The Wife Before Me: A twisty, gripping psychological thriller

by Laura Elliot

  Nicholas shrugs, throws his eyes upwards as Yvonne flaps the red setter away and flings open the living room door.

  ‘Elena, this is Henry. He’s been looking forward so much to meeting you. We both have. Isn’t she a sweet girl, Henry? Sit down, Elena. Henry will get you a drink. What would you like? Gin? It’s everyone’s favourite these days, wonderful with cucumber and juniper berries, I believe, though, personally I prefer vodka―’

  ‘Let the girl get a word in edgeways.’ Henry rises from his chair and shakes Elena’s hand. His cropped hair and craggy face reflect how Nicholas will look in another thirty years.

  Yvonne enters the kitchen and continues talking. An open hatch in the wall allows her access to the dining room. She refuses Elena’s offer to help, preferring, she shouts cheerfully, to have hysterics in private when her soufflé collapses. No danger of that happening. As Elena suspects, Yvonne is an unflappable cook, who serves starters, mains and desserts with noisy efficiency. Her hands are in constant motion, in contrast to her seamless face. Botox, Elena wonders. Yvonne’s hair, blonde and spiked, has that same rigidity. Elena gives up trying to follow her meandering stories about the lives of strangers, suspecting that Yvonne doesn’t need a reaction. A nod or a murmur of agreement suffices. When she asks about Australia she interrupts Elena’s reply to describe the experience of her friend’s daughter, who fell into seriously bad company in Perth.

  As soon as the meal is over, she takes a photo album from a drawer in the sideboard.

  ‘Get a grip, Mother.’ Nicholas groans when he sees it. ‘Elena doesn’t want to look at me running around the beach in the nip.’

  ‘I think that could be very interesting.’ Elena laughs and sits beside Yvonne on the sofa.

  The album is heavy and large, each page crammed with photographs. Yvonne has catalogued them with a place and date. She turns page after page, detailing each holiday, each celebration. They are a well-travelled family and the beaches she discusses are in Thailand or on Caribbean islands, the cities Asian and cosmopolitan. The family configuration never changes: a young Nicholas standing in front, each parent with a hand on one of his shoulders. He grows older, his boyish face replaced by a more angular profile and, later again, that roughness smoothing out into the authoritative face of a young adult.

  ‘I never realised you were a biker!’ Elena exclaims when she comes across a photograph of him in leather, leaning against a Harley-Davidson.

  ‘Do I look like a biker?’ he asks. ‘Hanging out with the grizzly and obese was never my thing. Biking was a phase of short duration.’

  ‘He gave up the leather but he kept the bike,’ says Yvonne. ‘It was in the garage for years afterwards. I thought he’d never get rid of it. That was just one of many interests.’ She shows photographs of Nicholas rock-climbing, another one of him white-water rafting.

  Elena is bored by the repetitiveness of these photos. What is it with Yvonne, this compulsion to fill the slightest silence with words and shrill laughter? She reminds Elena of a marionette, those small, busy hands and restless mouth, the tight, floral-patterned dress riding high above her skinny knees. Nicholas has left the room and is outside studying a rose bush with his father. He glances towards the French doors, as if he knows the ordeal Yvonne is putting her through.

  ‘Oh dear.’ Yvonne slaps her hand over a photograph. ‘I don’t know how that got in here. It belongs to a different album entirely.’

  ‘Can I see?’ Elena knows it’s a photograph of Amelia and Yvonne, seeing her interest, slowly slides her hand away.

  A couple on holiday, a mountain in the background. The breeze – Elena imagines its warm friskiness – had flattened Amelia’s dress against the curve of her stomach.

  ‘So sad.’ Yvonne blinks and closes the album. ‘We were thrilled with the thought of becoming grandparents.’

  ‘Oh, God! Was Amelia pregnant when she―’

  ‘No, no.’ Yvonne glances nervously towards the men in the garden. ‘Thank goodness her miscarriage happened a year before the accident. She lost the baby at four months. There was a chance, slight as it was, that he – Nicholas was convinced she was expecting a boy – would survive the fall―’

  ‘Amelia fell?’

