The Mistress: A gripping and emotional page turner with a killer twist

by Jill Childs

  Finally, he said, ‘It was the life insurance company. They sent me. Always worth a closer look when they don’t find a body. Loose ends, you see. Sorry to say, but they just don’t like them.’

  I didn’t speak. What could I say?

  ‘The police have to move on, after a while. Sooner than I do. Can’t blame them. Plenty more cases waiting. Been there myself.’

  I managed to say, ‘The police have been very thorough but, so far…’ I swallowed, ‘they’ve failed to find any trace of my husband. I’m sorry but I don’t quite see—’

  He nodded. His hand moved to his chin and gently rubbed it, as if he were thinking this over.

  ‘I know where you’re coming from, Mrs W. I really do. And you might be right to draw a line, holding that memorial service and everything. Very classy service, by the way.’

  I blinked, registering what he was telling me. That he’d been there too.

  He went on. ‘So, you bide your time. Apply for a death certificate eventually. Then, bingo! You’re home and dry. There’s every chance the insurance people will pay out, after all. How much is the policy worth?’

  I couldn’t look at him. ‘My husband dealt with all that.’

  ‘Often the way. My old lady’s the same. Trust. It’s at the heart of every good marriage, isn’t it?’ He hesitated. ‘We’re talking several hundred thousand, though, in your husband’s case. That’s worth having, isn’t it? Even if it can’t bring him back again.’

  I steadied myself and turned again to look him in the eye. ‘Mr Ridge, I’m afraid I need to—’

  He nodded. ‘Relieve the babysitter. Course you do. Time’s money. Ten quid an hour, you pay, don’t you? Top whack.’

  I stared, struggling not to show my shock. ‘Was there something you wanted to ask me?’

  ‘Ah.’ He reached into his fleece. I tensed, imagining a gun. Instead, he rummaged in an inside pocket, brought out a business card and handed it to me. ‘I wanted to give you this. Just in case.’

  He climbed out of the car and closed the passenger door with care. My body deflated with relief as soon as he’d withdrawn, as if I’d been punctured.

  I leaned forward and rested my arms on the steering wheel. In a moment, I’d switch on the engine and head home to pay off the babysitter, just as he’d said. First, I needed to sit still and calm the shaking in my hands.

  When he appeared suddenly at my window, I started. He rapped on the glass and I lowered it.

  He was smiling as he leaned in, his tone full of admiration, as if he’d just lost a tough bout, fair and square.

  ‘Gotta hand it to you, Mrs W,’ he said in his low, rasping voice. ‘However you did it, you did a good job.’

  Thirty-Nine

  I’d had a lot of time, recently, to think about Ralph.

  About the way we met. About the way we came to marry, in such a headlong rush. About our life together.

  I loved him to distraction. That’s the truth of it. He brought me to life, touched my black-and-white world and turned it rainbow-coloured. He made me dizzy with his energy, his light. Blinding light. I just wished he’d been as true to me as I was to him.

  I’d met him because of Mimi, my crazy boss.

  We were running the main section of the local public library together, taking up the whole of the ground floor. She’d hired me, I discovered, as part of a drive to bring in new blood and shake up the staff culture there. Mimi, with her spiky hair, streaked blue and pink, and flowing vintage clothing, was leading a fight against the threat of closure with the only weapons we had: passion, energy and ideas.

  First, she rattled cages by getting local businesses to foot the bill for new chairs, tables and shelving for the children’s section. A computer repair shop agreed to give us some second-hand computers – and maintain them for us.

  Then she announced that she wanted to launch a programme of evening events, on days we already stayed open until late. Before I knew it, I found myself in charge.

  I did my best. I started a monthly book group, although only three people turned up for the first meeting and only one of those had actually read the book. I arranged a film screening and found money for cheap wine and snacks. The average age was about seventy but even so, it was a start. A local artist staged an exhibition on the library walls for a week, then came to give a talk about her technique. So far, so dull.

  Then, one day, Mimi called me over from the stacks where I was shelving returns.

