The Wife Before Me: A twisty, gripping psychological thriller

by Laura Elliot

  The old Portuguese church where they vow to love and cherish each other has been weathered by the prayers of many generations but she and Nicholas are alone under its arches. He will be free to marry her in another five years but, in the meantime, they will mark their commitment to each other before this lavishly adorned altar. They exchange gold rings and read the vows they have written for each other. Elena does not need a priest or registrar to perform this commitment ceremony. No bevy of bridesmaids or pews of appreciative wedding guests are necessary to give their vows the stamp of authenticity. In her mind this symbolic ritual is binding and confirms the love they have declared for each other.

  At the end of their ceremony, a musician and a singer enter the church. Nicholas smiles at her surprise and holds her hands while the man plays on his classical guitar and the woman’s magnificent voice soars towards the ceiling.

  ‘She’s celebrating our love for each other,’ Nicholas whispers. ‘Do you feel married to me?’

  ‘Yes.’ Elena is overwhelmed by the beauty of the woman’s voice. ‘This is as perfect as any wedding day could possibly be.’

  ‘Our honeymoon will be just as perfect,’ he promises.

  When the song ends the couple slip away as quietly as they had entered the church and she is alone again with Nicholas.

  ‘There’s just one last thing to do before we leave,’ he says. ‘And that’s to kiss my beautiful bride.’

  * * *

  The temperature is high on the Algarve but here in Praia do Beliche, the wind is strong. Waves thunder towards shore and the sand blows fast, stinging eyes and skin. It’s three days since they arrived here on their honeymoon―they both refuse to call it a holiday― and Elena is back on the crest of the ocean where she belongs.

  The exterior of their villa has walls the colour of pink candyfloss. Inside, it is cool and spacious, as perfect as Nicholas promised her it would be. A labyrinth of paths meander through groves of olive trees and a cooling stream bubbles over stippled stones. They have their own private swimming pool and sunloungers. Elena has no interest in either. They are only a short distance from the beach, where the height of the rollers reminds her of her tumultuous days on the Gold Coast.

  Two bodyboarders standing in the shallows watch as she makes contact with a wave. She’s conscious only of the rush of the ocean against her face as she rises on the swell and floats ashore. Nicholas refuses to join her. Earlier, he took a tumble from his bodyboard and now he says he’s had enough for today. He’s more confident on a surfboard but Elena has been coaxing him to bodyboard, repeating Zac’s conviction that surfing is for wusses. She thinks briefly of Zac, agile and eel-like, then he is lost from her thoughts as she wades back out again. She catches the lip of a roller and allows it to carry her upwards. One wrong move and she will fall like a rag doll. The roar of the surf is intoxicating as she executes an air backflip. Giddy with pleasure, she skims past the bodyboarders, who clap and raise their boards in salute. She waves at Nicholas, who leans back on his elbows and watches her from behind his shades. He’s turned from golden brown to mahogany. Women notice him, all ages, but he’s hers. Elena still can’t believe it. To awaken in the morning and see his face on the pillow beside her. To lie down with him at night and feel his long body, aroused and ready to devour her, his hunger matching her own.

  Now, he rises from the beach mat and lopes across the sand. At the edge of the ocean he hesitates. The water is shockingly cold on first contact. When Elena is washed ashore she leaves her bodyboard on the sand and returns to the waves, deliberately splashing him as she runs past him.

  She dives underwater and grabs his legs. They fall together and surface. Unable to keep his balance, he flounders and topples backwards into the foam. He finds his feet and braces himself against the next wave. The bodyboarders, who have glided back again into the shallows, laugh as Nicholas shakes his head and spits water. Elena laughs with them. There’s something comical, almost Charlie Chaplin-like, to his movements as he struggles to stay upright. She pushes towards him and holds out her arms to steady him. His body rigid, his face expressionless, he dives into the water and swims away from her.

