The Wife: An unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist

by Shalini Boland

  Jennifer opens the door as I approach and stands back to let me in. ‘God, Zoe, look at the state of you. You’re absolutely drenched. Here.’ She hands me two large black towels and a bundle of clothes. ‘Not sure if they’ll fit you, but at least they’re dry.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I reply sheepishly.

  My boss rolls her eyes. ‘Get changed, and I’ll be back in a sec so you can tell me what all that was about.’

  She returns to the salon and leaves me alone. I strip off all my wet clothes and let them fall in a dripping puddle onto the floor by my feet. I wrap one towel around my body and the other around my head. Then I examine the bundle of dry clothes – black jeans, a salon T-shirt and a salon sweatshirt – the uniform the juniors wear. After I’m reasonably dry, I pull on the clothes. The fit isn’t too bad except for the jeans, which are way too long, but they’re fine after I roll them up a few times.

  Jennifer comes back into the staffroom as I’m gathering up my wet things from the floor and stuffing them into a plastic carrier bag.

  ‘Well?’ She raises an eyebrow. Jennifer is a lovely employer, but she can be quite scary when she’s cross.

  I tell her about having twice seen a woman who I think might be my sister.

  ‘Wow.’ Jennifer motions to me to sit down at the table as she does the same. ‘That’s…’

  ‘I know, right. But still, I shouldn’t have gone running out of the salon like that without any explanation. I just wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘It’s fine, I understand. Is there anything I can do to help? Did you call the police?’

  ‘I will. Look, don’t worry.’ I blow on my freezing fingers, then shove my hands between my thighs to try to warm them up.

  Jennifer frowns. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t find your sister. I know how traumatic it was for you back then.’

  ‘That’s okay, it’s not your fault. I’m sorry it interfered with my work.’

  ‘Do you really think it was her?’ Jennifer’s being polite. I’m sure she thinks I was seeing things, and I suppose I can’t blame her.

  ‘Honestly, it looked just like her. And she was staring at me through the window. Why would anyone else do that?’

  ‘Maybe you should get back out there and keep looking.’ Her jaw tightens and I can tell this is the last thing she wants me to do, not with a salon full of clients.

  ‘There’s no point. If Dina wants to talk to me, she knows where I am. She’s obviously run off because she doesn’t want to be found.’

  I’m talking as though it was definitely my sister out there, but I know there’s a chance that it wasn’t. That I saw what I wanted to see. Maybe because it’s coming up to ten years since we last had contact. I don’t know. After so long, I think it’s about time we made up. But even if I wanted to, I’m not sure Dina would feel the same way. If it really was her, then what on earth is she up to? Why would she return to Shaftesbury but not make contact with me or our father? What does she want?

  I refocus on my boss. ‘You should get back to the salon; it was pretty manic out there when I left.’

  She waves away my concern. ‘They’ll be fine for a while without me. Anyway, I’ve put Becky in charge. She won’t take any shit.’

  ‘Good call. There’s an hour until my next client, unless you need me to do anything else?’

  ‘No. Look at you, you’re shivering. Stay here, have a hot drink and get warm.’

  ‘Thanks, Jen.’

  She gives me a brief nod before heading back into the salon.

  I sigh, berating myself for running out on my client like that. The last thing I need is for my boss to be pissed off with me. I’m used to being in her good books. It doesn’t feel right to let her down. I get to my feet, turn on the kettle and take a mug from the cupboard, trying to decide whether I’m in the mood for tea or coffee. Finally, I take one of Becky’s hot chocolate sachets, promising myself I’ll replace it later.

  I’m just pouring hot water over the chocolate powder and stirring it in when Jennifer comes striding back into the staffroom.

  ‘Oh, hey, Jen, do you want a drink?’

  ‘What the hell is this?’ She waves her phone at me, her eyes blazing.

  I put down the kettle, unnerved by her attitude. ‘Sorry, what’s what?’

  She stands in front of me and thrusts her phone into my hand. ‘I don’t frigging believe it! Look at this! Just look!’

