The Mistress: A gripping and emotional page turner with a killer twist

by Jill Childs

  Just two days ago:

  Still here. Miss me?

  There were no replies.

  I shook my head, imagining their impact on Laura Dixon. She’d know it was him, of course she would, even if she didn’t recognise his new number. What was he playing at? She was damaged enough. She didn’t need this.

  I read them again. The tone was menacing. The words of a man threatening revenge because his pride had been hurt. I didn’t understand. Why was he doing this, trying to needle her? He’d tried to kill her. Now he wanted her back?

  I thought about the slip of paper Miss Abbott had given me with Laura Dixon’s address and phone number. I put Ralph’s phone aside and went in search of my old smartphone, hidden in the pocket of a bag, then pulled up the scan I’d taken of her details.

  I frowned, confused, then looked again at Ralph’s menacing messages. It wasn’t her number. Unless she had a second, secret phone? I shrugged. It was possible but…

  Run as far as you like, princess.

  I stared again at the number on Ralph’s phone. There was something about it that felt familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I felt suddenly hot, my hairline prickling. I moved to my contacts list and started to trawl through it, looking for a match.

  The screen blurred. I sat, struggling to understand. I could barely focus. My mind whirled as I stared, in disbelief, at the number.

  Oh, Ralph.

  Megan, with her long-limbs and beautiful eyes, her quick intelligence. The star of Ralph’s English class.

  Clara’s big sister. My best friend’s daughter.

  A searing pain in my stomach. I bent double, struggling to breathe.

  No, please not her.

  She was only seventeen. She was still a child.

  A memory fell into place. No wonder she’d seemed so subdued, so embarrassed when she came to see me just before she left for her big travelling adventure, funded by the cheque I’d given her. My thank you for coming over to the house that night at zero notice to sit with Anna. Thank you for sending the text messages that covered my tracks. Our tracks.

  Ralph, how could you?

  I eased myself sideways to the floor, my knees drawn up.

  Megan. Ralph, giving her extra coaching at lunchtimes because she was such a promising pupil. Helping her read more widely, to extend her knowledge, before her university interviews. Ralph’s boyish excitement when Megan started writing her own poetry and sharing it with him.

  He’d seen her after school. I’d sanctioned it. I’d even been pleased when he asked if I thought it would be okay to include her in one of his staff poetry events, just to make her feel respected, to feel like an adult.

  ‘I’d give her a lift home,’ he’d said. ‘I’d look after her. Ask Bea if that’s okay, would you?’

  I’d been grateful. I thought he was proving himself to me, apologising for his affair with Laura Dixon, showing me the kind of man he’d be in the future, if I stood by him and went ahead with his plans.

  I shuddered.

  My mind leaped on. Laura Dixon. She’d found out, she must have. That was what she was threatening to tell. That he’d been harassing his underage pupil.

  Ralph had raged when I told him that Laura’s threats were just bluster. Why would she risk going to the Head, to the governors? We’d argued about it. After all, if they fired him, wouldn’t she lose her job too? She was just as guilty as he was, if they called his conduct unprofessional.

  She was crazy, he’d said. Vengeful, all because he’d broken things off.

  She was out to ruin him, he kept repeating, raking his fingers through his hair. We had to disappear before she acted, before she made her delusions public and this whole madness blew up in his face.

  Think of the shame, the humiliation. He had turned large, wild eyes on me. Not just for him. For me. For Anna.

  And then he set out details of the fraud which would allow us to escape it all, to start again, together.

  Now, I tried to focus on breathing, to ease the pain. How could you, Ralph? I didn’t know what I’d do if a grown man, a married man, harassed Anna like that, when she was just a teenager.

  I thought again about Megan. She’d looked haunted, her eyes hollowed. She’d trembled when I forced her to go through Ralph’s books.

  How can I tell you? she’d said. I can’t tell anyone.

  No wonder she’d struggled to concentrate, to revise for her exams. Every essay must have reminded her of Ralph. Every novel. Every poem.

  I blew out my cheeks.