  ‘From a ladder.’ Yvonne is angry, her fingers tapping the photograph. ‘I’ll never understand what possessed her to paint a ceiling at that stage of her pregnancy.’

  ‘How awful.’ Amelia feels hot, embarrassed, remembering how compulsively she had talked to him about her own early miscarriage.

  ‘Hasn’t he told you about it?’ Yvonne closes the album without having come to the end of it.

  ‘No.’ Elena shakes her head. What other secrets has he kept from her? ‘He’s never mentioned it.’

  ‘I guess it’s too painful to recall.’ Yvonne’s eyes glisten. ‘He was heartbroken, poor boy. And Amelia too, of course. Don’t hurt him, Elena. He’s suffered so much already.’

  ‘I’d never hurt him, Yvonne.’

  ‘I can see that. You’ve a kind face. Amelia was…’ She pauses, as if seeking a precise description. ‘Headstrong.’

  ‘How?’ A flaw at last.

  ‘She had a will of her own.’

  ‘Surely that’s a good thing.’

  ‘I agree with you.’ Yvonne sounds doubtful. ‘But she was always trying to prove some point or other.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘What does it matter now?’ She returns the album to the drawer. ‘She’s gone from us and far be it from me to speak ill of the dead.’

  ‘I appreciate that. I hope you don’t think I’m snooping.’

  ‘Nonsense. It’s natural for you to be curious.’ She sits down beside Elena again and studies her hands. For once, she seems stuck for words. Elena should be grateful for this short respite but she is greedy for more information.

  ‘Amelia must have been very talented. I saw her sculptures at Woodbine.’

  ‘She was multifaceted. Isn’t that the modern term?’ says Yvonne. ‘But she was also a diva who loved attention. When she didn’t get it, she’d create a drama from nothing. Her behaviour took its toll on Nicholas. Not that he would ever hear a bad word said against her and it’s not the place of a mother to interfere. I’m all for women’s equality and everything that goes with it but a man doesn’t like to be constantly outshone by his wife. That’s why Henry and I are so thrilled he’s met you— oh, dear…’ She flutters her fingers to her lips. ‘That came out the wrong way. We’re thrilled because you’re a considerate and caring young woman. Nicholas needs someone who is compatible with him. I can see a change in him already and we’ve to thank you for that.’

  Elena knows she will never like this woman, but Yvonne’s opinion has at least reduced Amelia to a ghost she can handle.

  ‘It’s a lovely evening.’ Yvonne rises and flings open the French doors. ‘Would you like to see the roses? They’re Henry’s pride and joy.’

  Elena follows her into the back garden, where Nicholas is deep in conversation with his father. One look at her face alerts him that it’s time to go. He overrides Yvonne’s protests and they leave shortly afterwards.

  ‘You look as if you’ve had a baptism by fire,’ he says as he drives away.

  Elena shrugs. ‘Yvonne was just trying to make me welcome.’

  ‘I can’t believe she produced that album again.’

  ‘Again? Is this a regular ordeal when your girlfriends visit?’

  ‘Past tense.’ He squeezes her knee and grins. ‘My teens were blighted by that album when anyone in earrings called… and that was just the boys.’

  Elena laughs with him. He’s relaxed, glad that the first meeting with his parents is over. She should embrace the moment but the photograph of Amelia, the dreamy expression on her face as she presses her hands against her stomach, soothing a movement, maybe, demands an explanation. To climb a ladder, lean back to paint a ceiling, lose her balance… such recklessness. Elena feels her own stomach lurch in sympathy, and the
re is anger, too. Why, when she had confided in him and described an empty space that seemed boundless, had he not identified with her loss?

  ‘Do you know that there’s a photograph of Amelia in that album?’ she asks. ‘She was pregnant, Nicholas.’

  ‘Oh.’ He clenches the steering wheel, a tiny reflex action, but she notices it and, for reasons she doesn’t understand, her heart skids.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I wouldn’t have gone on so much about what happened to me. It must have been upsetting for you. If I’d known―’

  ‘You needed to talk,’ he says. ‘And I wanted to find out everything about you.’ He checks the rear-view mirror and indicates to pass the car in front. The road is narrow and he doesn’t hesitate as he crosses the continuous white line.