  Sixteen

  THEN

  Diagonal sleet comes at the windscreen, blurring the icy roads. I take the car at a crawl along the narrow country lanes, ignoring the frustrated driver behind me who’s right on my tail, flashing his lights. Ever since I got pregnant, I’ve become far more cautious. I’m not about to risk my unborn child’s life for a time-saving of two minutes. Mr Angry will just have to wait.

  I’m finally on my way to Dad’s place to tell him the news. I’ve been putting it off for weeks, in the wake of Dina’s lukewarm response. Mainly because I don’t want Dad’s lack of enthusiasm to further rain on my parade. It’s a stark contrast to Toby’s family’s response – they couldn’t have been any more overjoyed if they’d tried. Ever since we told them we were expecting, they’ve been calling round and checking I’m okay, buying little gifts and generally being unbelievably supportive.

  The other reason I’ve delayed coming to see him is because his comment at the wedding annoyed me – asking if I was sure about getting married. If Dad had bothered to be more involved in my life he would know that of course I was sure. But I shouldn’t work myself up. It’s bad for the baby and it won’t make for a particularly pleasant visit if I’m in a mood before I even step through the door.

  I reach the end of the country lane and pull onto the road where Dad lives. It’s only ten minutes outside town – the same house where Dina and I grew up. A modest 1930s property on a main road but set quite far back and screened from the pavement by tall evergreens. Dad has let the bushes grow far too tall. They now block all light from the rooms at the front of the house. I’ve told him he should get them cut back, but he doesn’t do anything about it.

  Mum used to be the one with green fingers, and I have vivid memories of the four of us spending weekends outside, planting, trimming and weeding. That was back when he used to laugh. My father has since let the gardening slide. In the summer, the vast back garden would be a jungle if I didn’t badger Dad into getting the lawnmower out every once in a while. I used to do it myself before I left home.

  I turn into Dad’s driveway and Mr Angry zooms past with his hand down on the horn. It makes me jump, and I almost crash into the gatepost. Some people are utter arseholes. I realise I’m shaking and there’s a fluttering in my belly. Is that…? Could that be the baby? Or perhaps it’s just anxiety caused by that idiot. If he’s upset my baby, I’ll… I sigh, relax my shoulders and give a wry smile, placing a hand over my stomach. I’m already so protective. I need to calm down and forget about that guy. He’s not important.

  I park the car next to Dad’s ancient blue Ford Mondeo and hunch myself against the icy rain as I hurry up to the front door. I still have a key, so I use it and call out to let him know I’m here. Dad comes out of the kitchen into the hall. ‘Hi, love. It’s coming down out there.’

  I wipe the rain off my face.

  ‘Nice to see you with some colour in your cheeks. You were very pale at the wedding.’

  ‘Hi, Dad.’ I lean in for a brief hug and a peck on his cheek. ‘We had good weather on our honeymoon.’

  ‘Oh yeah? That’s good. Had a good trip, did you?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. You should have come to Celia and Malcolm’s for Christmas. Everyone missed you. How was Wales?’

  ‘Oh, you know, the usual.’

  ‘And Aunty Caroline?’

  ‘Fine. She sends her love. Want a cup of tea? Kettle’s on.’ He turns and heads back into the kitchen.

  ‘Just a glass of water please.’

  He glances back. ‘No tea? What’s wrong with you?’r />
  The kitchen is a mess, with papers and bits of old machinery covering the worktops and table. Empty mugs and dirty plates plug the gaps. Dad has always been fairly messy but living on his own has made him so much worse. I raise an eyebrow.

  ‘Don’t start,’ he mutters. ‘I’ll have a tidy round in a day or two once I’ve got this bike engine running.’ Dad’s only passion in life – since Mum – is motorbikes. He’s always tinkering with bits of old engine. Mum never used to let any of it inside the house, and he respected her wishes, for a long time even after she died. But lately, he’s let all that go.

  ‘Want me to help clear up?’ I offer. ‘I could do the dishes and tidy away some of this…’ I gesture to the sink area.

  ‘No, I’m in the middle of something.’ He tuts. ‘Stop fussing, Zoe.’

  ‘What is it you’re doing? Actually, don’t worry. Shall we sit in the lounge?’

