He wasn’t.
‘No one else touched it,’ he said, his hand hovering over whatever cocktail it was that other guy had bought for me. There were some more drinks on the table now, too. ‘Promise on my life,’ he’d added, coming right up close and whispering it in my ear.
‘We are… we are very proud of him,’ I say now in the supermarket, forcing myself back to the present. ‘Kieran’s a good lad.’ I kick myself for revealing his name. ‘Can I…? Excuse me, I just need to get…’ I attempt to swing the trolley to the side of him but he has it fixed in place. His foot is also wedged under a front wheel.
‘And is your husband proud of you, Dr Miller?’ Scott goes on, his eyes boring into me.
I stare at him, my eyes narrowing slightly.
A hand on my thigh… a finger slipping beneath the hem of my dress…
‘Of course,’ I manage to say, even though my throat is suddenly constricting from the broken memories.
‘That’s good to hear,’ Scott says in a slow, drawn-out way. ‘A wife supporting her husband.’
I feel the sweat break out on my back… my face… under my arms.
I’d finished my drink… then drank the shots… somehow found myself laughing with him… dancing… feeling dizzy, free, unreal… Something wasn’t right, yet I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. ‘Let’s get you up to bed…’
‘Excuse me, Mr Shaw. I really have to go now.’ And with that, I thrust my trolley hard at him, catching him unawares as the metal shoves him in the thigh, forcing him to step aside as he fights a look of shock.
‘Hi, Ronnie,’ I say down the line, glancing at the kitchen clock. ‘You got a minute?’
‘Sure,’ she says back, the single drawn-out syllable indicating she knows there’s something on my mind.
‘When we were at the gym the other evening, well, I was going to tell you someth—’
‘Actually, I’m glad you called,’ Rhonda interrupts. ‘Is Kieran home yet?’
‘No… no, football training again.’
‘You mean the school team?’
‘Yes,’ I say, frustrated that she’s broken my flow. It’s taken me half an hour to build up the courage to call her and all my strength to resist the bottle of wine in the fridge. To acknowledge the reason for my abstinence, I place my hand on my belly.
‘It was cancelled,’ Rhonda tells me. ‘There’s been no football training at all this week.’
‘Really? Where the hell is Kieran, then?’
‘That was actually what I was going to ask you. He wasn’t in school this afternoon.’
‘And no one thought to call me?’ I say, standing up from the stool at the kitchen island, feeling a wave of concern sweep through me.
‘The secretary did call, and left messages on your voicemail and at the surgery.’
Shit.
‘Sorry, sorry… I’m a bit behind with things today.’ I head to the hallway and go up to the big expanse of glass overlooking the driveway, concerned for where my son is. It was Jeremy’s idea not to have any blinds or curtains up at the double-height windows when we renovated the barn. We’re so private down the long drive and positioned on the edge of the village, with no houses overlooking us. More than anything, he hated the feeling of being trapped, hemmed in.
‘You there, Jen?’ Rhonda says.
I see my reflection staring back as I cup my hands to the glass, squinting down the drive. If Kieran has an activity after school, he’ll either cycle home in the summer or otherwise I’ll fetch him in the car. If I can’t, he knows to call a taxi and put it on my account. I know for a fact his bike is in the garage as I saw it when I went to put something in the chest freezer out there earlier.
‘Yes, yes… just checking to see if I can see him coming down the drive.’ I glance at my watch. Seven thirty. I’m still rattled from encountering Scott Shaw in the supermarket earlier. Somehow, calling my best friend, telling her that I’m pregnant, that it was fate – a parting gift from Jeremy (even though I know it wasn’t) – seemed the right thing to do.
‘Oh, thank Christ,’ I say, seeing a figure gradually draw closer as it lumbers down the drive in the glow of the coach lamp. I’d recognise my son’s walk anywhere – shoulders forward, countering the weight of his backpack stuffed full of books, hands shoved in his pockets and head down – and if his hands aren’t in his pockets then they’re holding his phone, his thumbs racing over the screen. ‘He’s just got back,’ I tell Rhonda through a flood of relief.
