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

by Karen Hamilton

  ‘I’ve known you too long,’ she says. ‘You lie compulsively.’

  ‘I’m different now. I wouldn’t lie about something as serious as this.’

  I bet Deborah has told a fib or two in her life. I’d put money on the fact that everyone else on this ward who can overhear this pointless conversation has told many a lie between them, too. Honesty is only the best policy if it’s beneficial.

  ‘I so want to believe it, but the evidence is right before our very eyes that it’s simply not true. Look at what happened with college. You could never leave Nina be, to just live her life.’

  Nina did want some healthy distance between us. She didn’t tell me that she’d applied for art college, wanting to keep her future plans vague.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said whenever we talked about the future. ‘Art history maybe. Or I’ll just travel. Visit Italy, study art there. The possibilities are endless.’

  So, yes, I snooped. I knew it wasn’t ideal or right, but I didn’t feel I had much choice. I searched her room when I visited. It wasn’t hard, Nina was just so . . . careless. She was one of those people who believed that bad things only happened to other people. She assumed she could trust me. And she could, to a point.

  I applied to the same college, acted and bluffed my way through the bizarre coincidence, and in the end, Nina had no choice but to believe me. It wasn’t malicious, it was fear, a lack of confidence in myself that I could thrive or manage without Nina. Pathetic, I know.

  Yet, it worked out in her favour anyhow. Nina didn’t make the type of friends she hoped she was going to. For a brief while, Nina was grateful that she had me there. Perhaps it even gave her an understanding of what life could be like for me. Until Camilla turned up, a few weeks into the new term.

  So, although Deborah guessed what I’d done, she doesn’t know or appreciate things like that, does she?

  ‘You’re a parasite!’ she hisses (yes, really, her teeth clench, all the veins in her neck rise as the words escape).

  That does hurt because it’s so bloody unjust.

  ‘This is going to come back and haunt you, Marie. Everyone knows what happens when you play with fire.’

  She gets up and walks away, leaving the curtain open behind her.

  The woman in the bed next to me stares. I give her a not sure what all that was about smile, but she turns away from me.

  People are so quick to judge, even when they only know one side of the story.

  I still can’t concentrate on reading, and when I tire of endless random TV programmes, I turn to the internet for solace. I google ‘widowers’ and ‘length of time to remarry’. As always, it takes an enormous amount of time to sift through the information, sources and facts, but an overall pattern presents itself: men tend to remarry quicker to replicate the happiness they’ve lost. On the whole, they have fewer support systems and tend to deal with their grief in more practical ways. One article sums it up as, women mourn; men replace.

  Rather than interpret this as negative (some of the comments are scathing), it makes sense when I think of how beautifully Stuart has tended to Nina’s grave. He has way fewer friends than me, plus his family live far away. Rather than making me feel like a replacement, it brings out a protective surge of affection for Stuart. He has chosen (albeit relatively swiftly) to take a risk on a second chance of happiness. With me. It counts for something, surely?

  When Stuart picks me up from hospital, I see evidence of spring in the form of daffodils pushing through the grass at the road edges, the sight of people without coats.

  ‘So, I’ve arranged everything,’ he says. ‘The register office is booked for eleven o’clock a week on Tuesday with a lunch afterwards at a highly recommended nearby restaurant.’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘Well, we both agreed there was no real benefit to hanging around, didn’t we?’

  ‘I guess.’

  Plus a weekday is safe. It affords people ample opportunity to give the sorry, I can’t get away from work excuse and the short notice means no one has much time to stop us.

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased. We’ve given notice to the registrar, filled in, signed and paid for all we need to. There are no other formalities.’

  ‘I am. It’s a lot to take in.’

  ‘It’s just a formality,’ he says. ‘You’ll find that not much changes afterwards.’

  I don’t know how I feel about that either. Yet, despite my initial reaction at feeling a bit left out of the main arrangements, it is a relief that my life is moving on. It’s a nicely rewarding feeling to have come this far.