  ‘What’s wrong with in here?’ He points to an empty seat.

  I take off my coat and sit down, knowing better than to object. I swear Dad doesn’t use any of the other downstairs rooms apart from the kitchen and the loo. He has a little TV above the breakfast bar that he watches, even in the evenings, despite the fact that I bought him a flat-screen TV for the lounge last Christmas. And the dining room is completely redundant. I don’t think anyone has set foot in there for over a year.

  Mum used to love it when we all sat in the dining room for Sunday lunch. She would make an occasion of it, with all the best china and glasses. And she loved having Christmas dinner in there too. Every year we would decorate the room with tinsel and table decorations, play seasonal music and light a cheerful fire in the hearth. A couple of years after she died, I tried to recreate a similar Christmas day for the three of us. But Dina was disappointed that Dad had forgotten to get us any presents, so she spent the whole day in her bedroom refusing to come out even when I begged her to join us for lunch. If only she had been a bit more willing to try. To meet me halfway… but it’s no good wishing. Not now anyway.

  Dad walks over to the sink. ‘Water, you say?’

  I nod and he pours me a glass before making himself a cup of tea.

  ‘I’ve got some news.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ He spoons sugar into his mug and turns around, stirring his tea.

  ‘How would you like to be a grandad?’

  He glances up sharply. ‘You’re…?’

  ‘Yep. Due in July.’

  ‘Oh, Zoe.’ He puts his mug on the counter and nods, his eyes softening. ‘Congratulations, love.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You feeling all right?’

  ‘A bit tired, but I’m okay.’

  ‘Your mum had terrible sickness with Dina. Not so much with you.’

  ‘I haven’t had much. Just a bit at the beginning. On my wedding day actually.’

  ‘Good, glad you’re feeling okay. Thought it was a bit strange you not having a cuppa.’

  ‘I’ve gone right off caffeine.’

  ‘So, July?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  He nods and picks up his mug. Blows on his tea before taking a sip. I’d thought he might at least have given me a hug or something. But old habits die hard. Dad never has been one for displays of affection.

  ‘Have you heard from Dina lately?’ I ask.

  ‘Not for a while, no. Still in Thailand I take it?’

  ‘That’s the thing, Dad. We texted before Christmas, but I haven’t heard anything since. I tried her mobile yesterday but the number’s out of service.’ I’m hoping my sister didn’t change her number on purpose, just to worry me, or to cut off contact. I wouldn’t put it past her. ‘Have you got another number for her?’

  Dad gets up and reaches for a pad on the counter. ‘Here. This is the only one I’ve got.’ He passes it across the table, and I see the familiar digits written in Dad’s scrawl.

  ‘That’s the same number she gave me. The one that doesn’t work anymore.’

  My father turns and picks up the ancient house phone from the counter. He painstakingly presses the buttons and waits. Seconds later he replaces the receiver with a frown. ‘Hmm, you’re right, but I’m sure she’ll call once she gets a new phone.’

  ‘I hope so. It’s not great to think of her over there with no way for us to get in touch.’

  ‘Hang on.’ My father opens a kitchen drawer and roots through a multitude of junk before pulling out a scrap of grey cardboard that looks as though it was torn from a cereal carton. He hands it to me. ‘That’s the hostel where she’s staying.’

  I examine the address on the card, written in dad’s handwriting. ‘Have you got a phone number for the place?’

  He shrugs and shakes his head while I try to bring Google up on my phone before remembering that Dad doesn’t have broadband or any type of mobile signal here.

  ‘Okay, well at least it’s something to go on. I’ll go home and see if I can find a number for the hostel.’ I stand and gather up my wet coat and bag from the back of the chair next to me.

  ‘You’re not staying longer? I could make us a sandwich. I think I’ve got some ham in the fridge.’

  I’m not sure if I want to stay for lunch. Usually we run out of things to talk about after five minutes. I look up at my dad’s expectant expression. At his baggy jogging bottoms and old navy fisherman’s jumper. At his two-day-old chin stubble and his bloodshot eyes. He’s only in his early fifties, but somehow looks much older. ‘I can stay if you like?’

