My Perfect Wife: An absolutely unputdownable domestic suspense novel

by Clare Boyd

  A better way might be these, she thought, popping out a handful of beta blockers. The medication dosage was written in Polish. This morning Piotr had finally given her the whole box, fed up of being asked for one here and one there. The first of them had been given to her by Agata, who had, a few months previously, walked in on her having a full-blown panic attack in the bathroom and had diagnosed her instantly. Her dizziness and heart palpitations had been the same as Piotr’s symptoms. Their doctor had prescribed the medicine for him in Poland, before they came to the UK, but he had never taken them and he never intended to.

  Fingering the small round tablets in her palm, Elizabeth wondered how many of them she would need to take to block out the bad thoughts for good.

  Thirteen

  When my mother called for a catch-up, I wanted to spill my heart out to her. To tell her about Elizabeth slapping me, to confess to my resurfacing feelings for Lucas. And I wanted to tell her that I should not – could not – work at the Huxleys’ a day longer. I was going home to Rye, to be with Rob. To hell with Dad! To hell with the financial consequences! To hell with Lucas!

  Instead, I listened to her telling me about the smell of the dressings on Aunt Maggie’s weeping ulcers, and about the ambulance call-outs in the middle of the night, and about how she’d tripped on a pair of slippers and spilled the bedpan that morning, and I knew I could not complain to her about anything.

  ‘That sounds totally horrendous, Mum,’ I said, running my fingers along the jagged wooden edge of my desk.

  ‘You’ve got to enjoy every moment of your life, love,’ she said wearily. ‘Grab everything you want before it’s too late.’ The sound of her heavy sigh in my ear blew out reality, making room for the image of Lucas to fill my head.

  ‘What are the doctors saying?’ I asked quickly.

  There was a strange clicking sound on the line, and then buzzing. Her reply was unintelligible.

  ‘What did you say, Mum? You sound really far away. The line is terrible. Shall I call you back?’

  ‘They’ve upped the morphine. Said it could be just weeks now,’ she repeated.

  If the sad fact of Aunt Maggie’s death hadn’t been there between us, I would have asked her to tell me how many weeks exactly. How many minutes, hours, days would I have to endure living alone with my father?

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum. It must be so awful,’ I said.

  ‘Oh listen to me. All this self-pity and I haven’t yet heard how you’re getting on at Copper Lodge!’

  There were many anecdotes I could have told her.

  ‘I’m knackered all the time. I don’t know how you do it.’

  ‘Ha! Your father said you were struggling.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist. He said you’re doing really well and that you’re working very hard, but that you’re a wee weakling. All skin and bone and pretty hair, aren’t you, love?’

  I chewed my lip. ‘I wish you were home.’

  ‘If I were home, that’d mean your poor Auntie Maggie had passed, God bless her. I’ll miss her, I truly will, but I wonder if it should be sooner rather than later, to end her suffering.’

  ‘Send her my love, won’t you?’ I said, trying to remember Auntie Maggie’s face, which I hadn’t seen since I was little. I could only recall the porridge ritual, and the blue curlers in her black hair, and the fact that Mum’s face was a version of hers. I pictured my mother’s eyes now, clear blue, and her freckles, like mine, and the short curls of dark grey hair over her ears. How her pearly lipstick was permanently bracketed by crescent smile lines above each corner of her mouth. The sensible jumper that she would tug down at the hips every so often, revealing a tiny hint of self-consciousness.

  ‘You’re down in the dumps, I can tell it,’ she said.

  ‘I’m fine. Just a bit tired.’ I conjured Lucas’s face in my mind, and my stomach flipped over.

  ‘Why don’t you visit Rob? Take a weekend away.’

  ‘He’s so busy. And petrol’s expensive.’

  ‘I’ll sub you twenty quid for the petrol. Look in the pot in my bedside table. I imagine you and your dad could do with a break from each other.’

  Hearing this, I wondered how much Dad had told her about our fight, how much she knew, or knew from his point of view.

