I cover my face, hardly able to believe this is happening.
‘Why… why didn’t we use a condom?’ I hiss, hating I even have to ask. None of this is me or my life. I slide my hands down my face. I feel dizzy, sick, and my head is filled with unanswered questions. The only person who can answer them is sitting right in front of me, yet I don’t trust him.
Scot smiles. ‘You really did have a skinful, didn’t you?’ He shakes his head, fiddling with the string of his teabag. ‘You told me that you had condoms back in your room, that you’d come prepared. I offered to use one but…’ He shifts on the sofa, almost as if the memory is turning him on. ‘But then you said you didn’t want to, that it would ruin it. I can’t believe you don’t remember that?’
I shake my head. ‘I… I don’t remember.’ All I know is that I would never have said those things.
‘You told me that it was fine. You’re a doctor, after all, so I believed you. Afterwards, as we lay there, you resting your head on my shoulder, you told me not to worry, that you were on the pill.’
I bow my head. ‘I don’t carry condoms. Why the hell would I?’ It doesn’t make sense. He must be lying.
Scott shrugs and stands up, placing his mug on the table. He goes over to the wood burner and looks down at the flames consuming the kindling, eating into the logs.
‘I get that you’re angry, Jennifer. You let yourself down. But what’s a man supposed to do in that situation? I assure you, a baby wasn’t in my game plan either.’ He stares down at me. ‘But look, I can’t deny that a part of me is pleased. We just need to decide what to do.’
‘We? We need to decide what to do?’
Scott nods.
‘I need to decide what to do.’
I think back to the last six months of Jeremy’s life. It’s true that I was on the pill – I had been since we’d stopped trying for another baby. Though I stopped taking it when Jeremy died. Last year, our sex life had taken a nosedive, mainly because of me and the knots I’d tied myself up in. Suspicion, paranoia and accusations didn’t do much for either of our libidos.
‘There were a couple of times that I forgot to take the pill,’ I admit. ‘And I had a stomach upset for a few days in December. Just before the conference.’ I cover my face again, knowing that’s all it takes.
Scott sits back down, but this time right next to me. ‘You’ll keep the baby.’
It’s not a question. I stare at him, his face only a couple of feet away from mine. His hand reaches out and touches my leg, his fingers resting on the fabric of my black work trousers. My head swims, my mind feeling bruised and battered – filled partly with the events of that night, and partly with the realisation that my husband is never coming back.
I feel a finger on my cheek.
‘You’re crying,’ Scott says, reaching into his pocket for a tissue. I take it, dabbing at my face.
‘Yes,’ I say, aware that the hand on my leg has crept up to the waistband of my trousers. ‘I’m keeping the baby.’ He rubs the area a couple of times and his eyes almost explode in fan lines from the smile on his face.
‘Good girl,’ he says, leaning in and giving me a kiss on the cheek where a new tear has rolled.
‘What do you reckon?’ Scott says, holding out his phone with one hand, while the other stirs the sauce. ‘Doesn’t look much yet but I’ll make it homely.’
I lean forward to see, putting my hand out to take the phone for a closer look, but Scott keeps a firm hold of it, swiping through a couple more pictures of the property that he’s getting the keys for tomorrow.
‘It looks fine,’ I say flatly, not wanting to indulge in chit-chat.
‘It’s tiny,’ Scott laughs. ‘Compared to this place, anyway.’ He turns back to the stove.
Earlier, I’d told him, through gritted teeth, that he could stay here for one night only. If I hadn’t, he’d made it perfectly clear that he wouldn’t hesitate to broadcast what had happened between us. I conned myself into thinking it would give us a chance to discuss a plan about the baby, how he would contribute and if he wanted contact after the birth. It was something that had to be addressed, and I figured I might as well get it out of the way while Kieran wasn’t home.
I’d protested further, of course, about him staying the night – that he should find another hotel, but he wasn’t having it. He’d given me that look again – the one where his blue eyes crystallised as if they were freezing over, somehow taking control of me, reminding me of what he knew and the consequences of that getting out.
‘Tastes good,’ he says, sampling the sauce. He’d insisted on cooking, despite me telling him I had little in the fridge. And it gave him an opportunity to tell me about his new job, the reason he’d relocated to the area in the first place – although I was beginning to wonder about that now.
