The Wife’s Secret: A gripping psychological thriller with a heart-stopping twist

by Kerry Wilkinson

  Annie leads me through into what she calls the ‘reading room’. The rug is plush and fluffy – ‘a gift from a friend in India’ – and the walls are lined with steepling ornate bookshelves that are filled bottom to top.

  ‘Books are my downfall,’ Annie confesses. ‘I know I live by less is more – but that’s not the case with books. You have to have one indulgence.’

  Annie’s own books are there, of course, but there is no pride of place. The cookery books she authored are filed in alphabetical order along with everyone else’s. No preference given here – and she has quite a collection. I don’t count, but there is comfortably a couple of hundred.

  ‘I’ve always loved cooking,’ Annie says, noticing my interest. ‘I started collecting years ago, long before I was on television. Some of those are my mum’s hand-me-downs.’

  The cookbooks are barely the start. There’s a lot of non-fiction: more lifestyle guides, craft books, fitness manuals and biographies dominate the shelves. I pick out a biography at random – that of a household star I won’t name. The inscription is on the inside cover: ‘To Annie and Paul, forever love’. The author has drawn a heart and then signed his name inside.

  But I’ve become distracted.

  The subject of why I’m here is babbling happily away to herself as Annie lays her gently in a crib. The cot is typical Annie Willis: made of wood with smooth lines. Functional yet classy.

  I get my first proper look at the child and she’s breathtaking. Only a few months old, yet already with a shock of bright golden hair.

  ‘She started smiling at three weeks,’ Annie says.

  It sounds early, but looking at this beautiful baby beaming up at me, I can believe it.

  ‘Say hello, Charlotte,’ Annie coos.

  As little Charlotte opens her mouth, there’s a moment where I think she might do just that. A small burp erupts and then Charlotte chortles to herself once more.

  Annie, 41, has been a fixture on British television for a little over a decade, finding fame initially with a short five-minute slot after the weather on ITV. Husband Paul, 45, got his break seven years before that when he finished second on popular talent show, New Tricks with a ventriloquism act. Within two years, he was hosting the programme.

  By the time Paul was picking up his runner-up award, he and Annie had already been married for two years, having been in a relationship for a further two. They met as redcoats at Butlin’s one summer and, as Annie points out, have barely spent a night apart since.

  I ask if it was love at first sight and there’s a moment in which it feels like Annie has been transported back to those heady holiday camp days. She stares off towards the corner of the room. ‘I’m not sure if I believe in that,’ she says. ‘There was a spark, for sure. I think we were attracted more to each other’s desire to succeed. Paul was working so hard at his ventriloquism and I was part of a magician’s act with someone else. For some entertainers, it’s all about putting on a show and then going back to a room with a bottle of wine, or whatever. We were never like that. We’d both work and work to get better.’

  ‘So it was more of an intellectual meeting?’ I venture.

  ‘Exactly. That and the will to thrive.’

  And thrive they did.

  For some, children would be a barrier to success, but Annie has never been one to listen to the word ‘no’.

  ‘When I got the television job, I didn’t realise I was pregnant,’ she says. ‘I was doing all the yoga stretches, not knowing I was carrying. There was a time where I thought I was putting on weight. When I told the producers I was having a baby, there was horror on their faces. I thought they’d fire me – it was different times then – but everything came together. Instead of the yoga I’d initially pitched, we ended up running what were essentially prenatal Pilates classes for everyone, all live on breakfast television!’

  It’s that ability to react to changes in circumstances that have arguably been the key to Annie’s success. Within weeks of giving birth to son Liam, she was back on screen with advice on such taboo subjects as breastfeeding and post-childbirth weight loss. Not long after that, she was showcasing recipes for young children and teething toddlers. Two years after Liam, Annie gave birth to Martha and then moved onto giving advice about how to juggle a pair of children.

  As Annie’s career went from strength to strength, so too did Paul’s. He moved from presenting entertainment programmes to game shows and serious documentaries, proving himself to be one of the country’s most versatile entertainers.

  At their peak, it is estimated their weekly reach was more than half the population.

  Annie smiles sheepishly when I put this to her. ‘It’s weird when you say that,’ she says. ‘I’d do my slot in the morning and then come home and be a mum. Paul might have a filming block, but he’d almost always be home in the evening to kiss the kids goodnight. We were so busy being parents that we didn’t register the other stuff.’

  ‘Didn’t you get noticed?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, all the time. I’d be at the supermarket and there’d be women following me around. They’d be looking at what I put in my trolley and then put the same thing in theirs! The manager noticed and used to help me out – he said I was the best advert he ever had, but it didn’t feel like that. I’d be trying to stop Liam from grabbing things off the shelves and Martha would be waving at everyone, all the while people are telling me their problems and asking for advice.’

  The fondness with which Annie speaks makes it clear these are memories she holds dear. ‘Was that as good as it got?’ I ask.

  The question seems to take her by surprise, but Annie stops to think. She’s standing at the side of Charlotte’s crib, rocking it gently back and forth.

