My Perfect Wife: An absolutely unputdownable domestic suspense novel

by Clare Boyd

  She turned on the bedside light and took two migraine pills, just in case the mild pain escalated.

  Her sleep was broken.

  A few hours later, she woke to find that Lucas was not in bed next to her. Disorientated, she tried putting the pillow over her head, keeping her eyes tight shut to allow herself a few more hours of sleep. Then she remembered the passports and her eyes shot open.

  If she was serious about keeping them open, fully, she could not shy away from this.

  She dragged herself out of bed. Her brain felt loose in her skull as she stood.

  With her heartbeat loud in her ears, she headed out into the moonlight.

  There was a dim greenish glow filtering through the grime of the camper van windows. The closer Elizabeth came, the more she heard. The sounds were unmistakable. Sounds she had heard from her husband in her own ear. They were sounds of anger and pleasure, of carnal lovemaking. Drawn to them with a macabre spirit clawing and spitting inside her, she moved across the grass, feeling the night’s dampness between her toes, wondering if she should crawl on her hands and knees like an animal moving in on its squealing kill.

  Peering through the window, grubby from moss and dirt, she could see Agata’s hair, mussed up by Lucas’s hand, his long fingers entwined in the peroxide strands. Her head seemed dismembered, his right hand pinning it down. The movement of his pale naked hips, raping her from behind, was rhythmic, shaking the camper van as though it were alive with his violence. Agata was not fighting back. She was not twisting and slapping and screaming, but her cheeks were squashed, distorted by his force, clamped between his hand and the table. Her eyes were blank and dripping with smeared make-up, her mouth was hanging open as though she were dead. Elizabeth almost wished her dead, so that the girl would not have to live through what he was doing to her. She knew what it felt like to be wanted and hated by him all at once, to experience his savagery and his desire in every ram of his hips.

  If she acted now, she could save the girl from minutes of further torment, but she didn’t move to stop him. And then it was over. A light inside was turned off and the vision disappeared.

  In telling him about Agata and Piotr’s engagement, Elizabeth had wanted to see him squirm, to see a flicker of jealousy perhaps, to show him that whatever he did to them, they would always find a way to be happy. But she had not considered the consequences of her petty revenge. She had not predicted that Lucas might be jealous and possessive still, might punish Agata, claim her once again.

  She stepped back, frightened, suddenly aware that she had to flee the scene before he discovered her there.

  An ache pulsed through her temples. She questioned what she had seen. It was too horrifying to believe. As she darted through the garden, back inside, to feel the warmth of the house cloak her goose-bumped flesh, the pain in her head spread. The doctors had once told her that migraines could cause hallucinations. And it was true that her mind, for a period, had been capable of mangling reality and distorting everyday interactions, bringing forth her worst fears like waking dreams. Experience of this delirium told her not to trust her mind now.

  Back in bed, she was grateful that her headache remained low-level, but her thoughts were jumbled. She pictured Heather’s face as a child, replacing Agata’s like a meme that could only be found on the dark web. Heather was smiling, as though blissfully unaware she was being raped.

  Sleep took the horrible repeating image away, but when she woke, she remembered it with a sickening dread, like being steeped in the lasting disquiet of a nightmare well beyond morning. Only when she saw blades of grass in between her toes did she recall how she had walked, groggy and half asleep, to the camper van. Again, like a slice through her, she relived the scene. The memory of Agata’s face gaped open like a wound. It was too vivid to dismiss as a delusion – and her migraine had threatened but had never exploded in full. She had to trust in what she had seen. The doctors weren’t always right.

  She wiped at her lips. They had kissed Lucas’s bare shoulder in the bath. She wiped and wiped and wiped. Nothing could wipe it away. Nothing could wipe away the disgust or the terrible guilt; neither could she rid herself of the sense of responsibility that reared up inside her now. It was clear that it rested on her, and her alone, to help Agata get away from him. Dread rumbled through her.