  ‘Maybe I will. I do miss him. And I want to see how Reese is getting on.’

  ‘There you go. It’ll cheer you up and you’ll be right as rain for the new week ahead.’

  The line began crackling again. ‘Thanks for calling, Mum.’

  ‘I’ll ring again in a couple of days.’

  * * *

  The sun was low behind us. The air cool. The sea far out. The barbecue filled the air with purple woody smoke. Idly I watched Amy play Hacky Sack. We were expecting a crowd of friends to join us here on Winchelsea beach, and I tried to stop fretting about Reese, whom I planned to look for tomorrow before I left.

  As I leant into the crook of Rob’s arm, I thought about Reese’s empty house. Seeing Reese, to reassure myself that he was well, was important to me this weekend. I had banged on his front door, through the cloth of a St George’s flag, comparing its dilapidation with the extravagance of Copper Lodge. It was incomparable, like different countries, or different worlds. I wished Lucas could see the unbridgeable gap between Reese’s life and that of his own children.

  I sighed. ‘I’ve missed this,’ I said.

  Rob kissed the top of my head. ‘It’s here every weekend if you want it,’ he said with a petulant edge.

  I did want it. I had always wanted it, from the moment I was born, as though leaving my mother’s watery womb had never felt right.

  * * *

  I stretched my toe down from my chair. The stone was hot. I pulled it away again and swung my feet wildly, feeling the heavy air move through the hairs on my legs. My father’s hand landed on my thigh.

  ‘Stop fidgeting,’ he said, resuming his chat with my mother.

  The torn shreds of my croissant littered my plate. A curled crusty piece had escaped onto the table. I crushed it with my fingers into flaky crumbs and pressed some onto my fingertip.

  ‘Stop playing and just eat it, Heather, please,’ my mother said, before replying in hushed tones to my father.

  I looked at them talking. Their own half-finished coffees and pastries sat untouched. Their mouths were turned down like sad people in cartoons.

  Having noticed a dried prawn in a crack between the wooden slats of the table, I picked up my fork and began digging at it. The night before, we had sat at this same table, where I had tried my first ever paella. My parents had drunk a large jug of red alcohol with floating fruit in it. It had smelt sickly and their eyes had wobbled when they talked.

  They were still talking. Always talking. I dreamed that they were planning a surprise for me, conspiring to buy me a big and exciting present. But no surprises or presents materialised. Ever.

  The hotel pool sparkled at me. It was filled with children splashing around. But not me. I couldn’t swim. The lessons were too dear, my parents said.

  I felt hotter than I had ever felt before. I looked up at the blue sky through the wooden canopy. It burnt my eyes, even through my eyelids when I closed them.

  A bee buzzed through the slats and headed straight to the pool. It landed and floated, spinning round and round.

  Maybe I could float like the bee.

  I slid from the chair.

  When I reached the other end of the pool, I checked to see if my parents had stopped talking. They hadn’t.

  I jumped.

  The water was a shock. It filled my mouth, my head, my throat. The more I tried to breathe, the less I could. I flailed and kicked and pulled, but the water disappeared through my fingers. My body dropped. I was losing the fight. There was a pain in my chest, and then a sound from above, like a muffled explosion.

  A large dark form came at me through the water.

  My arms were pulled out o
f their sockets. My body was yanked into the chest of a man in a white shirt, wet and gummy on my cheek. He smelt of aftershave and sweat. I spluttered and spat and cried on him as he carried me to my parents, who were running down the side of the pool towards me.

  My mother scooped me from him, thanking him through tears. Her pearly lipstick was wet from where she had kissed me. ‘You silly child,’ she said.

  ‘What were you thinking?’ my father shouted.

  * * *

  I had been thinking that I wanted to swim. That was all.

  Now I watched the sea and tried to make peace with my father’s inability to see anything from my point of view. He preferred to trust in Elizabeth Huxley’s character rather than mine. At home, before I left, I had pretended to accept it, folding my jeans into my suitcase with extra care. He had helped me pack and then microwaved me a cup of tea. On the surface of things, we had moved on.

