The Missing Wife

by Sheila O'Flanagan

  Back in their room, she stood uncertainly in front of him.

  ‘You’re a beautiful woman,’ he said. ‘You don’t need their approval.’

  ‘I wasn’t—’

  ‘You were,’ he said. ‘You were wanting them to like us, but none of that matters, Imogen. What matters is the two of us together.’

  She nodded.

  ‘You look a million times better than the bride,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘A zillion times. But then I always knew you would. You’re beautiful.’

  Imogen was wearing an above-the-knee cocktail dress in pale coral, embroidered with sequins around the neck. It was high at the front, with a low-cut back, and she’d teamed it with a pair of sparkly nude shoes. Vince had been with her when she’d bought both the dress and the shoes.

  ‘I suppose I was pissed off at you dancing with that old fart earlier because I allowed you to look gorgeous enough for him to want to dance with you. I was afraid he’d take advantage.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘It’s not silly to want to protect your precious things,’ he said. ‘And you’re my precious thing.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Now let’s get that dress off you …’

  He began to slide the zip of her dress down, and suddenly he was kissing her in an almost frenzied way that was both exciting and a little bit unnerving. He pushed her on to the bed and lay on top of her, running his hands through her hair, which had fanned out across the duvet.

  ‘You really are spectacularly lovely, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘I … guess so.’

  ‘And the other thing you know,’ he said as he thrust into her, ‘is that you’re mine, Imogen. Nobody else’s. Mine. For ever and ever. You belong to me.’

  When he said the words, it was as though a blindfold had been ripped from her eyes. She lay where she was, unable to move. Fortunately Vince was too engrossed in his own satisfaction to notice. Afterwards, he rolled over on his side and closed his eyes. A few minutes later he was asleep. She stayed beside him, immobile, until he began to snore, and then she slid from the bed and walked slowly into the bathroom, where she sat on the edge of the bath. He was right. That was the thing. That was what had happened. She did belong to him, completely and utterly. It wasn’t that he’d changed Imogen Weir into Imogen Naughton; he’d actually replaced her with someone he’d created. She wasn’t simply different. She’d become another person. A person whose every word and action was dictated by him and his reactions.

  She looked at herself in the mirror on the opposite wall and hardly recognised the woman reflected back at her. There was a tension in her eyes that had never been there before, and a wariness about her body that she hadn’t noticed until then. Had she really changed that much? And was it all because of Vince? Was that what Kevin and Paula and Cheyenne thought? Were they all laughing at her? Feeling sorry for her?

  Her jaw tightened. Vince was her husband. They’d built a life together. The kind of life that didn’t need people poking around and making unkind remarks and passing judgement. They were a secure unit together. The two of them against the world. But maybe that’s the problem, she thought suddenly. Maybe he’s built this life around me like a tower, while I stand inside and hand him the bricks so that he can shut me up. So that I’m in a prison.

  She shook her head. She wasn’t really locked away like a present-day Rapunzel. She had plenty of freedom. She had her job. She went to the gym with Shona. She … well, there wasn’t much else. But that was her choice. She’d made the decisions about what she did. Vince might influence them, but she made them. Didn’t she?

  But she always made decisions she knew he’d agree with. It was easier that way. Because she didn’t want him to be angry with her and to shut her out. It had been a long time since she’d done something he didn’t want her to do. Cheyenne’s wedding was the closest she’d got to changing his mind. And maybe he’d been right about not coming, because if she hadn’t, she wouldn’t have spent the whole day like a coiled spring waiting for him to lose it over something. And she wouldn’t have had to listen to Kevin and Paula expressing their doubts about her marriage and looking at her with ill-disguised sympathy in their eyes. Because she recognised that expression. It was the one that Agnes and Berthe had both worn the day that she and Carol had come back from France after her mother’s indiscretion. Her big mistake.

  Dammit, she thought. It’s my life. I didn’t make a mistake. And I don’t belong to him. I don’t belong to anyone. We love each other. We want what’s right for each other, that’s all.