  The logistics of extricating their passports and documents from the safe were complicated. A daunting prospect, rendering the party-planning a distant memory; like remembering a childhood worry that seemed big at the time but with perspective was nothing. She couldn’t imagine where to begin. The potential repercussions of going against Lucas snaked inside her. She did not want Agata to suffer any longer than she had to, but she knew that her freedom, and that of Piotr, could not be gained overnight.

  While she thought about Agata and Piotr, she realised that she could no longer ignore the problem of Heather, for whom it was not too late. Not yet. For both young women, Elizabeth was their only hope. Their safety was in her hands. Her dithering, indecisive, unconfident little hands. She had nobody to delegate to, nobody to defer to, nobody to confide in. For the first time in her life, she would have to be one hundred per cent self-sufficient.

  * * *

  A few years ago, a mother at school had told Elizabeth about her divorce, and about the jewellery shop in Mayfair where she had sold her Cartier wedding and engagement rings. After some awkward email exchanges, Elizabeth retrieved the jeweller’s name and address from this woman and set up an appointment for the following day.

  The premises did not have a shopfront like the elegant jeweller’s below it. She rang the doorbell, twice. She was late and flustered, and unsure of what to expect.

  The door opened. A young woman in a baggy pencil skirt and flowery shirt greeted her and led her up a narrow carpeted staircase and along a scuffed corridor. The woman’s hair from the back was thick and dark, like purple nylon.

  The room she showed her into resembled an accountant’s office rather than a jewellery business. It smelt musty, like old hotels. There was a drinks bar in the corner. A man came forward. He was similar in age to the woman, dressed in a grey suit and brown shirt, and he wore a velvet yarmulke on his head. His handshake was cold and limp. ‘Hello, Mrs Huxley. I’m Mr Freeman. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ Elizabeth said, wishing she had never come.

  ‘We’re glad you made it,’ he said. ‘Would you like a beverage of any kind? We have Coke? Juice? Fizzy water? Whisky?’

  ‘Still water would be lovely.’

  She clutched her handbag on her lap and sat down in a wing-backed chair. When he placed a chilled bottle of Evian and a glass on the coffee table in front of her, his eyes flicked to the bag. He said, ‘My father will be with you shortly. If you need anything in the meantime, my wife will be happy to help.’

  The woman with the black hair nodded and smiled from behind a small bureau.

  Mr Freeman’s step was quiet as he walked across the green carpet and through a door, and she imagined the soles of his shoes were as shiny as the leather vamp stitched on top.

  Before she had a chance to open her bottle of water and pour it into the glass, Mr Freeman returned. ‘Come through, please.’

  Mr Freeman Senior looked like a bald, liver-spotted version of the young Mr Freeman. He stood up from behind his ornate pedestal desk. His handshake was firm and warm. Elizabeth reached into her handbag for the box containing her sapphire necklace and set it down in front of him. He placed his hands wide of the box, as though giving it space to rest and breathe. Then he opened it. He did not gasp with delight at its beauty as Jude had done.

  ‘A nice piece,’ he said. He didn’t move to touch it. The open lid faced him, as if poised for confrontation. ‘But its Bismarck style is a little out of fashion these days.’

  Elizabeth felt strangely humiliated and cheapened, as though the fusty room was an echo chamber of her home life, and of her own uselessness.

&n
bsp; ‘Tell me about its history,’ he said.

  There was sympathy in his tone, suggesting he might want her to tell him about her own history, knowing the two were intertwined. Elizabeth refrained, lying that it had been her own mother who had given the necklace to her before she died, but that she had lost the proof of purchase. As he listened, the little finger of his left hand tapped at the gilt edging of his desk.

  ‘And you want to sell it,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. You see, I’m leaving my husband,’ Elizabeth said, testing the words out, knowing it was unneeded and untrue information, wondering if this was how she might feel if she did leave him: both empowered and defensive. And utterly alone in the world.

  ‘Hmm. I see there are some broken prongs, and the links are worn. But I will have a closer look next door, if that is okay with you, Mrs Huxley?’

  ‘That’s fine,’ she said, lacking the confidence to suggest she accompany him and the necklace next door. She reminded herself that Mr Freeman’s establishment had come highly recommended, reassuring herself that it would be safe to allow him to take it out of her sight.