  Somehow, Stuart has managed to persuade Deborah to come in some days after school to help with the children. When she’s around, I lie on my bed, but it’s not always possible to drown out the noise and I feel lazy not getting involved, plus there’s Goldie to walk when I’m able to.

  One Wednesday – Thursday? – afternoon, as I doze on and off, gratefully giving in to the gentle drifting in and out of consciousness, the sound of a lawnmower outside my window intrudes. It weaves its way into my dreams and everything is rewound. Nina is in bed, and I am sitting in the wicker chair beside her, just the way it was only a year ago. I open my eyes, dribbling, disorientated. I’m horrified when I focus properly to see Deborah standing in the doorway.

  She looks as though she’s going to say something, but manages to stop herself. She leaves, but not before I saw the look of utter hatred in her eyes. It’s acutely shocking to be on the receiving end of such a clear death wish.

  I force myself up, the urge to tell her that I’m not bad is so strong, but she’s no longer upstairs. In the distance, I hear the front door slam shut. I should get the locks changed.

  Thank God, when the big day arrives, I feel better, but from the moment I open my eyes, it’s surreal, like drinking too much. Naturally, I’ve photographed a lot of weddings, and as a result, I’ve inevitably imagined mine from time to time. What I would or wouldn’t do, have or not have. I’m not against living with someone indefinitely, but I could never have predicted how today would turn out. It’s definitely a low-key day for a low-key event.

  Pre-wedding doubts are normal for any bride. I did consider talking to Stuart, thinking of alternative ways, until I considered our baby’s future and their half-brother and sister.

  Felix has regular nightmares, he misses Nina dreadfully, and Stuart and I take turns to comfort him, often into the early hours. He needs stability and someone he can trust. There is a stubborn part of me that feels I shouldn’t give in to the haters and doubters who are stacking up: Camilla, Deborah, Tamsin (she said it put her in a very awkward position), Ben, my own father.

  To hell with what people think. They don’t know me or appreciate my good intentions. This is my choice and it feels good to stand up to everyone. Stuart isn’t exactly the man of my dreams, but Charlie was unfaithful before he died, Ben left me and from what I’ve generally discovered, gradual disillusionment eventually chips away at a lot of marriages, regardless of how optimistically they start out. I only have to consider the high divorce rate to trust that there must be some collective truth. My mum seems happy, but in all honesty, who knows. Stuart’s parents are the only ones to have said anything positive.

  Suzanne asked to speak to me on the phone moments after Stuart broke the news.

  ‘I couldn’t be happier,’ she said. ‘Honestly. You’ll be the best daughter-in-law, I just know it. A wonderful mother, too, you’re such a natural!’

  It’s hard to imagine what Nina did to annoy cheerful Suzanne quite so much, but it’s pleasing for me, nonetheless. I can’t deny it.

  Stuart and I stand opposite each other, both self-conscious, in front of the registrar. I try to force some contentment into my mind. In the ways that count, I am happy, but the ghost of Nina is ever-present and my growing bump feels conspicuous. I’m wearing a loose, plain cream dress. My bouquet is simple. I’ve gone for understated and respectable. I am wearing the silver pe
ndant he gave me.

  As the registrar welcomes everyone, nerves well and truly kick in.

  ‘You are here today to witness the joining in matrimony of . . .’

  The solemnity and importance of the words hit me like never before. I’m very fond of Stuart – I do not love him.

  Two of Stuart’s closest friends are here, but only one of their wives. ‘It didn’t feel right’ to her apparently. She had nothing against me personally, ‘but . . .’

  We had no choice but to have a quiet, almost apologetic wedding. Tamsin is here, but I’m sure it’s only so she can report back on how subdued the event was. I can almost hear her voice as she holds court at school, at the book group, in the pub. She’ll dine out on the story for as long as possible.

  ‘Nina would be turning in her grave,’ I imagine she’ll say. ‘Stuart didn’t look happy. The poor man is still in shock. She swooped in, took advantage . . .’

