The Trapped Wife: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller with a mind-blowing twist Read online

  Scott says nothing. Instead, he parks himself on one of three bar stools at the island. The one Jeremy always used to sit on. He smiles, sipping his drink, looking around the kitchen appreciatively.

  ‘I know you, don’t I?’ I manage to say, almost as if hearing the words will make my suspicions real. It’s barely more than a whisper as I narrow my eyes at him.

  Scott smiles, his shoulders shrugging in time with his silent laugh. ‘That memorable, was it?’ He looks away for a second, pretending he’s wounded.

  ‘Christ.’ I stare down at the black granite. My dark reflection glares back. ‘Oxford?’

  He gives a quick nod. ‘Look, you didn’t tell me you were married. I’m sorry, OK?’ He shrugs. ‘I enjoyed myself that night. I thought you did too, which is why I looked you up, given that I’ve moved to the area. But it was a mistake, I can see that. I’ll go.’

  He rises from the stool and takes another large sip of his wine before putting the half-empty glass down. He turns up the collar of his jacket, his eyes sweeping up and down me. ‘Don’t want hubby to walk in on us now, do we?’ he adds, fishing in his pocket for his car keys.

  ‘My husband is dead,’ I blurt out bitterly. I can’t stand the thought of this man mocking Jeremy when he’ll never be here to defend himself.

  Scott freezes. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ he says with a solemn nod. ‘You didn’t tell me that, either. Mind you, you were in no fit state—’

  ‘He died a few weeks after… after we met in Oxford. On the second of January.’ My nails press against the cold worktop, hating that it happened before Jeremy’s accident and not after. Whatever it was.

  Scott is thoughtful for a moment and, to my horror, he sits back down on the bar stool. ‘That sounds tough,’ he says, with almost a hint of compassion in his voice. His icy eyes seem to be defrosting.

  I nod and make the face I usually pull when I’m trying to deflect people from my grief. It usually works, but not this time it seems.

  ‘What happened?’ His voice has lost the slightly aggressive and cocky tone it had when he arrived. The way he sits – forearms leaning on the island, hands clasped as he stares down into them – makes me wonder if he’s been through something similar, as if he’s also familiar with death.

  ‘An accident,’ I say, pulling out a bar stool and sliding it round the corner of the kitchen island. I don’t want to sit too near him, but I also need answers about what happened that night. And then I have to decide whether to tell him I’m pregnant or not. It can’t be anyone else.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Scott says. ‘Did you get a chance to say goodbye?’

  ‘No.’ I reach for the glass of wine he’s poured me and, without thinking, I take a large sip. ‘He was on a skiing trip in Switzerland. There was an avalanche.’

  ‘Buried alive,’ Scott says, with barely a flicker of expression. ‘Or would it technically be drowning?’

  I shudder, hoping he doesn’t notice.

  ‘Were you on the trip too?’

  ‘No. It was part work and… and part pleasure,’ I tell him, suddenly feeling the need to justify why my husband was away at New Year without me. I don’t mention anything about Madeleine, his camerawoman. ‘Jeremy made documentaries, wrote travel pieces. He was doing some preliminary filming. As well as getting some skiing in,’ I add.

  I’d tried to dissuade him from taking the job, pleading that surely being with his family over New Year was more important than some project that wasn’t even guaranteed to go ahead, let alone get airtime or make any money.

  Yes, it was a test in the hope he would choose me over her. But he didn’t. A cosy trip for two, holed up in an Alpine lodge, and no doubt I’d be spun some story on his return about how conditions weren’t right for filming on the mountains to explain why there wasn’t any footage. Another story. I’d heard several over the previous twelve months about Madeleine Lacroix.

  ‘I see,’ he says, pausing while he thinks. ‘I remember hearing about that avalanche on the news. A few people died, didn’t they?’

  ‘Six in total. Only three bodies were recovered. They’ve given up the search now.’ It’s as if the words fall out of my mouth automatically, I’m so used to telling people the story. If I say it in a clinical way, almost as if I’m the one reading the news report, then somehow I manage to get it out without breaking into a thousand pieces. ‘They were all off-piste.’

