The Last Wife: The addictive and unforgettable new thriller from the Sunday Times bestseller

by Karen Hamilton

  It was then that I contacted a therapist because I wanted to hand over all the negative emotions to someone else to take care of. It didn’t work like that. I wasn’t brave enough to reveal the real, messy stuff, and when my counsellor pushed, I moved on to a new one. Judy is my third. (I’ve never told her that.) She lets me meander, set my own pace, and sometimes I dislike her because she lets me get away with it.

  I did admit to something once: when Nina’s tiredness truly kicked in after Emily’s birth, as she naturally relied on me more by accepting my offers of help, our friendship equilibrium was restored. Because Nina’s plight made me feel better about myself, I was frightened about what kind of a person that made me. My then-therapist helped me to accept that I wasn’t a monster.

  However, something I’ve come to learn about therapy is that therapists can only work with what their clients reveal. I framed it so it sounded as if Nina had asked me for help even though I’d been waiting a while for the right moment to step in. I knew from books and online forums that she’d find it tough at times.

  I was happy to babysit, to give her and Stuart time to go out alone. I felt at home in their place, with the children snuggled on either side of me on the sofa, cocooned and safe. Some weekends, they’d go to an art exhibition or horse riding. Stuart loved taking her to his yacht club, even though Nina hated sailing, so they’d eat seafood and socialize on the terrace instead. While they were out, it gave me time to bond – properly – with Felix, despite not having been around as much as I’d have liked to have been during his formative years. It’s regrettable (for all our sakes) that Nina was too overcautious when he was little. She’d hover around when I picked him up, roll her eyes if I dared to offer gentle suggestions to help them both get some more sleep.

  Several months into her illness, when Nina asked me to host her popular village book group (of which she was the founding member), was a pivotal moment: I’d been fully let back in. I was good enough. Nina’s other life automatically demystified as her friends became mine, too. I loved being included in the organizing of school events, fund-raising, barbecues, picnics, parties. I had different spreadsheets, more messages and emails than I could sometimes keep track of. Even my phone rang more; it was no longer used primarily for work. I was there for my oldest friend. When Stuart confessed how grateful they both were, dramatic as it may sound, I felt like my true purpose had been restored.

  Tonight is important: it’s the first meeting of Nina’s book club since she’s been gone. We agreed to take a six-month break, to mourn privately. She did make us all promise to keep it going. ‘I want things to carry on, otherwise what was the point in anything?’ I wasn’t sure what Stuart’s reaction was going to be when I asked if we could host it at his, but he was up for it.

  ‘It’s the evenings when I’m never quite sure what to do with myself,’ he’d said. ‘It will be a welcome distraction.’

  I hope he didn’t think that I meant him to join in. We’re a tight-knit bunch; his presence might upset the balance, despite his link to the group. As I rehearse a tactful let-down should the need arise, Stuart emerges downstairs. He surveys my careful preparations: black-and-white skeleton cakes, ghoul-shaped crisps to go with the dips and orange napkins. He helps himself to a carrot stick. The crunching grates; I hate the sound of people eating.

  ‘Wine?’ I say.

  ‘God, yes,’ he says. ‘Emily just asked about Nina. It stabs every single bloody time. I know it’s good that she feels able to ask questions, but it’s so utterly heartbreaking, and there’s nothing I can do. Nothing! I’m her father, I’m supposed to be able to make anything and everything better.’

  ‘It’s bloody unfair,’ I say as I hand him a glass. ‘I remember after the funeral I was shocked to emerge from the relative darkness of the church into the daylight and see life going on as normal for everyone else. It made me so angry.’

  There’s really nothing else remotely comforting I can think of to say that hasn’t been uttered so many times. I’m an arm-patting, ‘there, there’ type of person, not a natural hugger. A change of subject is my preferred method of grief and anger management.

  ‘I’m going to leave the door on the latch like Nina used to, so the doorbell doesn’t disturb the children,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, fine.’

  There’s a brief silence before he joins in with my avoidance.

  ‘What’s the book?’ he asks, taking a large sip of a French Malbec.