  Sliding into my view came Amy, kicking the Hacky Sack up in the air. Her legs were brown and endless.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense that she’s been single for so long,’ I said to Rob, lazily.

  ‘It’s because she’s married to her job,’ he replied.

  ‘She does love it. I envy her that. Especially now she’s styling celebrities and all sorts.’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s intimidating to some guys.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ I said, irritated.

  ‘Just saying what’s true.’

  ‘Then she’s right to be choosy.’

  Rob flexed his arm. ‘You’re proper choosy, aren’t you, babe?’

  I laughed, but stayed on the subject. ‘Do you think Amy’s lonely?’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘Elizabeth Huxley is lonely, and she’s surrounded by people twenty-four-seven.’

  Rob sighed.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You sighed.’

  ‘I’m not allowed to breathe now?’

  ‘I can tell something’s bothering you.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘Seriously, Rob, what did I say wrong?’

  He coughed. ‘You’re always going on about the Huxleys.’

  ‘Am I?’ I hadn’t noticed. It seemed I had been talking about them but saying nothing.

  ‘Yeah. And it’s boring, if I’m honest.’

  My neck felt awkward in the crook of his arm, and I pulled away and hugged my knees. ‘They’re complicated.’

  I weighed up the benefits of telling him the full story. Opening up to Rob about Elizabeth hitting me was unlikely to be a cathartic solution to the problem. It would burden me with his reaction – overreaction possibly – rather than unburden me of the dilemma. He was unlikely to provide answers. I had survived the whole of my life without telling many people about many things. It had worked for me. I knew how to hold onto secrets.

  ‘Complications that are none of your business,’ he said.

  ‘That’s what Dad says.’

  ‘He’s right.’

  ‘I know. I keep telling myself it’s only a job.’ I hugged my knees tighter.

  ‘I wonder sometimes …’

  ‘What are you getting at now?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘If something’s bugging you, just let it out.’

  ‘Nothing’s bugging me. Come here. You’re so arsey sometimes.’ He grinned at me, grabbed my arm and tugged me into a hug. We kissed our differences away. It was how we resolved our fights.

  Amy arrived. ‘No heavy petting on the beach!’ she teased.

  We pulled apart, laughing. Rob said, ‘Let’s get the sausages on.’

  Amy and I chatted as we cut the buns.

  ‘Rob’s place has been heaving lately,’ she said.

  ‘The takings have been up,’ Rob nodded.

  Since the gastropub had opened on the high street opposite Rob’s bar, business had declined steadily. His decision to open only between Thursday and Sunday had allowed him to stay afloat, just, for now.

  ‘Have you been going down there a lot, Amy?’ I asked.

  ‘When I’m home, yes. Those open mic sessions are fun.’

  ‘I don’t want you two having fun without me,’ I complained. As I said it, I realised it wasn’t true. I did not mind at all that they might be having fun without me. For a moment, I pictured them together as a couple, and I imagined not minding about that either.

  Amy shook her head vigorously. ‘No, no, no, we never have fun without you. Ever.’

  ‘Never,’ Rob said, a little sulkily. He wasn’t smiling like Amy.

  ‘Good.’ I swigged to the bottom of my beer and reached for another one.

  The others arrived with music and vodka. With our windswept, beach-baked bodies now clothed in jeans and fleeces, we danced and laughed and caught up on each other’s news.

  It was four in the morning by the time Rob and I stumbled into the flat, trying not to wake Jake, the lodger. Rob was snoring before I had finished brushing my teeth. I hadn’t been in the mood for sex, but I was disappointed that he hadn’t tried. Especially considering how long we had been apart.

  * * *

  The next morning, I cooked eggs and bacon for our hangovers. It had not been an automatic process, as it had been when I lived here. Nothing was where I had kept it before. My dishes and trinkets were gone from the windowsill. The plates and utensils were in the wrong cupboards. It was like cooking in someone else’s home.

  Rob came into the kitchen after his shower. The water hadn’t managed to wash away his bloodshot eyes.