  ‘A rule-breaker, then,’ Scott says. I swear I detect the glimmer of a smile at one corner of his mouth. It makes me want to punch him. ‘We’d have got along.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ I say. ‘He was an experienced skier. It was just terrible luck.’

  ‘Very,’ Scott says, taking another sip of wine. He doesn’t take his eyes off me.

  ‘Anyway, I’m not discussing my private affairs further. If it is indeed true that we’ve encountered each other previously, perhaps you could provide me with some… details.’ I take a breath, clear my throat. ‘I don’t remember much about the evening.’

  Scott laughs loudly, tipping back his head. For a second, he reminds me of Jeremy in one of his outrageous laughing fits, his wild hair framing his face as he guffawed at one of his own jokes. What I loved most about my husband was how he didn’t care a jot what anyone thought of him. It’s strange how the more subtle reasons for loving him have only come to light since his death.

  ‘You find it amusing?’

  He shakes his head, trying to quell his outburst. ‘Sorry… It’s just… you weren’t this uptight in Eleven.’

  ‘What the hell is Eleven?’

  ‘The bar we were at in Oxford.’

  It rings a bell, but to be honest, I didn’t pay much attention when I’d followed my colleagues inside.

  ‘What happened in the bar?’

  ‘I noticed you come in,’ Scott says. ‘You looked tired. You were with a group but you somehow seemed alone.’

  ‘I was at a conference,’ I say, as if that explains everything.

  ‘I’d been watching you for a while. A long while, actually.’ Scott pauses, waiting for a reaction, but I give him none. ‘Some guy bought you a drink and you chatted with a few people. Smiling politely, as one does. You didn’t seem to be enjoying yourself.’

  I keep my expression neutral, trying not to give away my thoughts.

  ‘Then you went off on your own and that’s when I approached you.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘You sat at a table, you tried to ignore me, and then you went to the toilet. You were quite rude, actually.’

  There’s a strange noise brewing in my head, building and buzzing as if my subconscious is firing warning signals. ‘Why were you watching me?’

  ‘Why not?’ Scott says. ‘You’re an attractive woman. And that night you seemed… so alone.’

  ‘What happened after I went to the toilet?’ I clear my throat, about to take another sip of wine, but I push the glass away.

  ‘You came back and quickly finished your drink. While you were gone, I’d ordered us some more, plus a few shots.’

  ‘I sort of remember…’ I say, thinking back. ‘I asked you to watch my drink. But if you went to the bar—’

  ‘No one touched it.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ I say. ‘Someone must have put something in it. There’s no way on God’s earth I’d have… I’d have… you know, otherwise.’ I stand up and go over to the huge glass doors, staring out into the blackness. The brick path leading across the lawn towards the paddock and the small lake just beyond, the low box topiary hedge surrounding the outside dining area, the pots of winter flowers I’d planted last autumn – none of it is visible in the inky darkness outside. Just the eyes of Gypsy, Jeremy’s huge tabby cat, glinting back as she walks past on the terrace.

  ‘No way you’d have had sex, you mean?’ Another laugh from Scott.

  Suddenly he’s behind me, his breathing close. Then I feel something tugging – Scott’s hands slipping loose the velvet scrunchie that�
��s securing my ponytail.

  ‘I prefer you with it down,’ he says, spreading my hair around my shoulders so it falls forward over my cheeks. His finger reaches to my face and draws a line across my lips.

  I swing round, staring up at him as I feel my throat constrict. As though someone has their hands around my neck.

  My head hitting the wall… the slap… my wrists restrained… my legs forced apart. Me screaming but nothing coming out… Then blackness…

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ I tell him, looking deep into his cold blue eyes. ‘And it’s yours.’

  Twelve

  Rhonda

  ‘Busy?’

  Rhonda hears a gentle knock on her open office door. She looks up from the stack of papers, peering over the rims of her black-framed glasses. It takes her a moment to focus.

  ‘Jen…’ she says, surprised to see her. She half stands, her eyes flicking nervously around her office as though she’s ashamed of the clutter. Ashamed of something. She quickly stacks up the thick pile of papers she’s been reading, sliding the whole lot over to one corner of her desk. ‘I’m never too busy for you. Come on in.’

  As an afterthought, she swipes her scarf from the back of her chair, covering the stack of papers with it.

