Читать книгу The Wife’s Secret: A dark psychological thriller with a stunning twist - Caroline England, Caroline England - Страница 11

‘Morning, Mike, lovely weather still,’ Judith says, glancing at him as she adjusts the collar of her blouse and wondering, as she seems to every day, whether she might have overdone her perfume. She does a double take. ‘Are you OK? You look terrible!’ She studies Mike’s handsome face. He looks tired, with shadows beneath his dark blue eyes. ‘Sorry. Perhaps not tactfully put, but I guess I’m not going to start being diplomatic after twelve years. Is everything all right?’

Mike looks away towards the window, squinting slightly in the way he always does. She once asked him if he had worn glasses as a child, but he looked perplexed and said, ‘No, why?’ with a friendly smile. She now knows it’s just his thoughtful look. She’s been his secretary since she was nineteen and knows more about Mike Turner than he knows himself, or so she jokes. And the truth is that they’ve grown up together, in a way. She’s seen him through his marriage to Olivia and the birth of his girls; he’s been her ‘diamond, the sort of rock I like’ through two marriages, four broken hearts and breast implants that have recently been removed.

‘I didn’t sleep very well,’ he says, still gazing at something Judith can’t see. She busies herself with filing. She knows there’s no point in hurrying him, especially of late.

‘Bloody typist, diarist, dogsbody and counsellor!’ one of the secretaries declared yesterday over lunch, succinctly expanding on what her original job description had omitted. As Judith waits patiently for Mike to embellish on his lack of sleep, she understands what her friend means.

He eventually turns with an awkward smile before sitting at his desk.

‘Turns out that I’m a rotten husband and a rubbish dad, Jude.’ His face is slightly flushed. ‘And there I was, thinking I was perfect!’

Judith smiles and wags a finger. ‘That’s because I’m always telling you you’re perfect. I didn’t think you were listening.’

‘You’ve got it in one. I don’t listen, apparently.’ He puts his head in his hands for a moment and then rubs his eyes. ‘But the truth is they’re right. I haven’t been looking or listening. I’ve taken my eye off the ball.’

‘Trust you to use a football analogy, Mike,’ she laughs. ‘Is there anything I can do to help? Go into goal? Keep score?’

She sits down in the chair opposite him. There’s plenty she’d like to do to help, she thinks affectionately as she strokes her ever-increasing bump, but that would certainly get in the way.

Mike Turner has been at the top of the secretaries’ ‘I wouldn’t kick him out of bed’ list for years. Christmas after Christmas various young hopefuls have tried to snog him at the office party, without success. Judith is certain that he’s completely oblivious to these advances and to his charm. It’s the way his hair is always scruffy from raking his hands through it, she decides, it makes him look both trendy and vulnerable at the same time. Those cheekbones too, a real man with cheekbones! And of course his thoughtful Irish eyes.

‘I must make more of an effort, not just with Olivia but with the girls too.’ He looks at Judith and grins. ‘I would ask you for suggestions, but something tells me that would be cheating.’

‘And so it would,’ she replies, scooping up an armful of files from his muddled desk. Shame, she thinks as she leaves the room. Mike Turner isn’t and will never be the sort of man who would go in for cheating.

Sami strides in late to the site meeting, looking sharp in his new navy suit.

‘You’ve got a smile on your face,’ the quantity surveyor comments. ‘You are one jammy bastard, Richards. Who’s the lucky woman this time?’

Sami puts down his briefcase and places the hard hat on his head, careful not to unsettle his hair. ‘Who, me?’ he grins. ‘Well, since you ask. The wife. Really, Jack, the wife!’

