The Next Wife: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller with a killer twist

by Liz Lawler

  She collapsed into a chair as her legs went weak. Her nerves were twitching from her near encounter with death and from getting that postcard. But for the man pushing her back her husband would have got a call or a visitor to say his wife was dead. His new colleagues would have rallied round quickly, offering him sympathy, offering to help, but not overly surprised. Didn’t his poor wife kill a patient? Didn’t she pretend she was someone else? The poor woman, the guilt of it must have gone to her head.

  He had made her want to kill herself.

  She would not forgive him for that.

  She forced herself to stand up and go over to the small fridge. She had switched it on yesterday for some milk. She poured a full glass and drank slowly. She would need her strength to cope. Her life had not ended and was not over yet. She may still unearth something she could use against her husband.

  The Oxfam van turned up just after twelve. It took until one o’clock for the driver and another man to carry out and load up the stuff they were being given. The flat looked near empty after they’d gone. The removal van booked for the next day wouldn’t be taking much back to Bath. A wrought-iron garden bench and table and chairs, a Welsh dresser, a bookcase from one of the bedrooms and his filing cabinet and the picture from his study wall were all that was on the list of items to keep.

  With nothing more to do now, Tess decided to leave. Though, she would change out of these clothes first and put on her jeans. She’d brought them with her yesterday to work in, along with a couple of loose tops, and would be more suitable to wear for where she was going. Turning up in the dress she threw on that morning, a bottle green round-neck with white piping on the skirt hem, would have them looking at her in surprise. They might ask her if she was going to an awards ceremony, perhaps, and was she giving out the prizes?

  As she walked along the corridor in St Mary’s Hospital towards the theatre suite, she hoped this wasn’t going to be a wasted detour. Not that it was taking her much out of the way – Paddington Station was right next door. She was banking on Sam still having the same shift pattern and being on duty.

  She was in luck, as after enquiring she saw him waving at her and his smiling face as he came out of the theatre doors into the corridor wearing his scrubs. He was on duty but he looked relaxed and not in a rush to get back to work.

  His quick lithe walk, black hair and unlined face belied his age. Sam had to be about sixty-five, but she knew he looked after himself with lots of expensive lotions and practised tai chi every morning. She was shocked when he swung her up in the air before plonking her back on her feet again. For a small man he was incredibly strong. He seemed genuinely excited to see her and she felt a pang at not saying a proper goodbye. She thought he only looked upon her as a colleague, yet he was greeting her like she was a friend.

  ‘God, we’ve missed you,’ he said, then startled her more. ‘The place is not the same without you. Margie, Brenda – even moaning Molly – we’re always talking about you. Brenda was right pissed off you left without a party. She’s still got your prezzie we collected for in her locker.’

  Tess felt her eyes sting. How, she wondered, had she not noticed or known this before? She had worked in these theatres eight years and thought she was fairly invisible, that it was only Sara who thought of her as a friend. She felt guilty now for not knowing and for thinking she only left colleagues behind, for not getting to know these people better.

  ‘How’s my handsome doctor?’ He took a step backwards, feigning shock. ‘It should have been me!’ he whispered dramatically. Then in his normal voice, ‘And why do you look like crap?’

  Tess blushed. The make-up hadn’t quite covered the circles under her eyes.

  ‘She is!’ he teased. ‘That the reason for the weight loss? Morning sickness maybe?’

  Tess shook her head, feeling like crap, wishing she’d stayed with these people.

  ‘Hey, I’m only teasing,’ Sam quickly said, seeing her shiny eyes.

  She took a calming breath. ‘Just a bit overwhelmed to be back, Sam.’

  He patted her shoulder. ‘Yeah, I can see that. I can see more than that. Is the handsome doctor treating you OK?’

  She shrugged. ‘Can I ask you something, Sam?’

  He looked at her concerned, then ushered her along the corridor to some empty seats against the wall. After he sat down, he said, ‘Tell me what you want to ask.’