‘Thank Christ indeed,’ Rhonda repeats. ‘Look, I’ll let you go and give him a good grilling.’ She laughs. ‘Oh, and quickly, what was it you wanted to tell me?’
I watch Kieran draw up to the front door, only spotting me at the last moment. His face tells me he knows that I know.
‘Nothing,’ I tell Rhonda quietly. ‘Nothing important at all. Chat tomorrow, bye.’ And I hang up, taking a deep breath as my son lets himself inside, drawing him into my arms without the slightest intention of telling him off.
Ten
Jen
I’m four patients into my morning clinic when I see his name on my list. He’s taken me at my word and booked another appointment for a referral. Good, I think. I’ll happily refer him on to a physio to get him out of my hair, though I don’t think he’s given it enough time to heal.
‘I’m sure you’ll be feeling a lot better in no time, won’t you, Tilly?’ I say to the little girl currently sitting on her mother’s lap. She’s clutching her left ear and whining in pain. It’s her third ear infection in the last few months.
‘Thanks, Doctor,’ her mother says – another of my regular patients, usually here for one of her four children.
Two patients to go before it’s him, I see on my screen, dealing with the others as professionally as I can, even though Scott Shaw’s appointment is weighing heavily on my mind. Every time I think of him, it’s the same – fragments of that night at the conference.
‘I’m afraid the results aren’t what we were hoping for, Frank,’ I tell my next patient – an elderly widower. The look on his face shows me he’s resigned, that he’s likely already accepted his fate. He’s told me before that he’s not afraid of dying, that he’ll be with his wife again. ‘So I’m going to transfer you back to the specialist, who will manage your cancer treatment going forward.’ He’s been fighting the disease for several years now. ‘But you come and see me whenever you like, OK? I’m always here for you.’
He nods, giving me a little smile. ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ he says quietly. ‘Honestly, I don’t know how I’d have got through this so far without your care and kindness. And you were such a comfort to Joan in her final days.’ His bottom lip quivers as he asks me a couple more questions, to which I provide the best answers I can, and then he shuffles off on his way.
I cup my head in my hands for a few moments, taking stock of everything. When I close my eyes, all I see are two naked and tangled bodies on a bed. It’s not clear if they’re fighting or having the most passionate sex of their lives – though I can see quite clearly that the woman is me.
My intercom buzzes. ‘Yes, Peggy?’ I say, grateful for the interruption.
‘Your nine forty is a no-show currently. I’ll send the next patient through.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, double-checking my list to see who hasn’t arrived. Scott Shaw. Momentarily, I feel lighter inside, a sense of relief that he’s not here, though I wish I knew why. Or, perhaps, I tell myself, it’s because I don’t want to know why.
‘Still no sign of the nine forty?’ I ask Peggy at just after 11 a.m.
‘Nope. Sorry,’ she says, chewing on something. ‘Do you want me to call him to reschedule?’
‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘No, no, that’s OK, thanks, Peggy.’
And I continue with the rest of my day, hoping that my mind will take me back to that hotel room so I can look down on the bed again, get a good look at the person lying next to me.
‘Déjà vu,’ I joke to Rhonda on the phone
later that evening, hoping to have the catch-up that had been cut short. ‘Sorry I missed spin class earlier. Work ran late. Was it good? Actually, scratch that. Of course it wasn’t,’ I say through a sarcastic laugh. Truth was, I just felt too exhausted to go. It was like that in the early stages of pregnancy with Kieran.
‘Did you have a word with Kieran?’ Rhonda asks. ‘About the other afternoon.’
‘I did,’ I reply. ‘A damned stern one,’ I tell her for effect, though that’s not how it went at all. Kieran and I had stood together in the hallway, holding each other close, crying until we had no more tears. Then we cooked, ate, and pored over old photographs of Jeremy, with my son finally revealing that he’d been feeling ill at school but hadn’t wanted to come straight home. It didn’t take a doctor to realise he wasn’t ill ill at all, rather that he was suffering, still grieving. More than I’d perhaps realised since he lost his dad. They were so close, and just because he’d gone back to school, it didn’t mean he was ready.
