How to Marry Your Husband

by Jacqueline Rohen

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 Rachel

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10 David

  Chapter 11 Rachel

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13 David

  Chapter 14 Rachel

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17 David

  Chapter 18 Rachel

  Chapter 19 David

  Chapter 20 Rachel

  Chapter 21 David

  Chapter 22 Rachel

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24 David

  Chapter 25 Rachel

  Chapter 26 David

  Chapter 27 Rachel

  Chapter 28 David

  Chapter 29 Rachel

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31 David

  Chapter 32 Rachel

  Chapter 33 David

  Chapter 34 Rachel

  Chapter 35 David

  Chapter 36 Rachel

  Chapter 37 David

  Chapter 38 Rachel

  Chapter 39 David

  Chapter 40 Rachel

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Jacqueline Rohen was born in Essex. She worked in television and musical theatre in London, before moving to Uganda with her fiancé where they set up the Bulindi Chimpanzee & Community Project to conserve wild chimpanzees by supporting local households living alongside them. How To Marry Your Husband was her first novel. Tragically, Jacqueline passed away just before the book’s publication.

  For Maggie and Andrea – both of whom said to aim for the stars, and provided the stepladders to reach them.

  For Joyce.

  And of course for my very own nearly-husband, Matt.

  Prologue

  It started with a kiss.

  Rachel spotted her husband on the high street. Such a lovely surprise. With a flutter of excitement, she wondered if she’d caught David picking up an anniversary present for her. She looked for a parking space where she could pull over. They could start their celebrations early; she had bought an expensive silk chemise especially for the occasion. There was one night left free for the two of them to celebrate together, followed by a weekend of festivities. The opportunity to see friends and family en masse was sacrosanct; everything was prepared.

  When David kissed the woman standing in front of him, Rachel almost crashed her car. She stomped on the brakes and the Chelsea tractor behind responded with an angry blast of the horn. Uncharacteristically, she considered replying with an obscene hand gesture to convey: Hello? Give me a pissing break. I’ve just this moment discovered that my husband is a cheating bastard. Instead, she threw up her hand to apologise and pulled over in a bay marked DELIVERIES ONLY. She tasted bile in the back of her throat. When he’d said not one hour before that he had errands to run, Rachel had stupidly assumed that meant buying a last-minute gift for her. He’d omitted any mention of this flame-haired beauty on his to-do list.

  David was oblivious to everything but the girl; the kiss had ended and he was now deep in conversation with her. Even the cacophony of traffic noises didn’t distract him. Why did he have to kiss her in front of Sylvie’s bakery? On their anniversary … their fifteenth wedding anniversary, for fuck’s sake! Rachel was drowning under waves of emotion, lapping faster and faster, one on top of another, attacking from all angles. She was upset. And sad. And angry. And baffled. And downright furious. How could he? What was he doing? Was he trying to get caught? Who was she? How long had it been going on? The questions piled up, her bewilderment mounting.

  Rachel pulled at the necktie of her blouse, a stylish bow. The knot wouldn’t budge and was now suffocating her. If she couldn’t soon untie it – it’d be listed as cause of death.

  Just breathe, just breathe.

  Rachel grabbed her phone and called her husband’s number. She hoped he would let her in on the joke and hastily explain that he had bumped into a beautiful woman and they accidentally kissed on the street – one big misunderstanding. Ha ha ha! No such luck as the worst possible scenario played out before her. David retrieved his phone, glanced at the screen, cancelled the call and returned the phone to his jacket pocket. His voicemail announced: You’ve reached David … Rachel watched as her husband’s hands returned to caress the woman’s shoulders.

  What. The. Actual. Fuck?

  Rachel waited impatiently for the traffic to subside; the stream of cars and cyclists was relentless. She wiped her eyes. The dislodged eye makeup left sweeping Rothko trails on the back of her hand as she tried to stem the flow of salty tears. They wouldn’t stop but ran down her face and onto her neck, stinging the tender skin.