  Tess folded her arms and stared down at the floor. ‘Was there ever anything personal you heard about my husband? About his past or what he did before coming here? I know he was here two years, but I don’t know anything about him before then or even during the time he was here.’

  Sam got back on his feet, and lightly led her to sit down instead. He now folded his arms but he didn’t stare at the floor. He looked at her directly.

  ‘Shit. It’s not working out, is it?’

  She didn’t say anything.

  ‘That’s a shame, because I can’t think of anything. He was at St Thomas’s before here, and his reputation has always been sterling.’

  ‘What about other women?’

  He gave a tentative shake of his head. ‘Well, I’m sure there were. He’s bloody handsome, but as for actually knowing.’ He frowned. ‘There was something once. I wasn’t paying that much attention. He was scrubbing in beside another doctor. Can’t remember who it was, but I remember this other doctor passing a remark about whether this one was for keeps, and your man laughing and saying something like, for keeps so long as she knows her place. It was something like that. To be fair, the other doctor didn’t laugh back, which is probably why I’ve remembered it. Chauvinistic crap, of course.’

  ‘Do you think he was talking about me? Can you remember when that was?’

  Sam puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled and tried to remember. ‘Yeah, I think I do. After my holiday, because when I came back I’d been switched to work in vascular. So that was in May.’

  Tess bit her lip and nodded slowly. Around the same time he’d proposed to her, she thought. It was already in his mind then how he wanted her to behave. She stood up and gave Sam a hug. ‘Thanks, Sam. Please give my love to the others but don’t tell them what I asked.’

  ‘I won’t,’ he said. ‘But you sort it out.’

  ‘Bye, Sam,’ she simply said, her eyes taking in one last look at him. Taking one last look at everything she passed. Like the London flat. She wasn’t going to find anything here. Apart from finding out her husband planned to keep her in her place.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Tess stared up at the train timetable information board to see if a platform had been assigned for the Bath train, and felt her chest tighten. ‘DELAYED’ flashed where the time of departure should be. For a while she willed the word to change, but when it didn’t she slumped her shoulders a little, resignedly. If she got home too late he might not let her go tomorrow. Arrange for Monty to be at the flat instead of her, to let the removal men in, which would scupper her plan to visit St Thomas’s.

  ‘Always damn late, isn’t it?’

  She glanced to her side and saw a man pointing his umbrella up at the board. ‘Always the same. What is it this time? No fucking train crew?’

  He said ‘fucking’ like he owned the word. His vowels clear and enunciated, the word elongated in a disdainful drawl. Interestingly, he said the word in the same way as Vivien. His wide-striped suit marked him as a barrister, or a would-be barrister, she decided as she stared at his youngish face and newish briefcase. ‘If they cancel this train too I’ll be fucking livid.’

  His words jolted her. ‘Was the train before cancelled?’ she asked.

  He waved his umbrella again. ‘Yes. A fucking jumper. Why can’t they fucking jump in their own time?’

  ‘Sir, do you mind?’

  Tess heard the question and cringed knowing it was directed at the man beside her by the middle-aged man behind them.

  The would-be barrister swivelled around to address the speaker. ‘Do I min
d what? That a selfish bastard has put a stop to the trains? Too damned right I do.’

  ‘You’re speaking about someone who just took their life, sir.’

  ‘And don’t we all know it,’ he replied bluntly, before strutting off and leaving Tess alone with the middle-aged man.

  ‘Some people are truly despicable,’ the man said. Then quietly, ‘Platform 4 it looks like.’

  She stared up at the board and breathed a sigh of relief. It was only six minutes late.

  Ten minutes later Tess was settled into a seat with a table, waiting for the train to depart. She looked up as a man took the seat opposite her. His face was familiar and she racked her brain to place him. She was sure she’d met him before. A second man wearing orange hi-vis trousers and jacket with silver fluorescent stripes took the seat beside her, and the remaining seat was taken by a young woman in the same get-up. They were clearly together, chatting to each other. Both wore lanyards showing they worked for the railway.