  ‘Don’t, Nicholas. It’s dangerous.’ Elena lifts her shoulders as a woman in an approaching car blasts her horn. ‘Be careful!’ she screams as she glimpses the driver’s horrified expression.

  Nicholas swerves smoothly back into his own lane. He has narrowly escaped a collision and is now too close to the car he passed. He increases speed, whips around a corner onto a straight stretch of road and eases his foot off the accelerator.

  ‘Stop overreacting, Elena,’ he says. ‘We were perfectly safe.’

  ‘What’s wrong with you, Nicholas? That was a ridiculous and dangerous thing to do.’ She’s trembling, overcome with fury that he would take such a risk with their lives.

  ‘Don’t tell me how to drive,’ he retorts, sharply.

  ‘I could have been killed. That gives me every right to tell you how to drive.’

  Despite his obvious efforts to remain composed, his knuckles are ridged on the steering wheel. She touches her cheek as it is brushed by a chilled breath of air. The skin on the back of her neck lifts. Someone walking on her grave, that’s what Isabelle would have said. Once again, Nicholas increases his speed. His hands are off the wheel before Elena realises what he’s doing. He raises them above his head and touches the roof. The car veers towards the pavement before he straightens it again.

  ‘That’s what’s called ridiculous and dangerous driving.’ He laughs, his lips drawn back from his teeth, a humourless grimace that fuels her fear.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, Nicholas?’ she shrieks. ‘Are you crazy or just plain stupid?’

  He drives on, slower now, and indicates to turn into an industrial estate. It’s emptying out, shutters coming down, traffic streaming onto the main road. He brakes the car in a cul-de-sac and turns off the engine.

  ‘Are you all right, Elena?’ No longer laughing, he sounds subdued, as if her fear has finally sobered him.

  ‘No, I’m not all right.’ She is still shaken by their close encounter with death. He gauged it well. A few seconds more and he would have caused a head-on collision. ‘What did you think you were doing back there?’

  ‘Behaving like a dick,’ he admits, ruefully. ‘I’m sorry for frightening you but you flung Amelia’s name at me without warning and I find it hard to cope―’

  ‘What warning do you need? You never stop talking about her!’

  ‘You asked me to tell you―’

  ‘I know I did. But then you leave out something as important as the fact that she suffered a miscarriage. Surely you must have known that I, of all people, would understand.’

  ‘How much more do you want to find out?’ he demands. ‘I’ve been as open as I can with you. Some things are more difficult to discuss. I’m sorry I overreacted back there. It won’t happen again but you have to respect my boundaries and stop being so obsessed about Amelia.’

  ‘Obsessed? Is that what you call it?’ She is too angry to lower her voice. ‘We can’t go on like this, Nicholas.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You’re still grieving for her. I thought you were ready to move on but you’re not. It’s affecting me, my own sense of worth. I’m going back to Australia.’

  ‘Has Zac been in touch with you?’

  ‘Zac has nothing to do with my decision.’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question. Have you been talking to him?’

  ‘No. And he’s irrelevant to this conversation. Susie’s right. I rushed into this relationship too quickly. You need more time and I need to sort out my issues on my own.’

  ‘No, Susie is wrong. What does she know about our relationship? My feelings for you? I’d never have told you anything about Amelia if you hadn’t insisted. But she belongs to my past. You’re here with me and I love you.’

  ‘Not like you loved her.’ This thought, spoken aloud, shames her. How petty she sounds. She presses her finger to her lips to stifle a cry. She wants him to understand the effect his memories are having on her but she will say the wrong thing and he will think she is being obsessive… and, maybe, she is. Love can be as demanding as it is selfless, she thinks as she hugs her feelings to herself. In Australia she can start afresh. She imagines hurtling through the surf, carefree and out of love with him. But that can never be.

