by Sandie Jones
SANDIE JONES
THE OTHER WOMAN
PAN BOOKS
For Ivy Rolph
My nan – who always encouraged me to be who I wanted to be
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
PROLOGUE
She looks beautiful in her wedding dress. It fits her perfectly and is exactly what I’d imagined she’d go for: elegant, understated and unique – just like her. My heart breaks that her day will never come, but she doesn’t need to know that yet.
I think about the guests who won’t attend, the picture frames with no photographs, the first dance that will be silent, the cake that won’t get eaten, and I feel my resolve weakening. I pull myself up. This is not a time for doubt.
There is still so much work to do, so much more pain to inflict, but I will not be deterred. I failed once before, but this time, I’ll get it right.
There’s too much at stake to get it wrong.
1
There weren’t many things that I didn’t like about Adam when I first saw him across the crowded bar at the Grosvenor Hotel in London, aside from his lack of empathy. I’d just come out of an incredibly dull ‘Future of Recruitment’ conference and needed a drink far more than he or the barman realized.
I’d been standing at the bar for what felt like an eternity, theatrically waving a battered ten-pound note in the air, when, just along from me, a dark-haired man muscled his way to the front, holding a credit card. ‘Yep. Over here, mate,’ he said, in a booming voice.
‘Er, excuse me,’ I said, a little louder than I intended. ‘I think you’ll find I was here first.’
He shrugged and smiled. ‘Sorry, but I’ve been waiting ages.’
I stood and watched open-mouthed as he and the barman shared a knowing tip of the head, and without him even saying a word, a bottle of Peroni was put in front of him.
‘Unbelievable,’ I mouthed, as he looked over at me. He smiled that smile again, and turned to the throng of men beside him to take their orders.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ I groaned, before letting my head drop into my arms while I waited. I was sure that it would be an inordinate amount of time until my turn.
‘What can I get you?’ asked the man behind the bar. ‘The guy over there reckons you’re a rosé kind of girl, but I’m going to bet you’re after a gin and tonic.’
I smiled, despite myself. ‘As much as I’d like to prove him wrong, I’m afraid to say a glass of rosé would be perfect, please.’
I went to hand him the tenner as he placed the glass in front of me, but he shook his head. ‘No need,’ he said. ‘Please accept it with the compliments of the gentleman who jumped the queue.’
I didn’t know who I loved more: the bartender who, in my opinion, ought to be elevated to chief sommelier, or the really rather nice fellow smiling down the bar at me. Oh, the power of a chilled pink blush.
My face flushed the same colour, as I held the glass up to him and headed over to where my seminar colleagues were gathered in a corner, each nursing their own alcoholic preference. We’d been strangers up until seven hours ago, so it seemed that the general consensus was to get your own drink and not worry about everybody else.
Mr Peroni obviously doesn’t have the same arrangement with his own acquaintances, I thought, smiling to myself as I looked up and saw that he had continued to order his round.
I took a sip of wine and could hear my taste buds thanking me as the cold liquid teased them before hitting the back of my throat. What is it with that first taste that can never be replicated? I sometimes find myself postponing that initial swig for fear of losing that sensation.
I’m making myself sound like a raging alcoholic, but I only ever drink at weekends, and on mind-numbingly tedious Wednesdays, after being holed up with two hundred HR personnel for the day. We’d been helpfully informed during a lecture entitled ‘Nobody Likes Us. We Don’t Care’ that a recent survey had revealed that recruitment consultants were fast becoming the most disliked professionals, second only to estate agents. I wish I could defy the haters and prove that we’re not all morally lacking, unethical dealmakers. But as I look around at the brash, loud, would-be City boys with their slicked-back hair and insincere expressions, I have to hold my hands up in defeat.
Despite having introduced myself in the ‘forum’ earlier in the day, I felt I had to do it again, as I approached the baying mob.