  She can swim faster and quickly catches up with him. They are out of their depth when he disappears under the waves and grabs her, sliding his hand between her legs, an intimate caress but dangerous here. She surfaces, her mouth opening, gasping for air, her eyes streaming. He swims underwater again and, once more, she is submerged. She tries to free herself but, if anything, his grip is more determined. Her lungs will explode if he doesn’t release her. Her heart is pounding hard and fast when he pushes her upwards and she is able to breathe again. She swims towards shore. He passes her but she has no inclination to race him. Her arms feel heavy and the beach with its colourful umbrellas and windbreakers seems far away. She reaches the shallows and staggers to her feet.

  Nicholas is already waiting for her, a towel open and ready to enfold her. Water glistens on his skin. A luminous sun god who almost killed her.

  They dress in silence. She pulls on a top and harem pants, combs the sand and salt from her hair. Her anger is barely contained as they gather their possessions and leave the beach.

  ‘What the hell did you think you were doing?’ Once inside their rented car, she turns furiously to him.

  ‘What?’ He pauses, the ignition key in his hand.

  ‘Hold me under the water for far too long.’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate, Elena. It was a joke. You did exactly the same to me.’ His teeth, so white against his tanned face, flash. He’s enjoying the moment, teasing her as she had teased him.

  ‘You’re wrong. We were in shallow water and you were never in any danger. I could have drowned out there.’

  ‘What exactly are you suggesting? That I was deliberately trying to harm you?’ He’s alert to her anger, all traces of laughter gone. ‘Is that what you actually think?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘You don’t know your own strength, Nicholas.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. I’m sorry if I upset you.’ He sounds impatient rather than sorry as he pulls out of the parking space. ‘At least no one was laughing at you.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake! Don’t be so childish.’ She fumbles with the seat belt, her eyes still stinging from the salt water. The entire afternoon has been spoiled by his recklessness. ‘Surely you, of all people, should be aware of the dangers of drowning.’

  He brakes so abruptly that she is jerked forward. The wheels skid on loose gravel and a cloud of dust rises. A car following behind narrowly avoids rear-ending them. The driver pulls out and passes them, horn blaring. Nicholas ignores him and steers the car towards the trees.

  ‘Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare remind me of all I’ve lost,’ he shouts.

  The blow to her cheek is so sudden that, for an instant, Elena is unsure what has happened. The seat belt she had been about to fasten slips through her fingers and she wonders if she has slammed her face into the dashboard. It is the only explanation that makes sense… but she is still sitting upright, and Nicholas is shaking his hand, as if he wants to disown it. She touches her cheek. It’s throbbing, hot. Soon it will swell. She draws back when he reaches towards her. He looks shocked, appalled by his behaviour, but his apologies are meaningless to her. She turns from him and stares out the window. She needs ice on her face and a darkened room, alone. Nothing he says or does will change what has occurred between them. Unable to break her silence, he finally drives slowly and carefully from the car park.

  * * *

  She runs into the villa without speaking and locks the door of the bathroom. As she guessed, her cheek is red and swollen. She touches it tentatively, still unable to believe he has struck her. This is the first time she has ever been slapped. Isabelle, no matter how demanding Elena was as a child, never lifted a hand to her. She wasn’t bullied in school and her years with Zac, though marked by occasional ferocious a
rguments, were never touched by violence. Now, in a flash, everything has changed.

  Nicholas knocks on the door and asks if she is okay. He sounds concerned but what does that imply? She doesn’t know if he is concerned that he has hurt her or that he has revealed a side of his character she never suspected. Has she been fooling herself, refusing to acknowledge that his encounter with tragedy has marked him in ways she will never understand? She slides to the floor and stares dully at the ceramic tiles. Zigzagging lines, a tide of blue waves, the design so often seen on Portuguese walls and pavements. Was she wrong to persuade him to come here? Why not a mountain or a city where there would be nothing to remind him of the ocean’s treachery? And that comment she flung at him, heedlessly taunting him. But to retaliate with such violence. How is that forgivable? Her heart pounds when he bangs on the door.

  ‘This is ridiculous, Elena,’ he shouts. ‘Open the door this instant and let me in.’ He is commanding, not contrite.