  But even as she said it, she wasn’t sure she believed it any more.

  She pressed her fingers to her forehead.

  What’s happened to me? she asked herself.

  Who am I?

  Why am I so afraid?

  It was a long time before she realised that her fear was that Imogen Weir had been lost for ever. She knew that the only way to get her back was to leave, but she was concerned it was already too late. She’d become so dependent on him and his approval that she was afraid all he’d have to do was click his fingers and she’d come running back. She needed to be as far away from him as possible. So that she couldn’t hear the clicking.

  And so she came up with the Plan. It was a long time before she was able to carry it out. And she still didn’t know if it had really worked. She didn’t know what would happen if she heard the click again.

  Chapter 20

  Later in the afternoon, Imogen went to the beach. She brought a sun umbrella she’d found in the apartment and which she stuck, rather unsteadily, into the sand. She’d downloaded some free music to her smartphone, so she stretched out on a towel and listened to someone she’d never heard of before sing about unrequited love as the holidaymakers around her swam and sunbathed and chatted happily among themselves.

  She was done thinking about her past, but she needed to think about her future. The Plan had been hazy about that. She’d been lucky in getting the apartment and the cleaning job, but it was clear that once the summer ended, Bastarache Immobilier wouldn’t need extra cleaners. Despite the contracts with permanent residents, the bulk of the business was from the rental apartments. René seemed to like her and was prepared to accept the word of his partner that her work was good, but that didn’t mean there’d be anything for her to do in the autumn or winter. Nor did she know what she was going to do about somewhere to live, or even if she’d stay in Hendaye. Regardless of where she ended up, her savings wouldn’t cover the difference between what she earned and what she paid in rental for very long. She was going to have to look for some other kind of work, but she had no idea what. Perhaps I should have followed in Cheyenne’s footsteps and become a beautician, she thought, as she watched two elegantly made-up women in well-cut bathing suits strolling along the beach. There always seemed to be work for people who could do faces and nails and hair.

  Apart from her concerns about work and somewhere to live, the longer-term problem of being married to Vince still remained. At some point she would have to deal with it. But there was no way she could go back to Ireland yet. She was feeling much stronger and more independent now, but she was worried that as soon as she saw him, Vince would somehow manage to convince her that her flight had been some kind of mental breakdown. It didn’t matter that she knew it wasn’t true. His ability to get inside her head meant that she wasn’t at all confident she could resist him. There had been countless times before when she’d tried to argue with him, but he’d always managed to tie her up in knots so that she would end up apologising for having brought up whatever topic it was in the first place.

  I’m not ready to face him, she told herself. But perhaps I’m ready to talk to Shona. And that way I can find out what he’s thinking. What he’s saying about me. And, more importantly, what his plans are.

  She sat up on the towel and gazed out over the water as she considered phoning her friend. If she ensured that caller
ID was switched off first, it would be safe enough, wouldn’t it? She wasn’t going to tell Shona where she was, so there would be nothing Vince could worm out of her, other than the fact that she’d called. Even as she grew excited at the idea of talking to her friend again, she reminded herself that getting in touch with people wasn’t part of the Plan. That had concentrated on getting away and staying away and not talking to anyone. But she couldn’t stay cut off for ever. Vince had tried to make that happen before, and he’d nearly succeeded. If she did it to herself, if she never spoke to anyone she knew again, he’d still be in control of her. And she’d run away so that he wasn’t. She’d make the call. Even though she wasn’t entirely convinced it was the right thing to do.

  She stayed at the beach until late in the evening, and by the time she got home again, she had convinced herself that calling Shona was a good idea. Nevertheless, as she sat at the window, her phone in her hand, she could feel the beat of her heart at the base of her throat, and her mouth was so dry that she had to take continuous sips from the small bottle of water by her side.

  ‘In a minute,’ she muttered to herself. ‘First things first …’

  She opened her email app on the phone.