  ‘That’s pretty,’ Jen comments, reaching over and feeling the scarf fabric. When it almost falls off the papers, Rhonda quickly places it back.

  ‘Present from Chris,’ she says, not wanting to talk about the scarf or what’s underneath it. Her eyes are still smarting from what she’s just read. She doesn’t want to believe it, hasn’t taken it on board yet. Probably won’t ever. It needs dealing with, quickly and without fuss, to save everyone’s face. None of it needs to come out, she thinks. She can take care of it all. She’s a teacher, head of her department, and has dealt with a lot worse over the years. ‘Tea?’ She stands up, actually glad of the interruption. ‘I’m… I’m marking,’ she lies. ‘I could use a brain break.’

  ‘Marking a thesis?’ Jen jokes, eyeing the wodge of paper under the scarf. She slips off her jacket and drops down into the chair.

  Over in the corner of her small office, beneath the large mullion window of the old Victorian building, Rhonda fills the kettle. When the drinks are made, she slides some brightly coloured student files to one side to make space for the mugs. And to further conceal the manuscript.

  ‘Cheers,’ Rhonda says, passing over a drink. ‘How are you doing?’

  Jen shrugs, her face expressionless. She stares at her mug, tracing her finger around the rim. ‘Turns out he was in debt,’ she says, looking up when Rhonda is seated opposite again. ‘Jeremy.’

  Rhonda closes her eyes for a moment. ‘Christ. How much?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. A few thousand.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear that, Jen.’ She takes a moment to think. ‘How the hell did he manage that?’

  Jen shakes her head. ‘I really don’t know. But I just keep thinking, what else am I going to discover?’

  Rhonda looks away, feels her heart skipping in her chest as she catches sight of the manuscript. She knows Jen is fighting back tears, hates seeing the utter despair written all over her face.

  ‘You don’t deserve this on top of everything else,’ Rhonda says as kindly as she can. And it’s true, Jen doesn’t deserve what she’s been served up these last couple of months. No, this entire last year, she thinks, knowing Jen’s suspicions about Jeremy’s affair. She glances at the stack of papers again.

  ‘I’ll have to speak to the bank, but I’m just not sure I’ve got it in me right now. I’ll probably have to sell the house and—’

  ‘Stop,’ Rhonda says. ‘They’re not going to force a grieving widow and her son out of their home, OK?’

  Jen nods, pulling a pack of tissues from her bag.

  ‘And if it turns out you have to repay it somehow, then… then you’ll figure out a way. It’s not as if you don’t earn m—’

  ‘I can’t get her out of my mind, Ronnie,’ Jen says. ‘The debt is the least of it really. I can’t even ask him for the truth now. That died with him.’

  Rhonda hadn’t pressed for details when Jen had first mentioned her concerns to her last summer – rather she’d let her friend drip-feed whatever she’d felt comfortable talking about. But it turned out Jen’s suspicions had begun a few months before.

  The six of them had been on holiday in Devon last August: the two couples plus Kieran and Caitlin. Cream teas, surfing, beach walks and barbecues, plus a different fish restaurant every evening. All so British. All so middle-class. Not that Rhonda and Chris felt particularly middle-class – a teacher and a copper – but Jen’s parents owned a beach home near Ilfracombe on the north Devon coast, and she’d invited them along.

  The two families were the best of friends. The adults all got on well – though they’d often laughed about how different they all actually were – Jen the medic, the scientist; Jeremy the thinker, the explorer, the academic. But she supposed Chris’s analytical mind in some way matched Jen’s work as a GP – both trying to find answers and solutions from whatever evidence they had, both detectives. And perhaps in some way, too, Rhonda and Jeremy had more in common than seemed apparent – a love of literature, seeing the world slightly askew, often preferring to watch, observe and overthink absolutely everything.

  Meantime, Kieran and Caitlin were a one-sided teen romance. Kieran was clearly lovesick for Caitlin, even if she wasn’t giving him much encouragement in return. That summer, Jeremy had taken bets on when Kieran would make his move, commenting that Caitlin was playing hard to get and giving him a run for his money.

  ‘Our son’s not a letch like you,’ Jen had joked one evening as they sat on the wooden front deck of the little west-facing cottage, watching the sun go down. They each had a cocktail, made by Jeremy, and Rhonda had baked some cheese straws.