  ‘I don’t want to talk to you,’ she shouts back, determined to match tone for tone. ‘Go away and leave me alone.’

  ‘I’m not moving from here until you come out.’ His voice hardens, becomes more determined. ‘We can’t discuss this through a closed door.’

  ‘There’s nothing to discuss.’

  ‘There’s everything to discuss.’ The banging intensifies. ‘Open the door, immediately.’

  The bathroom is on the ground floor. She drops easily to the grass verge below and runs into the olive trees. Their bark reminds her of the veins on an old man’s hands. Beyond the trees she reaches a wall and can go no further.

  He is tall and formidable as he comes towards her. She, too, is tall and she has never been conscious of his greater height until now. His skin is blotched. Has he been crying, also? She shrinks back when he hunkers down and brings his fingers to her cheek. But his touch is gentle, his voice muted when he talks about Amelia’s drowning.

  She had gone to Galway on an overnight business trip and he had grown increasingly anxious as the evening passed without any contact from her. No answer from her phone, not even the answering service. Ringing hospitals, the police, friends – the night seemed endless as he waited for word from her. Then, the following morning, the knock on his door. Two detectives, their mouths moving, but he wasn’t hearing them, not really, because what they were saying was so implausible, so utterly unacceptable, that he wanted to silence them with a gun to their heads. Anything to stop them describing the car that had been found at low tide below Mason’s Pier.

  The weeks that followed, the endless, hopeless searches. Shame fills Elena as he speaks. When he cups her face, she doesn’t pull away. She stops his apologies with her lips. She will be more careful in future. Never again will she allow her anger to trigger in him such horrifying recollections.

  Grief can come upon him with the rush of a tidal wave, he says. Always unexpected, seemingly unstoppable, yet, no matter how brutally he is pulled down by the undertow, he can cope once Elena is by his side, supporting him.

  The moon is waning against an indigo sky when they go indoors. They cling to each other in bed, frantic to recover the carefree happiness they had known before this afternoon. He enters her with a suddenness that takes her by surprise. It is over too quickly,

  too soon for him to use the condom he had left on the bedside table. His lips are on her, his tongue, his fingers, and when Elena cries out, there is no distinction between pain or pleasure in the sound.

  A tidal metaphor, she thinks, when his even breathing tells her he is sleeping. But an undertow does not pull us down. It drags us away from the shore, fights hard against muscle, heart and endurance, and when the fight is done, we sink.

  Seven

  Brookside sells quickly, as Nicholas had predicted. An excellent price, thanks to his negotiating skills. The money is invested in KHM Investments until Woodbine is sold and they can buy the house of their choice. Elena checks the online property sites and tries to endure the bouts of nausea that come upon her with such suddenness. Hyperemesis gravidarum, her gynaecologist – a woman and, therefore, able to invest some sympathy into her diagnosis – tells Elena on her first visit. And likely to last not just three months, she warns, but for her entire pregnancy.

  The months that follow blur between brief periods of wellness when she finds the energy to meet with estate agents. She makes arrangements to view houses she likes and is forced to cancel these appointments, either because she is too sick to attend the viewing or because Nicholas has to deal with a crisis at work. Today, they have arranged to meet at noon for an auction. The property for sale, a spacious three-storey renovated Victorian house nestling above Killiney Bay, has an outrageous asking price but it will be affordable when Woodbine is sold and the proceeds combined with Elena’s inheritance. The sooner they move the better, as far as she is concerned. Woodbine is dominated by Amelia’s spectral presence, the photographs and paintings still in place, the recipe books with her floured fingerprints still slanted on the kitchen shelf. It will take more than a coat of paint and rolls of wallpaper to eradicate her personality and Elena’s efforts to persuade Nicholas to have the rooms redecorated have been met with steely resistance. The house is in perfect condition, he argues. Why waste money changing it when it will soon be sold?

  He rings as she is about to enter the auction room. He has to fly to the New York office at short notice. Some cock-up due to Peter Harris’s ineptness and Nicholas has to sort it out, as usual. There will be other houses, he reassures her. He sounds far away, as if he is already in flight.