  I dream up lots of conversations such as these, along with my responses, things like, ‘But I didn’t take advantage. Stuart’s life is so much better with me in it, and the same goes for the children.’

  Camilla kind of invited herself. I didn’t have the energy to deal with the misunderstanding. Tamsin told Camilla, who sent me a text expressing her concerns, saying that she still didn’t agree, but as it was too late, she had no choice but to accept it for the sake of Nina’s children.

  Big of her.

  ‘The purpose of marriage is that you always love, care for and support each other . . .’

  I stare forward as I try to focus on the words. Sadness and disappointment creep back in as my father is here alone, without my mother.

  ‘She’s not well enough at the moment, love,’ he said to me on the phone only yesterday. I glance behind. He has dressed up for the occasion. His suit is a little loose, and he looks as though he’d rather be anywhere but here. Bless him, he’s trying. I smile my thanks at him and he smiles back. Fresh sadness threatens to take hold. If this were a ‘normal’ wedding, he would have perhaps walked me down the aisle.

  The children are at school and will be collected by Deborah.

  ‘If you take them there and make them witness you professing love for that woman, I don’t feel that I can be responsible for my actions,’ Deborah had threatened Stuart. ‘I refuse to play a part in this!’

  And that’s just the part he felt able to tell me about.

  Stuart caved. Of course he did.

  Felix and Emily will be having dinner out with Deborah and Leonard, at a burger place. Deborah’s going to bring them home afterwards, of course she is. Heaven forbid that Stuart and I be allowed a peaceful wedding night. My illness has pushed everything back, but I will start the adoption ball rolling as soon as I can.

  ‘Marie?’

  Stuart is looking at me as if I’ve done something wrong.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mouth.

  I concentrate on the registrar’s words, which I assume she’s had to repeat.

  ‘I give you this ring as a token of my love and friendship.’

  I spot Camilla. She must’ve slipped in late. Her arms are folded and she looks resigned.

  ‘I declare that I know of no legal reason why Marie Langham may not be joined in marriage to Stuart Thompson.’

  There is none of the flowery language used at Stuart’s first marriage. This is what it is: functional and legal. I am my own worst enemy, I always have been. I’ve allowed myself – and with Camilla as a witness, too – to be second best again. My stomach flutters as if my baby is reminding me that I need to be strong, to make sure that he or she is not sidelined. I stand a bit straighter.

  I’ve chosen to wear a ring, but Stuart has not. As he slides it onto my finger, I regret not being more insistent. Every gesture, every action, appears to point to me as being the one who has led Stuart astray. Which is ridiculous.

  Nina’s rings (engagement and wedding) have been kept in the home safe for the children. I ensured that mine is very different; it’s platinum, for a start, not gold. I’m not sure I will continue to wear it, but part of me wants something visible to outwardly prove that I’m not ashamed, that I’m not doing anything wrong.

  ‘. . . you have both made the declarations prescribed by law and have made a solemn and binding contract in the presence of your witnesses here today.’

  Stuart has admitted that things weren’t always ideal between him and Nina. That they were very different people. He craves security, she longed for travel and adventure.

  ‘Her wings were well and truly clipped when the children started school,’ he said. ‘It was the end of being able to take off on mini-breaks around the country whenever she liked. That’s why she poured so much energy into starting her own business. I encouraged it because I thought that if she was happier in her home environment, she’d naturally feel happier in herself.’

  Every titbit gives me secret hope because we are starting from such a practical angle. Every clue to her discontent helps me to adjust my own behaviour. What Stuart and I have is unique and special in its own way.

  ‘It therefore gives me great pleasure to declare that you are now legally married.’

  Stuart and I both grin and give each other a brief kiss. Relief. There’s no going back now. The show will go on, but on my terms. I’ve made the right decision.

  Tamsin takes photos on her phone. I clutch my small bouquet of pastel-coloured peonies close to me and smile. I chose to wear my hair up, but still, my ever-annoying fringe threatens to escape. I’m grateful the hardest part of the ceremony is over as it’s hot and I can’t wait to get out of the register office.