‘Hi, I’m Emily,’ I said awkwardly to the guy on the outermost circle. He wasn’t someone I was particularly interested in talking to, but talk I had to, if I wanted to finish my glass of wine without looking like a complete Norman no-mates. ‘I’m a consultant at Faulkner’s,’ I went on.
I offered my hand and he took it, shaking it brusquely in a slightly territorial fashion. ‘This is my manor and you’re on my turf’ was the message he conveyed, even though we’d spent the entire day learning how to do the exact opposite.
‘Be open. Be approachable,’ Speaker No. 2 had stated earlier. ‘Employers and employees want to deal with a friendly face. They need to feel that they can trust you. That you are working for them, not the other way around. Deal with your clients on their terms, not on yours, even if it does put a dent in your pride. So, read each situation individually and react accordingly.’
I’d always prided myself on doing exactly that, hence why I’d been the top consultant at Faulkner’s seven months in a row. In person, I was the antithesis of what people expected: honest, considerate, and blasé about target-chasing. As long as I had enough to pay my rent, eat and heat, I was happy. On paper, however, I was smashing it. Clients were requesting to deal exclusively with me, and I’d secured more new business than anyone else across the five-office network. Commission was flooding in. Perhaps I should have been the one standing on that podium, telling them how it’s done.
The man, from an obscure agency in Leigh-on-Sea, made a half-hearted attempt at pulling me into the throng. No one introduced themselves, preferring instead to eye me up and down, as if seeing a woman for the first time. One of them even shook his head from side to side, and let out a slow whistle. I looked at him with disdain, before realizing it was Ivor, the bald, overweight director of a one-office concern in Balham, who I’d had the misfortune of partnering in the role-play exercise just before lunch. His breath had smelt of last night’s curry that I’d imagined he’d scoffed impatiently from a silver-foil container on his lap.
‘Sell me this pen,’ he’d barked, during our ‘How to Sell Snow to an Eskimo’ task. A cloud of stale turme
ric permeated the air and I wrinkled my nose in distaste. I’d taken a very normal-looking Bic biro from him and had begun to relay its redeeming qualities: the superior plastic case, the smooth nib, the flow of the ink. I’d wondered, not for the first time, what the point was in all this. My boss, Nathan, insisted that these conferences were good for us: that they kept us on our toes.
If he was hoping that I’d be motivated and captivated by new and exciting ways to do business, he’d booked the wrong day. And I’d certainly been paired with the wrong man.
I’d continued to enthuse about the pen’s attributes, but as I’d looked up, Ivor’s eyes hadn’t even been attempting to look at the tool in my hand, preferring instead to fixate on the hint of cleavage beyond.
‘Ahem,’ I’d coughed, in an attempt to bring his attention back to the task in hand, but he’d merely smiled, as if relishing in his own fantasy. I’d instinctively pulled my blouse together, regretting the decision to wear anything other than a polo neck.
His beady little eyes were still on me now. ‘It’s Emma, isn’t it?’ he said, stepping forward. I looked down at the name badge secured to my left bosom, just to check for myself.
‘Em-i-ly,’ I said, as if speaking to a toddler. ‘It’s Em-i-ly.’
‘Emma, Emily, it’s all the same.’
‘It’s not really, no.’
‘We were paired up this morning,’ he said proudly to the other men in the group. ‘We had a good time, didn’t we, Em?’
I’m sure I felt my skin crawl.
‘It’s Em-i-ly, not Em,’ I said, exasperated. ‘And I didn’t think we worked particularly well together at all.’
‘Oh, come on,’ he said, looking around, his face betraying the confidence in his voice. ‘We were a good team. You must have felt it.’ I stared emptily back at him. There were no words of recourse, and, even if there were, I wouldn’t have wasted my breath. I shook my head as the rest of the group looked awkwardly to the floor. No doubt as soon as I turned on my heels, they’d be patting him on the back for a job well done.