  ‘That’s a good question,’ she says. It takes her a few moments to gather her thoughts. ‘I suppose it is in many ways,’ she replies. ‘It’s hard to quantify, isn’t it? All those things we’ve done. We did these radio roadshows one summer and tens of thousands of people would come out. I guess it’s those smaller interactions that meant so much, though. I’d get letters from people, writing to ask what they should do about their circumstances. I’d try to reply to everyone and then, sometimes, you’d get another letter to update you about everything. It’s nice to know you made a difference.’

  Charlotte is asleep now. Annie gazes lovingly at her daughter and then takes a seat in the nearby lounger. She invites me into the one next to her and then puts her feet up. ‘First time today,’ she says.

  For a person who’s worked so hard for so long, the strains and stresses do not show. Annie Willis is an unquestionable beauty, famed for her natural look. She’s lost little of that through the years and has regularly been christened a ‘dad’s favourite’ by certain tabloids.

  She laughs off that suggestion. ‘They don’t see me at three in the morning when Charlotte’s crying.’

  It was three years ago that Paul and Annie Willis hosted the Royal Variety Performance together. From that pinnacle, it was hard to see where else either of them could go. Unfortunately, the only way was down. A year later and newspaper rumours were swirling that the golden marriage was in trouble.

  ‘It was never what they made out,’ Annie insists. ‘They took it way too far. I think it was a researcher on one of Paul’s programmes who sold a story. They were fired for that, but it was already too late because people believe what they read.’

  I wonder if she’s going to add anything else. When she doesn’t, I point out, politely, that she hasn’t actually answered the question. Was the marriage in trouble?

  ‘No,’ she replies, unequivocal this time. ‘Look, every marriage has its ups and downs. If you think it’s going to be perfect all the way through, then you’re kidding yourself. We had a couple of arguments about personal things, but it was never anything more serious than that. Having a few cross words doesn’t mean you’re going to divorce.’

  Despite that, times were harder for the couple. Breakfast te
levision had moved on from yoga to high-intensity aerobics and with Liam and Martha growing up, there was less material to interest the viewing public. Annie was quietly dropped from breakfast television, much to her chagrin.

  ‘They betrayed me,’ she says. ‘They promised I had a job and then offered it to someone else. I don’t have much else to say about that but facts speak for themselves.’

  For their part, the production company say there was no duplicity, insisting it was a ‘natural parting of the ways’.

  After that disappointment, Paul then discovered that he, too, had been dropped from his popular car magazine programme. Within a period of approximately eighteen months, they had gone from being at the top of the television tree, to each being unemployed.

  ‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration,’ Annie says and, for the first time, there’s a bristle to her tone. ‘There was technically a time where neither of us were on TV, but that doesn’t mean we weren’t working. I was writing a book and in talks with a couple of companies over various projects, while Paul was launching his own production company. Things take time. There was never any panic.’

  For some, being 40 and ‘between jobs’ in the entertainment world would mean the end of a career – but Annie Willis has never been ‘some’. The announcement of her pregnancy around a year ago was met with widespread delight among the public. Critics said it was a shameless attempt to get back into the public eye, but they were drowned out by a groundswell of well-wishes.

  One thing is certain, the birth of Charlotte Willis has given Annie a new lease of life in more ways than one.

  ‘There are lots of women out there having babies into their forties,’ she says. ‘That’s the way of the world now. People want to have a career and still have children afterwards. It’s not the case that women can’t have both nowadays. They want to hear stories like mine.’

  ‘What next?’ I ask.

  ‘Paul and I are going to present our own show,’ she says. ‘I suppose there will be elements of what I used to do, but we’re moving on to reflect the times. Some men stay at home and some women go out to work. Some families have a couple where both work. There’s no shame in men spending time in the kitchen or changing the baby; just as there’s no shame in women getting involved in the family finances, for instance. That’s the reality we’re going to reflect.’

  In many ways, Annie and Paul Willis are the textbook guide on sustainability. They refused to give up when some said they should. Each obstacle was overcome by reinventing themselves for a new generation.

  The last word, of course, goes to little Charlotte. She gurgles a request and Annie dashes across the room to check on her daughter.

  ‘I think she’s got wind,’ Annie says with a smile. ‘At least burping a baby will give us something to talk about when the first episode goes out.’

  * * *

  The Willis Way begins on Wednesday at 8pm on ITV.

  Thirty-Three

  Now

  Seth

  The posters in the police station are beyond laughable. There’s a photo of some kid lying in the gutter, giving a glossy-eyed stare to the camera. Underneath is a note about under-age drinking. I can’t believe anyone has ever been put off having a sneaky pint because of something like this.

  Yes, officer, I was going to stab a guy in the head, but, because of your poster, I decided not to.

  All of them are essentially a variation on ‘don’t commit crime’, some with an ‘or else’ implication at the end; others with a more ‘please don’t commit crime’-vibe.

  They’re not quite as bad as the ones from outside churches. They’ll have something like a giant pig on the front with, ‘Jesus is like a pork loin’ underneath, followed by a confusingly contrived explanation of why it’s not been written by a maniac. Even that’s marginally better than the ones that have a massive picture of the sky and a headline along the lines of ‘God’s Blue-Sky Thinking’.

