The Wife Before Me: A twisty, gripping psychological thriller

by Laura Elliot

  The bedroom Nicholas has allocated to them is spacious and has that wonderful view of the Sugar Loaf. But allocated is the word she repeats to herself every time she walks past the locked door. Only Nicholas can enter this room; and that is what he does one evening on returning from work. She hears him walking across the floor, the thud of his shoes when he drops them. She knows, then, that he is lying on the bed, no doubt thinking of those sultry, breathless nights he once shared with Amelia.

  Is that why he hits her when he comes downstairs and she demands to know what he was doing up there? The blow is so sudden that Elena staggers backwards before recovering her balance and lunging her fists at him. He takes the blows easily, smiling, as if her fury, simmering on a wave of nausea, amuses him.

  ‘Enough… enough.’ He holds her as she struggles against him and speaks steadily into her ear. ‘We’ve had our fun. Now, let it go. This jealousy is bad for our baby―’

  ‘How dare you call this “having fun.”’ She lowers her voice and goes limp in his arms. ‘If you dare to lift your hand to me again, I’m leaving you.’

  He shakes his head, unmoved by her threat. ‘We made vows, Elena. I love you and I’m trying hard to make our relationship work. We’re going to have a child together. You don’t walk away from that commitment. You must stop talking about Amelia. All it does is stir up memories. Surely you can see the effect your insensitivity is having on me.’

  She listens to his arguments, his pleas for understanding, sympathy, acceptance. His sincere apologies that sound so believable. She hugs her hurt to herself and watches his shoulders relax. Woodbine will be sold and as soon as they find a house they both love they can begin afresh.

  Eight

  Yvonne, who has her own key to Woodbine, never phones in advance when she decides to visit Elena. She always arrives with home-made bread and cakes, or Tupperware containers filled with Nicholas’s favourite dinners, which, she assures Elena, are no trouble to make. Her key to the front door was cut for her in the days following Amelia’s disappearance. Nicholas will never ask her to give it back.

  ‘We seldom have a chance for a girly conversation,’ she says one evening after she has arrived with a tray of lasagne. ‘You can heat this up and have it ready for Nicholas when he comes home from work. He loves my lasagne. I used to make it every Tuesday when he was a boy. No prizes for guessing which day of the week was his favourite one.’

  Elena rises from the sofa, where she had been resting after a bout of vomiting, and tries not to retch as the cheesy smell wafts from the tray. ‘Yvonne, you’ll have to forgive me, I’m not feeling so well today. I was just about to take a nap.’

  ‘Poor Elena, you do look absolutely washed out.’ Yvonne pats Elena’s arm on her way to the fridge. ‘Nicholas says you’re finding things very difficult at the moment.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Oh, you know…’ She shrugs. ‘It’s those hormones, my dear. They play havoc with our moods, especially at this time. One of my friends was frightened of birds for the entire nine months. Said it was like living in that Hitchcock movie.’

  ‘Why has Nicholas been discussing our relationship with you?’

  ‘We’re very close, Elena. And you needn’t worry. I’d never dream of repeating anything he confides in me.’ Yvonne switches on the kettle and removes two mugs from hooks on the cupboard. ‘What was I saying? Ah yes, the moods… the moods. Remember Molly Blaine, you met her at my house. Big teeth, pudding-bowl haircut? Well, when she was expecting her daughter, she was convinced Susanna had a full set of teeth and was biting her. I mean, come on. Was that crazy or what?’

  ‘Yvonne, if you don’t mind, I was just about to lie down―’

  ‘You’re not having an easy pregnancy but you’ll forget all about it as soon as that babe is in your arms.’ She lifts a ceramic teapot patterned with wildflowers from a shelf and brews the tea. ‘Nicholas adores you, Elena. When the time is right, the two of you will move from here and into the house of your dreams. In the meantime, we want to enjoy this precious time with you.’ For an instant, Yvonne’s rigid features relax. ‘Bad feelings create unhealthy toxins and that can’t be good for my grandchild. You should practise yoga and do some meditation. Get rid of all that negativity.’

