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

by Karen Hamilton

  ‘Why are you asking me?’

  I take a risk, run with my hunch. I need to know, was it Greg or Tamsin?

  ‘Just something we caught on camera,’ I say, keeping it vague. ‘But I don’t want to report it to the police because I’d hate to do that to a friend. I just want them to stop,’ I say. ‘I understand if people initially disapproved, but it’s time to move on, live and let live, don’t you think?’

  ‘Very wise,’ she says.

  ‘I’m prepared to leave it at that,’ I continue. ‘Although I will keep the footage. I hope I won’t need to use it.’

  Tamsin holds a smile in place, clearly trying not to give away her relief, but it’s visible to me, nonetheless.

  So, Greg wasn’t lying.

  I’m happy to play the let’s-pretend-it-never-happened game. I’ve bigger things to worry about as long as she behaves in a less Midsomer Murders-like fashion in future. If I hadn’t thrown out the wedding gift plaque, I’d return it to her now. I should feel angrier, but I’m too tired, and it’s quite fun watching her discomfort as she sips her cold tea, then glances at Jack, asleep in his baby chair, as if willing him to wail. He remains chilled. Well done, Jack!

  She opts for another tactic by rummaging around in her bag.

  ‘I also came round to invite you to this,’ she says, handing over a leaflet, which opens out into three sections. ‘It’s to raise money for new sports equipment for the school.’

  I study it. It’s an art exhibition with small photo samples of some of the exhibits. Greg (no surprise there) is taking part, and there are pictures of his photos.

  ‘Did you decide which photos he’d use, or did he?’

  ‘We selected them together, actually. He said he’s going to help me sort out my own collection. They’re all just saved to my laptop and I never look at them.’

  ‘How long have you been friends?’

  I’m trying to figure out if she had access to the photo he took of Nina and the children. Tamsin appears oblivious, seemingly grateful that she’s off the hook.

  ‘Oh, ages! We matched on a dating app a long while ago – don’t tell anyone, please – but we both agreed that there was no way. I mean . . . Greg. He’s just, well . . . Greg, don’t you think?’

  I don’t trust myself to reply. Instead I give the leaflet further attention. The samples of Greg’s photos are of a bluebell wood in among shades of mauve, blue, green, purple and brown. An easel holding a canvas stands among the bluebells. A woman with long, dark hair, her back to the camera, is painting the woodland scene, capturing it perfectly. It is Nina’s unmistakable style.

  I shiver. Is Greg about to go public with his affair with Nina? If so, it means he’s beyond caring and his threats are real.

  The urge to see Christian is overwhelming. I tell Stuart that I need him to watch Jack while I go to a medical appointment alone. I catch a bus, which takes an age, but I enjoy staring out the window at the passing forest scenes with nothing to do and only myself to think of.

  All therapy rooms are the same but different, I know that, yet Christian’s should feel familiar by now. It doesn’t. Something has changed. I look around the room, at the throws over the chairs, the jade cushions, the books on the shelves. Same titles, same human problems. I half considered going to seek the help of a new therapist, start afresh. But I can’t face repeating the bland facts detailing my early life.

  So, here I am, back with Christian. It’s comforting. I’m out of sorts and I can’t seem to find the right words, despite his familiar presence making me feel safe. I’m vulnerable, so much so, that if someone is too nice to me, I will crack. He isn’t the overly sympathetic type, and I need that right now.

  I tell Christian about the helplessness I felt during Jack’s birth, the anger at losing control, the avoidable indignities, the rage that won’t go away, the pregnant women I want to warn, yet can’t because I don’t want to frighten anyone. How I feel duped by the classes I went to pre-birth that misled by discussing calming playlists and aromatic oils. There was no mention that some women will have no choice but to accept drugs and medical intervention. No balance, however well intended. How I’m amazed that the human race continues, how any woman has more than one child.

  ‘But,’ I say, desperate to lift my mood, ‘my dad visibly melted the moment he met Jack, despite his reservations about the father. The best thing out of all of this, the actual moment that has totally erased my doubts, is that the day I placed Jack in my mother’s arms, she smiled. She lit up. It was genuine joy and recognition. I won’t have anyone tell me that it was anything different. Everything I did to have my baby was worth it.’