  I swear more people need to be sectioned.

  The clock on the wall above the posters continues to move very slowly. It’s like a time portal where everything has braked to a crawl. Minutes are lasting ninety seconds and someone’s crammed a couple of hundred minutes into an hour.

  Nine p.m. My lie-in this morning means I’ve been up for fifteen and a quarter hours, although I think I was still awake after midnight, so it’s been a lengthy day either way.

  Fiona, the family liaison officer, appears from nowhere, hovering in front of me and pointing a thumb towards a vending machine that’s been humming and farting incessantly. ‘Do you want something to eat?’ she asks.

  ‘You sound like my sister.’

  ‘Someone cleaned out all the KitKats, but it’s got pretty much everything else.’

  I shake my head and she sits down next to me. ‘I’m sorry you’re still waiting,’ she says.

  I nod along the corridor in the vague direction Charley headed with a pair of officers a few hours ago. ‘What’s happening in there?’

  ‘Standard stuff. They’re asking where she’s been, what she’s been up to, that sort of thing. Establishing whether a crime took place…’

  It’s a very polite insinuation. She could’ve said, ‘Whether your wife decided to walk out on you for no reason.’ I guess that’s what all the training’s for.

  ‘Is the fact she’s been a long time a bad sign?’

  Fiona purses her lips and doesn’t respond immediately. I already know the answer. Of course it bloody is. If her explanation was, ‘I was sick of my husband, so hid in the back of a Nissan Micra for four days’, she’d have been done by now.

  ‘It’s all standard,’ Fiona repeats. ‘I’m sure everything will be finished soon.’

  We sit awkwardly for a moment.

  ‘Charley never said anything to me,’ I say. ‘She didn’t say where she’d been, or what happened. I’d gone out for a drive with her brother-in-law and, when I got home, she was in bed. She let herself in with the spare key.’

  I’m guessing this is precisely what Charley has said because it doesn’t seem much of a surprise to Fiona. She nods to one of the least mental posters. SUPPORT IS AVAILABLE, it reads. There’s a stock photo of some woman whose face is obscured as she buries her head in her hands.

  ‘Help is there if you want it,’ she says. ‘I can get you a brochure if you like.’

  I’m not one of those people who thinks asking for help makes you weak. On the other hand, I can’t believe the solution is sitting in a comfy chair and paying some bloke a few hundred quid to listen to your problems. In other words, I don’t live in New York.

  It’s complicated.

  For now, I don’t know what I’m dealing with. If Charley walked away from me, is that something we can work through by ourselves? If she was attacked, is that something with which she can cope, or will she need to talk to someone other than me?

  Could I handle that?

  Would there be such uncontrollable fury at whoever was responsible that I couldn’t contain myself? I took vows to, among other things, ‘protect’ her – and hours later I failed. What does that make me as a husband? The only way I could’ve messed up worse is by shagging someone directly after the ceremony. That would’ve put a real damper in the ‘honour’ part of the vows, let alone the ‘be faithful to’.

  Fiona probably knows all this herself. She crosses to the poster and rearranges the leaflet box underneath, plucking one out and passing it to me.

  ‘It’s only something to consider,’ she says.

  ‘Thank you.’

  I glance across the words and then fold it into my pocket. We sit silently for a few more moments and then a pair of doors click open along the corridor. There are four officers with Charley in the centre. None of them are smiling. It’s like a funeral march as they approach. When she reaches me, Charley pulls my arm, wrapping it around her and pressing herself into my chest.

  ‘Is that it?’ I ask.

  ‘For now,’ an officer replies. ‘You can certai
nly go home. Do you want—?’

  ‘No,’ Charley replies quickly, twisting and pulling away. She bats away a yawn and thanks the officers. Fiona says she will be in contact the next day and that she’s there if we need her – and then we’re off out into the car park.

  As we head through the double doors, Charley holds out her hand and I take it. She’s cold, trembling.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you need to go to hospital?’

  The bruise around her eye has evolved into a kaleidoscope of colour, less black, more purple and green. It’s spread outwards from her socket as well.

  ‘I just want to go home.’

  We get into the car. I’m driving but can barely concentrate on the road. I accidentally put it in third rather than first and then bunny-hop into a stall.

  Charley says nothing for the entire journey. She leans her head on the rest, clasping the seat belt to herself. The radio is silent and the only sound is the engine.

  It’s dark by the time we’re home and I park on the driveway. There are no journalists hanging around, but I wonder if the neighbours are watching. It won’t be long before news gets out that Charley is home and then everything will start up again. The public will want answers. They’re not allowed to be concerned about someone without later getting the full explanation of precisely what they were worrying about.

  Charley doesn’t move when I switch the engine off. The headlights dim to nothing and we’re in the shadow of the hanging, swaying branches from next-door’s tree.

  ‘What was the officer going to ask you about?’ I say.

  ‘Whether or not I wanted someone to sit outside the house overnight.’

  ‘For security?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Do we need that?’

  ‘No.’

  Neither of us talk for a moment and then I force out the words: ‘Do you want to talk?’