  ‘You’ve got an event query.’ She had a teasing look in her eye. ‘You’re gonna like this one.’

  A young man stood at the desk, steadying himself against it with three fingers of one hand as he gazed up at the ceiling. The library wasn’t a grand building, but it was Victorian with some of the follies of the time – from faux wooden panelling in the study room upstairs to the mock-Tudor beams and rafters on our floor. Normal people never even noticed them.

  He seemed lost in thought, a tall man with floppy hair and even floppier clothes. I could see why he’d excited Mimi. A rebel. A romantic. Rather her type.

  He turned as I approached and smiled, holding out his hand.

  ‘Ralph Wilson.’ That voice. Rich and mellow. His hand was warm with delicate fingers. An artist’s hands. ‘Poetry.’

  I gawped at him, wrong-footed. I was twenty-six, but I hadn’t had a steady boyfriend for several years and frankly I was rather getting used to the idea of staying single. Suddenly I wasn’t so sure.

  ‘Poetry evenings.’ His eyes were deep brown, his smile broadening as he looked at me. ‘Mimi here says you’re the woman to ask. Helen, wasn’t it?’

  I managed to lead him off into a quieter area of the library where we could talk without disturbing readers. Mimi pretended to be busy sorting through reservations, close enough to keep an eye on the two of us. Every time I glanced up, she was watching, an infuriating grin on her face.

  As soon as he left, carrying a bundle of papers about library policy and applications to stage an event, she dashed across.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Don’t get so excited.’ I packed away the information folders, ready to put them back. ‘He wants to use us for poetry readings, but he looked horrified when I told him how much we charge.’

  She waved away my words. ‘So? We can make an exception. Poetry! Exactly the sort of thing a library should be hosting.’

  I narrowed my eyes. ‘Really? No exceptions. Isn’t that what you said to that man from St John’s Ambulance?’

  ‘That was different.’ She winked at me. ‘Ralph Wilson. Great name. Wedding ring?’

  ‘Didn’t notice,’ I lied.

  ‘You are hopeless.’ She tutted. ‘Is he a professional poet?’

  ‘English teacher. At secondary school.’

  ‘Perfect!’ Mimi beamed. ‘Partnership with education. One of our objectives. Here’s what you do. Give him a call. Tell him if he can guarantee, let’s say, twenty people, he can have the space. Free of charge. Say it’s a trial.’

  I picked up the folders and started to head to the back office.

  After a moment, Mimi came bustling through to find me.

  ‘Just thinking,’ she said. ‘If there’s anything of mine you want to wear, for poetry night, just ask. Okay?’

  I looked down at my black jeans and dark blue sweater, a variation on the work uniform I wore every day, then at Mimi’s multi-coloured outfit.

  ‘Thanks, Mimi,’ I said. ‘Really. But I’ll be fine.’

  That first poetry night, Ralph seemed nervous. Those long fingers raked through his hair. His lips were dry. I didn’t make a fuss, just noticed and did what I could to help.

  A small table by the lectern for a jug of water and glasses. Making small talk with the first arrivals to give him time on his own. Telling him, just before it all began, how great he looked.

  He was the last to read. I sat there, the plain, twenty-something librarian in the back row, spellbound. When he stepped up to the lectern and shuffled his pape
rs, cleared his throat, nervously stooped for a sip of water, then finally began to read, it was like a conductor taking control of an orchestra. The room fell silent. His voice, first, was a delight in itself. But his words too. His language rolled from him, rich and resonant, and stirred emotions I’d almost forgotten in my contented little life. Passion. Regret. Longing.

  When he finished reading, there was quiet. Someone coughed. A woman shuffled in her seat. I started to clap, a slow, theatrical slapping of palms that I instantly regretted. What was I thinking? People in the row in front twisted round to look.

  Then someone near the front joined in and suddenly everyone was clapping and the relief was exhausting. I’d happily disappeared again, back into anonymity, into the gathering.

  He took some of us out for drinks in the wine bar around the corner.