  Over the next fifteen minutes, alone in the room, she jiggled her knee, sipped her water and worried that he would tamper with the settings and try to swindle her.

  When he returned, her skin was clammy.

  He sat down, setting the box in front of him in the exact same spot she had initially placed it before his inspection. ‘We can offer you two thousand five hundred.’

  She had been keen to be poker-faced and stalwart. ‘But it’s worth twice that!’ Her voice was shrill.

  ‘You are very welcome to take it elsewhere,’ he said, without a hint of indignation. In fact, his eyes communicated fondness, as though he were looking upon his own daughter’s dismayed, desperate face.

  She thought: this is half what they need, half of what they deserve. But it was all she had.

  ‘Do you pay cash?’ she asked.

  ‘We don’t usually. But we can make an exception.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she mumbled, wiping her eyes. ‘Sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying. I didn’t even like the necklace very much.’

  He nodded. ‘I will get my son to handle the paperwork,’ he said, picking up his desk phone and mumbling instructions. ‘While he does that, I’ll show you something, if you like. Come, dear. This way.’

  Having been distrustful of him before, she now followed him like a lost puppy.

  He led her into the room where she suspected he had inspected her necklace. Variously sized loupes and tweezers and scales cluttered the jeweller’s benches. Through another door, they walked in single file past a bank of safes to the end of a corridor. He pulled back a velvet curtain. The floor-to-ceiling shelves of the walk-in cupboard were stuffed with dozens of velvet and leather jewellery boxes, stacked higgledy-piggledy on top of one another.

  ‘Gosh!’ she said.

  He took one down and opened it to show her it was empty. And another: a large Rolex box with no watch inside. Then another: a long red leather Cartier box with no bracelet. And another: a small square Tiffany box with no ring.

  ‘We reuse them when we’re brought pieces without their original boxes,’ he explained.

  ‘Can I see one?’ she asked.

  He nodded, and she picked out a flat velvet box from a low shelf. It creaked when she opened it. She ran her fingers across the navy satin interior, imagining what might have been inside and who would have owned it and how special it might have been to them.

  ‘They’re like my little coffins,’ he said darkly. ‘Every single box once had a dead body inside, if you know what I mean. Ninety-nine per cent had sad stories. But as soon as the owner lets go of the piece, their feelings for it die and it becomes worthless. Just business. You understand?’

  ‘Pre-loved,’ Elizabeth murmured, putting the box back.

  ‘But you see, you are not alone,’ he said, sweeping his hand across his collection. ‘They were being resourceful. Just like you are, my dear.’

  She smiled gratefully.

  ‘Thank you for showing me,’ she said.

  He had overestimated her attachment to the necklace, but the point he was making was pertinent. The necklace and those empty boxes represented the worthlessness of everything material in her life.

  * * *

  Elizabeth returned home with a plastic wallet of cash and searched for Heather in the grounds. The garden was returning to a version of normality. The party paraphernalia had been dismantled, the ground brushed and raked, snapping it back to how it had been before.

  She spotted Gordon sitting on the wall by the meadow with his back to her.

  ‘Hello!’ she panted, running towards him.

  ‘Everything okay?’ He stood up, handing his lunch box to Sally, who turned around and waved, pointing to her mouth as she chewed.

  ‘Where’s Heather?’ Elizabeth asked, trying to keep the panic from her voice. ‘I thought she was meant to be working today?’

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Huxley, I’d have thought Mr Huxley would’ve told you that Heather’s been quite poorly and is stuck in bed.’

  ‘Next door?’

  ‘In Rye.’

  ‘She caught Agata’s bug?’ Elizabeth felt in her pocket for her tiny grain-like aniseed sweets and popped one in her mouth.

  ‘I guess so, uh huh.’

  ‘When should we expect her back?’

  ‘We’re not sure yet,’ Sally replied, gulping back her mouthful. ‘Can we help at all?’