  He smiles. We drift into silence, and for once, I don’t rush to fill it. He does.

  ‘It sounds as if you may have suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder or birth trauma. It’s not uncommon, apparently. There is more understanding and recognition surrounding it now,’ he says. ‘I’ve encountered a few cases. The guilt is silencing because everyone knows someone who hasn’t been fortunate enough to have their own child or has lost one, so naturally, they keep quiet out of consideration, out of fear of appearing ungrateful, making a fuss or even the fear that social services will deem them an unfit mother and remove their child.’

  He must’ve felt passionately about it as he breaks one of his own unspoken rules by sharing a rare snippet of personal information: that it affected his wife after their third child.

  When there are mere minutes left of the session, during the usual time when Christian disengages and wraps up our conversation as best as he can, the urge to confess that’s been building all session, the desire for release, is so overwhelming that I blurt out, ‘I aborted Charlie’s baby.’

  Apart from what I shared with Camilla, I’ve never said these exact words out loud to anyone. Deciding to trust Christian has (at times) felt like being given a key to unlock my subconscious. Although painful, telling the truth, the real story, isn’t as frightening or as exposing as I feared. Strangely, I already feel better than I do when I lie or mislead.

  I recall an ex-friend telling me that people feel as if they are wasting their time and energy on a liar. I understand a little better now what she meant, although I was furious with her at the time because clearly she was having a go at me.

  Discovering who Louise was – it was such a monumental punch in the gut. I was hurt when Charlie started to distance himself from me, even before the holiday. I thought that he – we – were too young, unprepared, too everything-wrong or not-ideal-circumstances. I thought he’d feel trapped, pull away further. I’d read this article in a magazine about attraction that stated that people could sense neediness, that it acted as a subconscious repellent. A part of me felt I’d done the right thing, or so I thought. But, of course, afterwards, during the horrendously shocking aftermath and the months that followed, it dawned that I’d killed a part of him, too.

  If only I’d known about Camilla’s pregnancy, I’d still have felt pain, of course, but it wouldn’t have been as all-consuming.

  It’s not until after I leave that I realize it wasn’t the room that was different. It was me.

  The session leaves me feeling disconnected, my mind crammed full of disturbing thoughts. A part of me had hoped before the session that Christian would somehow sense that I’m on the edge of doing something dangerous and desperate. I wanted him to intuitively see beneath the chit-chat, to push and probe beneath the look how well I’m coping veneer and save me from myself.

  In my darkest moments, I regress to a childlike state and want someone to give me permission to silence Greg.

  There’s a side of me emerging that scares me; the desire to protect what I’ve given so much up to attain is so overwhelming, so powerfully strong that I feel frightened of what I might do and how easy it would be to lose sight of what’s right and what’s wrong.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Stuart hovers in the kitchen as I zip up my jacket and fill a water bottle. />
  ‘Are you sure you’re all right? As in, all right, all right? You’ve been quiet.’

  ‘Fine. I just need a long walk.’

  He doesn’t look convinced. ‘What route are you walking and how long will it take?’

  Stuart has developed an annoying sixth sense when I’m up to something. It’s disturbing and ups my anxiety level another notch.

  I make up a route and mutter something about being ‘a few hours’ and ‘stunning early autumn leaves’. He doesn’t question me further because Jack saves me from more interrogation by wailing through the baby monitor. Stuart goes upstairs to console him.

  I hesitate before I shut the back door behind me. I want to cocoon myself away, snuggle up with Jack. I could tell Stuart the truth and get him involved. But Nina trusted me with her dying wishes. She wouldn’t have wanted Stuart to find out about her fling with Greg either; she trusted me to hide her secrets. Just like she trusted me to protect her family. Me, not him.

  Camilla opens the guesthouse door with a cup of coffee in her hand.

  ‘Want one?’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  As I watch her brew it, I already know what she’s going to say.

