Читать книгу The Wife’s Secret: A dark psychological thriller with a stunning twist - Caroline England, Caroline England - Страница 16

‘Mum’s driving over on Sunday. I thought we could eat out. Catch a bite in the village,’ Sami shouts from the bathroom.

Sophie marks the page of the book club choice with a bookmark from Waterstones. She hates it when people fold the corner of the page. It’s just about the only thing she’s fastidious about and she vaguely wonders what that says about her.

She stretches and yawns, still sleepy from her afternoon nap. ‘You know she’ll think I’m not looking after you if we do that,’ she calls back. ‘She’ll think I’m a bad wife.’

‘No she won’t. Mum likes to go out.’

Sophie reaches for her glasses and regards Sami as he rubs his hair dry with a thick stripy towel. She’s pretty sure he has no inkling of how much his mother dislikes her. Martha made it clear from the start that she didn’t approve of her beloved only son’s choice of wife. Sophie doubts any woman would have been good enough, but a neat, compliant and privately educated posh girl might have done the job. ‘I know what you are,’ she once hissed when Sami’s back was turned. ‘You’re a fraud and you’re not good enough for my son.’ And the hostile relationship has continued unabated in private ever since.

Sophie has no intention of making Sami aware of his mother’s barbed comments, however bad they get. There’s just the tiniest fear at the tips of her toes that if Sami knows his mother’s real feelings he may be swayed by them and she isn’t going to take that chance.

She pulls back the duvet and stands up. Her breasts seem huge, but so do her legs and her belly; too much Chablis is making her fat. She needs to rein it in.

‘Whatever you want, my handsome husband. But if you’d like me to cook, it’s not a problem. I like to make the effort for Martha.’

Martha and her comments are better ignored. She finds that fairly easy, but wishes she could do the same with Sami’s occasional dalliances. ‘So, you don’t mind my son sleeping with other women?’ Martha had asked conversationally, having drawn her to one side during their third wedding anniversary celebrations. If anyone was looking, they’d have seen mother and daughter-in-law, happy, smiling, chatty.

The pain was intense, deep and physical. Sophie extracted herself from the tête-à-tête with her head held high, a smile on her face, but threw up moments later alone in the bathroom. She stared at her blanched face in the mirror, bewildered that she didn’t know. Sassy, streetwise Sophie, who knew everything and everyone, didn’t know that her husband was unfaithful. She could picture schoolgirl faces laughing, taunting and gleeful. It was all she could do not to run to her mother, despite their differences, to howl in her lap, to beg her to make it all go away. But she knew that she had to be strong if she wanted to keep Sami, she had to be willing to fight. ‘As long as he isn’t fucking you, Martha, it’s not a problem,’ she’d replied.

‘I’ll rustle up something tasty,’ Sophie now says, wondering which ready meal to buy from the small M&S local in the village. She’ll do the usual, buy soup or a casserole and throw in some fresh mushrooms and herbs to make it look authentic. It never fools Martha, but if Sami’s aware that his wife hasn’t spent hours over a hot stove just for the love of his mum, he isn’t letting on.

‘A touch of arsenic on toast for the good lady, I think,’ Sophie jokes with Antonia. But of course she’s never mentioned Sami’s infidelity, not even to her.

The thoughts of his unfaithfulness are there, always there, like a blade in her heart, but Sophie isn’t going to dwell on them today. She stands next to Sami in the mirror and looks at him with narrowed eyes. I’ll never let you go, never, she thinks, watching carefully as he splashes aftershave liberally on his newly shaved chin.

‘It’s only the lads’ Friday night in the pub, Sami. I don’t suppose they give two hoots how delicious you smell.’

‘It’s all to do with standards, woman. How many times do I have to tell you?’ he replies laughing, catching her around her waist, then kissing the side of her head. ‘Thanks for offering to cook for Mum. I appreciate it. She’s really excited about the IVF.’

He pauses for a moment before turning back to the mirror, carefully stroking strands of his fringe back into place, then collects his watch and slips it over his long, slim fingers. All without making eye contact with anyone but himself.

Sophie takes a deep hot breath. ‘Sami? We agreed not to tell your mum about the IVF. What have you—’

‘Talk later,’ he interrupts. ‘Can’t be late for the lads.’ And with that he leaves.

Helen puts down her fork. She knows Charlie hates her to eat with only a fork. ‘So bloody American. Too lazy to use both hands,’ is his usual comment. But it’s only pasta and a bit too al dente, in her view. She has difficulty either scooping or stabbing the shells, she’ll use a spoon next time.

She looks at Charlie. His face has all the charm of a petulant three-year-old and his accusing stare follows the fork. She almost wants to laugh, but she’s never pandered to Charlie’s silly whims and she isn’t going to start now.

‘There’s no point in sulking, Charles. Ted Edwards nominated me out of a whole department of very clever people. I’m not going to change my mind,’ she says, wondering how long he’s going to play his puerile game of silence.

She’s been patient up to now, but Charlie’s juvenile behaviour is starting to annoy her. After her New York announcement on Wednesday, his face became worryingly tomato-hued and he briefly tried to argue with her. He even said, ‘No, I won’t allow it!’ to which she replied, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Charles!’ Then he stomped out of the dining room and didn’t say another word until he discovered, mid-evacuation, that the toilet roll had run out.

There was something of a tussle with the duvet when they eventually got to bed that night, but Charlie maintained his silence all the way up to and then throughout breakfast, which Helen thought was absurd when he made so much noise eating his toast. She decided that ignoring him was the best policy. Rupert had occasionally sulked as a child and she found that disregarding it was best. He soon realised that it simply wouldn’t work and wasn’t worth the effort. Helen hopes that’s precisely what Charlie will do, but so far the strategy isn’t working.