  Elena bursts into tears as soon as Yvonne’s car disappears down the driveway. What is the matter with her? She has never felt so confused. Even when Zac left and the tiny foetus she carried so briefly slipped away from her, she had been able to cope. The shock of Isabelle’s death had left her bereft but she had not felt as vulnerable as she does now.

  * * *

  In the fifth month, when she is admitted to hospital suffering from dehydration, Nicholas insists they leave the house viewings until after the birth. His workload keeps increasing but Elena, cooped up in Woodbine, is confined to leaning over the toilet bowl, holding her hair back from her face with trembling hands.

  Nine

  Spring arrives. Leaves are unfurling, a quivering pale-green lint on the trees and hedgerows, when Grace is born. Her thin cry reminds Elena of a kitten. Her droopy, fledgling neck and puckered mouth, the eyes that have yet to focus and reveal their colour, fill her with a trembling emotion that is part elation, part exhaustion.

  ‘It’s obvious her eyes are grey.’ Yvonne cradles her first grandchild in her arms. ‘She’s the spitting image of Nicholas when he was born.’

  Henry stands self-consciously beside her, clearly besotted but unable to coo and chirp at his granddaughter as Yvonne is doing. Elena wills them to leave but Yvonne is insisting on relating her own birthing experience. Hours of screaming for relief. Unsympathetic doctors and nurses who left her writhing in agony until they decided it was time for Nicholas to be delivered by Caesarean. She reports all this with relish. It’s obvious from the numbed expression on Henry’s face that he has heard it all before, and often.

  Yvonne looks away when Elena, unable any longer to ignore her baby’s hunger, begins to breastfeed Grace. Her daughter is a natural feeder who sleeps peacefully for short stretches before she begins her kittenish demands to be fed again. Elena is amazed that her tiny lungs can emit such a strident noise. That such a tiny mouth has such a vigorous suck.

  Grace is a hungry baby, never satisfied for long, and Yvonne’s disapproval is obvious when she discovers Elena is continuing to breastfeed. Is Grace getting enough nourishment, she asks each time she visits Woodbine. Is she putting on weight? She frets over the colour of her granddaughter’s bowel movements, her frequent demands to be fed, her pale complexion and high-pitched cry, which, she believes, sounds distressed. The weaning process should start now, she states when Grace is two months old. Grace will then be able to spend more time with her grandmother and Elena will have a chance to recover her energy. ‘Breastfeeding on demand does nothing for romance,’ Yvonne warns. ‘You look so washed out and you’re tired all the time. Grace will sleep all night if you give her a bottle. A man needs―’

  ‘I’m well aware of what a man needs,’ Elena snaps. She bites hard on her bottom lip. In Nicholas’s case, it’s a wife who endures his violence. Oh, yes, your precious son is fond of smacking me around. Why don’t you talk to him about that? She searches for a glimmer of understanding in Yvonne’s eyes but, finding none, knows that she can never confide in this self-absorbed woman.

  Yvonne’s face stiffens. ‘I’ve upset you,’ she says. ‘That’s the last thing I want to do. But you have to understand that it’s not easy for Nicholas to cope with a demanding day’s work when his sleep is being disturbed by this constant feeding.’

  Nicholas has that same obdurate expression when he wants his own way and Elena, tired of holding her temper in check, says, ‘How I feed my baby is my own business, Yvonne. Grace is healthy and strong. I intend to continue breastfeeding until I decide when the time is right to wean her. If you want to continue coming here, you’ll have to stop interfering and accept that I know what’s best for my baby.’

  * * *
>
  ‘What on earth did you say to my mother?’ Nicholas asks when he comes home from work that evening. ‘She rang my office in tears when I was in the middle of talking to an important client. She claims you’ve barred her from seeing her granddaughter.’

  ‘I’m sick of listening to her trying to undermine me.’ Elena braces herself against his anger. ‘She keeps insisting that I stop breastfeeding Grace and―’

  ‘But she’s right.’ He makes no effort to hide his irritation. ‘Grace needs to start feeding properly. I’ll organise the formula and you can begin weaning her tomorrow. That will reduce your stress levels.’