‘You’re joking. I’m lucky if my wife cracks a smile, let alone …’

Sami pulls up the leg of his trousers at the knee, crouches down and spreads out the plans on the dusty concrete floor as he recalls an extremely pleasurable start to the day. Sophie was dead to the world when the alarm woke him at seven. But that’s nothing new. She jacked in her job at the estate agents months ago (‘too early, too boring!’) and he suspects she sleeps in all morning during the week when he isn’t there to cajole her into the land of the living. He’d done his press-ups, showered and finished the box of no-added-sugar muesli, and was just about to unlatch the walled garden door of his townhouse when Sophie called his name. He turned his head in surprise and there she was on their doorstep, naked save for fluffy slippers and the chunky glasses she wears first thing in the morning before her ‘battle’ with contact lenses.

‘You haven’t given me a kiss, darlink,’ she called in her best Marlene Dietrich accent. He laughed. Her face looked crumpled and sleepy, her hair like a crow’s nest, but her body was beautiful; rounded, plump and still tanned from their Antiguan summer.

‘I haven’t cleaned my teeth, so …’ Sophie mumbled as she knelt on the floor of the hallway, the front door still ajar. She slipped one hand in the fly of his suit trousers and unbuckled his belt with the other. ‘So I’ll give you a different kiss goodbye.’

‘That was a very nice treat,’ he said afterwards. He stood at the lounge door for a moment and eyed Sophie thoughtfully. She’d put on the dressing gown he tries regularly to throw out and was lying on the sofa, the Daily Mail propped on her knees. ‘Was there a particular reason why you were kind enough to …’

‘I just like to keep you on your toes,’ she replied, her face still hidden by the newspaper. ‘Besides, you’ve been—’

‘What?’ Sami asked, his heart sinking just a little as he thought of the time. He knew that any heavy conversation about babies would make him very late for work.

Sophie narrowed her eyes as she lowered the paper. ‘I don’t know,’ she said slowly, turning her head towards him. ‘You seem happy.’

‘I am happy. No, I’m absolutely delighted that we’re going through with the IVF again. I know how hard it is for you with all the drugs, the hospital visits and stuff, but you know I’ll be there. I’ll be with you every step of the way, I promise.’ He glanced at his Montblanc watch, which still gave him the rush of pleasure it had given him six months previously when he’d finally given in to temptation and bought it for himself. ‘And I think it’s going to work this time, I don’t know why, but I feel sure.’

Sophie turned back to the newspaper and the horoscopes. ‘OK, you can bugger off to work now. Your usefulness is at an end.’

Sami now brushes the dust off his trousers as he straightens back up. Time to focus on work. ‘Shall we start, Jack? Time is money and all that. Is the client coming or not?’

‘What have you got that I haven’t, Richards?’ the quantity surveyor replies as he removes a pen from behind his ear and jots down some figures on his clipboard. ‘On second thoughts, don’t answer that,’ he says with a dry laugh, ‘we’re not paid by the hour.’

Irony one: the morning nap has made Sophie tired. She yawns and looks at the calendar before opening the fridge. ‘Coffee with Christine’ is pencilled in for today, but it doesn’t ring any bells. Irony two: the handwriting is hers, so she can blame no one but herself. The forgetfulness can be worrying, but only if she lets it, and anyway, she never forgets anything important.

She bends to pull out the carton of milk from the fridge and then changes her mind. It would be a shame to forego a glass of Chablis when it’s so beautifully chilled, and besides, she bought a replacement bottle yesterday, just in case. She makes a mental note of the level of the wine before she pours. She’s sure that Sami has too. Perhaps he’s sketched a diagram and slipped it in his briefcase along with his work plans. She laughs as she closes the fridge. The big question for her is whether she’ll remember.

Mike barely notices the door of his office close as Judith walks away. ‘Mum got over it quite quickly.’ It’s his daughter’s voice in his head, an echo of his own unspoken, festering words.

He picks up a letter and tries to focus on work and on today. But last night is still fresh, the memory raw in his mind.

He ate dinner alone in the high-ceilinged kitchen, knowing he should talk to Olivia, to clear the air somehow after her outburst. He wanted to be honest with her, but was afraid he would be too brutal. He took her a tea, then left her alone in their bedroom, her rigid back turned away from him.

