by Laura Elliot
The Wife Before Me
A twisty, gripping psychological thriller
Laura Elliot
Also by Laura Elliot
The Wife Before Me
Guilty
Sleep Sister
The Betrayal
The Prodigal Sister
Stolen Child
Fragile Lies
Contents
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Part II
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Part III
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Epilogue
Laura’s Email Sign-Up
Also by Laura Elliot
A Letter from Laura
Guilty
Sleep Sister
The Betrayal
The Prodigal Sister
Stolen Child
Fragile Lies
Acknowledgements
The Wife Before Me is dedicated to my friend Maureen McKeown, whose courage, cheerfulness, talent and tenacity is a powerful inspiration to all who know and love her.
Prologue
Amelia Madison drove slowly down the steep incline leading to Mason’s Pier. The road was little more than a fissure carved into the side of the cliff and an earlier rainfall combined with mulching seaweed had added a dangerous slickness to the surface. As she swerved round the bends, she avoided looking down to the rocks below, knowing that her fear, balanced so finely on her resolve, would overwhelm her once again.
At the end of the road she turned left and passed the collapsed barrier of an empty car park. The half-moon cove behind her was deserted, as she had expected it to be. In years gone by the sheltering face of the cliff had made it a popular beach for sunbathing, but erosion and rockfall had turned it into a perilous place to visit. Efforts by the local council to stem the danger with steel mesh had only succeeded in adding to its grimness and underlying its dereliction was the bleak memory of a drowning tragedy that had occurred there years earlier.
In Amelia’s nightmares, the cove filled the breadth of her terror. Up close, it looked smaller and more insignificant than she remembered. The slipway was no longer in use and the pier, where local fishermen once cast their lines, had fallen out of favour. Buffered by waves and pitted with potholes, Mason’s Pier jutted out over the Atlantic like a grey, forlorn snout.
She did not hesitate as she drove onto the rutted surface. Nor did she look back towards the cove where she had once built an enormous sandcastle with her father. She had helped him to flood the moat by constructing a channel to the ocean, gathered shells and white feathers to adorn the turrets. She had chased a beach ball— no, she would not think about that day. Not now when her mind was set in only one direction.
As she neared the slant down onto the slipway, she slowed her car. At first, when she pulled on the handbrake, she was sure that the wheels would remain stationary; but then she became aware of a slight forward momentum, almost subtle enough to seem imagined. It was a warning, she knew, and soon it would be too late to stop the inevitable slide on the scum of moss and algae.
Kittiwakes screamed as they dive-bombed towards the cliff and a cormorant, standing steady on a nearby rock, watched impassively as Amelia’s tyres began to spin. This was it, then. An end to the marriage she had once embraced with such eagerness, such hope. The setting sun lanced the windscreen. She was dazzled by its splendour, yet she must keep looking beyond it towards a new horizon.
The cormorant blinked its dark-green eyes and spread its wings like a cross as her car slid slowly but inexorably towards the end of the slipway.
The ocean heaved.
Part One
One
The Present
Elena’s red umbrella looks frivolous and flimsy among the sturdy black ones surrounding her. It offers little protection against the rain and the wind, gusting between the tombstones, threatens to whip it inside out. Thorns from the white rose she holds in her hand dig deeply into her skin as Father Collins lifts his aspergillum to sprinkle holy water over her mother’s coffin. Men in baggy jeans, who have been waiting discreetly in the background, step forward with ropes to lower Isabelle Langdon into the earth. Elena is stunned with grief yet, even in the midst of this final ritual, her eyes are drawn towards a man standing opposite her. He is watching her and in that silent exchange his sympathy stretches like a lifeline across the width of the open grave.
Earlier, outside the church, he had introduced himself. ‘I’m Nicholas Madison,’ he said as he shook her hand. ‘I’m here on Peter Harris’s behalf. He asked me to extend his deepest sympathies to you and his apologies at being unavoidably delayed in New York.’
She had heard his name before. Nicholas Madison… Nicholas Madison… But nothing came to mind as she thanked him and he moved politely aside to allow the woman behind him to offer her condolences to Elena.
She had forgotten him instantly. Smudged him in with the other mourners leaving the churchyard as her mother’s coffin was lifted into the hearse.