  ‘Grace is not the reason I’m stressed.’ Elena takes her daughter from the carrycot and presses her against her shoulder. ‘She’s feeding well and I’ve no intention of taking her off the breast. If I am stressed, it’s because your mother is annoying the hell out of me.’

  ‘She’s only trying to help. Those night feeds are exhausting you.’ He dips a spoon into the curry Elena has prepared and tastes the sauce. ‘Not enough cumin,’ he says. ‘Amelia made a note of the exact amount you need. Use her book of Indian recipes the next time.’

  ‘I know how to cook a Madras curry, Nicholas.’

  ‘Don’t be offended. This is nice. It just needs something…’

  ‘It needs Amelia’s touch, you mean. Why not say it? Nothing I do matches up to how she did it. Nothing.’ Her mind reels at his audacity. ‘The other reason I’m stressed out is because I live in a house that’s like a shrine to your dead wife.’

  A vein pulses in his forehead. The colour drains from his face. She hurriedly puts Grace back in her carrycot as he walks towards her. This time he will do it, she thinks. She’s been waiting for it to happen since their last row but when his fist makes contact with her, it’s not her face he strikes but her stomach. She bends double and wheezes, tries to catch her breath. Grace, as if electrified by the dangerous currents, begins to cry. The sound forces Elena to her feet. Still dazed, she has to lean on Nicholas, who holds her upright and leads her to a chair. She collapses into it and struggles to breathe.

  ‘How could you speak about Amelia in that way?’ he roars. ‘I’ve begged you not to mention her, yet you persist in defying me. Why can’t you realise how difficult this is for me? I didn’t mean to hit you. It’s just… just…’ He pauses, seems to be searching for ways to make her understand his desperation. ‘I want us to be happy more than anything in the world but you seem determined to torture me. If only you’d let her rest in peace, I could build on this life we have together.’

  His voice comes at her from a great distance. She tries to understand the point he is making. Is he blaming her for his violence? She finds the strength to lift Grace from her carrycot and hold her.

  ‘I can’t feed Grace with you in the room,’ she says, quietly. ‘We’ll talk about this later.’

  She hears him above her, his footsteps crossing the master bedroom. The bed creaks when he lies down. His love for a dead woman is breaking her heart. She has to leave him. It is the only solution. She must take Grace and run to a safe place. She coaxes her daughter to feed from breasts that will soon be devoid of nourishment – how can they be otherwise when fear is curdling her milk? She cradles Grace and rocks backwards, forwards, backwards, forwards, until he returns, contrite, ashamed, and takes the sleeping child from her arms.

  * * *

  The following morning, she comes downstairs after Nicholas has left for work. Sleepless and still devastated from the previous night as she is, it takes her a moment to realise that Amelia’s photographs have been removed. So too have her paintings and wall hangings. He must have risen in the small hours to make these changes. His apology is not in words but in deeds. Her ribs ache where he punched her, the bruise spreading from below her breasts to her stomach. Let him plead for understanding until he is hoarse, kneel until his knees ache. She will never forgive him.

  That evening, when he returns from work, he sweeps his arm towards the faded squares where Amelia’s paintings had hung.

  ‘Forgive me’ he says. ‘Please, Elena, you have to forgive me.’ His eyes remind her of pebbles, bleached lustreless by tides. He will never strike her again. He has suspected for some time that he is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. Why should that be, Elena rages silently? It was Amelia who drowned, not him. But what does she know about anything? She wasn’t combing the shoreline, longing for a solution, good or bad, to the interminable wait.

  Post-traumatic stress. It’s an obvious explanation. Her love for him rolls over her anger and fear. It quells her awareness that his violence is barely contained and will break out again if she unwittingly provokes him. She has to believe his promises, his declarations of love, his determination to seek help from a therapist. Someone who will lift his memories from him and tame them.

  Fishermen had spoken knowledgeably to him about the shoreline where a body could be washed in on the tide. On two occasions, he believed the search was over but the bodies that were recovered from the deep had the wrong dental records. Tooth enamel, it appears, is still death’s main identity card.