  The aroma hits. I’d love one, but I genuinely do believe that I’m pregnant, despite four tests telling me I’m not. It’s still too early to be accurate, so it was a complete waste of money and energy – as Ben didn’t hesitate to tell me – but I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘A ghost novel,’ I reply.

  Guilt hits at my insensitivity, before reason takes over. Of course Stuart doesn’t think of Nina as a ghost. How ridiculous. I’m doing the exact thing he hates: people behaving abnormally around him. Not for the first time I notice that he touches his beard more when he’s feeling awkward.

  ‘Sounds seasonal,’ he says.

  Silence hangs until I realize that this is the perfect opportunity to broach a delicate subject. Nina’s promises have been unsettling me more than usual lately because I’m now her sole voice. My latest fear is that her words will distort and mist further over time and the importance of her promises will fade when more immediate priorities automatically take precedence. Some gentle but legitimate detective work is required.

  Every time I mull things over, the more obvious it becomes that Nina was overly concerned about her future reputation for someone in her situation. She was trying to tell me something without spelling it out. I’m not too worried – there can’t be anything bad to unearth – she’s hardly likely to have been the local drug dealer or involved in some elaborate scam. Still, theories worm away at my consciousness, along with the frustration that I missed my cues to delve deeper when I had the opportunity.

  ‘I’ve been thinking of the best ways I could help out more. I’m happy to do even more of the admin and everything else in relation to the running of the guesthouse,’ I continue, pleased at how natural I sound. ‘Deborah does her best, but she doesn’t update the website or reply to comments,’ I say.

  ‘The trouble is, she enjoys it. It gives her a purpose.’

  ‘Understandably, but I promised Nina I’d do everything I could. I’ll act carefully, make sure she doesn’t feel like I’m treading on her toes.’

  Before he can respond, there’s a distant thud coming from upstairs.

  ‘Shall I go and check on them?’ I say. ‘It’s probably one of Emily’s books.’

  He smiles. ‘Yeah, probably. She has a pile even bigger than her mother’s was. Go ahead, shout if you need me.’

  He turns around and walks off in the direction of his study, shutting the door behind him. He really isn’t himself. Stuart has excellent manners and is a good host, he’d never usually have a drink without offering me one, but still, it saves me having to pour it down the sink when no one is looking.

  Upstairs, I peek into Felix’s room first. His Batman bedside light shines yellow. He’s asleep. A snow globe is lying on the carpet beside his bed, thankfully intact. Nina gave it to him to shake and watch the flakes settle if he ever needed a calming prop.

  I sit beside him and stroke his hair like I watched Nina do so many times; he can’t have been asleep long. The burst of love I feel for my godson is overwhelming. I can’t imagine loving my own child more than this. I gently rub my stomach. It’s not flat – it never has been – but already it feels rounder. (Rationally, I know it’s not.)

  ‘Night night, lovely boy,’ I whisper.

  I kiss his forehead before I stand up and switch off the light. He likes sleeping in the dark, but Nina always insisted that he didn’t. When I gently mentioned that perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to pass on her own fears, she’d turned on me.

  ‘What would you know, Marie?’


  That stung because I know a lot, actually.

  The doorbell chimes. It plays out an unnecessary, long-winded tune, which I’ll suggest to Stuart he change. I open Emily’s door, all appears calm. I blow Emily a kiss and rush downstairs. Stuart has beaten me to it.

  ‘Hi, Tamsin,’ I say to Felix’s best friend’s mum.

  We hug. It’s quite a huggy group. I’ve got used to it.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mouth to Stuart. ‘You go back to whatever you were doing.’

  He obeys.

  ‘Come in,’ I say to Tamsin, leaving the door on the latch and leading her towards the living room. ‘Help yourself to wine. I’ll be through in a minute with some snacks.’

  I pick up a bowl of crisps and other nibbles before I join her.

  ‘How are you?’ I say.

  ‘All right,’ she replies.