‘So you start next week?’
‘Indeed,’ he says, grinding more black pepper into the pan. ‘Head chef at that new restaurant in Shenbury.’
‘I haven’t heard about a new place,’ I say, though with everything that’s been going on, that’s not surprising. ‘What’s it called?’
‘The restaurant?’ He’s silent for a moment. ‘The owner is keeping it top secret until the grand opening. I’ll see if I can get you an invite.’
I don’t reply. Eating out is way down my list of priorities. It’s taking all my mental reserves to get started on sorting out Jeremy’s study. Rhonda offered to help, but I can just imagine what Jeremy would think of that – people nosing through his personal belongings.
‘Right, dinner’s ready,’ Scott says, taking a couple of pasta bowls he’s had in the oven to warm. He serves out the spaghetti and adds the sauce.
Reluctantly, I grab some cutlery, slamming it on the table harder than I’d intended, watching incredulously as Scott helps himself to a beer from the fridge. I sit down, feeling helpless as he grates parmesan over my spaghetti. I’m not in the least bit hungry, but I know I need to eat something for my baby. And with every mouthful I take, I have to keep reminding myself that it’s only for one night.
‘Do you like it?’ he asks, watching as I take a mouthful.
Without looking at him, I give him a brief nod. The last thing I’m going to admit is that it actually tastes good.
I’ve not been looking after myself these last few weeks – skipping breakfast because of nausea and hardly having time for lunch. And while I’ve been cooking for Kieran, I’ve not felt like eating much myself in the evenings. Cooking reminds me too much of the routine Jeremy and I had – preparing food together, a glass of wine to hand, making plans for the weekend or our next family holiday. Sometimes he’d tell me about his book – though, looking back, he never revealed much about his progress.
‘So you trained as a chef?’ I ask, feeling the need to make conversation, to keep him onside. Ridiculous, given that my gut is screaming out that I did not consent to sex with this man – and certainly not from a clear head capable of making such a decision.
‘Yes, I was given an opportunity to learn the trade in… in a huge kitchen in London,’ Scott says, glancing up. ‘I was moved around the country a few times, working in various… catering facilities.’ For some reason, Scott laughs – a laugh that makes my skin crawl. ‘Why did you become a doctor?’ he goes on, studying me as he chews.
I think about this answer carefully, though there’s no need. It’s well practised, a couple of lines by rote even though it’s not quite the truth.
‘When I was sixteen, I was babysitting and the little girl I was looking after choked on a sweet. I saved her life and, from that moment on, I knew I had to become a doctor. It was as simple as that.’ I look at Scott over the rim of my glass of water. I’ve never told anyone that I actually wanted to be a doctor way before that.
‘I can’t imagine,’ Scott says, his eyes hardening again. ‘Saving someone’s life.’
Eighteen
Jen
‘You did what?’ Rhonda says, tripping ove
r the step at my front door the next day. ‘Who on earth is Scott?’
‘Chill,’ I say, my voice wavering. ‘It’s fine.’ But going by the look on Rhonda’s face, she doesn’t think it’s fine at all. ‘He’s… he’s an old friend of Jeremy’s,’ I say, thinking on the fly. ‘He’s gone now and it was only for one night.’ I take the casserole dish from her, leaning down to sniff around the lid, thankful that she didn’t arrive fifteen minutes ago or she and Scott would have crossed paths. ‘Thanks so much for this,’ I say, tapping the casserole. ‘We’ll have this later. Two proper meals in the same number of days.’ I turn and head to the kitchen, Rhonda following me. I hadn’t been expecting her to call round.
‘Kier and Caitlin have their heads down studying. He arrived right on time this morning.’ She goes to the kettle and fills it up. ‘I’ve got them picking apart An Inspector Calls. And what do you mean, two proper meals?’
‘Scott cooked for me last night. He’s a chef.’
‘Oh, did he now?’ Rhonda grabs mugs, teabags, milk. She eyes me, shaking her head, her arms folded as she leans back against the kitchen worktop. ‘So why haven’t I heard of this Scott person before, then?’