  Ralph was as effusive as he’d earlier been afraid. He ordered champagne and declared the evening a marvellous new beginning. He raised a toast, dubbing me an ‘angel of mercy!’ One of his teaching friends whooped.

  I remember looking round the table, at the clatter and chat, a wild gang of teachers and writers and friends – most of whom I’d never met before this evening. I felt swept up by their camaraderie, their enthusiasm for life.

  Later on, Ralph, whose eyes had seldom strayed from mine, came to sit beside me. His thigh pressed, warm and solid, against mine.

  ‘So, madam,’ he said, in that rich, sexy voice, ‘it seems to me, I have a lot to thank you for.’ When he looked at me, the rest of the room seemed to blur and fall away. ‘I wonder how long it will take me to show my appreciation? Hours? Days? Years? If, that is, you’re willing to let me try?’

  My cheeks flushed, my body felt electric.

  It was the champagne, of course. It was the novelty. But most of all, it was simply Ralph.

  Forty

  He never stopped. That was the thing about Ralph. Being with him was like being lifted by a tidal wave, tossed and tumbled and terribly out of my depth. There were days when I was so tired, I longed for him not to call, to leave me alone to crawl home and have a quiet evening in, an early night. Even then, he almost always did call, sometimes very late.

  ‘Don’t be boring!’ he’d say if I protested that it was after midnight, I’d already gone to bed. ‘Live a little!’

  Other nights, I was woken by a rap at the door and he’d be standing there, slightly drunk, declaring his love for me.

  ‘You’re not cross, are you, angel?’ He’d play the little boy, frightened of being in trouble. ‘I just had to see you. I just had to hold you. Or I might have died.’ He paused, dramatically, ready to make me laugh. ‘Literally.’

  It was impossible to be angry with him for long. It was so flattering, for one thing, to feel so adored. And life was so exciting, even if I did sometimes struggle to stay awake at work.

  We’d been together for four mad months when he surprised me at one of his library readings, a regular fixture now.

  He’d been working on some new poems, he said. I’ve no idea where he found the time. Hours stolen from the night, perhaps. They were the start of a new sonnet series, about love and time.

  Sometimes he read his poetry to me at home, before the event, just to practise before an audience, his adoring audience of one. Not this time. These came out of the blue.

  I sat in my usual place in the back row, watching and listening, drinking in the rhythms, the sounds. Proud too, now, of his talent and charisma.

  I didn’t realise at first what he was doing. I was drowsy and already wondering how I might engineer a way of getting an early night. Just this once. Maybe I could persuade Ralph to skip drinks this evening and come back with me? So, I only half-caught the meaning of his words.

  Then I realised he’d come to the end and was smiling out at me, finding me hidden away at the back; then, starting to feel hot with awkwardness now, I realised that the couple in front of me was twisting round to look; finally, that his bearded friend, the science teacher, was clapping. The atmosphere in the room had become newly charged.

  A middle-aged woman two seats away from me in the back row, a complete stranger, leaned across the chair between us, eyes shining, and whispered, ‘What a proposal!’

  Ralph paused dramatically, making the most of this grand moment of theatre, then came out from behind the lectern and started a purposeful walk towards me, his right hand dipping into his pocket.

  I remember thinking, Oh no, please, no. How embarrassing. Don’t do this.

  But of course, there was no stopping Ralph, there never was, whatever the look on my face.

  He had to push chairs out of the way to make enough room to get down on one knee.

  ‘Helen, my muse, my angel, will you do me the honour of marrying me?’

  He’d flipped open a jeweller’s box and there it was, a large ruby set in a silver ring. Unusual. Artistic. Showy. Not me at all.

  I wanted to run away and hide. He looked faintly ridiculous, wobbling there. I sensed people crowding round us, pressing in, whispering, smiling. I hardly know you, I thought, taking in the floppy hair, falling forward now over one eye, the self-conscious nervousness of his smile.

  The thought flitted through my mind, maybe once we’re married, I’ll get a bit more sleep.

  I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. The weight of expectation was suffocating.

