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

by Karen Hamilton

  ‘He was really quite out of it before I even left,’ I say. ‘Charlie didn’t really have an off switch when it came to drink, drugs, food, life, anything. He always was an all-or-nothing type of person.’

  ‘He was furious with Nina – she said it was all a bit of a blur as I can well imagine – and then . . . Camilla cut the engine to help her and somehow, Charlie got pushed overboard.’

  ‘Somehow?’

  ‘It was both of them. They didn’t mean to, he was out of control, yelling, they said he was going to punch them both, they were utterly convinced that they’d be knocked out or badly hurt. There was a struggle, they looked over the edge, expecting to see him climb back, but there was no sign of him. Nina said it was like a horror film in slow motion. The sky was beginning to dim, even the sea was starting to look black. The boat was rocking badly. Nina almost went overboard herself as she felt dreadfully seasick.’

  She pauses as a couple walks past.

  I’m trying to take it all in, trying to picture the Nina I knew in this scenario.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Marie, but Nina said when they spotted him using the boat’s lights – she’d frantically pressed or flicked everything until something worked – he was clearly dead. He was face down and had been in the water for a considerable time by then. He was being dragged away from them, drifting towards the rocks. There was nothing they could do.’

  ‘Didn’t they even try to get help?’

  Charlie’s body was eventually found several kilometres away from the area where the boat was kept.

  ‘Yes, of course they wanted to get help. They managed to steer the boat back, but by then they were freezing and in shock. The severity of what had happened dawned on them. They’d effectively stolen the boat, taken “drugs”’ – Deborah mimes quotation marks – ‘I don’t know the names for all the different ones nowadays. Back in the day, we hardly came across anything. There was nothing like the variety on offer today.’

  ‘But they might have been able to save him—’

  ‘Nina was adamant that there was absolutely no way. She said that you could just tell, they both could, that he was . . . gone. There was no one there, they’d got away with it, and so they walked away from the boat. Nina said to me, “It was one step at a time, Mum.” With each footstep she expected a hand on her shoulder from someone but nothing happened. They just . . . got away with it.’

  ‘I’ve beaten myself up over it for so long. I was so hurt. I loved Charlie. Nina was my friend. I trusted her.’

  Deborah’s characteristic defensiveness returns. ‘It was self-defence. Them or Charlie. He was a strong lad, according to her.’

  ‘Nina and Camilla sat by the pool with me the next day and acted like nothing was wrong. How does anyone do that? It was a horrible feeling. We had to leave not knowing where he was; everyone told me it was normal for people to disappear, especially after a drunken argument. I thought he’d dumped me. People, including Nina and Camilla, implied that he’d probably met someone, or gone on a bender, but no matter what anyone said, there was stupid, naive me thinking it was my fault.’

  ‘Shock. Denial. You name it, there are lots of reasons why she kept quiet. What would you have done if she’d told you, burdened you with the secret? She did you a favour, in a way. She protected you.’

  Fresh anger takes hold, but I don’t show it. I don’t want to stop Deborah or make her regret telling me.

  ‘Look, I didn’t agree with what they did. Of course not. If she’d confided in me before the children . . . earlier . . . And Charlie, if he’d had parents, siblings or anyone looking for answers . . .’ She stops. Loses momentum. ‘If, if, if. Excuses, excuses. The truth is that you protect your family, you do what you have to. Not even Leonard knows. I never thought I’d say these words out loud.’ She stops and grips my hand, hard. ‘Don’t let me down, Marie. And please, no matter what, don’t let those children down.’

  ‘I won’t, I promise.’

  ‘You were a good friend to her, Marie. Continue to give the children, and your baby when he or she is born, the absolute best of you.’

  ‘Thank you, Deborah, that means everything to me. I am doing my best and I always will.’

  ‘To be honest, it’s a relief to talk about it. Keeping it to myself, it makes me feel rotten.’

  I feel bad for her. Her daughter made one bad decision leading to another years ago, just one monumental fuck-up that led to such tragedy, and it is still impacting us now.