  That evening, Elena checks the auction site. The house sold for a price they could, at a stretch, have afforded. Unable to sit still, she tackles the living room and moves the armchairs into different positions. She rearranges the photographs so that Amelia’s vibrant face is not the first thing she sees each time she enters the room.

  On the cluttered sideboard, she discovers a photograph that, until now, has been hidden from view behind larger frames. This is a group photograph that had been taken at a KHM Christmas function. Elena touches her chest instinctively when she recognises Isabelle standing beside Rosemary Williams. Lilian Harris, her mouth pulled downward by discontent or, perhaps, unhappiness, was posed like a ramrod between her husband and Christopher Keogh, KHM’s senior partner. The sainted Amelia, sleekly slim in a silver lamé dress, short wings of black hair swinging over her cheeks, was laughing into the camera, while Nicholas was positioned behind her, one hand resting on her shoulder, his downcast eyes gazing tenderly on her. Unable to bear the image of their glowing happiness, Elena hides the photograph behind a sheet of wood in the garden shed.

  His face hardens when he returns from New York and surveys the rearranged armchairs. He immediately moves them back into their original positions and demands to know why she made these changes without his agreement. Her skin feels stretched, branded red with frustration. Is he expecting her to walk in his dead wife’s shoes? If so, this is unacceptable. Her voice, rising to a shriek, sounds appalling to her own ears.

  He stands in front of the sideboard and studies the photographs. ‘Where is it?’ He does not raise his voice but his grip on her arm is tight. ‘I want that photograph back in its place, immediately.’

  ‘Why are you making such a fuss?’ she demands. ‘You hid it behind the others, so you obviously didn’t think it was that important.’

  ‘Don’t you dare presume to know what I consider to be important. This is my house and you had no right to disobey my instructions.’

  ‘You tell me you love me yet she’s still blinding you to my needs? You were hardly aware of that photograph’s existence until I removed it.’

  ‘I’m aware of everything in this house.’ He is close enough to kiss her or strike her. The realisation that he could do either fills her with alarm. Has he been so warped by this tragedy that he is unable to see how outrageous his behaviour has become? Is that grief stronger than the love he claims to feel for her? Elena�
��s cheeks tingle, as if brushed by fleeting fingertips, and the sense that another presence, powerful but invisible, is listening to them sends shivers through her.

  She pulls away from him and walks out into the garden. Not so long ago, the gentle pressure of his fingers lingered on her skin. Now, her arm is bruised and hurting. The full moon shines on the glass butterflies and the oddly shaped metal sculptures have acquired a pale, ghostly hue. She removes the photograph from its hiding place and hands it to him. Wordlessly, he stares at it. She wants to say something, anything, to break the tension, but there is a warning in his silence that unnerves her.

  Suddenly, he slams his fist into the photograph. Glass shatters and falls to the floor. Blood spurts from his hand. He ignores Elena’s cry and holds up his other hand, palm forward, to prevent her moving closer. He removes the photograph and tears it in two, flings the pieces and the remains of the frame into the empty fireplace. An ornate brass dragon on the mantlepiece serves as a matchbox holder. He removes a match, strikes it off the dragon’s scales and sets fire to the photograph. His blood drips into the fireplace but does not quench the flame. This is ritualistic, almost barbaric. Elena looks away as the paper coils and browns.

  She finds bandages in a first aid box in the kitchen and stems the bleeding. The photograph has turned to ash. Her stomach lurches. Bile fills her mouth. She just makes it to the bathroom on time. Afterwards, she brushes her teeth and stares at her reflection. She’s losing weight, not putting it on. That’s not surprising as this so-called morning sickness can afflict her at any time.

  Her baby moves that night and Nicholas awakens, as if he, too, has experienced that first fluttery sensation of butterfly wings beating down the months.

  * * *

  Amelia’s photographs seem to have multiplied. She knows this is her imagination; she can count, and does, often. How is she to establish her presence in Woodbine when everywhere she looks there is evidence of another woman?