  She tried the number again. This time it went straight to voicemail. You’ve reached David …

  Rachel couldn’t wait any longer. She scrambled over the gearstick and toppled out of the passenger door, confident that she could walk and breathe at the same time. David had disappeared; she couldn’t see in which direction he and the girl had gone. She tried his mobile phone again. It seemed to take years for the call to connect and once more it was sent straight to voicemail.

  Just breathe, just breathe.

  They couldn’t have gone far. She searched the swarm of pedestrians for her husband and a woman who looked startlingly like a young Nicole Kidman: wild red curls, tall and slim. And young. Bloody young. Much younger than Rachel’s thirty-four years. The meditative breathing hadn’t worked and panic started to take hold. It was such a cliché. Her older husband was cavorting with a woman half his age.

  Rachel was worried she might faint. Her knees wobbled as she searched the four corners of the town square for clues. No sign of either of them.

  Defeated, she returned to her car.

  She tried David’s number. Again it clicked to voicemail.

  You’ve reached David …

  Rachel mimicked the recorded message. You’ve reached David but I’m too busy cheating on my hapless wife to take your call … She threw her phone into her bag.

  From somewhere deep within Rachel a primitive wail escaped. She sobbed as she thumped the steering wheel. Lying. Cheating. Bastard. Shit! Through tear-blurred vision, she flinched at her reflection in the rear-view mirror. She was a mess. Mascara tears had already stained her shirt collar with inky blotches and soaked the hair framing her face, making the ends of her neat bob curl. She searched her handbag for a packet of tissues or a stray grubby paper napkin that sometimes loitered at the bottom; she couldn’t find anything suitable.

  She rummaged for her phone to send a text message to her cheating, lying bastard of a husband.

  Rachel: Please don’t forget to pick up the cake. Patisserie Sylvie’s – all paid for. X

  David would have to cover his tracks and re-emerge from wherever he and his lady friend had disappeared in order to collect the cake before the bakery closed. Rachel wiped the remaining tears from her face and took a deep breath. Why had she added that kiss at the end of the text? In the rear-view mirror she spotted a traffic warden at the end of the high street marching in her direction. The warden’s hand was already primed with the ticket machine to write her up for illegal parking. Rachel turned over the ignition and accelerated towards home.

  She tried David’s number again. It clicked to voicemail. She gave no thought to using the hands-free and if the police caught her using her phone whilst driving it really would be the icing on the cake.

  ‘Pick up your BLOODY phone!’ she screamed into oblivion.

  You’ve reached D
avid …

  Rachel tried to recollect what she had actually seen. She didn’t want to believe it. But David had clearly kissed another woman and gone off with her. And on their anniversary too. Their marriage was wholly monogamous. They had a strict set of rules, and kissing other people was not permitted. And it’s never just a kiss, is it? You don’t go around kissing people without it meaning something. Not beautiful women who are not your wife.

  It was a miracle she and the car made it back in one piece. She could expect a telling off from the Neighbourhood Watch committee at the next meeting. They lived in a strict twenty-m.p.h. zone and Rachel had clocked at least forty coming into Sycamore Rise. She imagined Mr Renwick, the Neighbourhood Watch chairman, would refer to her as Jenson Button for the foreseeable future.

  Rachel

  1

  Rachel pulled into the driveway and picked up her phone. She needed to call someone, but who? Rachel and David lived in the quaint riverside town of Richmond, thirty minutes by train from London Waterloo. It would be a lie to say the social scene there was buzzing.

  There was no one on her contacts list who could a) offer a shoulder to cry on, or b) actually give good advice. Most of her best friends were scattered around the world, in Australia (emigrated), Mexico (travelling Eat, Pray, Love-style) and East Africa (saving the world). She never felt thousands of miles away from them thanks to Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, WhatsApp, Pinterest. But today she might have well been on Jupiter. David’s infidelity would hardly be a welcome topic on their monthly split-screen Skype call. She tried an impromptu call with Becca in Brisbane but couldn’t bring herself to say the words aloud. Instead she said she’d called for a quick chat. Becca asked if Rachel was okay; she blamed the long distance for the catch in her voice. Becca couldn’t talk for long. She was taking one of the boys for a swimming exam. They promised to catch up properly soon.

