Also by Louise Mullins
I Know You
Buried Sins
What I Never Told You
Love You Dead
Love You Gone
One Night Only
The Perfect Wife
Why She Left
Damaged
Scream Quietly
Lavender Fields
The House of Secrets
Kiss Me, Kill Me
Louise Mullins
AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS
www.ariafiction.com
First published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Louise Mullins, 2021
The moral right of Louise Mullins to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
eISBN 9781838938079
PB ISBN 9781800245990
Cover design © Lisa Brewster
Aria
c/o Head of Zeus
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
www.ariafiction.com
Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright
Melanie
Bethan
Di Locke
Melanie
Bethan
Di Locke
Melanie
Bethan
Di Locke
Melanie
Bethan
Di Locke
Melanie
Bethan
Di Locke
Melanie
Bethan
Di Locke
Melanie
Bethan
Di Locke
Melanie
Bethan
Di Locke
Melanie
Bethan
Di Locke
Melanie
Bethan
Di Locke
Melanie
Bethan
Di Locke
Melanie
Bethan
Di Locke
Melanie
Bethan
Di Locke
Melanie
Di Locke
Bethan
Di Locke
Bethan
Di Locke
Bethan
Di Locke
Bethan
Di Locke
Bethan
Di Locke
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Become an Aria Addict
MELANIE
Before
A bee flew past me, heading for one of the ceramic planters filled with violet- and tangerine-coloured flowers, parked either side of the open French doors. Mum was buzzing round Maddison as usual, offering to top up her plastic beaker with more squash while I wrung my hands, my stomach growling.
Maddison sat beside me on the lawn to show me her light pink nails. ‘My mummy painted them,’ she said proudly.
‘They’re pretty.’
She smiled in response.
Mum gazed at Maddison adoringly as she topped off her glass with the sparkling juice that made her wobble. I wished she’d look at me that way.
The doorbell chimed.
Mum turned and gave me a warning look. ‘Take care of Maddison for me, Mel. Especially near that pool. I’ll be right back.’ And off she trotted on her heels, clackety-clacking across the concrete and into the house.
I saw Mum through the glass as she pelted across the lounge, her stick-thin figure disappearing as she exited the room and entered the hall to answer the door.
‘I’m bored,’ said Maddison, frowning.
‘What do you want to do?’
She wore a look of deep thought then squealed, ‘Let’s play I-Spy,’ grinning, eyes bright.
‘Okay. You go first.’
Maddison patted my hand and said, ‘I spy with my little eye, something beginning with…’
I zoned out Maddison’s voice when I heard Mum yelling. ‘You can sit and bloody swivel if you think I’m going to hand any money over to you!’
Dad’s upset someone again.
I heard a man’s voice then, loud and insistent. ‘Listen, love, if he doesn’t sort it out then I’m going to take him to court which will cost you far more than a couple of hundred pounds.’
‘It’s not our problem if someone you paid to fit a window to your property screws it up.’
I turned towards Maddison. ‘Sorry, what letter did you say?’ But she wasn’t there.
She was gazing down at her reflection on the surface of the water from the edge of the pool.
‘Maddison?’ I stood and moved closer to her. ‘Mum’s put me in charge. She told me not to let you go near the pool.’
She took a step forward as if daring me to stop her.
I stared at her wide eyes, clear skin, perfectly plaited pigtails and shiny new shoes. The ones Mum couldn’t afford to buy me. And I had the urge to shove her in.
BETHAN
Now
I practise my shock-horror face in the mirror for the seventh time. ‘My husband, he’s… dead,’ I say, the pitch of my voice heightening with each syllable.
The staircase creaks.
I squeeze out a few tears and prepare for my pièce de résistance: quivering mouth, trembling hands and uncontrollable sobbing that’s not so hysterical it will draw the attention of the police.
A floorboard groans.
I think I have perfected it but when I glance up at my reflection my impression of the grieving widow still looks fake. Perhaps it will appear more authentic once I have been bereaved.
Humphrey’s footsteps, painfully slow and telling of his age, reach the landing. I close my eyes and imagine running from the room and shoving him in the chest, his hand sliding off the balustrade as he falls backwards and hits his head on the edge of the oakwood skirting board while he reaches out for me, his mouth shaped in an O, his eyes wide with disbelief.
‘Bethan, darling, there you are,’ he says, breathless from the exertion of climbing the thirty-odd-step staircase.
I pout and turn my cheek for him to kiss. I don’t want his slobbery lips on mine.
He smells of Tom Ford’s soap and Creed’s aftershave: basil, leather, neroli and bergamot.
His thick grey hair bounces on his head as he straightens to survey me. ‘Are you heading into town?’
‘You know I am,’ I sigh, unscrewing my cherry-red lipstick. I apply a thick amount before smacking my lips together to ensure it is evenly spread.
