by Emma Davies
The Wife's Choice
An emotional and totally unputdownable family drama
Emma Davies
Books by Emma Davies
The Wife’s Choice
My Husband’s Lie
A Year at Appleyard Farm
The House at Hope Corner
The Beekeeper’s Cottage
The Little Shop on Silver Linings Street
Lucy’s Little Village Book Club
The Little Cottage series
The Little Cottage on the Hill
Summer at the Little Cottage on the Hill
Return to the Little Cottage on the Hill
Christmas at the Little Cottage on the Hill
Letting in Light
Turn Towards the Sun
Available in Audio
My Husband’s Lie (Available in the UK and the US)
Lucy’s Little Village Book Club (Available in the UK and the US)
The Little Cottage series
The Little Cottage on the Hill (Available in the UK and the US)
Summer at the Little Cottage on the Hill (Available in the UK and the US)
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
My Husband’s Lie
Hear More From Emma
Books by Emma Davies
A Letter from Emma
A Year at Appleyard Farm
The House at Hope Corner
The Beekeeper’s Cottage
The Little Shop on Silver Linings Street
Lucy’s Little Village Book Club
The Little Cottage on the Hill
Summer at the Little Cottage on the Hill
Return to the Little Cottage on the Hill
Christmas at the Little Cottage on the Hill
For dreamers everywhere
Prologue
There’s a very fine line between secrets and lies.
Some would argue they’re the same thing, but I’m not sure I’d go that far. One thing I do know is that one follows the other as sure as night follows day. But which is it? Does night follow day, or does day follow night? Do secrets lead to lies or do lies lead to secrets? Surely it’s both, parasitic; each dependent on the other for their existence.
It’s something I’ve come to ponder many a time over the last few months. How both these things have changed the course of my life for the last twenty-five years, irrevocably, and at times with a cost I thought was too hard to bear.
So, what defines us? Is it the lies we tell… Or the secrets we keep?
But maybe that’s the wrong question. Maybe the question should be: which is worse?
1
They catch me sometimes, thoughts of you.
Usually when I’m least expecting it. The way the light falls reminding me of the lane outside our house in the springtime. Some sound or colour, a smile from a stranger or the light in someone’s eyes. My pupils dilate, my heart beats fiercely in my chest, and the pain of it sheer takes my breath away.
And the worst thing is that I know you’re out there. Somewhere. That your life goes on, and yet I’m no longer a part of it. You chose that for me. And I know you had your reasons, but it still hurts.
It’s at times like these that I wonder how you are. Does it still hurt? I’m guessing it must, it can’t be easy. Most of all I wonder if you have someone to share any of that with, someone who helps you when it’s tough, just by being there. Someone like I could have been.
The woman in front of me tuts, and her impatience breaks my train of thought, but not my line of sight. I can still see the man who is four ahead of me in the queue. The dark curl of his hair where it creeps over the edge of his collar that so reminds me of you. You skin was so soft beneath it. The place you always loved to be touched.
There are six in the line at the post office, all of us hunched and waiting, more or less unmoving beyond the odd shuffle, or impatient cluck. But I don’t mind. There are worse places to be than standing here gazing at a complete stranger and remembering what it felt like when you were mine.
‘Alys?’
I drag myself back to the present. ‘Hi Angela,’ I say, finding a smile. ‘What a beautiful day.’
She looks at her watch. ‘Is it? I only popped in for a couple of stamps, but it’s so busy in here I don’t think I’ll bother. Anyway, I’m glad I’ve caught you. Is your phone not working again today? Only I’ve messaged you twice.’
‘I’m not allowed my phone on the shop floor,’ I reply mildly. I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before. ‘Sorry if I missed you. Was it urgent?’
She frowns. ‘I wouldn’t have sent the message if it wasn’t. But listen, I need to know about Scarlett’s cake. Are you sure that Esme has everything in hand?’
‘It’s all under control,’ I reassure her. ‘I thought I told you that at the weekend.’
‘Did you?’ She pulls a face. ‘Only I know how forgetful you are at times…’
I let her comment wash over me. ‘Well, don’t worry, I definitely did check with Esme, and I promise you the cake will be ready for the party.’
Angela nods.
‘Your hair looks nice,’ I add. ‘Have you been to have it done?’ It’s Monday, so I already know the answer, but I ask the question anyway.
‘Marco, bless him,’ she replies, smoothing her hand over her lacquered and beautifully elegant chignon. ‘What would I do without him?’
I take a step forward as the queue shortens by one. ‘I know, let’s just hope he never moves to another salon, wouldn’t that be awful?’
