they’re the only two things I’ve tried, to be honest, as I have no other information to go on. But I couldn’t unlock it. It might as well have been in a box, locked inside a safe with a secret key, buried underground, for all the good it did me.

  But there’s always the chance that the lock won’t be on. That’s what keeps me going.

  When I get upstairs, he’s already in the bedroom, but no sound is coming from the room. I remember to step over the penultimate stair to avoid making it creak, then stealthily cross the landing and peep into the bedroom through the crack of the door. Sure enough, there is Adam, standing motionless at the end of the bed, staring down at the screen of his mobile phone, the light from it illuminating his face bluish white. He’s not replying, not smiling, not reacting at all to what he’s reading. Unless you consider his non-reaction as a reaction in itself. It’s spooky actually, his complete lack of response to this message. He’s utterly immobile, as if frozen.

  ‘Ooh, it’s a bit chilly in here,’ I say, blustering in. I’m rewarded by him jumping guiltily and slipping the phone fluidly into his trouser pocket as he turns to me with a smile. I feel a small leap of hope: he didn’t get a chance to delete the message.

  ‘Come on then,’ he says, as if nothing has happened, ‘let’s get into bed and warm each other up.’

  A little spark of excitement fires in my lower belly at these words, and I shed my clothes in a single movement. This is it – it’s our anniversary, when better to indulge in a little happy dancing than tonight? Once we’re under the covers, he moves close up behind me, his knees just brushing the backs of my thighs. My belly starts squirming as I feel his hot breath on my neck, then I shiver as very gently he places his freezing hands flat against my back. Then he turns them over and presses their cold backs to my skin. ‘Ooh, that’s lush,’ he murmurs, then turns them over again.

  Everyone thinks Adam is out of my league. They don’t actually say it – not to me anyway – but I can see it in their eyes when they look at us. Even my own mum, for God’s sake. She kind of glances from me to him and back again, then gives a tiny uncomprehending shake of her head before turning away. She thinks I haven’t noticed, but of course I have. My sister Lauren fancies him rotten and wouldn’t hesitate to betray our sisterly bond if she ever got the chance. I’m not sure I’d even blame her. Adam is tall and handsome and successful and charming and everyone adores him, my family in particular. That’s not to say they don’t adore me. Of course they do. They’re always ‘Oh Gracie, you’re so funny’ and ‘Isn’t Gracie just fantastic?’ and ‘You look pretty today, Gracie.’ But when I first brought Adam home to meet everyone on take-away night three years ago, it was a family bucket of shock and awe all round.

  ‘Hi everyone,’ I said proudly. ‘This is Adam.’

  They looked up as one from what they were doing – watching Doctor Who, I think – and stared open-mouthed at the golden Adonis that had dropped from Mount Olympus to stand at my side. There was a brief hiatus during which the Tardis materialised noisily, then Mum and my brother Robbie were scrabbling for the remote – ‘Pause it, pause it, quick, who’s got the thing, who’s got the cocking thing?’ ‘I’ve got it, Christ, stop pressuring me, I’m doing it!’ – Lauren was standing up slowly, trying to look like Pussy Galore; and Dad leaned back in his chair with a satisfied grin, as if to say, ‘finally’.

  Adam looked coolly at everyone in turn, appraising, taking in, sizing up; and then, with a slow nod, said, ‘So. You’re the ones.’

  ‘The ones who?’ was the general enquiry that came from everyone. He paused before answering, so his statement had maximum impact. ‘The four people in the world who think Doctor Who is worth watching.’

  Adam was my landlord. Don’t worry, no impropriety took place, a tenant dating her landlord; I’ve Googled it and there’s nothing that says it’s inappropriate. It’s not as if he took advantage of me while I was renting a room in his house or anything hideous like that. No strategic holes in bathroom walls, no cameras planted in my room, no sleaze; just a shop on the high street. I’d gone in there a few months earlier to enquire about a flat I’d seen advertised in the local paper. My friend Annabel Price had lived there after having her illicit baby when the rest of us were still in the sixth form, and we all used to pile round after school and pretend to be grown-ups, alternating between consuming coffee and cigarettes on the fire escape, and holding the baby; while somewhere
in the background Annabel sobbed into her sterilising tank.

  I knew that hideous little place, I knew its mouldy walls and its stained carpets and the latent nappy smell and when I saw it advertised a thrill of excitement went through me and I got a fatalistic sense that it had been waiting for me. I was twenty-four at the time, so it was aeons and aeons since I’d left school, and here was a chance to relive those heady days. I’d had no desire at all to leave my parents’ place until that moment; but for Annabel Price’s flat, I knew I could make the break.

  Adam was sitting at the single desk in his tiny office, which was squeezed in between the East of India and the dry cleaners. It had a plate-glass front with his name, ‘Adam Littleton’, etched onto it in an arc, and underneath it said ‘Estate Management’. It was very impressive. It was August and the sun was shining straight through that enormous window covering the floor with a gorgeous golden carpet, so inside was barbarically hot. As soon as I stepped through the door, my instinct was to run from the fire, but Adam looked at me and smiled, so I stayed. I did want that flat, after all.

  ‘Hi, how can I help?’ he asked straight away, standing up and coming around the desk, allowing no chance at all for the potential customer – me – to change their mind and leave.

  I scanned the properties displayed on the walls, hoping to see the advert for the flat that had appeared in the paper. A small desk fan was rotating ineffectually on the desk. ‘Um, I saw a flat, in the paper …’

  ‘OK. Which paper was it?’

  I blinked. I had been expecting him to ask which flat it was. ‘I think it was the Herald. It was a one-bedroom …’ But in that very small space of time, like a magician, he’d produced a sheet of paper from somewhere and was holding it out to me to check.