Til Death Do Us Part: A gripping psychological thriller with a killer twist

by Daniel Hurst

  To say I’m feeling a little giddy is an understatement. I feel like a kid on Christmas morning, which is ridiculous because who feels that way about going for an interview and meeting a recruitment agent for a drink? Yet here I am, all dressed up and ready to go.

  I’m wearing a smart black pencil dress that I ordered online a couple of days ago on Craig’s card. I mixed it in amongst a sea of other items of clothing like blouses, underwear and a couple of jumpers, so he wouldn’t notice it, not that he pays much attention to what I order online anyway.

  Along with the black heels on my feet and the perfect amount of makeup on my face, I am looking just like someone on their way to a day in the office. It feels weird to see myself looking like this in the mirror, what with it having been three years since I last did an honest day’s work. I remember how I used to hate having to wear bland clothing just to fit into the corporate world, but it does feel nice to get the opportunity to make a little effort with my appearance again. These days, the closest I come to makeup and a dress is when Craig and I venture out for a meal on a Saturday night, which doesn’t happen often. He prefers to stay in, and I have to say that I prefer it too. We’re not exactly old, but we are certainly past the point of running around in bars and nightclubs on the weekend. Craig likes to be at home, where we can hear ourselves talk without any loud music or noisy tables interrupting us, and I agree.

  But today isn’t about staying in and staying quiet.

  Today, it’s about what will hopefully be a fun, first meeting with Sally.

  Hopefully, it won’t be the last.

  Happy with how I look, I make sure I have everything that I need in my handbag, and then I prepare to head downstairs where I will call the taxi and make sure everything is straight in the house before I leave. I know that Craig plays squash on a Wednesday night with a guy in his office and they like to go for a beer or two afterwards, so I’m not expecting him home until nearer 10 pm this evening. That should give me more than enough time to have a few drinks with Sally and let my hair down a little, although not too much.

  I won’t want Craig to know that I have been drinking tonight, otherwise he will presume that I have been sitting alone all day with a bottle of red wine again and I promised I wouldn’t do that anymore. But I know my limits and will stay within them. By the time Craig walks through the bedroom door tonight, I will already be under the duvet, in my pyjamas and makeup-free, and he will have no idea about my little excursion into London today.

  Again, I get a pang of guilt about lying to my husband, but I dispel it by telling myself that I’m not doing anything that would harm him. It’s not as if I’m sneaking into the city for an illicit meeting with a strange man, nor do I do this on a regular basis. I can’t remember the last time I went out and met someone else for a drink, and while I wish I could drop all the secrecy and just tell Craig, I had already told him I had turned down the interview, so I don’t want to go back on it.

  The interview.

  In all my excitement about meeting Sally and having a girly drink, I’ve almost forgotten the real purpose of my trip to London today. I’m supposed to be doing my best to impress whoever’s hiring and land the job that I applied for last week, yet here I am with nothing but the wine bar on my mind.

  Even though I know that I will have to turn down the job if they offer it to me, there is a big part of me that wants to show myself in the best light today, if only to prove to myself that I am capable of being so much more than just a stay-at-home wife. I’ll admit I would like it if the person or persons sitting across the table from me today seemed impressed by both my appearance and the answers I give to their questions in the interview. I don’t want to do so well that I end up getting offered the job on the spot and have to turn it down awkwardly, but I also don’t want to be a shrinking violet in there who comes across as someone who has barely left her house in years.

  I used to be a very chatty and confident woman, and I know that side of me is still in there somewhere. It might have been dulled slightly by countless days sitting inside on my own in the middle of nowhere, but I can soon get back to that with the right stimulation.

  I’m a people person.

  I just need to be around some damn people.

  After hanging my handbag over the bannister at the bottom of the stairs, I unlock my phone and find the number for the local taxi service. There are no Ubers around here because there are hardly any customers around here, so I will have to do things the old-fashioned way.

  Phone up. Speak to an actual human. Give them my address. Then stand at the window and keep checking for any sign of them arriving outside. It’s like living in the Stone Age, but what did I expect when I moved here?

  There’s hardly going to be as many taxis here as there are in Times Square.

  As I wait for the operator to answer my call at the taxi rank, I check my appearance one more time in the hallway mirror. I feel like I’ve been transported back in time to my younger days. I knew I had missed them.

  But I didn’t realise that I had missed them this much.

  20

  CRAIG

  I was supposed to be playing squash with a colleague tonight, but I’ve cancelled those plans. That’s because I know that my wife is still going ahead with hers and I don’t want to miss a thing.

  Standing in the kitchen on the third floor of my workplace in West London, I stare at my mobile phone while I wait for the coffee machine to finish making me my cappuccino. The reason for my interest in my phone’s screen is because it is showing me the little green dot which signifies my wife’s current location. The software I installed on her phone also has a feature that allows me to see where she is at all times based on the signal from her mobile. I don’t check that often because I know she is doing nothing but sitting at home, but today I am keeping my eyes on her every move.