  ‘One final thing,’ I say. ‘Charlie’s backpack, it was never found. He carried it with him most of the time. Did she mention that?’

  ‘They threw it into the sea when they realized . . . that he wasn’t alive. I’ve no idea why it never reappeared.’

  Somehow, that feels more calculated than anything else I’ve heard. It makes things sound even worse. If that’s possible. There’s so much to take in. As Deborah’s revelations properly begin to digest, they twist around in my mind. The word shock doesn’t even begin to describe the sick feeling permeating my entire body as images of Charlie’s last moments torment me, scene by scene, as I picture his body sinking beneath the water into darkness.

  Back home, I tell Stuart that I don’t feel well. I lock the bathroom door and cry until it physically hurts.

  Stuart coaxes me out.

  ‘I understand your grief,’ he says. ‘Nothing seems to make it better.’

  ‘It is overwhelming,’ I say. ‘But there’s so much, I really don’t know where to start. For one, why didn’t you tell me you were married before Nina?’

  ‘I assumed you knew, that she’d have mentioned it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I was young. We both were, it was a mistake. When I fall, I fall hard.’

  ‘Could it be her behind the hatred and mistrust of me? Was she jealous of Nina? Would she have somehow been hoping for a reconciliation?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘She lives in Australia.’

  ‘Still, are you certain?’

  ‘I never check. We didn’t part on good terms.’

  ‘Can I have her name, please? I need to check for myself.’

  ‘If you must.’

  I must.

  While Stuart sleeps – deeply, how can he do that – I lie as close to the edge of the bed as I dare. My baby moves all the time as though he can sense my underlying, growing fear. Sleep remains elusive. I shiver with cold. I can’t get warm. It frightens me that something will go wrong with the pregnancy, that I’ll be punished somehow for all the mistakes I’ve made.

  I get up. My search for his ex-wife reveals that there really is nothing to worry about. She is a travel journalist and does still live in Australia. From her stunning social media pictures, she most definitely does not appear to be mourning the loss of Stuart. I was barking up the wrong suspect tree with that theory.

  Sleep eludes me as I go over past conversations and memories, coupled with my newfound knowledge, desperate for clues. Listening to Deborah, I got so caught up in her story, so convinced she had all the answers, that I didn’t think to question anything thoroughly.

  Because, would Nina really have told her mother the absolute truth about Charlie’s demise? Nina was a natural editor; she regularly painted herself in a favourable light. Realistically, anyone would alter the story to make it palatable. Who would willingly incriminate themselves or tell their mother the raw, brutal facts rather than protect her? It’s a valid thought. Which means I can’t really trust Deborah’s version of events because the more I rerun through her words, the more they sound like a rehearsed, half story.

  Camilla sent me to Deborah to hear a soft version. If I add up all the versions (Deborah’s, Stuart’s, Camilla’s and Nina’s), they are much the same. I still don’t feel as if everything adds up. Not only that, when Charlie’s body was found, he had a head injury. It was assumed he hit a rock (foul play was not mentioned), but Deborah said he hit his he
ad on the deck or the cool box. Why on earth would Stuart fly back to Ibiza for Nina? The cool box doesn’t seem like a good enough reason. A thought forms and grows until I can’t keep it to myself.

  ‘Stuart! Wake up!’

  He sits up. ‘What?’

  ‘You flew back to Ibiza, why?’

  He looks utterly flummoxed.

  ‘Was it to find Charlie’s Saint Christopher?’ I prompt.

  He nods.

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you would’ve got rid of it, even if you had?’

  He doesn’t reply.

  I must get away. I need space to clear my head, sort out facts from imagination before I snap. I deserve the complete truth. There is only one person who can help with that.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  ‘A holiday? With you?’ Camilla frowns. It doesn’t suit her. ‘Are you even allowed to fly?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’m thinking of somewhere closer to home. I’ll check out last-minute offers. A seaside cottage in Cornwall, perhaps.’

  ‘I appreciate that I haven’t lived in this country for years, but even I know you’ll have a hard time booking anywhere midsummer holidays at a decent price. Anyway, I can’t take a week off work.’