  There were plenty of new promotional emails from her usual sites, and two new personal ones. She felt her stomach clench as she saw Vince’s most recent one, telling her all he wanted was to sort out whatever was wrong between them.

  She read it a few times, noticing how different it was in tone to the first ones he’d sent. Maybe he really was beginning to understand how she felt. Maybe he could see why she’d done what she’d done. Maybe he was realising that his behaviour had been completely over the top. Did he want to fix it? If she went back and talked to him, would it be different? The way it was at the start, when he’d loved her and wanted nothing but the best for her? After all, he was a good person when you got to know him … She closed her eyes. She didn’t know if he was a good person or not. She couldn’t be objective about that any more. But he wasn’t good for her, she’d learned that much over the past five years. So she shouldn’t, couldn’t allow herself to think any different. Because this was what had happened so many times before. She’d be unhappy and he’d say something, one thing, to make her feel as though it was all her own fault, and the next thing she knew she was apologising and trying to make it up to him and wondering how it was she always got it so wrong. And all she wanted to do was make it better.

  But she never could.

  She opened her eyes and read the second email.

  From: Cheyenne@firstmail.com

  To: Imozhen@gmail.com

  Subject: Where are you?

  Hi Imogen. This isn’t an email I thought I’d be sending. I’ve been talking to Vince. He says you’ve disappeared and is trying to imply you’re mentally unstable. I think you’ve left him. Fair play to you if you have – it’s probably the least mentally unstable thing you’ve ever done! I know you’re not supposed to say horrible things about anyone’s ex in case they get back together, but truly, after you met him it was like all the light had gone from inside you. Talking to you was like talking to a shell. Anyway, I thought you should know that he’s looking for you. He wanted to know places you’ve lived. I told him I couldn’t remember. Which I can’t really, France is France, n’est-ce pas? I also thought you should know that he got in touch with me through Facebook. Are there other people he’ll contact? I noticed your account has been deleted or deactivated or whatever. So this is the only way I can get in touch with you. If you want to call me, please do. By the way, he also wanted to talk to Dad, but he’s on a cruise with Paula so I said he was uncontactable.

  Take care.

  Cheyenne x

  Imogen read and re-read the email and then began to pace around the apartment as her anxiety levels shot up. It had never occurred to her that Vince would be able to find Cheyenne on Facebook. That was why she hadn’t bothered to get in touch with her or Kevin after she’d left. She knew she hadn’t left any phone numbers or emails for them at home because Vince had practically ordered her never to talk to them again after Cheyenne’s wedding. And although the wedding had opened her eyes to the fact that she was unhappy with Vince, she hadn’t had the strength to defy him. In some ways she’d been relieved not to be in touch with her stepfamily. Not having to talk to them meant that she didn’t have to talk about Vince either. She didn’t have to justify being with him or make excuses for him.

  She looked at the email again. Cheyenne said he was trying to find out the places she’d lived. But she couldn’t see how he’d manage that. If Cheyenne wasn’t telling him anything, if he couldn’t contact Kevin, and with Berthe on the alert to say nothing, there was no way for him to get information. Yet even if nobody said a word, Imogen was beginning to feel as though Vince was uncomfortably close to her. It was a feeling that plunged her into despair. What if she never got away from him? What if he turned up in Hendaye and made her come home? It was easy for people to tell her that he couldn’t force her, but they didn’t know Vince. Somehow he’d manage it, and he’d be so angry with her, her life would be a total misery. It would be awful.

  She was shaking. And as she realised that she was also crying, she couldn’t help feeling that she was utterly hopeless. Just as Vince always said she was.

  She didn’t phone Shona.

  She couldn’t.

  She was too afraid again.