He shoots me a disapproving look. ‘Will you be needing any money? It’s just that—’
‘Well, of course I will. You don’t expect me to buy dinner with thin air, do you?’
He glances down at his slippers then catches my eyes in the mirror as I snap the lid onto my lipstick and drop it into my patent leather Gucci bag.
I run my fingers through the soft waves of my blonde hair and smile, catching a flash of heat spreading across Humphrey’s cheeks as I stand.
He reaches out to me and grips the sleeve of my chenille jumper with two worn fingers as I turn to grab my coat from the back of the
ornamental chair.
‘I love you,’ he says wheezily, his hand shaking as he places several fifty-pound notes, retrieved from the cigar box on top of his bedside cabinet, into my hand and squeezes my palm around them.
I slip the money into my purse, clasp it shut and drop it into the bag. ‘You too.’
I glide my arms through the sleeves of my coat and zip it up.
‘Drive carefully,’ he says, wearing a serious expression.
I roll my eyes and pout, and he slips one hand around my waist to draw me close so that I can feel his heart beating against my jaw. Then he tilts my chin up with his other hand, so that I cannot avoid his gaze, and says, ‘Look after yourself, darling. I don’t want anything to happen to you.’
I push his hand away from my face and watch his features sink.
You should be more concerned about yourself.
*
I enter the supermarket car park, the brakes screeching when I’m forced to stop suddenly for a man in a car the size of a roller-skate to exit the disabled space I couldn’t see was taken behind the rear bumper of an SUV. He smiles and holds up his hand in thanks and I reply with a flip of my middle finger. He looks away and I reverse the Range Rover into the space he’s just vacated until the parking sensors bleep alarmingly.
I jump out, lock the car and head to the trolleys, limping.
I enter Waitrose through the automatic doors and glance at today’s newspaper headlines:
COLLISION ON M4 KILLS TWO, CARDIFF DRUG DEALER JAILED, MISSING MAN BELIEVED TO HAVE COMMITTED SUICIDE.
I avoid the cheese and chocolate aisles, though the trolley appears to move towards the alcohol without my input. I grab two bottles of premium whiskey – Johnny Walker and Bushmills – a bottle of cognac – Rémy Martin – and Belvedere vodka. I nudge two bags of ready chopped mixed vegetables into the trolley and spend the remainder of my trip grabbing items and throwing them in until I have a pile of food that looks like a child was asked to choose what to eat for their dinner. I’m not even sure how much of it can be cooked together.
I pick up a bag of potatoes and a small glass bottle of rapeseed oil and head towards the small collection of magazines stacked beside this month’s top shelf literary fiction. I leaf through Woman & Home, Vogue, Horse & Hound, Vanity Fair, and eventually slap a Country Living on top of the pile of items I’ve gathered. When I catch sight of the immaculate couple fronting their beautiful home on the cover of Home & Garden, I’m instantly reminded of the photoshoot Humphrey and I took part in when the same magazine publicised our Garden Of The Year Award for our wildflowers.
My hair was dyed black and straightened. The candyfloss-pink dress I wore looked stark against my fake tan. The sunglasses covered my eyes. I told the photographer I was photosensitive as I’d just had laser eye surgery. He said my pose added mystery to the shot and congratulated me on my model figure.
At the till I watch the woman in front of me take far too long to fill her bags, try paying with the wrong card and discuss with the cashier the extent of her husband’s recovery from a ‘particularly nasty bout of the flu’, as if there are levels of the virus.
I huff and roll my eyes enough times that she eventually apologises for taking so fucking long.
The cashier looks like something has crawled up her arse and died.
‘Would you like help with your packing,’ she says nasally, halfway through the process.
‘No, thanks. I’m fine.’
I pay with Humphrey’s debit card, smile when I’m bidden a good day, dump the bags in the trolley and wheel it out of the shop. When I reach the car, I toss them into the boot, slam it shut and shove the trolley into the rear of another that’s been left in the car park causing both to skid along the uneven concrete, out the other side of the trolley park and into the door of a shiny GLA, leaving a nick in the paintwork.
I hurry back to my parking space to find a man inspecting the top of the dashboard through the windscreen with a smug expression on his face.
‘You know you’re parked in a disabled bay,’ he says.
‘You know you can mind your own fucking business.’
The woman on his arm raises her eyebrows and I limp the final few feet towards the driver’s door, puff and moan as I hoist myself into my seat, and slam the door on their muttered conversation about feigning sickness and immobility to cheat the benefit system.
The tyres squeal under the pressure of my foot as I accelerate out of the parking space so fast it causes a puddle of water to spray onto the front of the man’s geography-teacher-style corduroys.
I glance into my rear-view mirror and smile at the wide-mouthed woman with pinched cheeks and watch her strike the man’s arm with a little more force than could be ethically considered playful when it’s obvious his gawping gaze was fixed solely on my cleavage.