I took myself and my half-drunk wine to the space at the end of the crowded bar. I’d only been there two minutes before I realized that the reason no one else was standing there was because, every few seconds, I was getting hit in the back by a bony elbow or shouldered out of the way by the waiting staff, as they busily collected drinks and returned glasses. ‘This is our area,’ barked a young girl, her face all pinched and pointed. ‘Keep it clear.’
‘Please,’ I said, under my breath, but she was far too important to stand still long enough to hear it. Still, I edged up a little to remove myself from ‘her area’ and rummaged around in my bag for my phone. I only had three more sips, or one big gulp, of wine left. Four minutes max and I’d be on my way.
I surreptitiously ran through my emails, in the hope that a) I wouldn’t be bothered by anybody and b) it’d look like I was waiting for someone. I wondered what we’d done before mobiles and their far-reaching information trails. Would I be standing here perusing the Financial Times or, better yet, feel inclined to strike up a conversation with someone who might prove to be interesting? Either way, I’d most definitely be better informed as a result, so why, then, do I log on to Twitter to see what Kim Kardashian’s up to?
I groaned inwardly as I heard someone shout, ‘Emily, fancy another drink?’ Really? Did he not get the hint? I looked over at Ivor, but he was engrossed in conversation. I had a furtive glance around, embarrassed to know that the person who had said it would be watching my confusion. My eyes fleetingly settled on Mr Peroni, who was grinning broadly, revealing straight white teeth. I smiled to myself as I remembered Mum’s erstwhile advice. ‘It’s all in the teeth, Emily,’ she’d said after she met my last boyfriend, Tom. ‘You can always trust a man with nice teeth.’ Yeah – and look how that turned out.
I put more importance on whether someone’s smile reaches their eyes, and this guy’s, I noticed, definitely did. I mentally undressed him, without even realizing I was doing it, and registered that his dark suit, white shirt, and slightly loosened tie were hanging from a well-built body. I imagined his wide shoulders sitting either side of a strong back that descended into a narrower waist. Triangular shaped. Or maybe not. It’s difficult to tell what a suit is disguising; it could be hiding a multitude of sins. But I hoped I was right.
Heat rose up my neck as he stared intently at me, his hand pushing his hair to one side. I offered a watery smile, before turning my head a full 360 degrees, looking for the voice.
‘Is that a yes or no?’ it said again, a little closer now. Mr Peroni had manoeuvred himself so that he was now my next-door neighbour but one. What an odd expression that is, I thought to myself, oblivious to the fact that he was now standing right beside me. Can you also have a next-door neighbour but two, and three, I wondered?
‘How many have you had?’ He laughed, as I continued to look at him blankly, though not without acknowledging that he was taller when he was close up.
‘I’m sorry, I thought I heard someone call my name,’ I replied.
‘I’m Adam,’ he offered.
‘Oh. Emily,’ I said, thrusting out my hand, which had instantly become clammy. ‘I’m Emily.’
‘I know, it’s written in rather large letters across your chest.’
I looked down and felt myself flush. ‘Aha, so much for playing hard to get, eh?’
He tilted his head to one side, a naughty twinkle in his eye. ‘Who said we were playing?’
I had no idea whether we were or weren’t. Flirting has never been my strong suit. I wouldn’t know where to start, so if it was a game he was after, he was playing on his own.
‘So, what’s the deal with the name badge?’ Mr Peroni, aka Adam, asked, as coquettishly as a man can.
‘I’m a member of an elite conference,’ I said, far more boldly than I felt.
‘Is that so?’ He smiled.
I nodded. ‘I’ll have you know I’m the cream of the crop in my industry. One of the highest-ranking performers in the field.’
‘Wow.’ He smirked. ‘So, you’re part of the Toilet Roll Sellers seminar? I saw the board for it when I walked in.’
I suppressed a smile. ‘Actually, it’s a secret meeting of MI5 agents,’ I whispered, looking around conspiratorially.