  ‘Louise can come with us. You can join in for a long weekend. I’ll sort something.’

  She hesitates, but I can tell that she’s itching to say yes so that Louise is entertained. Louise is bored; she spends her days hanging around with me most of the time anyway. Camilla leaves her to fend for herself while she’s at work. If it wasn’t for me, Louise would be a proper latchkey kid. The poor girl has taken to spending nights at ours more frequently when Camilla invites Greg over. Louise and I have lovely long chats, and it’s tempting to share snippets of Charlie’s views on life and his funny ways. It is so maddening (and quite sad) that I have this rich insider knowledge of her biological father, and yet it’s not my place to tell her or share my memories.

  Annoyingly, Camilla is right about the lack of holiday options. I start off with optimistic expectations: private pools or giant glass doors that concertina open, leading straight onto the beach, and end up depressing myself by even considering a dingy place on the outskirts of a large city I don’t wish to visit. Images of perfect holiday snaps with joyful #blendedfamilyfun captions (just to publicly prove that I’m doing a good job) dissolve. Stuart isn’t keen either.

  ‘I’ve been on enough wet-weather holidays to last me. I’d rather we go to Disneyland sometime next year, perhaps.’

  ‘I need a break now.’

  He agrees that if I succeed in finding somewhere decent, he’ll join us for the week, taking the children home at the weekend to give me time alone.

  It strengthens my resolve – how hard can it be? – yet I’m still struggling when Camilla pops round.

  ‘Good news! I’ve found a place and it’s free!’

  ‘Really?’

  I wait for the catch and of course, there is one.

  ‘Greg’s old house – his parents’ originally – is lying empty on Dartmoor. They used to run a small B&B and he hasn’t got round to selling it yet.’ She smiles. ‘He’s much more sentimental than he lets on, that man. Anyway, he says we’re welcome to use it if we are happy to ignore the old décor and the steep, death-trap stairs.’

  ‘Sounds ideal . . . not,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, Marie, you’re such a bloody misery all the time. Just tell the children to be careful, it’s not as if they’re preschoolers.’ She pauses as she looks at my stomach. ‘Mind you, you’ll have to be wary, too, in your current state. Just resist the temptation to push Stuart down them,’ she adds with a grin, ‘and everything will be fine.’

  If she’s noticed my irritation with him, it must be bad.

  I grin, too, I can’t help it. ‘I’ll try not to.’

  It’s probably the most genuine moment we’ve shared.

  ‘Isn’t Dartmoor a bit bleak?’ I can’t help saying.

  ‘Only if you choose to see it like that, and I wouldn’t imagine so in summer. There will be gorgeous walks and beaches not too far away. Also, there’s llama trekking, cycling, all kinds of fabulous, wholesome activities for the children! They’ll love it. I’ll join in on Friday for the weekend.’

  I agree to it. If Camilla’s on board, that’s the whole point. Just me and her, with plenty of time to bond. I’m going to get my answers, even if I have to threaten to throw Camilla down the dodgy staircase myself to get them.

  I do my own research and discover waterfalls, climbing and horse riding. Idyllic. Camilla’s right, we will have loads to keep us occupied. The children will love the time away, which is an added positive benefit, despite my underhand motive.

  Before we go away the following week (it can’t come soon enough), the urge to visit my mother again is strong.

  ‘She’s in the conservatory, love,’ says my dad when I arrive.

  ‘You go out for a walk or something.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll be back in an hour or so,’ he says.

  I wait until I hear the front door close before I speak.

  ‘I knew when I slept with Stuart that it was the right time. I have this thing called an app, you see. I mean, it wasn’t guaranteed, it had never worked with Ben. But that night, I knew. I hoped that I had a chance. And it happened. After just one time. I couldn’t believe it, but it goes to show that despite what I did, it was surely meant to be, don’t you think?’

  I wish my mum could say yes.