  She is currently at Waterloo station, which tells me that she has taken a train from our home in the country all the way to the city centre. The thought of Megan strutting around the capital in her office attire, turning heads while thinking that I am none the wiser, is an infuriating one but there is not much I can do about it right now.

  I am going to let her attend her interview, and I am also going to allow her to meet up with Sally, the recruitment agent who has annoyingly found her way into my wife’s email inbox. But I will be on my way to Covent Garden as soon as I have finished my cappuccino, to the bar where my wife is drinking tonight. I will position myself somewhere where she can’t see me, but I can see her. Then I will watch as she presumably attempts to turn Sally from a casual professional acquaintance into a friend.

  Good luck with that one, Megan.

  The coffee machine finishes doing its thing, and I pick up the porcelain mug and bring it to my lips, blowing softly on the foamy surface before taking a small sip of the delicious caffeine. There are many perks to working in a place like this, but the use of the state-of-the-art coffee machine on the third floor is up there amongst my favourites.

  Megan can’t make me a coffee as good as this, that’s for sure.

  “Hey, there you are. I just swung by your office and thought you’d left early.”

  I turn around to see John, the bank’s compliance manager, standing in the kitchen doorway. Over sixty years of age and with little hair left on his head, he looks like somebody that should have left the banking world behind and had his feet up in the garden a long time ago. Yet here he is, still dutifully turning up to work every day which leads me to think that he doesn’t have anywhere near enough money saved up to retire yet, or he can’t stand to be at home all day with his wife.

  I can relate to that last one.

  “You know me, John. When do I ever leave early?”

  “When there’s a happy hour on somewhere.”

  I laugh at John’s lame joke.

  “No happy hours today, unfortunately,” I say, before taking another sip of my hot drink. “What were you after me for?”

/>   “I heard you cancelled your game of squash tonight. It’s not like you to drop out of a chance to kick Danny’s butt on the court. Everything okay?”

  I smile because he is right. I do enjoy my Wednesday evenings giving our young IT Manager the run around on the court. Danny is a fine squash player, but he’s not at my level. Very few people are, but that doesn’t just relate to racquet sports.

  “Everything’s fine. Just got a few things I need to sort out at home tonight. I’ll give him another beating next week.”

  “Good, because it’s your beatings that keep him from walking around the office thinking he’s god’s gift to the world. Without you bringing him back down to earth every week, he’d be unbearable. Have a good night.”

  John moves on from the doorway, allowing me to slip out of the kitchen a few seconds later and make my way back to my office, where I can finish my cappuccino in peace.

  It’s nice that John appreciates the lesson that I give to Danny each week on the squash court because he is right. The young guy needs it. He’s barely thirty, and he’s already heading up the IT Department for a large bank in its London office, which means he is earning good money. Add into that his good looks and boyish charm and it’s easy to see why he walks around the office like the cat who got the cream. But I’m not much older than him, nor does he have me beat in the looks department. And he certainly doesn’t have me beat on the squash court.

  I’m still the big man around here, and everybody knows it.

  Retaking my seat behind my desk, I take care to place my coffee down before making another check on the green icon on my mobile phone. But Megan’s location hasn’t updated for several minutes now, which must mean she is currently in the Underground, whizzing through the tunnels beneath the city.

  A quick check on the time tells me that she is due at the offices of Papier Projects for her interview in twenty minutes. She will arrive at the right time too, barring any delays on the tube. Not too early as to look overly keen, but not so late as to be rushing through the reception and straight into the interview room.

  As surprising as it is that she has gone behind my back like this, I can’t help but feel like I want her to do well in the interview.

  If they like her then it will make what comes next even worse for her.

  Putting my phone down and turning to my computer screen, I am met with the sight of several emails that were not in my inbox a few moments ago when I left for the kitchen.

  More emails. More work. More bullshit.

  It is annoying that I had to cancel the squash tonight because I could have done with letting off some steam. But I will get my chance soon enough.

  I just have to be patient.

  I just have to wait for Megan to get her interview out of the way.

  21

  MEGAN

  I wasn’t nervous before. But I am now.

  I arrived on time. Not too early, but not too late. I gave my name to the receptionist, who found my details on her computer and politely told me to take a seat. And I’ve been waiting here patiently ever since. But they seem to be running late with the interview because I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes now and I still haven’t been called in.

  The more time that passes, the more nervous I become.

  If I thought it had been weird to get dressed as if I was going to the office again then it’s even weirder to be inside one now. All the sights and sounds that were so familiar to me before are still here.

  The sound of the receptionist’s fingers typing on her keyboard. The noise from the access panel by the front door when an employee swipes their card to enter or exit. And of course, all the polite small talk that occurs on a daily basis in a place like this, where several strangers are forced to coexist and become friends simply because they ended up working at the same place.

  “Good afternoon.”

  “How’s things?”

  “Same old, you?”

