PRAISE FOR CLAIRE MCGOWAN:
‘A knockout new talent you should read immediately.’
—Lee Child
‘A brilliant, breathless thriller that kept me guessing to the last shocking page.’
—Erin Kelly, Sunday Times bestselling author of
He Said/She Said
‘Absorbing, timely, and beautifully written, What You Did is a superior psychological thriller from a major talent.’
—Mark Edwards, bestselling author of The Retreat and
In Her Shadow
‘What You Did is a triumph, a gripping story of the secrets and lies that can underpin even the closest friendships. Put some time aside—this is one you’ll want to read in a single sitting.’
—Kevin Wignall, bestselling author of A Death in Sweden and The Traitor’s Story
‘Hitting the rare sweet spot between a satisfying read and a real page turner, this brilliantly written book deserves to fly high.’
—Cass Green, bestselling author of In a Cottage In a Wood
‘McGowan writes utterly convincingly in three very different voices and she knows how to tell a cracking story. She will go far.’
—Daily Mail
‘One of the very best novels I’ve read in a long while . . . astonishing, powerful and immensely satisfying.’
—Peter James
‘Funny and perfectly paced . . . chills to the bone.’
—Daily Telegraph
‘Plenty of intrigue makes this a must read.’
—Woman & Home
‘A brilliantly executed thriller with a haunting and atmospheric setting. Spine tingling.’
—Sunday Mirror
‘A complex, disturbing, resonant novel that remains light on its feet and immensely entertaining.’
—Irish Times
‘Page-turning.’
—Guardian
‘Highly satisfying and intelligent.’
—The Bookseller
‘Creepy and oh-so-clever.’
—Fabulous
‘A fantastic and intense book that grips you right from the very first line.’
—We Love This Book
‘McGowan’s pacy, direct style ensures that the twists come thick and fast.’
—The Irish Times
‘A riveting police thriller.’
—Woman pick of the week
‘Taut plotting and assured writing.’
—Good Housekeeping
‘A gripping yarn you will be unable to put down.’
—Sun
‘A brilliant portrait of a fractured society and a mystery full of heart-stopping twists. Compelling, clever and entertaining.’
—Jane Casey
‘A keeps-you-guessing mystery.’
—Alex Marwood
‘A brilliant crime novel . . . gripping.’
—Company
‘A compelling and flawless thriller . . . there is nothing not to like.’
—Sharon Bolton
‘Ireland’s answer to Ruth Rendell.’
—Ken Bruen
‘Enthralling . . . evoked wonderfully.’
—Sunday Mirror
‘A superb, gripping and trenchant crime novel steeped in loss, pain and history.’
—Stav Sherez
ALSO BY CLAIRE MCGOWAN
The Fall
What You Did
Paula Maguire series
The Lost
The Dead Ground
The Silent Dead
A Savage Hunger
Blood Tide
The Killing House
Writing as Eva Woods
The Thirty List
The Ex Factor
How to be Happy
The Lives We Touch
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2019 by Claire McGowan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542093156
ISBN-10: 1542093155
Cover design by Heike Schüssler
CONTENTS
START READING
PART ONE
Nora
Suzi
Elle
Suzi
Nora
Suzi
Elle
Suzi
Nora
Suzi
Alison
Elle
Suzi
Nora
Suzi
Elle
Suzi
Nora
Suzi
Elle
Suzi
Nora
PART TWO
Alison
Elle
Suzi
Nora
Suzi
Elle
Suzi
Nora
Suzi
Elle
Suzi
Elle
Suzi
Nora
PART THREE
Alison
Eleanor
Suzi
Eleanor
Suzi
Eleanor
Suzi
Eleanor
Suzi
Eleanor
Suzi
Eleanor
Suzi
Eleanor
Suzi
Maddy
Eleanor
Suzi
PART FOUR
Alison
Eleanor
Suzi
Eleanor
Suzi
Eleanor
Suzi
Eleanor
Suzi
Maddy
Eleanor
Suzi
Eleanor
Suzi
Eleanor
Suzi
Alison
Eleanor
Maddy
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Fire spreads fast.
She had not realised just how fast, but already orange flames are licking the roof of the large house, black smoke pouring from every window and door. She’s running, slipping, the grass wet with dew beneath her. The dogs run beside her, a blur of fur and barks. They know something is wrong, but they can’t understand just how bad it is. She’s not sure she’s understood it herself yet. She can smell it already, thick and choking, and imagines how it is inside the house. Smoke, and heat, and terror. No way out.
She reaches the top of the hill, the glint of the sea in the distance, the moon turning dark water silver, and stops. There will be no escaping the house now, she can see that. A feeling expands in her chest – is it relief maybe, or excitement even, mixed in with the fear? It’s gone up like a matchstick. She should run to the nearest house, shriek at them to call the fire brigade, stumble out her explanation of a late-night dog walk, couldn’t sleep, such terrible guilt at being safe. Then it will be over. But as she stands, waiting just a moment more, frozen, she sees something that will lodge in her memory for ever – a white face, at a high window. Sebby’s window.