When I reach Cardiff Road, the traffic has built up and when I glance at the time on the dashboard, I note that it’s almost lunch. Ignoring the low fuel light blinking an amber warning, I cut off the B-road onto a country road and navigate myself towards home. Reaching a small roundabout on top of a hill with a sign directing me to the golf club, I continue until I hit a familiar route as the diesel gauge drops to red.
I have about ten miles left.
I flip down the visor and blink away the sunlight spilling through the pastel-blue sky, hitting the wing mirror and bouncing onto my face. I squint as I reach a narrow bend before descending to a hump in the road that dips suddenly and jerks the suspension so violently, I must clench my stomach to stop myself from vomiting.
The two bottles of champagne I drank last night weren’t such a good idea. But skipping breakfast was.
My head begins to throb now that the paracetamol I necked this morning has worn off. I narrow my eyes further against the glaring sun, the pressure building behind them as I reach the three-storey, ten-bedroom property surrounded by golden fields and rendered private by a row of thick blossom-filled trees.
I follow the beige grit path past the horses chewing on wheat in the pasture to my right and hold my breath to the scent of manure that seeps through the car via the air conditioning as I cross the cow field to my left. I park directly in front of the house with the dry sandstone fountain so close behind me that when I exit the car, I must hold the boot lid partway open to avoid denting it on the structure while removing the shopping bags.
I tread through a puddle. The water spurts upward and across the back of my white trousers and soaks through my canvas boots. ‘For fuck’s sake.’
I head into the house, carrying the bags and I’m hit first by the smell of poached eggs and the sound of ‘Mariage d’amour’ by Paul de Senneville (Marriage of love) then Humphrey’s disapproving gaze. ‘I didn’t think we needed that much in the way of groceries. It’s only a dinner party.’
‘That’s the problem. You don’t think.’
‘I didn’t mean to offend you, darling. It’s just that we must be careful now that I’m no longer working. You should try to be less frivolous, mmm?’
‘You invited them over.’
‘Yes, but I expect them to be fed wholesome, homemade food, not expensive, ready-prepared meals.’
I push past him and barge through the kitchen door. Muriel is there with her apron on and wearing gloves to disguise the fact she doesn’t wear a ring.
‘What are you doing here?’ I turn from Muriel to Humphrey, who smiles and tries to placate me with a warm hand on my lower back, steering me down the hall and into the morning room where there’s less chance of his ex-housekeeper hearing my raised voice.
‘You’ve brought her back. Why?’
‘I’m not feeling as agile as I once was, and you don’t seem to have the time to keep the rooms tidy anymore so—’
‘You don’t think I clean the house as well as her.’
‘I didn’t say that.’ He smiles and reaches out to touch me, but I step away from him and slam the backs of my heels into the conker-brown skirting boar
ds.
I fight the urge to stab the letter opener I spot parked on the French mahogany desk behind him through his pompous throat.
‘I know you’ve had your differences, but I’d like you to try and get along with her.’
A flash of red-washed lingerie zips across the insides of my eyelids while I clench my hands into fists. ‘She ruined my white underwear, or have you forgotten?’
‘I know you think she did it on purpose, but I assure you she isn’t malicious.’
‘What is she doing in my kitchen?’
‘Muriel is just helping out until you…’
Start behaving like a married woman.
‘She’s a pretentious bitch.’
‘She’s a friend.’
‘I’m your wife.’ I blink hard and bite my lip until I taste the metallic tang of blood.
‘Yes, you are. So perhaps…’
It’s time you started acting like one.
I cross my arms and tap my foot. ‘Spit it out, Humphrey.’
He takes a second longer than I have the patience for, and I spin round to stomp down the hall.
‘I understand how difficult it is for you to adjust. You’ve been privileged. And that’s partly my fault. I should have supported you to find something more productive to do in your spare time, away from the house. And now that I’ve retired, I’m going to be around more often. We can spend more time together. Though we may get in each other’s way if you don’t find something to occupy yourself with when I’m not around.’
The last of his words die as I re-enter the kitchen to find Muriel holding a packet of ham up to the light to inspect the label. ‘Overpriced,’ she says.
‘For you, perhaps,’ I say, hauling the bags up from the floor to deposit on the dining table.
Jealous cow.
I begin to stow away the food haphazardly, aware that I’m being watched. Wild rice, tagliatelle pasta, parmesan cheese and raw Manuka honey are stored on top of jars of pesto and sundried tomato sauces, and packets of lentils and couscous.
Muriel sighs and glances over my shoulder. I follow her gaze to where Humphrey stands with a reproachful look on his face. His eyes are pink and tired-looking. There are deep grooves beneath the sacks of sagging skin beneath them. Under his wide protruding nose, flecked with dry patches and age spots, his mouth twitches.
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