  You’ll blame me, she’d said.

  I saw it, now. Megan had kept her mouth shut about Ralph’s abusive behaviour, not because she cared about him but because she cared about me, her family’s kind and helpful friend. And about Anna, her little sister’s playmate.

  I leaned forward and reached for a tissue, wiped my eyes, my nose.

  I’d trusted him. I’d closed my ears to the voices that told me he’d never change, he’d always cheat on me, he’d always lie. No, I’d told myself. Deep down, he loves me. He loves Anna. We really can start again.

  But this? He’d betrayed me in the worst way possible. Lies. Nothing but lies. Even now, he hadn’t let go of his obsession with Megan. Maybe he never would, until his longing was satisfied.

  She thought he was dead but by texting her now, he was putting everything at risk. Our secret. Our new identities. Our futures.

  Not just his. Not just mine. But Anna’s too.

  That was something I couldn’t allow.

  Fifty-Three

  I barely slept that night. As day broke, I lay, silent, staring at the weak sunlight creeping in patterns across the ceiling. Sounds drifted in. Alien, country sounds.

  My head ached. I hunched into a ball, frightened, stomach churning.

  Once the sun was up, I padded through to Anna’s room. She was lying on her side, her lips parted, her breath sounding in little puffs. She’d kicked off the duvet and her legs were bent and scissored, as if she were running away even as she slept.

  I covered her again, then made myself a strong coffee and took it back to the bedroom. I sat at the window to drink it, looking out across the valley. The fields looked lush with dew. The sun, strengthening now, was burning off the mist. I sat very still and tried to feel its warmth, to take strength from it.

  Once we’d had breakfast, I drove Anna to the nearest town to find a supermarket and stock up on food. We pretended to be explorers, searching the cobbled streets on foot, looking at postcards and stuffed toys, sweet shops lined with old-fashioned jars, outdoor equipment stores with tents and waterproof jackets and climbing gear. It was all a game to her, for now. We were playing at being here, not settling.

  We held hands as we walked, swinging our arms. I tried to play along, not to let her see how frightened I was.

  In the supermarket, I chose a marbled slab of steak for Ralph and a chocolate cheesecake, his favourite dessert. Anna chose a tub of chocolate ice cream. She skipped out of the supermarket back to the car, beaming, clutching a family-sized box of cereal to her chest, her spiky hair shining like a halo. Her happiness, her optimism, seemed so light against my own heaviness.

  We unpacked the shopping and put it all away in the barn, then walked down the hill to the pub-hotel where we’d spent our first night. The heat was gathering. The sunshine burning now, glancing off the dry stones and shrivelling the grass. Sheep huddled under the trees or lay along the thread of shade thrown by the walls lining their fields.

  The pub garden was crowded with holidaymakers: families with young children, cyclists and hikers in thick socks and heavy boots, crammed along the benches on either side of wooden table, shaded by umbrellas, or sitting in clusters on the grass.

  Inside, the thick stone walls of the pub kept the interior cool. The main lounge was deserted. Shafts of sunshine fell across the faded armchairs and worn carpet, lighting columns of dancing dust.

  Anna and I ordered from the bar, then went back to the lounge to wa
it for our sandwiches and soft drinks, away from the crowds. I found the remote and switched the television to the children’s channel. Anna brightened and settled in front of it, ready to disappear, eyes glazed, into the programmes.

  I watched her for a moment. She looked so young, so vulnerable, sitting cross-legged on a cushion, her shoes sloughed off. Buddy, her new toy, stood upright in her lap.

  I leaned forward and kissed her on the top of her head.

  ‘Are you okay for a minute, Anna, if I go outside to make a phone call?’

  She was so wrapped up in the television that she didn’t even stir.

  I went back out to the garden and through the noisy crowd to a grassy mound on the far side. Two boys, three and four years old perhaps, rolled down it, then collapsed together, shrieking, at the bottom. They clambered to their feet and ran back up the slope on stubby legs to roll again. Their hair was speckled with pollen.