  Rachel checked her Facebook account: 763 friends and still no one to call upon. Did she even know seven hundred people? She scrolled through her online acquaintances. Obviously, there were close chums and family, and then friends she went to school, college and university with. Colleagues, David’s colleagues and friends, her mother’s Bible group, clients, employees. A nice Irish girl she met on a yoga retreat in 2010. Her brother’s neighbour from five years ago. Her dentist! As she went through the list she started to delete people she didn’t actually remember or indeed like. It was a welcome distraction until the realisation dawned on her that she had few if any friends completely independent from her husband. Her best friend Jojo was her husband’s sister, for God’s sake. Everyone in her immediate circle was inexorably linked to David, and ultimately would they, could they, be loyal to Rachel? There was Cathy who was (unhappily) married to Aaron, one of David’s closest friends. And Jessica – David was godfather to her and husband Tom’s two girls. Then there was his best friend Barry’s soon-to-be-ex-wife, Gina. But they split up and got back with each other more often than Rachel got a pedicure.

  How had she never noticed this before?

  Rachel opened the front door and let out a shrill sarcastic, ‘Honey, I’m home!’ The house was cold, as usual. It was too big, too old and impossible to heat. She had been so thrilled when they had first moved into their terraced Georgian house. Now, the vast emptiness of their home was a metaphor for their marriage; a grand-looking, worthless chasm.

  Rachel took in the interior of their home. It was not so much designed, more an accumulation of things from the life they had built together. The lounge was filled with memories. Framed prints of Edward Hopper paintings complemented their mix and match furniture. Inexpensive IKEA items stood next to designer pieces they had collected and cherished over the years. The classic 1950s sideboard was their first joint furniture purchase. The huge, oversized dining table was accidentally acquired when David ordered a four-metre table instead of a table that seated four! They kept it anyway, and now Rachel loved its overbearing, ostentatious presence. She squeezed the armchair that needed reupholstering, and straightened the colourful rug inspired by Mondrian’s compositions.

  Rachel toyed with a chilled bottle of white wine from the fridge. She never normally drank alone. But, by God, she wanted a drink and a bath, ideally both at the same time.

  An anniversary present from Eva sat on the kitchen counter in its brightly coloured gift bag: organic oils. Thoughtful but unsurprising. On any given day at work, Eva would pull out at least two bottles of essential oils from her handbag, inhaling and exhaling deeply, before waving the pungent vials in Rachel’s face and insisting that she do the same. Eva swore by the benefits of aromatherapy and had promised the oils would relax Rachel, who sometimes found it difficult to take serious advice from her peri-menopausal nymphomaniac office manager, but Eva’s no-nonsense attitude was hard to ignore. Hoping that she was right about their miraculous properties, Rachel picked up the gift bag and brought the bottle of Chardonnay along too, just in case. She drew a bath and allowed the chamomile and sandalwood to lull her into a temporary state of calm.

  Three hours before, Rachel had ended an upbeat staff meeting with applause, thanking her team for a job well done. She’d capped her new Montblanc fountain pen – an early anniversary gift – and concluded work for the day. Now, in the depths of their bath designed for two, she despaired. Rachel couldn’t help but obsess over the mysterious woman she had seen locking lips with her husband. Who was she? It was no one she’d recognised. But then again, she had experienced quite the shock. Her memory of the event was already fading. Rachel closed her eyes and tried to concentrate, mentally listing the fragmented details she could remember:

  The redhead was stunning. More than pretty, she was categorically beautiful.

  Her skin was translucent. The way her milky complexion offset her long thick hair was mesmerising. With her wide eyes and small, pouting mouth, she looked like a doll.