  Behind me, someone said, ‘Well, go on!’

  Did I even have a choice?

  I leaned forward and murmured, ‘I don’t know what to say. Why now?’

  He plucked the ring out of the box, took my hand and forced it onto my finger. Someone whistled. Someone cheered. Chairs were scraped back, arms pushed into the sleeves of coats.

  The tension dissipated as quickly as it had grown. That was settled then. Time for a drink. Time to go home.

  Ralph, holding me now, laughed. ‘Why now?’ He drew me closer and whispered into my ear. ‘Why not? What are we waiting for? Come on, Miss Librarian, just for once, do something crazy.’

  Reader, I married him.

  And he was right. It was the craziest thing I’ve ever done.

  Forty-One

  ‘Stop it!’

  Anna was slighter than Clara and had to fight hard to tug her jacket free of Clara’s fist. Anna set off at a run, with Clara in pursuit.

  I charged after them both, the rucksack bouncing on my back.

  ‘Anna! Wait!’

  I caught up with them on the corner, just as we turned left into a smaller, narrower street.

  ‘Calm down, both of you.’ I turned on Anna, scolding. Her face was sullen with fury. ‘What’s the matter with you? Don’t run off down a main road. It’s dangerous.’

  She shot Clara a look of pure hatred and stomped off, a few paces ahead. Clara allowed me to grab her by the hand and we followed.

  ‘So,’ I asked Clara, trying to restore order. ‘How was school?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘What did you get up to?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What did you have for lunch?’

  ‘Can’t remember.’

  Anna, scuffing her shoes against a wall, waited for us to reach her.

  ‘Smell this!’ She opened her fist to show Clara the remains of a rotting flower. ‘Dare you.’

  ‘Eugh! That’s disgusting.’

  ‘Come on, girls. Let’s go. Nearly home.’

  It wasn’t far but, on bad days, this walk from the school gates to our front door was the most stressful part of my day. They both came out of school tired and manic and their friendship flashed back and forth between hatred and love.

  Other children looked easier. I caught glimpses of girls from their class walking home sedately, one hand dutifully holding their mother’s, the other swinging their bookbag. Only these two seemed to act like the crazy gang. I hated that madness, especially in Anna. It reminded me too much of Ralph.

  By the time we arrived home, they were fast friends again. They tumbled into
the hall, pushing and shoving, kicking off shoes and shedding their jackets like second skins.

  ‘Any homework?’

  No answer. They charged into the kitchen. ‘Can we have a snack?’

  ‘You’ve got spellings tonight, haven’t you? I’ll test you on them.’

  I chopped up apples and a banana and warmed some milk in the microwave, then, while they were eating, set out slips of paper and pencils.

  ‘We’ll practise spellings first, okay? Come on, it won’t take long. Then you can play while I get tea ready.’

  Anna groaned. ‘Mum-my!’

  Clara, more subdued, muttered, ‘Smelly spellings.’

  That set them both giggling. Anna started using her straw to blow bubbles in her milk and Clara copied her and by the time we started the spelling test, the plastic tablecloth was splattered and I was stern again.

  Afterwards, I sent them off to play in the sitting room, then boiled the kettle and started cooking pasta and heating up some Bolognese sauce.

  They left the connecting door ajar and their voices drifted through to the kitchen. They were playing vets with Anna’s old doctor’s set, taking it in turns to be the vet or the worried owner, coming along with ailing soft toys. I half-listened as they started to disagree about the rules of the game, their voices rising, then found a compromise and quietened again.

  Once the girls had eaten, I put children’s television on for them and they sprawled on their stomachs on the carpet, legs kicked up behind, heels waving in the air, chins resting on their hands.

  When the doorbell rang, Clara looked round at me and declared, ‘Mummy!’

  Then her eyes flicked back to the screen.

  Bea looked flustered. She was late. She never quite believed me when I said it didn’t matter. I knew how lucky I was to be a stay-at-home parent, rather than juggling a full-time job and childcare. I was happy to cut her a bit of slack. Heaven knows, she’d more than paid me back.