I shrug, hesitating. ‘Jeremy met him a few years ago through… um, through work. Scott was catering on set. I’ve met him a few times and… and he, well, he didn’t know Jeremy had… you know…’ I drop my eyes for a moment, hating that I’m lying to my best friend. We always tell each other everything. ‘It was a huge shock for him so I invited him in for a drink. He had a few, so I said he could crash here the night. That’s all.’ My voice sounds choked and tight, my mouth dry as I over-explain.
I wait for Rhonda to pick up on the deceit – a hound sniffing out a fox – but she stays silent.
‘By coincidence, he’s starting a new job in the area, so that’s why he called round.’ The lies roll off my tongue.
Rhonda stares at me. ‘You need to be careful, Jen.’ She sloshes boiling water into the mugs.
‘What?’
‘You know what I mean. Attractive widow. Big house. Good career. They’ll all be coming out of the woodwork now.’
‘I know… but you’re wrong about Scott,’ I say, cupping my hands around the mug. ‘Scott is… he’s fine. Harmless.’ I swallow some tea, burning my mouth. ‘I probably won’t even see him again. He gets the keys to his new place today and starts his new job in a few days.’
I kick myself inwardly, knowing that at some point I’ll have to explain the inconsistency with my pregnancy dates and the birth, as well as Scott seeming more than the casual acquaintance I’ve portrayed if he demands to spend time with the baby. But I’ll face all that when I have to.
‘I’ve got your back, Jen, OK? But like I said, be careful.’
I nod. ‘And you know I’ve always got yours.’ But the look on Rhonda’s face, the way her head hangs down over the steam of her hot drink, tells me there’s something else on her mind. And it’s a good chance to change the subject.
‘Anyway, enough about me. What’s up? You’ve got a face like a horse.’
It’s the moment’s delay before she speaks that tells me I’m right. ‘It’s Caitlin.’
‘Is she OK?’ I’ve been so wrapped up in my own problems these last few weeks, I’ve failed to notice if everything is OK in Rhonda’s life.
‘I don’t know. She’s… she’s been tearful lately, though she’s tried to put on a brave face. I don’t know that it’s boy troubles as such. Chris has noticed too.’
‘That’s odd. She’s usually so cheerful,’ I say, remembering the time we all spent together in Devon last summer. Caitlin always managed to bring a smile to everyone’s faces with her carefree manner, rallying everyone for beach games or board games in the evening, baking treats each afternoon, and getting us all singing along as she strummed her guitar.
‘Exactly. She’s been out of sorts for a few weeks now.’
‘Do you think Jeremy’s death hit her harder than you realised?’ It’s something I’d not considered before. ‘You know how teenagers overthink things, especially girls. Given Chris’s job, perhaps she’s anxious that something might happen to him too? I can have a word with Kier if you like, ask him to lay off talking about his dad.’
Rhonda shakes her head. ‘No, if Kieran needs to talk, then he should be able to. But you’re right. I shouldn’t underestimate her feelings. She’s known Jeremy since she was nine, and absolutely adores Chris. I’ll try to reassure her that he’s not going anywhere.’
We sip our tea in silence for a moment, each of us contemplating our individual ghosts. When someone dies, it’s not just one hole they leave behind.
‘Talking of Jeremy, weren’t you going to start sorting out his study this weekend?’
I nod. ‘Scott put paid to that last night by turning up, but I’m on it today.’ I push up my sweatshirt sleeves to show willing, but inside I’m far from that. The thought fills me with dread.
‘Then it’s a good job I stopped by,’ Rhonda says. ‘The kids have plenty of work to be getting on with for a few hours and I’ve nothing better to do. Let’s make a start.’
‘No’ isn’t a word Rhonda always hears. We stand in the doorway to Jeremy’s study, hands on hips, with Rhonda ready to get stuck in and neutralise the room, whereas my mind is now filled with doubt, thoughts of preserving everything just as it is. For some stupid reason, I imagine my husband might one day come back home, sit down at his desk and pick up on the chapter he was writing.
‘Maybe I should leave well alone,’ I say, feeling overwhelmed again. ‘Just shut the door on it.’