He has managed to open it a crack, though he can hardly reach the catch, and she can hear his cry, carried on a breath of ash and flame, a sound she will never forget. Her name, screamed in terror. Help me! Help me
!
Without a second thought, she runs towards the flames.
PART ONE
Nora
The first time I saw her, I was struck by how sad she looked. Given my own situation, I was surprised by that. What did she have to be sad about? If anyone should have been sad it was me, moving into the tiny, spidery cottage, my furniture packed away in storage. The money gone, the big house. Everything gone.
It was when I first viewed the cottage, a still-warm day in October. The agent – a young man with too much aftershave, whose name was Gavin – had driven me in his little branded Fiat. His upselling was so tiresome. I wanted to tell him I’d already made my mind up to take it, as he went on about peace and tranquillity and getting away from it all. The cottage was one of three, set down a narrow country lane several miles from the M25. Sevenoaks was the nearest town, and it wasn’t that near. There was nothing else for miles, not a single building. Once they had been staff cottages, tied to the big ruined estate a few fields over. Holly Cottage was empty, half-derelict. Ivy Cottage was the one I’d be renting. Willow Cottage was the one she lived in. ‘You’ll have neighbours,’ said Gavin cheerfully. ‘Nice young couple. Bought the place, ooh, about six months ago.’
I said nothing. I wasn’t sure I was up to meeting them yet. It felt too soon, after everything. But I admit I was curious, and had my eyes peeled as we passed their cottage. They’d made some inroads in their garden, but I could tell they were city people. They’d planted all the wrong things, delicate flowers that wouldn’t survive the first cold snap; a poor attempt at growbags, which I could see were being ravaged by slugs.
As the car swept past, Gavin driving too fast for the narrow country road, I saw movement at the window, and a woman inside the house, shading her eyes to look at us. Her gaze was strange – hungry, somehow. She had fire-engine red hair, a shade that couldn’t be natural, and her face was pale.
‘That’s the wife,’ said Gavin. ‘Came down from London. Escaping the rat race, you know. They did the whole place up – fancy alarm system, underfloor heating.’ In that moment, I felt sorry for her. Maybe because these city transplants never understood what real country life meant. Maybe it was her air of boredom, sadness. Fear, even. Maybe the way her eyes followed me as I got out of the Fiat and walked up the narrow weed-choked path to Ivy Cottage. As if she was desperate to talk to someone, anyone at all. I felt I should wave, or greet her in some way, but shyness held me back. There would be time for that later.
Inside, Ivy Cottage was damp and dark, unrenovated for years. The bathroom was unfashionable lime green, and a vine poked its way through a crack in the kitchen window. In every way it was inferior to the place I’d lived in for the past ten years. But I couldn’t live there any more, so I had to move forward. ‘I’ll take it,’ I said, and felt a small dart of enjoyment at the surprise Gavin tried to hide in his face.
I didn’t speak to her that day, but I guessed even then that we’d be getting to know each other quite well.
Two weeks later, I arrived with a removals van. It had been a busy fortnight, getting ready to move. Packing up, renting a storage unit – it was expensive but I couldn’t bear to let them go, all my beautiful things. I’d needed to hire removals men, buy boxes, pack, divert my post, cancel the services. It was exhausting, and used up the last of my money. It was still a shock having to think about that, not just whip out my debit card and dip into the ever-flowing river of cash I’d thought I had.
On the last day, I locked up the house – my beautiful house – and posted the key through the letter box. For a moment I wanted to kick the door in, take it back. I imagined new people moving in, entering a blank space of white walls and wooden floors, filling it with noise and colour and life. Most likely it would sell to a family with children, a house that size, and my heart gave an old familiar throb at the thought, the two upstairs rooms that were still just spares or studies, never nurseries, never the children’s rooms.
It couldn’t be helped. I was only forty-two – there was still a chance. I had to hold on to that.
With all the busyness, I hadn’t had time to think about her, the red-haired woman who would be my neighbour. It wasn’t until the van was pulling down the tiny lane, with difficulty – we got stuck under branches several times – that it hit me. I’d meet her soon. Maybe today.
Suzi
The noise of the van made me jump from where I was slumped on the sofa, surrounded by tissues and half-drunk cups of tea. You would hardly know me in this state, flattened by a dull crushing misery, or else hectic with terror, so much that I can’t sit down, and I pace the living room making plans. How I might get away. Where I could go. Every time the phone rang or my mobile buzzed, my heart leaped up. I could feel it gasping in my chest, sluicing adrenaline into my veins. If anyone knew the situation I was in, they would think How have you let this happen? How could you be so stupid? I’d have said the same, before it was me.