  She glanced back at the man opposite her, still puzzling over where she knew him from.

  He said, as if reading her mind, ‘You were standing next to that obnoxious man in the pinstripe suit who was giving his opinion on jumpers.’

  Her eyes rounded in surprise and she smiled. ‘My brain is like a sieve. That was only ten minutes ago. You were telling him off.’

  He too smiled. ‘I was.’

  He had a nice face, hard to tell his age. He could be in his fifties or sixties. She noticed the brown leather Bradshaw’s book he placed on the table in front of him and pegged him as a train spotter, having seen the same book carried by Michael Portillo in his train travel documentaries.

  ‘You like trains?’ she asked, pointing at his book.

  He chuckled. ‘I do, though this book is more about the history of railway timetables and the towns and villages that once had railway stations.’

  ‘So you’re not a train spotter, then?’ she joked, feeling strangely relaxed to be talking to a stranger about nothing much at all. Just passing time with easy comments was something she hadn’t done in a long while. She’d lost the habit of talking naturally to people since getting married. She could count on one hand the few unguarded chats she’d had. Cameron, Sara, the old lady, and she supposed now this man. She couldn’t count chats with people like Stella, Vivien or Anne as unguarded because her focus had been on her husband.

  ‘No, but I do spot a lot of trains,’ he replied, smiling. Then, not smiling, ‘And sadly hear of too many deaths like this one today.’

  Tess lowered her eyes in her shame. She had given no thought to the ripple effects of her actions on others. To the people who witnessed it, the people whose job it was to remove her remains and wash away her blood, to the person driving that train – likely to suffer the most for not being able to stop it – she had given no thought at all. The stranger who witnessed her near death this morning was clearly affected, as they’d been compelled to write to her. No thought to Sara either, even after that chat with herself. Maybe she deserved that postcard for being thoughtless. She would take better care if tempted to do it again to leave no witnesses next time.

  More passengers boarded, searching for vacant seats, and he pulled a guilty face as some were left standing. Tess looked around to see if there were any old people or mums with children standing. Seeing no one less able than her, she shrugged her shoulders and stayed put. The Bradshaw’s book man did likewise.

  Tess fetched the notebook from her bag as the Bradshaw’s book man began reading. She might find more out about the woman.

  I have been out of love for too many years and have admitted it to no one. It is my failure, my embarrassment. But it is no longer these things I worry about. It is his paranoia I fear. Last night he locked me in the cloakroom for a ‘misdemeanour’ – his word for not aligning his suits properly. I think it was just an excuse to punish me because his friend talked to me. He does not want his friends to know what he is like when we are alone.

  Tess turned another page.

  I met with my friend today. We went to McDonald’s, a place he would never step foot in. I’ve asked her to help me find somewhere to live, but I’m not sure she will. I saw the confusion in her eyes. She cannot understand why I would just walk away. She thinks having money has given me power. How little she knows. Nothing is ever mine.

  Tess closed the book. She had read enough for now. It was like reading something familiar yet unknown. She needed facts not feelings. Fact one: this woman had lived in that house. Fact two: she had been married to an abusive man. Fact three: she was trying to run away. Fact four: she feared for her life.

  She feared for her life.

  Tess felt her blood run cold.

  Was she Daniel’s first wife?

  Had he only pretended to look for a property while staying with Vivien and Mark? Did he already own the house? As how else would the old lady know about him unless he’d lived there before? Tess needed a name. This diary didn’t give her one. She would start by looking for it in that house. She had discovered the book there, so how many other discoveries might she find? The library room was full of old books she could flick through. She had dusted and cleaned most of the rooms, but she hadn’t put her hands down the backs or sides of sofas and armchairs. She hadn’t pulled drawers out from cupboards or taken books off shelves. There could be an old bill left lying around or something that had a name on it. She was sickened by a disquieting thought. Had he killed her?