But with Rachel it was different; he needed to make peace with her straight away. He was stunned at the way she’d behaved. She was bright and funny like her mum, but usually more mature than her twelve years. She was his little companion, always nearby, even when he watched the football on television.

‘Grandma, Dad’s buying me a season ticket next year,’ she announced at the weekend.

‘Girls don’t go to the football!’ his mother responded in horror.

‘Of course they do, Grandma,’ she replied. ‘This is the age of equality. Anything a boy can do, a girl can do better,’ she said boldly, making them all laugh.

‘Can I come in?’ Mike asked, tapping gently on her pine bedroom door. She was curled up on the bed, his little girl, with her face puffy and red from so much crying. ‘Come here for a hug,’ he said, the sight of her making him want to cry too. But he held it in; if he started he might never stop.

The story came out in a rush: ‘Mum was livid. I’ve never seen her so cross. As soon as I put my key in the door she was there, shouting at me. She accused me of bunking off school but I promise you I wasn’t. I felt ill so I came home. I didn’t think she’d mind. I thought she’d understand. I thought she’d stick up for me and clear it with the teacher. I know I shouldn’t have called her a cow, Dad, but she was one, really. Her face looked horrible and she said, “You don’t look ill to me. What’s in the bag? Have you been to the shops?”’

Mike studied Rachel’s face. Her dark blue eyes looked sincere and hurt. She’d always been a daddy’s girl, but Olivia adored her. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I bet Mum overreacted because we’ve heard so many bad things, not only about your school but all schools. You know, drugs, truanting, bullying and all the other things parents worry about. You’re such a lovely girl that we’d hate you to get into any trouble.’

‘Mum doesn’t trust me. That makes it even worse.’

He nodded. He wasn’t sure what the procedure was with illness and school, but he doubted that kids were allowed to wander off without consulting a parent. ‘Well, of course we trust you …’ he began.

Rachel hid her face in her hands. ‘I called Mum’s mobile loads of times, but it was off, so I had to go to the chemist all by myself and it was so embarrassing. Mum should have been there or bought them for me, but she didn’t even care enough to ask what was wrong.’

He frowned; he’d lost the thread of the conversation.

‘Dad, what are you like?’ Rachel said, her angry eyes catching his for a moment before turning away. ‘I had to go to the chemist to buy pads. I wasn’t about to go to the school office and ask them. It’s just so embarrassing.’

Mike raked his hands through his hair. He had no idea what to say. Thank God I’m not a single parent. Thank God I have Olivia, he thought. His sister Siobhan had been in and out of hospital when he was a boy. If she had started her periods at some point in his childhood, no one had told him about it. He knew nothing about a girl’s puberty or menstruation, or any of that malarkey. He was rapidly discovering that he knew nothing about women at all.

‘It’s all right, Dad, I don’t want to talk about it either,’ Rachel said eventually with a small smile. She slipped her hand into his. ‘By the way, I heard Mum shouting earlier. I’m not her number one fan at the moment, but it’s true what she said. I mean, I don’t want to upset you or anything, but sometimes you don’t seem to hear what we say. You’re not funny any more. You turn on the telly and just stare.’

She looked up into his face. ‘Is it because of the baby? Is that why you’re sad? Are you thinking about him?’

He took a breath and a moment to reply. Of course that was when the black dog returned, creeping in on its belly, almost unseen, before following him everywhere. ‘How come you’re so bright?’ he asked, wondering how a twelve-year-old child could be so perceptive.

Rachel shrugged. ‘You will get over it, you know,’ she replied, blowing her nose with gusto. ‘“Time heals all wounds.” People think it’s Shakespeare, but it isn’t. And look at Mum. She got over it quite quickly, didn’t she?’

It is those words that burn in Mike’s mind now, as he sips his cold coffee. He frowns and picks up another letter. Too quickly, he thinks, too bloody quickly.