  He nods as if he understands her pettiness, her longing to be at the centre of his life. ‘Yes, my love for you is not the same,’ he admits. ‘Why would you expect it to be? You are different to Amelia. Uniquely different. That’s what I love most about you. You make me feel as though I’m the most important person in your life. Amelia could never do that. She played on my feelings. In all our years together, I was never sure of what she would do or say next. It made things difficult―’

  ‘You gave me the impression your marriage was made in heaven.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to do so.’ He presses her palm against his chest. The fast thud of his heartbeat alarms her. The front of his shirt is damp and his body exudes a musky odour of perspiration. His adrenalin levels must be off the scale, she thinks.

  ‘I’ve never been able to speak to anyone about her miscarriage,’ he admits. ‘I felt as though the back of my head exploded when you mentioned it.’

  ‘I never meant…’

  ‘I know you didn’t. And I didn’t intend to frighten you. I’m still struggling to come to terms with what happened to her on the evening she disappeared.’ He sighs, a quiet, shuddering release. ‘Or what she allowed to happen.’

  ‘Do you think she…?’ Elena searches for appropriate words and, finding none, leaves the question unfinished.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admits. ‘That’s what makes it harder to endure. Meeting you has helped me to see the way forward. You can’t go back to Australia, Elena. Your future is with me. You must give me another chance.’

  ‘Take me home, Nicholas.’ Her head aches. She needs a darkened room and space to think.

  * * *

  In bed, she replays their conversation over in her mind. What did he mean when he said her future was with him? Does that equate to a proposal? If so, how can that be? Officially, he is still a married man and Amelia a missing person. Elena has checked it out. A death certificate will not be issued until an allotted time span has passed. Seven years. What a sentence to serve before a spouse is allowed to remarry.

  The following night he rings her mobile. ‘Are you at home?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want you to be alone when you look out the window.’

  A white stretch limousine is parked outside the gate. Nicholas is already striding up the garden path with a Brown Thomas carrier bag in one hand and a bouquet of roses in the other.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asks when she opens the front door.

  ‘I’m taking you out on a special date.’ He hands the carrier bag to her. ‘Go and get dressed. Everything you need is in the bag. Don’t be long. The champagne is on ice in the limo.’

  The dress he has bought for her is sheer and slim-fitting, an icy-blue shade that enhances her eyes. The weight she has lost since Isabelle’s death adds to its elegance. How could he have known her size, and that the style would suit her so perfectly? H
e has left nothing out: shoes, jewellery, make-up, lingerie. The wrap she drapes over her bare shoulders is made from vintage lace and feels feather-light.

  Nicholas whistles between his teeth when he sees her. He has arranged the roses in a vase on the hall table. She is struck by the arrangement; it looks so casual yet, having once temped for a florist in Brisbane, she notices how each pink rose is precisely aligned with white sprigs of gypsophila and fern. The vase he has used is one of many Isabelle collected over the years and kept in a display cabinet in the living room. It seems churlish to resent him looking in that cabinet without permission when all he was doing was finding the perfect vase to display his bouquet.

  The driver blinks appreciatively when he steps out to open the door for Elena. The interior of the limousine reminds her of a luxury hotel and, as Nicholas promised, the champagne is on ice. She has never felt as beautiful and as cherished.

  He has booked a table in the restaurant where they first dined together. When their meal is almost over, he opens a small box and produces a ring. Blue sapphires in an antique setting. He cannot offer marriage, not yet, but he wants her by his side in Woodbine. She longs to say yes, yes, yes… but a nagging doubt persists. He remains a mystery to her, his tenderness and declarations of love at odds with his sudden unprovoked outbursts. But are they unprovoked? It’s easy to touch a nerve, as Yvonne did when she spoke yesterday about Amelia’s ability to outshine her husband, her bland words implying that such a problem would never arise with Elena. Did Yvonne make that comment deliberately? Whether she did or not, she highlighted Elena’s fear that she will always be seen as an inadequate replacement for his dead wife. Is that what Nicholas thinks? And does she want to be a replacement?

  ‘Amelia will never come between us, I promise.’ His ability to read her thoughts is disconcerting. ‘I want a new beginning as much as you do. We’ll sell Woodbine and buy a new house. Trust me, Elena. We’ve both been through difficult times but I know I can make you happy.’

  Six