  ‘I’m sorry, it was impossible to get into his office, let alone sniff around and hunt down potential blackmail information undisturbed.’

  ‘So, we are left with no choice but to visit him at the fishing lodge and appeal to his better nature or make him see sense.’

  ‘I’m going to reason with him,’ says Camilla, as if my disappointment has spurred her on. ‘Let’s go. Two against one.’

  I mull it over. ‘No, I think it’s best if I go alone. I haven’t done anything wrong. He thinks you deserve to pay for what you did, along with Nina’s family, too. I’ll be firm, emotionally blackmail him. I’ll tell him about Felix and Emily’s nightmares and force him to understand.’

  ‘I can’t let you go and see him alone.’

  ‘Why not? He’s hardly likely to turn violent when he’s utterly convinced by the notion that he’s way up on the moral high ground. Plus, he won’t be expecting me there, he’ll be caught off guard.’

  ‘I’ll babysit, get Stuart to go with you.’

  ‘No, don’t. He doesn’t need to hear about the affair. I can handle this, really.’

  ‘He can’t stake a claim too high up the morality mountain if he terrorized you with the notes and creepy flowers.’

  ‘It was Tamsin, not Greg.’

  I update her on my discoveries. Afterwards, still seemingly fearfully reluctant, she gives me directions to the lodge and watches through the upstairs window as I walk in the direction of the river. It starts to drizzle.

  It takes a good forty minutes because I’m mindful not to push myself too hard. I have to rely solely on Camilla’s description; there’s no hope of using any phone maps in the woods. As I approach what must be the correct property – because it’s the only one in the right spot – I notice the rain has stopped. It was impossible to tell beneath the dense trees. I spot a rainbow. Such an auspicious sign buoys me up.

  The lodge is more of a large wooden shed with a raised outside porch. There’s a sign near the open gate stating that it’s private, but the flimsy fence around the perimeter of the grounds is badly need of repair and not up to the task of blocking out unauthorized access.

  I hang back by the trees. The place is deserted. No way is Greg here. His car is not in the drive and the desolation is freaking me out. Perhaps I’m not quite right, as Deborah is fond of suggesting lately.

  A couple of hikers walk past the lodge, soon followed by someone on horseback along the nearby bridleway. It is comforting, especially when I notice that kids have tried to build a den a few metres away, which means that I’m not a million miles away from civilization. I inhale the coolness of the approaching evening, feeling the best I have in a long time, in fact. Almost myself again. It gives me hope.

  It’s time to leave, to admit defeat. I feel strangely at peace with the decision until I hear the sound of a car approaching, growing louder. I stay put, out of sight.

  A smallish black truck drives past, flattening the wild grass in the centre of the track as it does so and parks by the gate. It’s not Greg’s, which is bloody disappointing. Yet a part of me feels relieved. This was clearly a crap idea of mine. I’ve tried my best. My conscience is clear.

  Yet it is him. Either he’s bought a new vehicle or he’s borrowed one. I watch as he unloads bags and equipment, losing my nerve. I manage to convince myself that it’s not my problem after all. Yet really, it is, because Nina isn’t here and I am. My hands start to feel numb. The sun is disappearing and the rainbow has dissipated. I pull on my gloves and a woolly hat, before walking alongside the grounds to warm up.

  Greg is setting up by the river to the far right of the grounds where there is a gap in the lush foliage. He looks as if he’s settling in for the evening or night. He is erecting a proper, sturdy-looking tent, not like some of the more flimsy ones I’ve noticed fisherman use by the local rivers and lakes over the years. He sets up a camping stove, a canvas stool, various kinds of fishing equipment, a box and rods.

  Barely dormant anger returns at the sight of him getting on with his life so calmly, not a care in the world, while he has the power to upend mine.

  I open my mouth to call out to him, a cheery Hi, Greg, I was just out walking and fancy seeing you here . . . type of thing, but I remain mute.

  I walk back in the direction of the woods. Go or stay? Stay or go?

  Camilla’s fear of violence comes to mind. It’s one thing encountering someone in a civilized environment, like our book group, quite another out here in the comparative wilderness. I tease out a branch from the random kids’ makeshift den, taking time to make my selection, like playing Jenga.