‘And that’s why they wrote your name all over your chest, is it? To make sure nobody finds out who you are.’
I tried to keep a straight face, but the corners of my mouth were curling upwards. ‘This is my undercover name,’ I said, tapping the cheap plastic. ‘My conference pseudonym.’
‘I see, Agent Emily,’ he said, rolling up his sleeve and talking into his watch. ‘So, is the gentleman at three o’clock also an agent?’ He waited for me to catch up, but I didn’t even know which way to look. I was twisting myself in every direction, haplessly trying to find three o’clock on my internal compass. He laughed as he caught hold of my shoulders and turned me to face Ivor, who was gesticulating wildly to a male colleague, whilst looking longingly at a female dressed in tight leather trousers behind him. She was happily unaware that his eyes were drinking her in. I shuddered involuntarily.
‘Negative,’ I replied, one hand to my ear. ‘He is neither an agent nor a gentleman.’
Adam laughed, as I warmed to the theme. ‘Can we class him as the enemy?’
‘Affirmative. Take him down if you wish.’
He squinted, in an effort to read the perpetrator’s name badge. ‘Ivor?’ he questioned.
I nodded.
‘Ivor Biggun?’ He looked at me, waiting for a reaction. It took me a while, a long while in fact, to get it, but until I did, he just stood there, staring at me.
2
I wasn’t looking for a boyfriend. I hadn’t even known I’d wanted one until Adam showed up. Pippa, my flatmate, and I were blissfully content, going to work, coming home, eating our tea on trays, then gorging ourselves on chocolate whilst watching back-to-back episodes of Prison Bre
ak. It’s heaven on earth for those few short hours, but the next morning, I’d get on the scales and damn my nine pounds of winter weight gain. It’s the same every year – and not helped by the fact that I never go to the gym that I pay seventy-two pounds a month for. I can no longer fit into the size-twelve jeans I wore last summer, but instead of buying myself a size fourteen, I’d rather scour the shops to find a more generous size-twelve pair that I can pour myself into. I’d spent the entire summer ‘in denial’, and was still kidding myself that the promised Indian summer would be sure to see my motivation return.
I’ll go out every once in a while, particularly around payday, but nights out aren’t what they used to be. Maybe it’s because I’m getting older, or everyone else is getting younger, but I see little benefit in standing in a crowded pub and having to elbow your way to the bar every time you want a drink. Pippa’s dragged me kicking and screaming to a few gigs, though not, unfortunately, at the O2. She favours underground caverns, where bands, most of whom she seems to have slept with, thrash about the stage and encourage their audience to do the same. I’m the one standing alone at the back, with hidden earphones blasting out Musical Theatre’s Greatest Hits.
Thank God for Seb, my best friend and a male version of me. I’d have married him years ago if I thought there was a single hair on his body that I could have turned straight, but, alas, I must make do with evenings locked in a soundproof karaoke booth, each of us competing for the best lines in Les Misérables. We met during what he refers to as my ‘hairdressing period’. Discontented with secretarial work, I’d booked myself on to a night course for hair and beauty. Obviously, I had visions of becoming a female Nicky Clarke, with a trendy salon in the middle of Mayfair, and celebrity clients having to book months in advance. Instead, I spent three months sweeping up other people’s hair, and developing eczema on my hands from the caustic shampoo. I used to have these half-baked ideas, and rush off to start making them happen, but I was forever deluded by grandeur. Like the time I enrolled on a home-making course at my local college. It was never my intention to learn how to make a pretty cushion or spend hours rubbing five layers of eggshell off an old chest of drawers. No, I was going to be the new Kelly Hoppen, and bypass all the graft and groundwork that learning a new skill entails. I was heading straight for New York, where I would be immediately commissioned to design a vast loft space for Chandler from Friends. Needless to say, the cushion never got finished and all the wallpaper samples and fabric swatches I’d acquired never saw the light of day again.