So when I heard the van, I was on my feet, head crowding with my excuses already. It’s not true. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. Poppet had run to the door at the sound, his nails skittering on the slate floor, barking foolishly. We had so little traffic here; we didn’t get milk delivered and Nick had routed most of the post to his office. It must be him home early, and I wasn’t dressed and hadn’t started dinner. What would he say? Or maybe it was something else. Her. But no, it was a removals van, and I remembered seeing the estate agent’s car one day a few weeks before, someone coming to view the cottage. I never imagined they’d take it. A woman was being helped down from the cab by a stout removals man. She was in her forties, dressed in a gilet and proper country-style green wellies. Her hair was long and dark, grey showing through at the crown, and I could see from a distance she wore no make-up, like me. Perhaps she’d had the same thought: there was no one to see us out here.
Before all this, I had really tried. A large part of me was relieved to have left the situation at work, and everything with Damian, if not London itself. For the first few weeks it was like a mini-break, waking up with the eaves of the cottage over my head, the cheeps of birds outside. I’d put on my Hunter wellies and Joules quilted jacket and some kind of snood Nick’s mum had got me for Christmas – which made me think, retrospectively, maybe she’d known? Maybe everyone had known we were moving except me? When Nick came home I’d make sure to be cooking or cleaning or wrangling the various tradesmen who’d transformed the crumbling cottage into a shiny modern box, complete with wine cellar and studio and music room for the guitars Nick supposedly played, which had dust in the frets he hadn’t touched them for so long. I could honestly tell my friends I was busy, a renovation goddess like Sarah Beeny.
I am well jel, tapped Claudia, from the back of a taxi. When I thought of her, zipping along to some glam restaurant, where they’d take her nice, impractical coat and offer her a drink, I was so jel I could feel the bile rise up in my throat. But if you admit to friends how unhappy you are, you have to admit it to yourself as well.
Nowadays, things have changed. When Nick goes to work each morning and my wifely smile rusts over, I let myself think of all the things I put out of my mind when he’s home. I take the jumper from under the bed. I hadn’t washed it – thank God, I hadn’t washed it. I look at myself in the mirror, my lying naked body – how could you be so stupid – and pull the jumper over my head, and for a second, so sweet and painful I nearly burst, I’m surrounded by you again. Most days I pray, obscurely, not sure who or what to, to change the past, to go back to how things were. Please, let me turn back time. Give me another chance.
That morning, the van arriving shocked me out of it, made me take an honest look at myself, how pathetic I was, what a mess. I wiped the snot and tears from my face and realised I was standing there in your old jumper, unshowered. Shame washed over me, a familiar feeling by now. What would Nick say if he could see me? What would you say, for that matter? I decided I’d better get cleaned up and meet my new neighbour.
/> That was the first time I saw her. Even though there was no threat I felt jittery with terror, shaking with it. Sometimes, since you’d gone, I was so afraid I could feel my heart beating inside me, like the wings of some terrible bird.
Elle
Years ago, when Elle was still a teenager, her mother had told her it was important to get ready before your husband came in the door. Freshen up, brush your hair, change your clothes. Tidy away any cooking mess or laundry sitting out. Greet him with a smile on your face, ask about his day.
Elle had laughed at it, privately sure that she would never even have a husband. She’d be too busy soaking up the applause after a sold-out concert, roses raining down on her as she bowed on stage. She’d wear a red silk dress and brush her long hair so it flowed over her shoulder like a river. She would never get married, or if she did, it would be to some adoring rich man, who would worship her and never expect her to roughen her magical hands with housework.
But here she was, almost thirty years later, and her mother had been right after all. It did matter, the way he saw you when he first came in the door. If you were fresh and smiling or if you were complaining, moaning that he hadn’t taken the bins out or fixed the leaking tap in the downstairs bathroom. Sometimes she would arrange herself to make it look like she hadn’t tried at all. Draping herself in a chair, hair brushed out in a shining curtain, a book in her hands, a glass of wine beside her. The book would not have been read, the wine would not have been her first. But he didn’t know that. Appearance was everything – she’d learned that over the years, if nothing else.
Where are you? Where are you?
Now she sat, too nervous to maintain her tableau, watching the clock tick on. Nine o’clock. He was never normally so late. Maybe he’d gone for a drink with someone from work. They drank so much, the doctors; hardly surprising, the stress they were under. She made it a point never to nag, even when the dinner she’d cooked was dried up in the oven. She’d just smile and apologise, offer to make an omelette or call for a takeaway.
Why hadn’t he messaged? She held her phone tight in her hands, leaving sweaty smears on the screen. Nothing. What a difference it would make, to see the little message window turn black, or the dots that meant he was typing. To know he was safe, and coming back to her. She’d already been on all the news websites, searching for words like accident, crash, taken to hospital. She would be ashamed if he knew how often she did this, how easily panic set in. He worked at the hospital, for goodness’ sake, they’d have called her right away if anything had happened.
The Other Wife Page 1