  He grimaces and slurps his tea. Maybe he sensed my hesitation. ‘Don’t worry. Second thoughts, you get off and find that number for your sister. I’ve got this engine to sort out.’

  ‘I can keep you company while you work.’

  ‘I work best when I’m on my own.’

  ‘Fine.’ I shrug on my coat and slip the piece of cardboard into my bag. ‘I’ll give you a ring if I—’

  ‘Yes, yes. See you soon, Zoe.’

  He follows me into the hall, almost impatiently, and I wonder if he’ll mention my pregnancy again. But he doesn’t. Just ushers me out of the house like I’m an unwelcome distraction. It’s always like this with Dad. We almost connect, and then it all falls apart before we get anywhere. You’d think I’d learn not to be disappointed each time it happens.

  I let the rain soak me as I head back to my car. Dad closes the front door before I’m even inside the vehicle, dripping all over the seat and steering wheel. Anger sweeps over me and I can’t wait to leave. I tell myself I’m not even going to bother trying to find a number for the hostel. But I know that’s a lie. Dina might be the last person I want to speak to, but she’s still my baby sister. I need to know that she’s okay. If not for me, at least for Dad.

  I’m back home a little over ten minutes later, sitting in my warm, clean and tidy kitchen, feeling a little calmer. A quick Google search on my laptop yields a basic website for the Thai hostel. There’s a contact page with a map, address, email address and phone number. I call the number and, after interminable ringing, it’s eventually answered by a guy with an Australian accent.

  ‘Hello, can I help?’

  ‘Hi, is that the Lazy Days hostel?’

  ‘It is. Do you want to make a booking?’ He sounds rushed, irritated. Like I’ve interrupted him. His impatience makes me stutter.

  ‘Uh, no. No thanks. I, uh… Do you have someone staying there called Dina Williams? She’s my sister and I can’t get through on—’

  ‘You mean Dee?’

  ‘Short, with long brown hair, blue eyes.’

  ‘Yeah. English chick. Worked here last year. Bolshy.’

  That sounds like Dina. ‘I didn’t realise she worked there. Is she around? Can I talk to her? Tell her it’s Zoe.’

  ‘Like I said, she worked here last year, but she’s not here anymore.’

  ‘Oh. Well, do you know where she went? Do you have a forwarding address or number?’

  ‘All I know is she said she was heading home to the UK.’


  ‘Really? The UK?’ He must be mistaken. ‘Do you know when that was? Was it before Christmas?’

  ‘Way before that. Can’t remember exactly, but it was months ago.’

  Months ago? That doesn’t sound right. ‘Would anyone else there have an address for her? It’s just… her phone isn’t working, and I haven’t been able to get in touch.’

  ‘No, none of us knew any more than what she told us.’

  ‘Can you ask around? See if she mentioned a place to anyone else?’

  His sigh travels down the phone line.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Let me have your number. I’ll ask, but I doubt anyone knows. No offence but she wasn’t exactly the most likable person.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Back home, Dina always had a chip on her shoulder. She was never easy to get on with. But I somehow assumed that after she went off travelling, she’d managed to find some peace. That she was off having fun. I’m a little sad to discover she hadn’t been liked. At least not by these guys. Sure, her messages to me are never particularly long. And they’re mainly in response to me checking to see if she’s okay. But I always imagined she was having a good time – making friends, having amazing experiences, maybe even finding love or romance. To hear this guy speak so badly of her makes me feel a bit sad, and defensive on her behalf.

  ‘Sorry,’ the man sounds apologetic. ‘You’re her sister, I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘I know she might not be the most outgoing person in the world but, like you said, she is my sister, so I’d like to know that she’s okay.’

  ‘Yeah, of course. I’ll ask around. I’m Matt, by the way. What’s your number?’

  I give him my details and hang up, not holding out much hope that he’ll call me back. I wonder if it’s true that she came back to the UK last year. Or maybe it’s just what she told him. If they weren’t friends, then it’s quite probable she lied about coming home. When I last spoke to Dina before the wedding, she was apologetic about not being able to fly back, so I’m sure she was still in Thailand. But what if she was lying to me? What if she’s in England and she doesn’t want me to know?