‘Where did he go?’ Rhonda asks.
‘Just to the reservoir. He said he walked around a bit, then ran into a couple of mates when they’d finished school and went back to one of their houses for a while.’
‘He should have phoned you. The last thing you need to be worrying about is his safety and whereabouts.’
‘I know, I know,’ I say. ‘But take your teacher’s hat off for a sec, Ronnie. He’s struggling. I don’t know how to help him. And I certainly don’t feel big enough to fill the hole his father left behind.’
‘You’re not supposed to, Jen,’ she says. ‘Just be you. Just be his mum. You’re still grieving too, remember? In time, the hole will heal over. It’ll never go away and there’ll always be a scar, but right now it’s an open wound for both of you.’
‘And it’s my job to make sure it doesn’t get infected.’ I grab the just-boiled kettle and slosh some water into a mug containing a herbal teabag, resting my forehead against the wall cupboard briefly.
‘Anyway, I’m glad you got to the bottom of it,’ Rhonda says. ‘We were worried at school. I decided not to say anything about his missing coursework to him for the very same reason. If he needs to resit some of his exams, that’s an option, you know.’
‘Missing coursework?’ I say. ‘Christ,’ I add, feeling even more out of touch with my son’s life. ‘Thanks, Ronnie. If it’s any consolation, he’s at Josh’s right now. He’ll be back in half an hour.’ I glance at the clock. ‘They’re meant to be studying, though they’re probably on the PlayStation and—’ I stop suddenly, catching sight of car headlights arcing around the driveway through the window. ‘Great,’ I mutter. ‘Someone’s here, Ron. Can I call you back in a moment?’
‘Sure,’ she says and hangs up.
For a moment, I wonder if it might be Josh’s mum dropping Kieran home early, but in case it’s not, I leave the hall light off as I creep towards the door to check. I don’t want to have to see anyone or make chit-chat tonight.
Since Jeremy’s accident, almost two months ago now, I’ve had a steady stream of well-meaning visitors. In the early days, they turned up with casseroles or home-made soup for the freezer. Flowers and sympathy cards adorned the living room, and my phone was constantly lighting up with messages of support and offers of help – for shopping, company and practical issues such as maintaining the garden and paddock.
But over the last few weeks, the offers have tapered off. And now I just want to be alone with my grief and my son, work it out our own way.
I duck back from the doorway when I see it’s not Josh’s mum’s car, hovering out of sight in the kitchen, waiting for the doorbell to ring. I’m in two minds whether to answer it. I’d planned on chatting to Rhonda and then having a bath before fetching Kieran. A soak would have given me time to think – about being pregnant, about what to do. I know the baby inside me can’t be Jeremy’s – which means only one thing: that I cheated. But I also know that’s simply not true; I would never have done that in a thousand years. Not willingly, anyway.
I cover my face at the thought of whatever happened that night, desperately wishing I could turn back time. Then I dare to peek through into the hallway again, hoping that whoever it is has gone. Outside on the drive, I see the light from the coach lamp above the door reflecting off the side of a car – a sleek, black vehicle that I don’t recognise. Then I hear footsteps crunching across the gravel, followed by the doorbell ringing. Before I can even decide what to do, the chime sounds again. And again and again.
Please let Kieran be OK, I think, as my thoughts immediately go into overdrive. The insistence of the person outside sends me rushing to the front door. I don’t see who’s standing behind it until I pull it open.
‘Oh!’ I say, recoiling. My hand is still on the door and every fibre of my being screams at me to slam it shut, turn the deadlock and slide across the two bolts. But I just stand there, frozen.
‘I hope you don’t mind me calling round unannounced,’ Scott says. He’s wearing an army-style bomber jacket with a black crew-neck sweater underneath, jeans and tan boots, though my mind only takes in his appearance because he looks so different to when he came to my surgery or, indeed, when I encountered him in the supermarket.
Something in my stomach churns. He seems more familiar than ever.
‘Mr Shaw,’ I say. And then I’m silent. My mouth won’t form words.