Angela’s eyes widen in astonishment. ‘Heavens, Marco would never leave me in the lurch. You really should give him a call, you know. He could work wonders for you.’ She eyes the end of my lifeless ponytail which is curling over the top of my shoulder. Even its bright-red colour seems faded these days.
I nod. ‘Hmm… but he’s a bit expensive really and I…’ I trail off, tired of making my excuses. ‘Anyway…’ I gaze at the queue still ahead of me, the minutes of my lunch hour rapidly ticking away. ‘Don’t let me keep you, isn’t it your book club meeting today?’
‘I’m on my way there now as it happens.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘Right, well I’ll be in touch later to see how things are going. I still haven’t heard from Edward about what colour dress Natasha is wearing, so if you get the chance perhaps you could find out?’ She glances at her watch once more and turns to go. ‘Oh, and Alys? Don’t forget to have Hugh’s suit dry cleaned, will you?’
I’m about to reply, but my mother-in-law has already gone. I let out a breath, slow and cautious, and my eyes stray towards the counter. Damn, the man up ahead has gone. I’ve missed him, and now it’s gone back to being just an ordinary day, in a queue at the post office and I probably won’t have time to eat. Again.
I take out my phone.
Morning Tash, I text. How did the dress-hunting go?
A
row of dots appears almost immediately as my sister-in-law starts typing her reply. I’m dead.
I smile at her response. Well that will certainly solve the problem.
Not funny, Alys, what am I going to do? I only found two dresses I actually liked and they were both midnight blue. Angela will never speak to me again. Alys, help me pleeeaaase… Where else can I try?
I think for a minute. There’s only one possible solution.
Are you free tomorrow? Come round about seven and I’ll see what I can do xx
Oh God, THANK YOU!! Are you sure you have the time?
I don’t really, but that’s not the point. Of course! See you then xx
She blows a kiss in reply. And I inch another step closer to the counter.
It takes forever to get back to the shop and by then only a miserable six minutes remain of my lunch break, or rather four, if you count the two minutes it will take me to pop to the loo and walk back down to the sales floor. The sandwich that I hastily made this morning is now redundant and I stuff it back in my bag; I’ll probably eat it later while I’m cooking tea. I eye my banana without enthusiasm, but it’s going to have to suffice.
Hilary is already pacing the floor by the time I get back to the desk but, despite her beady eye and ever-present desire to make my life a misery, I’m on time and there’s nothing she can say. I just hope she doesn’t notice that my phone is jammed into the back of my waistband, hidden by my jacket over the top. It’s on silent but there’s no way I’m missing a message from Esme. Not today.
Her text doesn’t arrive until gone four. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? Her interview was at three, so maybe they were late in starting… or it was a long interview… they could have shown her round and introduced her to everyone… or maybe it was awful and it’s taken her this long to bring herself to tell me…
My mouth is suddenly dry as I walk behind the nearest row of shelves. Hilary is with a customer and they’re looking at zips; as long as they have no sudden interest in voile I should be safe from her gaze. I only need a minute…
Mum it went great!! And they were so lovely… Dear God, please let me get this job…
You will! They’ll have loved you, who wouldn’t? My fingers are flying over the keys. When will they let you know?
Tomorrow! Urgghh, I can’t wait that long…
I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. And so glad it went well. I have to go, but I’ll speak to you soon and you can tell me all about it. Love you xxx
Love you more xx
I blink. And then several times more in rapid succession. My girl. My Esme. How did you get to be so gorgeous?
A noise to my right makes me start, but it’s just another customer and I clear my throat, jamming my phone into the back of my skirt. There’s only another hour until we close. I can make it. I take down a bolt of fabric on my way back to the desk and lay it flat, ready for cutting.
I’ve worked in Harringtons department store for twenty-five years and eleven months. A lifetime. Almost. Or perhaps that’s just how it feels. It certainly wasn’t meant to be that way. I had my whole future planned out, all my dreams spread before me, but then I met you, on the day I started with them, and my life changed forever. It’s how I can recall the number of years that have passed with such accuracy – not that it helps of course, quite the opposite in fact.
I haven’t spent all that time here though, not in this branch. I moved… afterwards… and I’ve been in this division of the company ever since. I was even a manager for about ten years, but then they closed soft furnishings and my job went with it. We’ve hung onto dress fabrics, and the wool, which still does okay, along with a few bits and bobs – zips, buttons and the like – but we’re tucked at the back of homeware and we don’t need a manager; just Hilary, our supervisor, who was drafted in from bedding, and Elaine who works with me two days a week.
‘Is that for personal use, Alys?’
‘Yes, but I have the book here to record it,’ I reply, tapping the cover of the red hardback notebook which records staff purchases and samples.