  We stand on the steps as Stuart’s friends snap a few more obligatory pictures before we head to the pub next door.

  ‘It’s got decent-enough reviews on Trip Advisor,’ he said when he updated me on all the wedding plans.

  ‘Well, that’s all right then,’ I said.

  I don’t think he got it as he smiled blandly in response.

  Strangely, that bothered me more than a lot of other things that genuinely should concern me. Denial is useful.

  ‘Goodbye, my love,’ my dad says. ‘Sorry I can’t stay for the meal, but I want to get back to your mum.’

  I pretend to understand. ‘Tell Mum I love her.’

  I stand at the door of the pub and wave his taxi off, swallowing the lump in my throat.

  I accept a glass of champagne when a waiter offers it. I’ve done my research – a small one won’t harm my baby.

  Everyone, including Tamsin and Camilla, chorus, ‘Congratulations,’ as we all raise our glasses.

  Stuart undoes his top shirt button. Relief that he appears more relaxed ups my optimism. Sun pours through the window highlighting the dust particles on the dark, wood-panelled walls.

  My appetite has returned, so much so, that I don’t care that Camilla has chosen to sit opposite me. I tuck into my stuffed mushroom starter and dip some white chunky bread into the sauce.

  ‘How long did you plan it?’ Camilla says to me after the starters are cleared.

  I glance discreetly to the left. Stuart is involved in a lengthy conversation with a friend about a work client.

  ‘Plan what?’ I say. I lower my voice. ‘I hope you aren’t implying that I had something to do with Nina’s illness, are you? Because it’s not possible. Nina died of melanoma.’

  ‘Sadly, I wouldn’t put it past you, but no. I mean, the moment the news was bad, really bad, did you start planning this then? Were you somehow secretly delighted that Nina was never going to escape you again?’

  ‘You’re sick.’

  It’s as if Camilla can read my thoughts. It’s unnerving. Of course I didn’t plan it, but it did plant a subtle seed of an idea that there would be . . . not so much a vacancy, but a Plan B.

  I will not let Camilla ruin this for me, too.

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk,’ I continue.

  I look at Tamsin, who has remained silent throughout the exchange, conc
entrating on her food.

  ‘We went on a girly holiday just after we left college,’ I say to her. ‘Nina and I arranged it and Camilla decided that she wanted to be a part of it, too. My boyfriend joined us near the end and Camilla stole him.’

  Camilla looks mortified.

  Good.

  We are interrupted by the waiter putting down our main courses. I chose risotto, but regret it the moment the steam wafts my face. I look over at Camilla’s salad and wish I could swap.

  ‘You can’t steal someone,’ Camilla says. ‘Besides, Charlie wasn’t yours.’

  ‘Charlie?’ Tamsin says.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Wasn’t he the guy Nina told me died on holiday?’

  Buried emotions threaten to choke me. Charlie was easily led, but he could also be a gentle soul, so alive, and that made his horrible death so much harder to stomach.

  Chapter Twenty

  Our wedding night is as subdued as the end of the meal turned out to be. I did a brilliant job of acting fine, but the paranoid part of my brain wonders if Tamsin and Camilla planned to dampen the mood somehow. I don’t like thinking about Charlie.

  ‘It’s partly my fault Charlie died,’ I say to Stuart when we’re back in the blessed privacy of home.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I should’ve tried harder to make things work between us.’

  ‘You were young.’

  ‘Yes, twenty.’

  ‘Well, there you go.’

  It’s easy for someone to tell you it’s not your fault, all very nice and well-meaning of them, but it doesn’t erase guilt. Nothing ever does.

  ‘I’d rather talk about something a bit more cheerful,’ says Stuart as he selects a bottle of wine.

  He opens a drawer and takes out a corkscrew. He refuses to buy ‘screw tops’, as he refers to them, no matter what anyone tells him.

  ‘Just one small glass?’ he says to me.

  ‘No, thanks. I don’t want to take even the slightest risk. I had a sip of champagne earlier.’