  ‘I suspect that I couldn’t conceive with Ben through guilt,’ I say. ‘I know it sounds stupid, but I lied to him not long after we first met. I pretended I was pregnant. I thought I was doing the right thing, moving us along. Ben could be so bloody indecisive. But I was wrong.’

  I can’t bring myself to confess everything, but it’s enough for now. I brush her hair and straighten her cardigan, then worry that I’m overfussing before I leave. Still, I do feel slightly lighter afterwards, like I’ve been given permission to enjoy some of the August holidays.

  Even so, the week drags. I take the children strawberry picking and on one particularly wet day, to the cinema. Still, not-so-distant, inexplicable dread lurks.

  I visit the midwife, attend an antenatal class and it’s freeing to get out of the house, which has shrunk around me. Stuart doesn’t like me going out for too long ‘in case something happens’.

  ‘Like what?’ I say. I don’t need any fuel for my fears and paranoia.

  He shrugs. ‘I like to know where you are.’

  ‘I can look after myself.’

  ‘I’m not saying you can’t.’

  Nonetheless, it’s suffocating and oppressive.

  He’s particularly stressed about being in the middle of nowhere when we’re in Dartmoor (it’s not that cut-off if the situation arises), but still, it was much harder to win him round to the idea than I thought it would be.

  The threatening cards dry up. Maybe it was Deborah and now that we’ve had a little heart-to-heart, she’s decided to back off. Until now, my money was definitely on Tamsin. It could even have been more than one person, which is a horrible thought. I hate not knowing and being suspicious of everyone, from people in the book group to my neighbours. Whoever it is has decided that it’s not worth the risk because of the camera, which records nothing but genuine visitors, post and delivery people. I waste hours of my life viewing endless film, staring at the gravel on the driveway, scanning for suspicious passers-by on the lane.

  Perhaps there really is nothing to fear.

  The night before we go away, having packed and completed all the necessary tasks, I pace downstairs, desperate to feel comfortable. I’m forced to give up and pour all my energy into my photo project: the one to celebrate Nina’s memory. I turn the pages. There’s something so rewarding about capturing a moment that will never be repeated. Even now, I still enjoy catching people unawares. It drove Nina mad, but only when she didn’t like the picture.<
br />
  ‘I look too fat, too miserable, my hair looks crap . . .’ she’d moan.

  But when she liked them, it was different. She’d get me to print extra copies, and we’d experiment together with black-and-white and colour effects. Any money I earned from my Saturday job was spent, not on clothes or stuff, but my photo-taking hobby. I told Nina I’d destroy any photos that she didn’t like, but I didn’t. However much people say they hate pictures of themselves, they’re a part of history.

  Our faces naturally altered as we grew up, attended art college and went on our Ibizan holiday. Our collective expressions were unencumbered by worry, guilt or regret, despite my resentment simmering beneath the surface. People underestimate the innate desire to belong. It can be all-consuming, given the right cocktail of vulnerability and desperation.

  I want to correct people when they refer to Ibiza as ‘the party place’ because although it undeniably is, the soft, sandy beaches are its best kept secret. (I sometimes wonder if the island hugs the knowledge of its beautiful landscape to itself as tourists flock to the clubs and bars.)

  Of course, I have included images of the sea and landscape, the blues and greens, but among these are the hippy markets, Nina and me on the disco bus on our way to a club, the reds, oranges, golds and pinks of sunsets.

  I stop. The next images include Charlie. I remove them and pile them to one side. Yet I can’t stop myself from looking at his eyes. Louise’s eyes. Would our future children have had my green eyes, too, if things had turned out differently?

  The floorboards upstairs creak. One of the children? Please let it not be Stuart; I want to be alone. It goes silent. I exhale, until then not even realizing I’d been holding my breath.

  I’ve inserted more happy-looking wedding photos than I’d initially intended, for the children’s sake. I study Nina’s expressions again with my benefit of knowledge. Yet again, I hate that Nina deceived us all. She does not betray a hint of concern or doubt. I’ve always prided myself on my ability to photograph the truth. If I’m wrong, where does it leave me workwise in the future? I want to come out from the shadows, show people what I’m capable of.