Not quite smudged him from memory, Elena realises now. His tanned, angular face is a vibrant contrast to the grey complexions of the mourners surrounding him, their lips pinched from the cold. His lips are full but not fleshy, his mouth slightly open, as if he is about to speak words of comfort to her. His eyes, dark-grey and long-lashed – Elena recalls this from their earlier encounter – have such intensity that she finds it impossible to look away. She has seen much sympathy on the faces of those who have supported her since Isabelle died but in Nicholas Madison’s expression she recognises an empathy that goes beyond compassion. Instead of sharing this last moment with her mother, she smiles at him. A clown’s smile, as grotesque as it is false. Why did she do that? Better than keening, she supposes. The thin wail that acknowledges the missed opportunities, the broken promises, the too-late-to-be-offered apologies.
Stumbling over prayers that were once familiar to her, Elena tears her gaze away. She watches the white rose tumble and settle on the coffin. The gravediggers lay a plank of artif
icial grass over the open space and place the wreath of white roses on top. No other flowers, she had requested on the death notice. Those who wished to honour Isabelle’s memory should make a donation to the Irish Cancer Society where, Elena hopes, a cure will soon be found to prevent the disease that took her mother so mercilessly from her.
The funeral is over. Fr Collins shakes her hand and departs. Her friends surround her. Tara flew from London as soon as she contacted her. Killian and Susie drove from Galway and the three of them were waiting to greet Elena when her flight from Brisbane landed at Dublin Airport.
They had stayed with her in Brookside, the bungalow Isabelle bought when Elena moved to Australia. No bloodline between them but Elena, an only child, looks upon them as family in the finest sense of the word.
‘Are you okay?’ Susie smothers her in a damp embrace and strokes her hair.
‘I’m fine… fine.’ Elena has warned them to stay cool, no emotional displays that will trigger another storm of tears.
Tara reads the inscription on the granite gravestone and says, ‘Oh, my God, Elena! I never realised your father was only thirty-one when he died. He was so young.’
‘Too young,’ Elena agrees. Her mind blanks, as it always does when she thinks about her father and the silence that filled the house after he died. The rain adds to the dreariness of this bleak cemetery, which she used to visit every Sunday with Isabelle until she was fifteen and deep into a teenage meltdown. ‘I’m sick of going there,’ she had shrieked at Isabelle. ‘Let him go.’ Uneasy memories stir her guilt, but now Nicholas Madison is coming towards her. She is surprised by a jolting awareness of his nearness and the knowledge that she had been hoping he would speak to her again. Her red umbrella gives a last, defiant shudder before the spokes break and it flutters upwards. He takes it from her and snaps it closed before handing it back and shielding her with his own umbrella.
‘It was a fitting service for Isabelle,’ he says as they turn away from the graveside. ‘Dignified and restrained, exactly as she would have liked.’ Raindrops glisten like dew on the shoulders of his cashmere coat and his black brogues are sinking in the mud. Elena feels vaguely responsible for destroying their high polish.
How well did you know my mother?’ she asks.
‘Only through work,’ he replies. ‘Isabelle was a very private person. I liked your homily. It was obvious to everyone in that church how much you loved her.’
‘She died before we’d a chance to say goodbye.’ Her voice quivers. Talking about Isabelle in the past tense is not becoming any easier. ‘Right up to the end I’d no idea… I’d have come home if—’ She stops, unable to continue.
‘How could you have known how quickly she would die?’ He holds her elbow as she stumbles on wet clods of clay. ‘You mustn’t add blame to your sorrow. It’s the last thing she would want.’
They walk towards the limousine that will take her and her friends to the funeral reception. No words are necessary to fill the silence that falls between them. The knot in her chest eases for the first time since she discovered that her mother was dying.
‘Will you join us for lunch at the hotel?’ she asks when they reach the car park.
‘Unfortunately, I’ve a business appointment,’ he replies. ‘It was a pleasure meeting you, Elena. Once again, my sincerest condolences.’ She almost expects him to bow and kiss the back of her hand. He has that way about him, an old-fashioned formality, as if his parents had drilled the importance of politeness into him. Always the right word for the right occasion. ‘Shall I throw that away for you?’ He nods at her umbrella and gestures towards a refuse bin.
‘Thank you.’ She hands the tattered remnants to him and enters the limousine, where her friends are waiting.
Tara holds Elena’s chilled hands and rubs them between her own. ‘Who’s the guy?’ She nods towards Nicholas, who is walking towards a silver Porsche.
‘My mother worked with him,’ Elena replies.