  “Yeah, not bad.”

  “Good. See you later.”

  I have watched several people coming in and out of this office and heard several iterations of the same conversation while I have sat here. All just harmless, banal chat between colleagues, as the employees who work elsewhere in this building say a few words to the employee who sits on the reception desk all day.

  A few of them have glanced over at me when they have been passing through, no doubt intrigued by the sight of a potential new colleague waiting to be interviewed. I even noticed a couple of the men taking second looks in my direction, though I don’t know if that is because they are attracted to me or if they are just wondering how I ever made it to the interview stage. While the gap in my employment history shows up clearly on my CV, I like to think that it isn’t showing in my appearance. But maybe it is.

  Maybe it is evident that I don’t belong here.

  The access panel to the internal door by reception makes another noise, and I look up to see a tall man in a smart blue suit walking through the doorway. He looks to be in his mid-thirties, with brilliant blue eyes, short, clipped hair and a beard that is equally trimmed. As I watch him lean over the reception desk and whisper with the pretty girl behind it, I can’t help wondering what this man would look like outside of work.

  It’s something I often thought about when I used to work in an office where I was used to seeing the same people wearing the same type of clothing every day. The men always in shirts and ties. The women always in blouses and skirts. Not much creativity or originality.

  Not much personality.

  It was always strange then to see a colleague outside of the office, either for after-work drinks or simply after bumping into them somewhere other than the four walls where we worked for forty hours a week. Seeing someone who always wore a suit suddenly wearing a t-shirt and jeans was quite startling to the eye, and the mind, as if you never anticipated that they could get changed into something more comfortable outside of the office.

  Sometimes the colleague looked better in their personal clothes, but sometimes they looked worse. It was a bizarre phenomenon, but very interesting at the same time. We become used to how people present themselves to us, but we only see what they allow us to see. Everybody is only allowing their professional side to be seen in a place like this because office rules state that formal attire must be worn at all times. But there are other sides to everybody here, including the man currently standing at reception.

  While he looks super smart in his fitted suit, I wonder if he has quite the same air of authority outside of work when he is lounging around in a faded t-shirt and an old pair of jeans. While every part of his skin is covered right now baring his head and his neck, maybe his lower body is covered in tattoos, the kind that would cause offense if they were ever glimpsed in the workplace. Perhaps he wears leather jackets in his free time.

  Or maybe he wears nothing at all.

  I’ll admit that it is probably my deep thinking on such trivial matters as this that led to me not enjoying my previous incarnation as an office employee. I always tend to overthink things, which can be dangerous in a place like this. Sometimes it’s better to just turn up, say good morning and crack on with the job instead of pondering life and everything within it. It was that same pondering that made me feel down every day during my commute and for all the hours I was sitting at my desk.

  There’s got to be more to life than this.

  How can everybody else do this for the next thirty years?

  Is this it for me until I retire?

  It was no wonder I jumped at the opportunity when Craig told me he wanted me to hand in my notice and quit the rat race.

  But my deep thinking didn’t get much better at home, which is why I find myself here now. It’s why I find myself trying to imagine what the man at reception looks like in normal clothing instead of the HR-mandated suit.

  And it’s why I have completely missed the fact that he is now looking at me and saying my name.

  “Megan?”
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br />   “Yes!” I reply, leaping up out of my seat and rushing towards the man with the blue eyes, extending a hand in his direction for him to take and then shaking it eagerly when he does.

  “Nice to meet you,” the man says, smiling as he shakes my hand. “Sorry for the slight delay but if you could just follow me, we will get the interview started now.”

  22

  CRAIG

  The green dot on my screen that is my wife tells me that she is still inside the office near Charing Cross. The interview was due to begin at half four, and it’s now been an hour. That suggests that it was running late to start with, or things are going well inside that room.

  As ever, I regret not installing a recording device on my wife’s phone, so I could hear what she is saying now instead of just seeing where she is. Instead, I am forced to loiter on this street opposite the office building where my wife is currently located, waiting for her to leave so I can follow her to the next meeting.

  It was certainly easier when she just stayed at home all day.

  The streets are getting busier by the minute as the offices empty and the workers inside rush to spend the last part of their day in a place where they actually want to be.

  Home. Gym. Pub. Anywhere is better than the office.

  There is still no sign of Megan, and it is dead on half five. She can’t have been in there for a whole hour, can she? What the hell could they possibly be asking her that she couldn’t have answered in ten minutes?

  “Thank you for coming in today. Can you tell me about why you applied for the role?”

  “I see there is a three year gap in your employment history. Can you tell me why that is?”

  “Why do you think we should consider you over the other, more qualified, candidates for the role?”

  There’s no way Megan gets this job. I refuse to believe that her application was the best of the bunch.

  So why the hell is she still in there?

  I’m doing my best to stay calm, but every second that door across the street doesn’t open is another opportunity for my heart rate to rise and my anxiety levels to increase.