  ‘Oh, good girl,’ he said tucking in. He wolfed the food down, hunched slightly, like a starved caveman.

  ‘Last night was fun,’ I said.

  He shrugged. ‘Suppose so.’

  ‘Didn’t you have a good time?’

  ‘You were well and truly arseholed.’

  ‘God, was I that bad?’

  ‘You kept hugging everyone.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with spreading the love.’

  He licked his plate clean, like a bad-mannered child, then said, ‘You know, Amy and I chatted a bit about marriage last night.’

  I pretended to skim the newspaper headlines. ‘You two will be very happy together,’ I teased.

  ‘Can we talk about this properly?’ He put his hand over the newspaper.

  ‘Sure.’ I didn’t want to look up at him.

  ‘Could you stop reading?’

  ‘I’ll have you know I was reading about how female masturbation is coming into its own in pop music. It’s really important stuff,’ I said, stabbing at the photograph of a semi-naked pop star gyrating on stage.

  He rubbed at his stubble as though mulling me over, perplexed by me.

  ‘I just want you to think about it. I’m not proposing, obvs, but I want you to think about it as an idea. Amy said I should stop whingeing to her about it and talk to you directly,’ he said, looking glum.

  ‘I promise to think about it. But I have to get through this stint with Dad first, and after that I’ll have to find a job and—’

  ‘And after that you’ll want to go to the Twin Falls in Hawaii, and after that you’ll want to do the Great North Swim, and after that you’ll want to save the lido from closure. There’s always an “and after that”.’

  ‘You’ve forgotten the Moonlight Swim in Keswick. I want to do that too.’ And, I thought, snorkel in the sea off the Izu peninsula, and compete in the Open Water Masters, and set up charity swim camps for children …

  ‘Could you be serious with me for one flaming second?’

  I sat up straight, deadly serious. ‘I do want to do all those things, Rob. I don’t see why I should feel bad about it.’

  ‘What if I came with you?’

  ‘If you want to come too, I’d love that!’

  ‘Really? You would love me to come?’

  ‘Yes, I really, really want you to come.’

  Mischief played in his eyes. ‘You hussy. You know, I think I can arrange that r
ight now,’ he said, undoing my jeans.

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ I chuckled, remonstrating. ‘I need to go out again to find Reese!’

  ‘You said it, not me,’ he grinned, dragging me into the bedroom and closing the door.

  * * *

  When I left the flat on Sunday afternoon, Rob was in good spirits.

  As I drove off, up the M20, I imagined him in our flat, our home, lying on the sofa, watching water sports on cable television or browsing YouTube for motorsport crashes. He would be happy. I had made sure he was happy, which gave me the feeling that I had done the right thing by visiting.

  But I did not feel happy. I felt sad that I had not been able to find Reese. My wanderings around the wastelands of Rye had simply exacerbated my sense of rootlessness. After three more visits to his house, I had given up and roamed his local haunts. Everywhere I tried – the car park where he watched the teenage boys rev and wheelie their scooters; the supermarket playground where he smoked old cigarette butts from the grass; the fish and chip shop on the front where he met his friends; Jason’s Kiosk, where he stole custard creams – all of them had been empty of Reese. Nobody, not even his neighbours, had been able to tell me where he and his father were, and I had given up.

  On the road northwards now, the cool sea was disappearing behind me, further and further away. And the car became hotter and hotter as the sun beat down through the windscreen.

  I was leaving a home that no longer offered me a sense of security, and approaching my childhood home that was filled with uncertain memories.

  Willingly regressing, I slipped backwards in time, towards the pool at Copper Lodge and its temptations. For as long as I could remember, whispers from the other side of our hedge had coaxed me into their grounds; siren songs beckoning me towards a life that was within touching distance, a life that my parents forbade. I thought about how humiliated and resentful I had been when Elizabeth slapped me. But here I was returning to Copper Lodge to work for her and tug at my forelock. And to Lucas, who had once promised me the life that Elizabeth now had.