Rhonda strides in, going up to the large oak bookcase that lines one wall. She turns her head sideways to glance at some of the titles. ‘Are you ever going to read any of these?’ She plucks an old edition of something off a shelf and opens the hardback, carefully leafing through the pages. ‘Some of them might be worth something. This is a signed first edition. I know a dealer in Shenbury. I could get him out to take a look.’
‘Maybe,’ I say, going up to Jeremy’s desk. I imagine him sitting there, hunched over his laptop, tapping away furiously, his expression changing to mirror every scene he was working on. Sometimes I’d bring him in a drink and he’d have a deep frown set across his brow. Other times, he’d be leaning back and typing, one leg cocked up on his thigh, a breezy, contented look on his face. I didn’t have much idea of what his novel was about, and I sometimes wondered if he knew either.
‘It’s the personal stuff I need to go through,’ I tell Rhonda. ‘All his files, his papers – in case anything needs dealing with. Plus there’s his bank accounts to—’
‘Slow down, Jen.’ Rhonda pulls a face. ‘One bite at a time, OK?’ She sits down in the battered leather captain’s chair Jeremy found at a flea market. He never got round to fixing the wonky castor. ‘You mentioned he’d gone away to make a documentary. That was the reason for the…’ She bows her head briefly. ‘For the ski trip?’
‘Apparently.’ I nod, dropping down into the chair set the other side of the desk. ‘And some travel article he was writing.’ I think back, but the details were all so vague. ‘She was there, you know, Madeleine. On the trip.’ I bite my lip, looking away.
Rhonda nods. She’s listened to the story a thousand times already – me rewriting the script, speculating about what happened until I’m exhausted from it. Their history, what Jeremy saw in her that he didn’t see in me; how Madeleine could bring herself to be with the husband of another woman; if they were planning a future together. And each time Rhonda has gently allowed me to spew it out, then offered an alternative that doesn’t involve my husband sneaking off with a beautiful woman ten years younger than me and fucking her in the Swiss Alps.
‘Jen—’
‘Truth is, I don’t even know if she died in the avalanche with him. I hate the thought of them lying at the bottom of a snow-filled ravine together, their love for each other frozen forever. Literally.’ I shudder, worn out from i
t all.
‘Jen… stop it. You’ll drive yourself mad. Literally.’
She gets up and comes over to me, taking me by the shoulders, cradling me against her.
‘I’ve thought about getting in touch with the Swiss authorities. Perhaps they’d tell me if Madeleine was amongst the deceased.’
Rhonda immediately shakes her head. ‘No, Jen. Why torture yourself any more? I really don’t think getting in touch with them is a good idea.’
I ease myself away from Rhonda. ‘I’ve tortured myself enough as it is, stalking her online.’ I let out a laugh. ‘I never thought I’d be that woman.’ But I am, I add in my head.
‘Look, you don’t even know for sure if they were having an affair. If you can hold onto that thought, it might be some consolation.’
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ I say, though I can’t help it that my guts knot. ‘I don’t even have Jeremy to tell me I’m being stupid or imagining things any more.’ I pull my phone from my pocket, taking a breath as I open Instagram. I pass it to Rhonda. ‘That’s her, look. Careful you don’t “like” anything by mistake.’
Rhonda stares at me, an expression of pity on her face, before taking my phone and scrolling through a few of Madeleine’s pictures. ‘She’s travelled a lot over the years, by the looks of it. Though she’s not posted anything since late December, so it’s hard to tell from this if she’s dead or not.’ Rhonda’s cheeks colour up. ‘These last few show her in the mountains somewhere, perhaps on a skiing trip.’
‘Exactly,’ I say, relieved she agrees. ‘But just look at her, Ronnie.’ Tears prickle in my eyes. ‘Do you see what I mean now?’
‘She’s certainly beautiful, but…’ Rhonda trails off.
‘What is it?’ I stand up, peering over her shoulder. She’s zoomed in on one particular photograph – a selfie of Madeleine somewhere in Europe from earlier last year. There’s a huge, ornate church in the background, plus a bustling street scene, sunshine, tourists. It looks as though she’s sitting outside a café.
The Trapped Wife: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller with a mind-blowing twist Page 12