  Jen had laughed when she said it, to lighten the weight of the implication, and Jeremy had quipped back with some humorous defence, though he’d given her a sour look. Similarly, Rhonda remembered the concerned look Jen had given her earlier, recalling what the pair of them had discussed on their beach walk that afternoon.

  ‘So what you’re saying is that you don’t trust him?’ Rhonda had asked, kicking away a slippery rope of seaweed at the shoreline.

  ‘Yes,’ she’d replied. Her long white skirt trailed in the sand, the hem soaked a few inches with seawater.

  ‘Have you said anything to him?’ Rhonda had clenched her fists by her sides – a mix of anger and frustration. All she wanted to do was grab Jeremy by the collar, shake him and demand to know what the hell he was playing at. But for Jen’s sake, she wouldn’t.

  ‘No,’ Jen had answered. ‘He’ll tell me I’m crazy, mad, imagining things, that I’m stressed. Then he’ll threaten to cancel what few paying jobs he has in his diary to prove to me that he doesn’t care if he sees Madeleine or not. But of course then I’ll tell him not to be silly, we need the little bit of extra money, hint that perhaps a different cameraperson would be a good compromise, and then he’ll agree, but I’ll feel wretched for being so suspicious, telling him he doesn’t need to do that, and round and round we’ll go. I’m not sure how much longer we can survive on just my salary. I’m still paying off the renovations. I’ve taken on a private clinic at the hospital, but I’m exhausted.’

  ‘Madeleine,’ Rhonda had repeated thoughtfully. ‘And she’s French, you say?’

  Jen had nodded. ‘French, and ten years younger than me.’

  ‘When is this book he’s writing supposed to be completely finished?’ Rhonda had asked.

  ‘Sometime never, by my estimation,’ Jen replied. ‘And these research trips he goes on,’ she’d continued, making quotes in the air. ‘Madeleine goes along too. It’s the perfect opportunity for them to spend time together. Me working all hours at the practice and the hospital, looking after Kieran, the house, taking on the mental load of everything—’

  ‘It’s just so hard to believe,
’ Rhonda had interrupted. ‘But if it’s true, then he’s a bastard and I hate him for you.’

  ‘But he’s not a bastard, though, is he? He’s my Jeremy… Kieran’s dad. I’ve known him since forever and I can’t imagine life without him. If I’m wrong, I’m in danger of trashing a perfectly good marriage, losing all my friends and—’

  ‘Stop,’ Rhonda had said sternly. ‘You won’t get rid of me that easily, but yes, with these thoughts you are in danger of trashing your marriage. The pair of you need to sort this out.’

  ‘Promise me you won’t say anything to him?’ Jen had almost begged as they’d walked back to the beach house. A spiral of smoke was visible from the front deck – someone had fired up the barbecue. ‘This holiday is just what I needed. I’ll put it out of my mind. For now,’ she’d added.

  ‘I promise,’ Rhonda had said, linking arms with her friend as they headed up the beach towards the others. As they drew closer they soon spotted Jeremy standing in front of the Weber, tongs in hand, apron on, while Caitlin sat watching him from a swing chair, her long legs curled beneath her as she rocked gently back and forth, twirling a lock of hair around her finger.

  ‘You know what makes me so sad?’ Jen says now, staring into her mug of tea in Rhonda’s office. ‘Apart from him being dead, of course.’

  Rhonda gives a slight shake of her head.

  ‘It’s that I never really felt as if I was… enough for Jeremy. Does that make sense?’

  ‘Explain more,’ Rhonda says, frowning and silencing her phone when it rings.

  ‘He was so deep, so thoughtful and intricate, and he commanded such a huge presence wherever he went, attracting all kinds of attention from interesting people. He was just so… passionate about everything he did, that in comparison I felt I wasn’t enough to satisfy him – intellectually and sometimes physically too,’ Jen says, pausing to think. ‘Sometimes I wonder how or why we even got together. But the irony is, his mind is exactly why I fell for him.’

  ‘Stop doing yourself down, Jen,’ Rhonda comments, reaching out and touching her friend’s hand. ‘I know grief is taking your thoughts into uncharted territory, but you were every bit a strong enough woman for him. He absolutely bloody adored you.’