Her mouth settles into a thin line. ‘Good, well make sure I sign it off. That’s an expensive fabric.’
I nod and continue cutting. ‘Hmm, and with any luck it might be the perfect material for Natasha. I think I mentioned there’s a big family party next weekend, for my other sister-in-law, Scarlett. It’s for her engagement and it’s all a bit posh so we’ve got to be in best bib and tucker.’
One of Hilary’s eyebrows raises a millimetre.
‘Natasha has yet to buy a dress, so I think I’m going to be making one for her. After the disaster at Christmas she can’t risk another faux pas.’ I smile, folding up the fabric as I do so. Hilary’s face is blank. ‘You know, when Tash turned up at the swanky meal my mum-in-law had paid for wearing an almost identical dress to her?’ I add, trying to jog her memory. I’m sure I told her about it. ‘You wouldn’t have thought it would matter that much, would you?’
But there’s scarcely a change in Hilary’s expression.
‘Anyway…’ I pull the red book towards me, opening the pages. ‘I thought this would look so pretty on her. I’ll see what she says.’
I don’t know why I’m bothering to explain, really. Hilary has never been one for small talk and today she seems more uncommunicative than usual. I know I’m babbling, trying to fill the silence. It’s the silence I hate most of all.
She pulls her face into a tight smile. ‘Perhaps when you’ve done that you could sort out the knitting patterns for what remains of the day. They’re in a dreadful muddle. I don’t think they’ve been looked at for quite some time, and there are a few new ones to go out.’
I finish writing up the details of the sample I’m taking home and nod, handing Hilary the book before walking over to the knitting section, an area I tidied only the day before yesterday. It doesn’t do to argue.
I’ve got very good at whiling away the time, finding jobs to do and keeping busy, but it’s still a relief when I see Hilary cross to the storeroom to collect the blue folder. She’ll place it by the till, ready to record the day’s takings, and it’s my signal that the end of the day has arrived. I wait a couple more minutes before joining her behind the desk. I never want to look too eager to leave, but in my head, at least, I’m already back home.
‘It hasn’t been too bad today,’ I remark. ‘The morning was busy.’
‘Busier,’ corrects Hilary. ‘But only compared to this afternoon, which was even worse than yesterday.’
I purse my lips. ‘That’s why I wondered about running the craft classes, you see. We’d easily have time to do them. And l’m sure it would bring people in…’ I trail off. ‘Did you have a chance to look at the information I put together?’
Hilary regards me stonily for a moment. ‘Not yet,’ she says flatly, opening the folder, but then her expression softens a little. ‘You can go now if you like. I can finish up here.’
I should argue, but I don’t normally get let off my end-of-day duties and I’m desperate to get home to see Esme. Whatever the reason for Hilary’s spontaneous act of generosity, I’m going to take full advantage of it.
‘Thanks Hilary, if you’re sure?’
She smiles. ‘Didn’t Esme have her interview today?’
I’d had no idea she was even paying attention when I’d told her, let alone that she would remember. I nod, careful not to mention that I’ve already heard from Esme. ‘I’m desperate to hear how it’s gone,’ l reply. ‘It will be such an amazing opportunity for her.’ I look around one last time. ‘Right then. Everything is tidy and ready for tomorrow, so I’ll see you then.’
I’m three steps from the counter before Hilary stops me. ‘Oh, Alys. Sorry, just before you go. There’s a letter here for you.’
I stare at the white envelope in her hand, wondering where she’s magicked it from. She’s holding it out for me and there’s something about the way she’s standing and the borderline smug expression on her
face that makes the penny drop with a dull clank. I ease the letter from her fingers with a forced smile.
‘Thanks, Hilary.’ There’s no way I’m going to give her the satisfaction of opening it now. Not in front of her. ‘See you tomorrow.’
Back in the staff room I stuff the letter inside my bag. I don’t even need to read it to know what it says. My full name is typed on the front of the envelope. Not ‘Alys’. Or ‘Alys Robinson’. But ‘Mrs A. M. Robinson. 305592. Haberdashery’. It’s from Human Resources, and I’m not sure what I’m more upset about. The fact that I’ve just lost my job, or that my husband couldn’t even be bothered to tell me himself.
2
The kitchen is full of the most amazing smell when I get home. I got stuck in traffic, I’m late, hot, thirsty, tired and utterly fed up. But all that changes the moment I walk through the door.
Standing by the cooker in flip-flops, shorts and a baggy tee shirt, Esme is frying onions. Her long hair is tied up so that it snakes in a thick copper coil down her back.
‘God, that smells amazing! What are we having?’ I dump my bag on the table and cross the kitchen to have a better look.