  Ten

  Grace adjusts to the bottle, feeding just as lustily as she had at Elena’s breast. Elena tries not to feel resentful that this decision has been forced upon her and Yvonne, after declaring that such rude behaviour is understandable when a new mother is highly strung and struggling to cope, decides to forgive Elena’s outburst by offering to babysit.

  ‘It’s time the two of you went out for a meal to celebrate your daughter’s arrival,’ she says. ‘Bring the romance back into your relationship again. Men can feel neglected if baby continues to get all the attention.’

  She and Henry arrive at the house the following evening. The restaurant Nicholas has booked for their meal is renowned for its organic cuisine. Mirrors glimmer on the walls and candlelight adds to the opulent atmosphere. The maître’d, a stately woman in a black trouser suit, welcomes Nicholas like an old friend and leads them to their table. He must have dined here with Amelia on many occasions, if her effusive greeting is any indication. Elena will not let this fact spoil their night together.

  They talk about Grace. So much to discuss. Their daughter is an unending source of fascination to them and it is easy to laugh with delight over her antics. Elena won’t spoil the atmosphere by mentioning the ugliness of their last row, which, like the others, seems more unreal with every day that passes. When their meal is over, the maître’d offers them after-dinner drinks on the house. The hum of quiet conversation is broken by laughter from a group of women, who are enjoying their night out. It seems so long ago since Elena shared a meal with her friends, who are all scattered now. The yearning that sweeps through her for those careless nights must have travelled by osmosis towards another group of diners, who are being guided to their table by the maître’d.

  ‘Laney Langdon!’ Elena swings her head round, startled to hear a name that only one person has ever used.

  ‘Oh, my God. Steve!’ She stands, overjoyed to see him coming towards her.

  She met Steve Darcy on her first day at university. Lost in a bewildering maze of lecture halls and corridors, she asked directions from him. He, too, was just beginning his course, the same one as Elena, but he appeared to have a built-in sonar system that led them unhesitatingly towards the right lecture hall. He made her laugh and forget her shyness, which had caused her so much grief in secondary school. He drew others towards him and Elena; Tara, Susie and Killian, the five of them forming a tight-knit circle that lasted until they graduated.

  ‘Tara told me congratulations are in order,’ he says as he wraps her in a bear hug. ‘First of the gang to break the mould.’

  ‘Someone had to do it.’ She laughs as she extricates herself from his arms. ‘I highly recommend it. Our daughter is adorable. This is Nicholas, Grace’s father.’

  ‘You’re one lucky man.’ He pumps Nicholas’s hand vigorously. ‘I used all my charms on Laney
in university but to no avail.’

  ‘Don’t mind him, Nicholas.’ She laughs and nudges Steve with her elbow. ‘He had so many women surrounding him I wouldn’t have been able to claw my way in his direction.’

  ‘I wish.’ Steve gives an exaggerated sigh, then cups her face. ‘I’m sorry I was in Cambodia when Isabelle died and was unable to make it back for her funeral.’

  ‘I know that, Steve. I appreciated your calls.’

  She blinks rapidly, overcome by a sense of loss. Those carefree years they had spent together could belong to someone else. Someone she has trouble recognising. She has broken the mould, all right, and has no idea how she will put the pieces back together. ‘Are you here on holiday or have you moved back home?’ she asks.

  ‘No, I’m still living in Paris. We’ve been doing a photo shoot at the Powerscourt waterfall. I’ve opened my own agency. Did Tara tell you?’

  ‘She said you’re trying to poach her.’

  ‘Some hope. She likes the bright lights of London too much.’

  How quickly they had scattered when they graduated. Elena had been the first to leave, unable any longer to live in the shadow of a man she could hardly remember. Steve followed, then Tara, the three of them only reuniting for Susie and Killian’s wedding. A Druidic ceremony held beside a fairy fort, a high, green mound rising up from the land they had bought. The smallholding had lain idle for years until he and Susie gave up their jobs in advertising, turned their backs on city life and decided to become organic farmers.

  ‘Motherhood suits you, Laney. You look amazing.’ Steve sits down in an empty chair and holds out his hand, fingers beckoning. ‘Come on. Show her to me.’