She stares a moment longer at Charlie before rising from the table. She and Charlie hardly disagree on any matter and she doesn’t like it when they do. Of course she’s aware of his stubborn streak, but she’s seldom been subjected to it. It’s Friday now and he’s still sulking but she sees no other way than holding her ground.

She deftly operates her new espresso coffee machine. Helen rarely spends money on frivolities and this has set her back three hundred pounds, but she can’t get enough of it. It’s like a shiny new toy at Christmas and has even aroused feelings of empathy in her for Rupert and his hoard of electronic gadgets. She’ll miss her coffee machine, but she supposes that they have such luxuries in New York and, if they don’t, it won’t be the end of the world. She pours an espresso into the tiny cup, the caffeine from the last one already working its magic, and then she frowns at her husband, her patience almost gone.

‘For goodness sake, Charles, it’s been days, you’ll have to speak soon. We can’t possibly drive all the way to Staffordshire without saying a word and it’ll look rather odd in front of the headmaster if we don’t agree a riposte. He’ll think that Rupert’s a druggy because of bad parenting.’

‘Well, he’d be right, wouldn’t he?’ Charlie blurts.

Helen’s tempted to crow for having provoked him into speech, but she thinks better of it and silently watches him take a large gulp of air before his inevitable onslaught.

‘You are a bad parent if you’re buggering off to America without giving us a second thought. Rupert needs you here. I need you here, as well you know.’ Charlie’s face goes from frenzied to truculent. He puts his hand on his chest and makes a small cough. ‘Besides, I’m not going to see the headmaster or anyone else.’

‘Why on earth not? Do you want him to be expelled?’ Helen replies with surprise. It’s a response she hadn’t expected.

‘Perhaps I do want him to be expelled if it’ll stop you from waltzing off to God knows where. I have a job, Helen, an important job and I couldn’t possibly be left in charge of a juvenile delinquent on my own. I don’t suppose you’ve given a second’s thought to what we’ll do with Rupert in the holidays.’

‘Oh, for goodness sake, Charles, our son is not a juvenile delinquent, as you so generously put it, he’s just growing up and experimenting. It’s natural. Don’t tell me you didn’t try the odd puff or tab at university. I certainly did.’

Charlie stares at Helen for a few moments. She thinks of Paddington Bear and his hard stare, except Charlie’s eyes are grey, not brown. The blue dressing gown he usually likes to wear for breakfast adds to the mental image and she has to try very hard not to chuckle.

‘Well, that explains a lot,’ he eventually replies before scraping the chair back and stomping off in his slippers, slamming the oak-panelled door behind him.

Sophie waits for the click of the front door, then lowers herself on to the toilet seat, puts her hands to her face and weeps. Heavy tears. Frustration, anger, anxiety and despair blending with the intoxicating aroma of Sami’s aftershave. The tears soon stop, but she doesn’t move, she doesn’t have the energy. Or the inclination. And it’s only the ladies book club. She can go back to bed and ignore the doorbell. They can all sod off somewhere else. But eventually Sophie remembers the glorious chilled wine waiting in the fridge and by the time Antonia arrives, first as always, she’s cleaned her teeth, done battle with her contact lenses, applied make-up, got dressed in a too-tight lycra bodycon dress, danced to some Beyoncé and drunk two large glasses of wine.

‘He’s told his fucking mother!’ she announces at the open front door.

‘Can I get in first? He’s told his fucking mother what?’

‘About the IVF.’

‘Oh.’ Antonia shakes her umbrella and looks at it doubtfully. ‘It’s raining. Where should I put this?’

Sophie ambles to the lounge. ‘It pisses me off. He pisses me off. It’s always the same. If he’s got something to say that he knows I won’t like, he lets it out as a parting shot when he’s halfway out of the front door. He’s afraid of confrontation. He’s a fucking coward.’

‘Aren’t we all?’

Sophie follows Antonia’s eyes and shrugs. ‘I couldn’t be bothered with tidying. But I did buy Kettle Crisps. Oh, and wine. I’ve started, join me. Of course he knows I’ll simmer down. No doubt he thinks I’ll be nicely caramelised by the time he gets home. More like anaesthetised.’ She looks thoughtful for a moment, then smiles. ‘But it’s the book club, so Sami can’t possibly complain about wine, sweet wine. At least that’s a result.’

Antonia stoops to the coffee table, collects some dirty mugs and heads for the kitchen. ‘Shall I open the crisps?’ she asks.

‘And why has he told her now?’ Sophie continues, following Antonia into the kitchen. ‘He didn’t before. Understandably. He hates failure. I mean, what does one say to one’s mother who has so many kids that she obviously couldn’t say no?’

‘Sophie! That’s not—’

‘He’s told her because he doesn’t want me to back out. Of course that’s a joke; it shows just how little he sees. If he understood anything at all, he’d know that the last thing his mother wants is the tie of a grandchild, she’ll never get rid of me then.’ Sophie puts her hands on her hips and frowns.

‘I’m sure Martha—’

‘Oh God. The fat old cow’ll put her oar in every step of the way. What if she wants to come to appointments and pretend to hold my hand when Sami’s at work? Suppose she asks the doctor questions?’

Antonia puts a hand either side of Sophie’s shoulders and holds her firmly. ‘Sophie, calm down. Everything’s fine. Really. And there’s the doorbell. I hope you’ve read the book this time.’