  I sat, knees drawn up, at the top of the mound and drew out Ralph’s new phone, the one I’d taken from his pocket the night before. I pressed the button and watched the screen spring into life. No new messages. Two missed calls. From Ralph, I suspected, trying to find out where he’d left it. I stared at the screen, trying to steel myself to make the call.

  The two boys came racing up the mound again, the smaller one grasping at the older one’s clothes to pull him down. They were breathless, laughing, slapping at each other, knocking into each other. Behind them, the hotel garden was vibrant with colour, from the blooming hanging baskets by the door to the red striped umbrellas, the bright cotton T-shirts.

  I shook my head, wondering what these people would think of me if they knew what I was about to do.

  My eye strayed to the lounge windows at the side of the building. They shone with sunlight. Anna was on the other side. I imagined her, sitting there quietly, waiting for me, trusting me. I remembered the sight of her asleep that morning, her limbs splayed, her face soft. My heart contracted and shortened my breath. Oh, Anna.

  I hunched forward and punched a new number into the phone, then closed my eyes to shut myself off from the scene in front of me and waited as it rang.

  Fifty-Four

  I let Anna fall asleep in my arms that night.

  She was delighted, cuddled up in the crook of my elbow as I lay beside her in her narrow bed. She lifted her head now and then to check my face, to be sure of me, planting little kisses on the tip of my nose, my lips, my chin, then finally settled. I stroked her back, soothing her to sleep, the same way I had when she was tiny. In those days, I fell asleep next to her most of the time, from sheer exhaustion.

  It was my need, not hers. I held her against me, feeling her thin ribs expand and contract, the smell of her skin coated with lavender oil from her bath and the remnants of strawberry shampoo. She’d kicked off the duvet and the heat rising from her body warmed me.

  ‘I love you,’ I whispered, once I was sure she was asleep. I withdrew my arm with stealth. The bed creaked as I eased away my weight. ‘I hope you’d forgive me, if you knew. You’ve been through enough.’

  I had a shower and dressed with care in a slinky dress, one of the few I’d kept. Perfume. Bare legs. Heels. I put on make-up in the bathroom cabinet and stood back in the doorway, craning to see myself. I looked like someone else. Like Mrs Mack.

  In the kitchen, I prepared everything I could, setting out the frying pan, the garlic and oil, making a rocket salad. The kitchen knife flashed as I chopped peppers and tomatoes.

  Afterwards, I went through to the settee and armchairs and sat in the window, looking out over the valley. I folded my hands in my lap, imagining unseen eyes watching me. This was my signal to them, to the world, that I was ready for what the night might bring.

  Slowly, the light mellowed and thinned. The dying sun bled across the far valley, giving way at last to darkness. The thick, leafy foliage, drawing a curtain over every approaching path and track, turned black. I strained to see, to hear him approach.

  A twig cracked, invisible but close to the barn. I jumped. The darkness rubbed against the windows. I crept back through the barn towards the front door and stood there, listening and waiting.

  A tap on the wood, so light it could be a branch blowing against the gables. The low rattle of a key in the lock. The door opened.

  He stood there, silhouetted against the night.

  A whisper, ‘Helen?’

  ‘Hello.’ I crept forward and reached my arms around him, pressed my body against his. He was leaner and fitter than I’d ever known him, his shoulders solid with muscle.

  I stroked the back of his neck and he inclined his head, leaning his face towards mine. I kissed him.

  ‘Miss me?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ I smiled in the darkness. ‘Shut the door. Come inside.’

  Ralph found glasses and poured the wine he’d brought, then stood, leaning back against the spiral staircase, and watched me while I cooked. I fried the steaks in a haze of garlic and spitting fat.

  His eyes followed the curves of my body as I moved around the small kitchen adding spices, black pepper, turning the meat, dressing the salad. The swaying of my breasts and hips was augmented by the high heels. He was interested, but wary about making a move. I sensed it all. I knew him. It had been such a long time since I’d dressed to please him. It was a dance the two of us had almost forgotten.

  When the steak was almost ready, I threw him the matches.

  ‘Would you light the candles?’