  The bulk of the money seemed to move inside Elizabeth’s handbag and she clenched her arm to hold it tighter. ‘Poor Heather. I hope she feels better soon.’ She began walking away, with the sense of a stone falling through her. Then she heard Mr Freeman’s fatherly words about resourcefulness ringing through her head, and she turned back.

  ‘Actually, I’d like to send her a get-well card and a thank you for everything she did for us this weekend. We couldn’t have done it without her.’

  ‘Oh, that’s not necessary, Mrs Huxley!’ Gordon and Sally cried as one.

  ‘Could I please have her address in Rye?’ Elizabeth asked, ignoring their remonstrations, bringing out her phone to type it into her notes.

  Gordon shot his wife a look, but Sally diligently relayed Heather’s address.

  * * *

  Rye’s main drag was busy with tourists, with their sandy feet and straw shoppers. Elizabeth’s white plimsolls and gold-trim tote did not fit in. She feared she might be too conspicuous, seen by someone she and Lucas knew. Lucas thought she was visiting a yogic day spa specialising in sea algae rubs and hatha on the beach, to recuperate after the party. The spa destination was not made up. It existed near Brighton. She had booked it and paid for it and offered it to Sarah as a thank you for the macarons. Sarah, overwhelmed with gratitude, had not questioned her one condition, that she answer to the name of Elizabeth Huxley while she was there. The measure was precautionary – Lucas was busy and unlikely to check on her whereabouts this week – but she hadn’t wanted to take any risks.

  The street where Heather and her boyfriend Rob lived, on the edge of town, was quiet. The pastel-coloured paint on the terraced houses was peeling and the window boxes were empty. The blustery weather and caw of seagulls gave Elizabeth a sense of unease. A man on a step stared at her.

  Rob answered the intercom and buzzed her in. The stairs up to their first-floor flat were covered in a brown runner. A pink door swung open and Rob stepped onto the landing. He was tall, with a sloppy posture. His deep tan couldn’t disguise the dark circles under his eyes, and his white-blonde hair was pillow-ruffled.

  ‘I’m Elizabeth,’ she said, holding out her hand.

  ‘Rob,’ he said, shaking it, looking her up and down, dropping his pale eyebrows into a frown. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘I’m looking for Heather.’

  He crossed his arms over his chest. ‘She’s swimming.’

  ‘Oh. I was told she was sick.’

&nb
sp; He grinned. ‘The sea is very healing.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Want to wait for her here?’

  ‘Please. Thank you.’

  He led her into their small flat. It was whitewashed and fresh, albeit messy with T-shirts hanging off chairs and old beer cans lined up next to the bin. He opened the kitchen window and reached for a tin. ‘Tea?’

  ‘That would be lovely.’

  ‘I’d call her but her phone will be in her bag.’ He sniffed a milk carton from the fridge and wrinkled his nose. ‘Oops. We’re out of milk. I’ll nip down to the shops.’

  She stood up. It felt wrong to be there. ‘I really shouldn’t be putting you out.’

  ‘It’s no bother.’

  ‘You’re very kind, but I think I’ll go.’

  He did not look offended. ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘Do you know where she’s swimming?’

  He rubbed an eyebrow. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘It’s important I see her today, Rob. I’ve come all this way,’ she added, with more transparency than she had shown him before.

  He held his breath and then let it out loudly.

  ‘Search for Jason’s Kiosk on Google. She’ll end up there.’

  * * *

  Elizabeth sat at a picnic table waiting for Heather. A polystyrene cup of tea was in front of her, untouched. The sea was uninviting, churning a white froth at the tide line. The man who had served her whistled a tune while he cleaned the counter behind her. The chorus caught on the wind.

  When Heather finally picked her way over the pebbles towards the kiosk, Elizabeth was trembling, due to both the relentless breeze and pent-up tension.

  She stood up too quickly and knocked over her tea. Heather’s eyes matched the sea behind her, grey and churned up and spirited, and her freckles were like the pebbles on the beach, larger than Elizabeth remembered them. The top half of her wetsuit was unzipped and pulled down to her waist. A thick towel was around her shoulders. She was prettier than ever. Her looks made sense against the sea behind her.