‘I came to apologise,’ he continues, holding up a bottle of red wine. ‘I thought perhaps you might like to share this with me. If you have time, that is.’
That’s when I notice the bunch of flowers he’s clutching in his other hand, hanging down by his thigh.
‘And I thought these might help make amends too.’ He lifts the small bouquet, which turns out to be white roses.
‘Apologise?’ I say with a little shake of my head, frowning.
‘For being an arse in the supermarket. I… I don’t know what came over me. I shouldn’t have got in your way like that.’
‘No…’ I say vaguely, unable to take my eyes off this man – my patient – standing in the doorway of my house with a bottle of wine and a bunch of flowers.
‘So how about it, then? Let’s open this and start again, shall we?’
‘Start again?’ I say, bewildered. But it’s too late. Scott has somehow slid past me and is standing in my hallway, glancing around.
‘Nice place,’ he says. ‘Lived here long?’
‘Er… yes,’ I say, only half shutting the door. I don’t want to close it because I need him to leave. ‘It’s not actually a great time right—’
‘I was in my last place nearly twenty years,’ Scott says, running his hand along the edge of the hall table – the one Jeremy and I found in an antique shop in Devon. ‘And ten years in the one before that. You get used to a place, right?’
‘What?’ I say, baffled, shaking my head. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Mr Shaw, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I’m really busy right now, plus it’s not at all ethical for us to socialise. You’re my patient.’
‘Mr Shaw?’ he says. ‘That’s very formal.’ He laughs. No one else would think it a particularly sinister laugh, but I do. He looks through the double doorway to the kitchen. ‘Are you home alone?’
‘That’s irrelevant,’ I tell him. ‘And I really can’t accept the wine or flowers, I’m afraid.’ I open the front door wide again, feeling a rush of cold air. My heart thumps inside my chest as I look at him. I feel myself falling, drowning. The hotel room… stumbling… clothes ripping… the heat of skin on skin… alcohol… a hand around my throat…
‘Nonsense,’ he says. ‘That would be rude.’ He strides through into the breakfast area and onwards into my kitchen. ‘Where do you keep the glasses?’ he asks, his eyes scanning around. I glance over at my phone lying on the island unit behind him. Before I can answer, he spots them in a clear-fronted cupboard. He plonks the bottle on the granite worktop and fetches two stemmed glasses, placing them side by side. A moment
later, he’s handing me a drink, but I just stand there, my arms hanging limply and not even finding the resolve to pick up my phone to threaten a call to the police.
‘Cheers,’ he says, thrusting his drink towards me. ‘To new beginnings.’
‘New beginnings?’ I say weakly.
‘And to us,’ he says, not taking his eyes off me as he takes a long, slow sip.
Eleven
Jen
‘“Us”?’ I say, using my fingers as quote marks. I take the drink off him and put it on the counter, hoping he’ll put his glass down too. He doesn’t. ‘Really, I want you to leave now. I’m asking politely.’ He’s deluded. A crackpot. I should have recognised it sooner.
‘Ah, come on now, Jen. There’s no need for the pretence, surely?’
I shake my head and step to the other side of the kitchen island, wanting something solid between us. He must have mental health issues.
‘You’ve got the wrong end of the stick, Mr Shaw,’ I say, looking at him squarely. ‘I’m your doctor, and I’d prefer it if you called me Dr Miller. In the surgery,’ I add, knowing that after this, I won’t be able to see him as a patient again. I’ll be referring him to another practice.
‘Bit silly to be so formal, don’t you think?’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
I lean forward on the granite worktop, feeling my fingers splay out, pressing down into the cold stone as I’m back there again. Loud music… the room spinning… firm hands round my waist supporting me… the mirrors in the lift, me wondering who the gaunt woman staring back was… the hotel room… the discarded clothes.
Then the feeling inside me the next morning. As though I’d been invaded, stripped of my soul – even though I’d woken up alone. But oddly, I’d felt complete too. As though I’d been waiting for it all my life; as if I somehow deserved whatever had happened.
The Trapped Wife: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller with a mind-blowing twist Page 7