‘Is he coming back to the hotel?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘What a shame. He seemed pretty focused on you.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. He was simply being polite.’
‘Mmm…’ Tara smiles. ‘There’s polite and then there’s polite.’
‘Oh, stop it. The only reason he’s here is because Mum’s boss couldn’t be bothered taking an early flight from New York.’ Elena sounds bitter. She suspects the real reason for Peter Harris’s absence has nothing to do with KHM Investments and everything to do with pleasure. After twenty years of working as his personal assistant, there was little about his personal life that Isabelle hadn’t known. If she was still cognisant, she would probably throw her eyes upwards and say, ‘Typical! I wouldn’t have expected anything else from him.’ No more lying to his wife, Elena thought. No more made-up excuses that had caused Isabelle to threaten to leave the company on more than one occasion.
‘That’s an impressive car he’s driving.’ Tara cranes her neck to get a better view of Nicholas as he zaps the Porsche. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Nicholas Madison.’ The syllables roll easily off Elena’s tongue. Once again, she feels a tug of memory and Killian, who had also been admiring the Porsche, turns to her, his eyebrows raised.
‘Nicholas Madison?’ he asks.
‘Yes. Do you know him?’
He glances across at Susie. ‘What do you think?’
Susie checks the window as Nicholas, his face in profile, settles behind the wheel. ‘Yes.’ She nods. ‘He worked in finance. It has to be him.’
Nicholas’s car is still stationary as he waits in the line of traffic leaving the cemetery.
‘His wife drowned,’ says Killian. ‘It was big news at the time.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Tara sounds as shocked as Elena feels. ‘How did that happen?’
‘She was parked on Mason’s Pier,’ says Susie. ‘It’s an old pier close to where we live. No one uses it any longer and there’s a warning sign beside it. Her car slid into the sea. It’s a really dangerous stretch of water, deep enough even in low tide.’
‘We were involved in the search for her body,’ Killian adds. ‘All the boats in the vicinity took part, but we had to call it off in the end.’
‘Not that he ever gave up.’ Susie twists strands of brown hair around her index finger, a childhood habit she still displays when upset. ‘He was convinced he’d find her if the search would last for another day, then another. She escaped from her car but she couldn’t swim. No one discovered she was missing until the following day when a man walking his dog noticed the skid marks on the slipway.’
‘Oh, my God.’ Elena gasps, her hand to her mouth. ‘I remember that time. I thought his name was familiar.’ No wonder she had found his gaze so compelling. He could hide his emotions in a polite exchange of words but he had been unable to control his eyes. In them, she had recognised the savagery of loss. A yearning she had seen so often in Isabelle’s eyes when she heard a song that reminded her of her young husband, or came across old photographs, the two of them arm in arm, wide, happy smiles. ‘Isabelle phoned me and told me about his wife after it happened. I didn’t make the connection. No wonder he looks so sad.’
Nicholas, as if he knows he is being discussed, glances across at the limousine and sees them staring at him. Elena sinks back into the seat and turns to Tara, who is still holding her hand. ‘He knows we’re talking about him.’
‘So what?’ Tara replies. ‘With his looks and his history, he must be used to it.’
Nicholas starts his car and indicates left for the city. The limousine driver indicates right and soon reaches the hotel where the post-funeral reception has been organised.
The afternoon passes in a blur. The atmosphere lightens when food and wine are served. The noise level rises. Old friends from Isabelle’s single days tell stories about her youthful exploits. Stories so outrageous that Elena wonders if these fifty-somethings, with their trim figures and highlighted hair, are attendin
g the right funeral reception. All-night parties, clubbing on Leeson Street, rock concerts and discos in Ibiza – she finds it impossible to reconcile her mother’s contained personality with these vivid descriptions and realises that her perception of Isabelle was formed in the years following her father’s death.
Isabelle’s friends remember Elena as a baby with a halo of Orphan Annie curls. Her hair is darker now, a deep chestnut, its unruly curls straightened this morning by Tara. They admire everything about Elena and are thrilled, they claim, to discover that she has become such an elegant, lovely young woman. Overpowered by their perfumes and reminiscences, Elena thanks them and wonders what they really think of her.
Can you believe it… the grieving daughter? Couldn’t be bothered coming home in time to look after her mother. No good pretending that she didn’t know the seriousness of cervical cancer. The word alone should have alerted her to pack her bags and do her duty.