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Tess was sitting in semi-darkness when she woke. She jumped in fright and gave a little squeal as she saw him sitting in an armchair watching her.

  ‘You frightened me,’ she gasped.

  His legs and arms were casually crossed, his face inscrutable.

  ‘Who are you seeing?’ he asked in a hushed tone.

  ‘What!’

  He switched on the lamp beside him. By the side of his chair he picked up her rucksack and placed it on his lap. Her insides quivered. What was he talking about? She’d changed back into her green sensible dress on board the train and wiped her face and mouth clean of make-up and lipstick. And the notebook, thank God, she put in her jacket pocket.

  ‘Clothes, make-up, lipstick,’ he said, naming items she knew to be there.

  His tone was still soft and she tried to explain. ‘I thought it would be easier to sort out the flat in my jeans and a top, and I was going to put on some make-up to… look… pretty.’

  ‘Pretty? For who?’ he pressed, his voice ever so slightly changed. ‘Who did you want to look pretty for?’

  ‘For myself.’

  ‘Yourself!’ he softly exclaimed, before giving her a knowing, amused look. He opened the rucksack and peered inside. A moment later he fetched out a tube of lipstick, uncapped it and twisted it until a pink nub appeared. ‘Show me,’ he said, and handed her the tube.

  She frowned at the thing in her hand. ‘It’s difficult without a mirror.’

  ‘Try.’

  Raising the lipstick to her mouth, she barely touched her lips.

  ‘More.’

  This time she pressed firmly, following the outline of her lips and coating them fully. When done, she sat back, trembling, waiting for the verdict. He inspected her slowly and then gently took the lipstick out of her hand and repeated the process. And then again over her lips and around her mouth. And again – only wider, pressing hard beneath her nose and in the centre of her chin.

  He recapped the lipstick and studied her face. ‘I don’t think you look pretty. If I’m honest I think you look…’ His expression was regretful as if what he was about to say was something hurtful. ‘Like a clown. Yes, a clown.’ He sighed and stood up and walked away a little so that he could inspect her from afar. He eyed her for several moments. ‘You know, you remind me of when I was a junior doctor. I did a stint in plastic surgery. There was a chap who needed a reconstruction to his lower face. Terrible mess altogether. It looked like it had been hacked with a blunt
knife. The operating surgeon called it a Glasgow smile. It’s where a person’s mouth is cut from corners to ears so that they permanently wear the shape of a smile. Terrible thing to happen, don’t you think?’

  He passed her leisurely, and at the door he stopped. ‘If you’re lying, Tess, you will be punished.’ Keeping his back towards her, he spoke again. ‘By the way, I’m out tonight so you might want to take a look at your “Improvements” book. You’re behind on quite a few chores. I’ve been updating it daily, Tess, but clearly you haven’t been checking.’

  She sat there trembling, not daring to move. How, she wondered, had she not seen the man she was to marry four months ago? Were all people blind? Were they like her, programmed to believe that someone educated, charming, choosing a helping career, was someone to trust? The woman in the book had been warned of something similar. Her father had warned her not to mistake charm for grace. Tess understood how easy she must have been fooled. Daniel had grace in his movements and his manners, in his performance as a surgeon and as a lover. He had grace flowing out of him. What was not to trust? She hadn’t been blind. She had just been unable to see.

  When the front door shut an hour later she felt free to finally breathe. It was amazing how tuned her ears were to the closing and opening of that door. It dictated the breath she breathed. Let out trapped air or gasp in needed air. She had a whole evening without him. The atmosphere in the house was lighter, less oppressive. She wanted to fling open all the windows and doors and let its history escape. If she could imagine a perfect life for this house it would be to fill it with the sound of happy children’s voices. Laughter would ring out from every room, replacing darkness with light. She hugged the thought of that life. She would take it into her dreams.