  She looks around. Cobwebs drape over the mantelpiece, pumpkins grin in front of the fireplace and ghostly images stare from the large mirror hanging above. ‘You’ve done an amazing job in here, it looks so . . . welcomingly scary.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I can’t believe she’s not here. Was it strange getting ready without her? I feel like I’m being . . . unfaithful somehow.’ She takes a large sip of Prosecco. ‘I was sure Stuart would rather we all met at mine or down the pub.’

  ‘I’m used to being here,’ I say. ‘Nina and I were friends for so long that even when she met Stuart, nothing much changed. We almost became a threesome, although not in that way obviously,’ I add. ‘I find Stuart easy to talk to. He’s a good listener.’

  Tamsin is looking at me as though she has something to say, although I can’t guess what. Nina would approve of tonight; it was her baby.

  ‘Hello?’ says a voice – Sharon – (mother of a friend of Emily’s) walks in, followed by several women: mums at school, friends and neighbours, Miriam, Abigail and a man, Greg, who lives on the other side of the village. As the room fills, I sense a danger of the evening becoming too sombre because no one wants to be the first to seem too lively. In hostess mode, I do my best to lift the mood, but my repeat reassurances that ‘it’s what Nina would’ve wanted’ and that ‘Stuart has no issues with it’ frustrate me.

  ‘Between us,’ I say, ‘I think he likes the company. Especially after all the burglaries around here lately.’

  ‘What burglaries? I haven’t heard of any!’

  I feel my cheeks burn as I clock Tamsin’s widened eyes. I feel mean – she lives at the more deserted end of the village. I shouldn’t have exaggerated like that. Nothing was even stolen from Stuart’s house or garage.

  ‘Clearly, I’m mistaken, sorry, ignore me.’ Time to change the subject. ‘Who would like to go first and share their initial thoughts?’ I say, choosing the kind of words Nina would use.

  I feel like an overworked, underappreciated manager trying to bring staff to order. I don’t want to give that impression, but what is the point in having a book club if you don’t discuss it? Yes, it’s incredibly sad that Nina’s gone, but I’m here and I’m doing my best, just as I promised.

  It’s obvious who has read the novel and who is winging it. I make mental notes because they’ve had six months. Maybe I’ll subtly suggest to repeat offenders that this may not be quite the group they’re looking for. I promised to take care of things for Nina. It’s a big responsibility. Ruining anything she set up would be a sad failure.

  Deflated that the evening has not been the success I’d hoped for, I nearly cave when Tamsin offers me a glass of red as we both tidy up after the others leave.

  ‘No, thanks,’ I say, drawing steeply on diminishing willpower.

  ‘Ah,’ she says with a wink. ‘Any news to share?’

  The problem with lies is that it’s easier to stick to a thread. I nod. The moment I do, a memory flashes: Nina had confided that she found Tamsin overly inquisitive.

  ‘Oh, huge congratulations!’ she says, throwing her arms around me.

  I stiffen. Heat flames my cheeks for the second time this evening as regret at my big mouth hits.

  ‘It’s a secret,’ I say.

  ‘What’s a secret?’ asks Stuart, standing at the study door.

  My mind grasps for words but they’re elusive.

  ‘Marie’s got some news—’ says Tamsin.

  I interrupt. ‘It’s very early days and—’

  ‘Well, very early congratulations then,’ he says with a smile.

  He looks genuinely pleased, yet the thought of new life can’t do anything but highlight his own loss.

  ‘I don’t know what came over me. Ben will be so cross if he finds out I’ve blabbed.’

  An understatement.

  If he discovers my lie, he’ll throw our past back in my face and I dread to think where that will leave us. Just a few more days and all this will right itself by becoming true. I’ll stay calm and ride this out. It’s not as if it’s the first time I’ve been forced to do this.

  Chapter Four

  Humiliation intertwines with grief, rage, disappointment, despair. I can no longer pretend. It has been another week of negative results. When it feels physically impossible to cry any more, I chuck the white plastic stick into the bin with the others, tie up the bag and transfer it to the outside rubbish.

  Ben will go mad if he finds them.

  Or, maybe he won’t.