  Chapter 21

  The problem with tracking down Imogen himself, Vince thought, was not having any decent leads. He knew that his wife had disappeared in Paris, but nothing more than that. He had no idea where she’d gone after leaving the hotel and he was afraid it would be difficult to trace her movements. Disappearing in Paris had been a smart idea, he had to acknowledge that. But no matter how smart Imogen thought she was, he knew he was smarter. If he went to Paris with her photo and showed it at the hotel, someone – the concierge, a receptionist, a duty manager – would surely remember her. And they might remember her saying where she planned to go. Even if they did, though, how far would it get him? What he really needed was something tangible to start from.

  He was quietly confident that he’d find it. As his company’s top salesman, his expertise was seeking out leads, persuading people to see him and talk to him, extracting information from them. This was a bigger, more difficult task. But Imogen had underestimated him if she thought he wasn’t up to it.

  Every evening, after he got home from work, he spent time going through the filing cabinet they kept in the utility room, searching among the old papers, bills and invoices for clues that might point him in the right direction. Irritatingly, his own desire for neatness and order were working against him, because he insisted on shredding documents more than a couple of years old. He’d nearly given it up as a bad job when he suddenly unearthed a single photograph caught between two old electricity bills. It was of a small girl and a woman he didn’t recognise, and on the back it said: Imogen and Madame Fournier on the beach. He’d never heard of Madame Fournier, but at least it was a name of a real person he could track down. The photograph, with blue sea and even bluer skies, must have been taken when Imogen had lived in Provence. Vince was pretty sure that that was where she would have gone now. People were always drawn back to places they knew. It was human nature.

  All the same, he decided that his first port of call would still be Paris and the hotel. Even if she’d gone to Provence, she might have left some clue in the capital city. Vince knew that he was good at his job because he was thorough. He would bring that same thoroughness to finding Imogen.

  He spent the next day at his desk in the office drawing up a list of the people Imogen knew and how they might help her hide from him. He came to the same conclusion as Imogen herself: that he had successfully shrunk her group of friends so that there were very few people she could depend on. The mad aunts in California were out of the picture. She’d hardly flee there when one of them was in a home for the bewildere
d and the other one had one step over the threshold. But Cheyenne Scott, her stepsister, might prove more fruitful. Following Cheyenne’s wedding, Imogen had more or less brushed her out of her life, but the email that Cheyenne had sent her after he’d spoken to her had been surprisingly sympathetic. Vince felt sure she had useful background information that might help him. What had she written? Fair play to Imogen for leaving him? He snorted. He was right about her. She was a bitch. But he would try to talk to her all the same. As for Kevin … Vince had always liked the fact that Imogen’s feelings towards her stepfather were mixed at best. He knew she believed that he’d loved her mother and was grateful to him for the care he’d taken of her when she was ill. At the same time, she resented the way he’d dragged her from Dublin to Birmingham after he’d married Paula. Vince had surmised that she hadn’t been very happy with him marrying Paula in the first place. He himself didn’t like the other man at all, and he knew the feeling was mutual. Kevin would be unlikely to help him, regardless of how concerned he might be about Imogen’s whereabouts.

  He had to find her, and find her soon. It was all very well for Shona to talk about her needing space, but she was his wife and what she needed was to be back home. Even if Shona was right and she returned of her own accord, he wasn’t prepared to wait. Nobody ever got what they wanted by waiting. And he wasn’t the waiting sort.

  He called Imogen’s ex-boss, Conor Foley. Annoying though Vince found him, he was the last person to have seen Imogen and could well have vital information that until now he’d either forgotten or not shared. Conor hadn’t wanted to see him, but Vince used all of his persuasive powers to make him agree. Their subsequent conversation, however, was less than satisfactory. Conor reminded Vince of Kevin – too damn self-confident for his own good, and not respectful enough towards him. He’d repeated that he had no idea where Imogen had gone after the exhibition, and had told Vince that the best thing he could do was wait until she herself got in touch. The single piece of satisfaction that Vince got from the meeting was confirmation that Imogen had stayed at the hotel she’d said she was staying in. He’d had a nagging feeling that she’d lied about that too.