  A mistake. The whole structure tumbles down, echoing loudly. Afterwards, silence. No one but me was disturbed by the noise. I come to a decision. Taking the branch with me as a protection (if need be), I’ll make one final attempt to talk to him. If that fails, well, so be it.

  The wind picks up slightly again; I hope Greg packed his winter woollies. He has been fast, efficient and has wasted no time in my brief absence. He’s comfortably sitting down as if he’s drinking in the view, exuding an air of calm and contentment. He hasn’t set up a rod yet; he must be taking a breather.

  ‘Hey, Greg!’ I call out.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asks, getting to his feet as I approach.

  ‘I wanted a chat in private.’

  ‘There’s a surprise.’

  ‘Please listen to me, Greg. My baby is related to Nina’s children, he’s their half-brother. Please don’t humiliate her memory in public. For my sake and Jack’s, if not hers. I understand that you’re angry.’

  He shrugs. ‘Marie, I don’t have anything against you personally, but I’ll do whatever I feel is right. Please don’t tell me that you came all the way out here just to try to make me change my mind? I’m a man of my word.’

  ‘Can we at least talk a bit more?’

  He shrugs again, as if my feelings are inconsequential, and picks up a rod. He points to the branch I’d almost forgotten I was still clutching.

  ‘Planning on tying a piece of string to the end of that and joining me in a spot of fishing?’ he says, as if he thinks it is some sort of suitable response.

  He sits down on his stool again, fiddles with the line, all the while chuckling – actually laughing to himself – as if my feelings and fears are inconsequential.

  I don’t know at what point I make the decision, or if I ever actually consciously do, because something possesses me, propels me forward. A rush of rage floods as I recall all the hours of angst, and each terrifying moment hurtles back in short, sharp, brutally clear images. I rerun through all the fear he’s caused and all that he can make me lose.

  I’m convinced that I must’ve have gained Nina’s strength, too, because I lift the branch up above my head.


  He swings round and looks up at me, his expression a picture of uncomprehending horror as he topples to the side when the branch strikes his right cheek. The fallen camping stool lands and rests against his calves. A pair of small black binoculars drops into the water with a plop.

  Greg doesn’t reach out for them – he doesn’t do anything. He just lies there, silent. His face is tilted away from me. I lean over slightly to examine him closer. I force myself to look, to see if he’s hit his head on something, but there is no obvious rock or stone and without me moving him to check, I can’t tell.

  Oh my God. This isn’t right. Yes, I’m angry but I only wanted to give him a fright and perhaps demonstrate just how desperate and helpless I’m feeling. Of course, there’s no way he could have appreciated how much I’ve been through to have a child of my own and attain the family life I now have.

  My legs start shaking uncontrollably; I fear I might collapse. Jack is a young, helpless baby. I’ve wanted him for so long. What if I’m arrested? Sent to prison? I couldn’t bear being separated from Jack. Stupid, I’ve been so stupid.

  ‘Greg! Greg! Get up! You’re giving me a fright. I’m sorry.’

  A slight breeze rushes through the trees. I wait. Nothing happens. Greg does not get up. I don’t know what to do. I just wanted to make him understand what lengths he’d driven me to. A small plane flies overhead. Greg’s face is mere inches from the water’s edge. I gently nudge his head slightly forward with the branch. Water snakes past, lapping the bank, splashing his face.

  I’m going to have to get help and explain that it was all an accident.

  Something grabs my foot. I scream and drop the branch. Greg is holding onto my right ankle, it is unsteadying. He turns and stares at me.

  I can’t stand it, I can’t cope with it, I have to make him stop. It’s freaky, like dead, staring fish eyes, and he won’t let go. He sits up. With his free hand, he reaches over and I see him pick up a serrated knife from his fishing box. I kick his arm. He drops the knife and tries to grab it. I lunge for it with my free hand and pick it up to threaten him, but he grabs my other foot, the knife is pulled from my grip and a pain rips through my recently healed caesarean scar.