  It’s only seven in the morning, but fuck it, I pour a Baileys into a coffee and stir. I check the kitchen clock. Ben’s due home from work in less than an hour. I need to think.

  When I told him my period was late yesterday, his reaction was to warn me again about gun-jumping. I tried to believe it was because he was trying to protect me from more disappointment. But . . . I can sense lies. I’m good at detecting the telltale signs. More often than not, it’s concealed in the barely perceptible shift of a gaze.

  Ben’s eyes betrayed relief. He does not want to have a baby with me any more; he just hasn’t got round to telling me. I down the contents of my mug and make myself another.

  By the time Ben’s key turns in the lock, I’ve come up with a plan: avoidance. Plus, a mental pact not to lie in future (at least not big ones), and I’ll do all the things Ben’s asked me to, like spend less time at Stuart’s, talk about things other than Nina or our future baby, be more fun. I figure that if I weather this particular relationship storm, things will naturally settle down. My dad always says that. Most of the time, it’s true.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  We hug, but don’t kiss.

  ‘Everything OK?’ he asks.

  There’s no point in trying to hide my red eyes. I look like a frog. I shrug.

  Ben knows what it means. He holds me tight and I give into grief again, my eyes shut tight, my face buried against his chest so I don’t have to deal with his reaction.

  There are practicalities to deal with in the aftermath of a big lie; enough of a reversal in order that I don’t have to confess outright. There is an art to it: a mix of weaker lies, a dash of truth, a deflective comment, until I come up with something decent enough to let me off the hook. I enjoy it in a twisted way and almost take pride in my creativity. There’s painful pleasure with the release of fear, the underlying panic at being caught out obliterated like a downpour after a dry spell.

  I start with Deborah: a phone call. My period came, a hint of an early miscarriage.

  Tamsin is next with a text outlining a similar fib.

  I tell Stuart in person.

  ‘I made a mistake.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ he says. ‘Nina thought she was expecting twice before Emily came along.’

  Betrayal is a hard emotion to conceal because it twins with the physical symptoms of sickness. Sometimes, I used to think that I was being a bit paranoid or oversensitive when I felt left out of Nina’s life. Each time I’m confronted with evidence that it wasn’t my mind, it’s bittersweet.

  ‘I hope it happens for you soon,’ Stuart continues. ‘You’re so great with c
hildren. Can I make you a coffee? Tea?’

  ‘No, thanks, I’m on my way to work, a sixtieth birthday celebration,’ I say. ‘I just popped by to tell you and get it out of the way so that I can move on without any . . .’ I struggle for the right word ‘. . . misunderstanding.’

  ‘I get it,’ he says. ‘I don’t know if this is an appropriate time to mention this, but I was going to ask if you’re up for a visit tomorrow lunchtime to the new pizza place on the high street? The children have been asking, and it would be great to have adult company. No pressure, though, only if you’re feeling OK? Ben’s welcome, too. All on me, of course.’

  I smile. ‘Ben is working. But I’d love to, thanks.’

  ‘It’s a date,’ he says.

  As I drive away, guilt hits at the broken pact with myself. Should I have told the truth, that I’m on my way to an appointment with my therapist? I’ve always kept it private. Maybe I should be more open with the people I trust, admit that I need help?

  Yet, when it comes to doctors, dentists, fake work appointments, surely everyone fibs? It’s not just me. Lies make life palatable. It’s simply unavoidable at times. I do it to protect myself and others. Surely it’s not a bad thing to tell people what they want to hear? Sometimes there’s no choice.

  Judy throws me.

  ‘Why don’t you just ask Ben if he still wants children rather than risk miscommunication with all this guesswork?’

  ‘Because what do I do if I don’t like the answer?’

  ‘What do you think you should do?’

  This is followed by the horrible silence which unnerves me so badly. Maybe it’s time to move on from Judgemental Judy. Therapists are supposed to be impartial. Does craving a baby with a long-term partner make me a bad person? No, it does not. Ben will make a wonderful dad. On the whole, we’re a great team and it’s normal to have wobbles. A baby is a big commitment. It’s good, in a way, that he’s doubting himself. It means he’s taking things seriously.