  He moved down the dining table, lighting the row of candles I’d arranged between two place settings there. Once the candles flared and he’d replaced their stubby glass chimneys, I switched off the kitchen lights and brought our food across.

  The room was eerie with shadows. We sat opposite each other together in the soft candlelight, knees touching.

  He reached forward and cupped my cheeks with his hand.

  ‘You look amazing, Mrs Mack.’ His eyes were gentle. ‘You are amazing.’

  I gazed back at him. For a moment, in the low flicker of the candles, the years seemed to melt away. I saw again the younger man, the man I’d fallen in love with. The thoughtful poet. My love.

  His expression changed. ‘What’s wrong?’ He peered more closely at me through the gloom. ‘Why are you teary?’

  ‘I’m just happy,’ I lied, pulling away from him and lifting my glass in a toast. ‘Happy to have you home.’

  I made a supreme effort during the meal, shooting him endless questions about his favourite topic, himself. His cleverness in finding and fitting out the barn. His poetry. His hopes for the future. Even, when the conversation lulled, his thoughts on a new four-wheel drive car. I listened with large eyes and moist lips, pretending to be enthralled.

  Quietly, I checked the time when I could, willing it to hurry.

  After the steak, I fed him chocolate cheesecake and refilled his wine glass whenever I could. I barely drank myself. I was almost there. Another half an hour, perhaps. The spoon trembled in my hand and I set it down and made fists in my lap.

  When I cleared away the dishes, he got to his feet and headed to the downstairs toilet. Once he was inside, I snatched his phone from my bag and slipped it back into his jacket, hiding it as best I could in a deep pocket.

  I checked the clock. Fifteen minutes. It was almost time. If I could trust him. If everything went according to plan.

  I started to set up the coffee maker, shaking so hard that the packet slipped in my hands. Ground coffee scattered across the counter.

  ‘Easy, there!’ He was at my shoulder, his hands reaching for mine to take over.

  I started. I hadn’t heard the door, hadn’t realised he’d come out. What if he’d been watching me, if he’d seen me returning the phone?

  ‘You okay?’ His breath smelled of garlic and red wine.

  I nodded and turned away. ‘Let’s have coffee near the windows. Looking out at the valley.’

  I leaned over the dining table and blew out the candl
es, one by one. Puffs of pungent smoke.

  He was suddenly behind me, pressing me forward against the edge of the table. I shivered. He’d moved with speed and stealth and now he was pinning me there.

  ‘I know what you’re up to.’ His breath flared hot against my ear.

  I closed my eyes.

  His large hands slid round to the front of my dress and cupped my breasts, then squeezed.

  ‘You’re trying to turn me on,’ he said. ‘And you’re doing a damn good job.’

  I put my hands over his. ‘So are you.’ I twisted round in his arms and he kissed me, urgent now and loosened by wine.

  When he paused, I moved quickly and lifted his arms away.

  ‘Wait.’ I put a finger to his lips. ‘I’ve been thinking.’

  He frowned.

  I wriggled against him and felt his body respond to mine. Eight minutes to go, maybe. Seven.

  ‘Maybe it’s been my fault, Ralph. At least, partly.’ I kept my voice low. ‘I’ve been so focussed on Anna all these years. I forgot to look after you the way I should. I’m sorry. I didn’t pay you enough attention.’

  His eyes were on mine, cautious, wondering where this was going.

  I smiled. ‘Don’t look so stern, Mr Mack. I’m just saying, I want to make some changes around here. I want to have fun again. With you.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’ He lowered his face, moving in again to kiss me.

  I pulled away. ‘Wait. I mean it. I want to wow you, Ralph. I want to be so good, you’ll never want another woman again.’

  I pressed my lips against his and parted them, teased him with the tip of my tongue.

  ‘Can we try something new?’ I whispered. ‘Something we’ve never done before?’

  It was his turn to tremble. The whites of his eyes glistened in the darkness.

  Five minutes. Maybe four.

  ‘Something a bit kinky. Outside.’

  He moistened his lips.