  She was the sort of woman you noticed on the street; cool, hip. She was wearing a denim jacket, teamed with navy linen dungarees. DUNGAREES! Rachel would be mistaken for Super Mario in that outfit.

  The woman was young.

  The last point was the worst of all. Rachel knew she shouldn’t make excuses for her stupid cheating husband, but she got it. She understood why he – why any red-blooded heterosexual man – was interested. So what if she’s drop-dead gorgeous and my husband drinks from the fountain of her …

  Stop it, Rachel, she admonished herself. She was fresh out of lucid deliberation. She topped up the hot water a further three times.

  An hour later, when her extremities had shrivelled to official prune status and half the wine was consumed, Rachel finally pulled herself from the bath. She caught sight of her panda eyes. Waterproof, my arse, she thought. Why couldn’t mascara stay on her lashes when it had no problem with sticking to the bags under her eyes?

  She stood in front of the large steam-free mirror and prepared herself for the pep talk of her life. She knew that it would have been terrible to see David kissing anyone, but did he really have to pick someone so young? To date, Rachel hadn’t minded getting older. When her friends fretted and obsessed over every little facial line and new grey hair discovered, Rachel was usually the first to remind them that ‘age is just a number’. She hadn’t rejoiced when the speed of her metabolism nosedived at the end of her twenties, or to learn she needed double the hours of sleep to function, but she hadn’t lost her head over it. Rachel looked like a thirty-four-year-old woman, and that was fine – she was a thirty-four-year-old woman.

  Rachel took a deep breath and pulled at her neck. She hadn’t given her décolletage much attention until a Facebook advert inconsiderately pointed it out to her. It was the start of a neck-shaming phenomenon, she was sure of it. ‘Stop it!’ she told herself as she massaged her skin with moisturising cream.

  It was the only thing that had slightly rattled her about passing the big 3-0. Aside from that, Rachel had confidently leaned into her thirties, and found that there was actually
a lot to be said for shrugging off the trappings of her twenties. She no longer wanted to follow fast fashion. She didn’t want to wear jeans with purposely ripped holes in them or pay more for the slashed versions. She didn’t want to dye her hair grey AS A FASHION STATEMENT! She didn’t want to straighten her hair to within an inch of its life or fill her lips in with pencil and over-gloss them into a frozen, fishlike pout. She didn’t want to wear anything mustard in colour. And she didn’t want Botox injected into her forehead, her laughter lines, or anywhere else for that matter. She was happy with her lot – or had been until precisely eighty-nine minutes earlier. Now she felt and looked like death. She’d make a note in her diary, she decided, for this was the day she started to hate her thirty-four-year-old face.

  Maybe her friends were right all along. Why hadn’t she been checking the progress of the lines on her neck? No such evasive action now. Neck-centric self-loathing came rushing back full force. Hands shaking, she dotted serum along the lines, counting them like growth rings on a tree. She pushed down the sob building inside her and let out a deep, aching sigh. What was the point? The serums, the waxing, the twelve-weekly cut and highlights. Why was she bothering with any of it? Why was she starving herself twice a week on the 5:2 diet if her husband was going to run off with someone half his age anyway? She had wasted the majority of her adult life dreaming of and rejecting the desire to eat cake when what was the point?

  Rachel had thought she kept sex with her husband exciting, and regular enough. Wasn’t it? She blushed at what she had planned for her evening in with David, the new lingerie and their own special anniversary celebration – how embarrassing; a wife thinking she was going to blow her husband’s mind with lace and stockings while he was at it with …

  God, the thought twisted her stomach.

  David – her stupid, philandering husband – was tall, dark and still handsome despite the fact that he was more than ten years older than her. Even as they aged, men retained the advantage. David modestly acknowledged his good genes, but kept himself in shape and always smelled amazing. And he listened, he was a laugh. He was a good husband, or so she’d thought. He was certainly adept at acting like a good husband.