The First Wife: An unputdownable page turner with a twist

by Jill Childs

  My body froze. All at once. Paralysed. Inside, my mind was ablaze. Lights and colours exploded as they streamed past. My body was there, still and silent in the room, Dominic at my side, and my soul was in free-fall, spinning away into eternity. I wanted to scream, to shout to him to save me, to get help, not to let me go, but no sound came. I felt, in that moment, like I was dying. That our time together, which seemed only moments earlier so limitless, was a mere fleck of light in the whirling brightness all around me.

  I blinked and I was there again. On the screen, Matt Damon was still on his motorbike. Dominic still cradled his glass. He stretched lazily forward to each for another slice of pizza. Oblivious.

  I sat very still, trembling, still in shock. I had my life back. This man, sitting so close to me, hadn’t even noticed what had happened. What had happened? A stroke? A heart attack? I squeezed my hands into cautious fists and felt my fingers respond. No damage, no pain.

  I turned slowly to look at him. He’d curled the sides of the slice of pizza and was eating it end-on, half-rolled, munching. The top of his nose and the skin stretched taut over his cheekbones glowed red with the weekend’s sunburn. His chin was dark with stubble. His neck was framed by the faded blue collar of his polo shirt. I almost lost him. I almost lost it all.

  I stretched out a hand and stroked the exposed skin at the back of his neck, the soft short hair at the base of his skull. I wanted his attention, but he didn’t move, just carried on eating and watching the film.

  ‘Let’s get married.’ I didn’t want to waste another minute. ‘Soon as we can. Let’s do it.’

  He took a moment to pull his eyes from the screen and when he turned to me, his eyes were amused. He didn’t answer, just looked at me.

  My heart swelled. ‘You want to, don’t you? What are we waiting for? Let’s get on with it.’

  He smiled. ‘What brought that on?’

  I shrugged, looked away, frightened now. ‘Well?’

  He leaned across and kissed the tip of my nose. His breath smelled of cooked cheese and wine.

  ‘Why not?’ He looked me full in the eyes, so close I saw my own tense face reflected there to infinity. ‘Sounds like a good idea to me. As you say, why wait?’

  He kissed me on the lips, slowly now, giving me his full attention. A moment later, he stretched me out on the sofa under him and his cool hand found its way under my clothes, exploring my curves, my smooth skin, my hips. The body which, just minutes before, felt lifeless.

  I closed my eyes and opened my arms to him, caressing the back of his head, feeling the muscles down his back. He mustn’t know. I knew that at once, without question. Whatever had happened to me, it mustn’t intrude, it mustn’t put him off, it mustn’t spoil everything.

  * * *

  The next day, at work, we started to tell people.

  ‘Engaged? Really? That’s amazing! Congratulations!’

  We were caught up in a storm of questions and decisions, the first day of a frantic few months of arrangements. Something which had seemed so intimate, so private between us, was suddenly public property.

  As an engagement present, my father revealed that he’d transferred the bulk of my inheritance to me when I was a teenager, part of some scheme of his to manage the tax bill, and put one of his London properties in my name too. If I didn’t want to, I need never work again. It was liberating for me and took the pressure off Dominic’s young business too.

  I gave up work and threw myself into arranging the wedding. I wanted to go for gold. St John’s Cathedral. Reception on The Peak. The Works.

  My biggest fear was my health, but slowly, as the weeks passed, I started to regain confidence in my body. I’d been right not to worry anyone. I didn’t need to. Besides, I didn’t want to make it real.

  I began to persuade myself that perhaps I’d imagined it. Maybe I was just tired that weekend. Too much to drink on Saturday night. Too much sun. Nothing to worry about, after all.

  * * *

  We were on honeymoon when it happened again. Dominic organised a luxury villa in the Maldives, then his credit card maxed out and I ended up paying for it. It seemed funny, at the time. One of those stories I’d save up to tell the grandchildren.

  Besides, I liked teasing him.

  ‘You are just marrying me for my money, aren’t you?’

  He’d roll his eyes, cool as anything. ‘Obviously.’ Then he’d kiss me and, frankly, I didn’t much care.

  He’d only set up on his own the year before we met. It was harder than he thought, finding his own clients. The little money he made, he had to plough back into the business. Decent office space cost a fortune in central Hong Kong. You really had to spend money to make it.

  I understood that. Appearances were everything in that city. You couldn’t hope to lure a client into investing millions with you if you rocked up in a shabby suit and cheap shoes.

  I didn’t mind bankrolling him. I had enough for both of us, thanks to my father. Naturally, we kept that quiet.

  And the honeymoon in the Maldives was worth every penny. The villa had a private beach of pure white sand and, when we weren’t in bed together, we spent hours just sitting there, side by side on a voluminous beach mat, bare feet pressed into the sand, toes buried.

  That particular day, our third or fourth, the waves were smooth satin silk, unfurling up the beach towards us. Dominic was talking to me. Something about a fishing boat out on the water, a squat wooden vessel.

  It swept down without warning, much the same. A sudden paralysis which gripped my body but left my mind whirling and spinning. The rushing boom in my ears. Dazzling arcs of light. A descent into heaven or hell, I didn’t know which, but I was terrified, certain I was plunging into an abyss, into death. I was doused in intense smells. Sharp and vivid in a way I’d never before experienced. The heady perfume of flowers from a nearby bush. The tang of salt in the air. The rich pungent smell of Dominic’s sweat as he sat beside me.

  It ended. Dominic was looking at me, his expression curious.

  ‘Hello! Earth to Caroline. Do you read me?’

  I leaned in and rested my forehead against the top of his arm, trying to disguise my shock.

  ‘Am I boring you?’ His tone was playful but slightly vexed. Hurt, perhaps. I’d learned that about him. Despite all the bravado, he was sensitive.

  ‘Of course not. Don’t be silly.’ I kissed his warm skin. ‘I was miles away, that’s all. Sorry. What did you say?’

  He kissed the top of my head and threaded his arm round me. ‘I was just saying, I wonder if we could hire a boat tomorrow and get out on the water? What do you think? Do you fancy it?’

  Had he really said that? I had no memory of his having spoken at all. None. I had the odd sense that I had left him and skipped ahead in time, slipped a groove and lost moments I could never recover.

  That night, I lay awake beside him as he slept. The bed was large and wooden, the mattress sunk inside a hard frame. Mosquito netting fell in a cone from the ceiling with skirts wide enough to cover us both. Dominic lay naked on his side, facing away from me, the sheets kicked off and tangled round one leg. His steady breathing, the swish of the turning ceiling fans overhead and the soft sigh of the waves outside on the beach as they foamed, spread and sank into the sand.

  * * *

  The years that followed were the best and worst.

  I loved being married to Dominic. I loved our life together.

  We took on a new apartment on the lower reaches of the Peak, with high ceilings and large rooms, polished floors and modern appliances. The broad balcony had jaw-dropping views of the harbour below. Most days, late in the afternoon when the light was mellow, I set up my easel there and lost myself in painting for an hour or so, filling the gap before Dominic came home.

  We had an amah who cleaned and shopped and did our laundry and a Thai chef who catered our dinner parties. I spent my days playing tennis and lunching with friends, organising our social life and planning parties
.

  I worked hard at keeping healthy, staying as fit as I could and eating well. I learned strategies to hide what I thought of now as my ‘lost moments’. They gradually came more frequently, always without warning, always short-lived.

  For a while, they happened every month or so, then finally, in the numbness and darkness after my father’s sudden death in Singapore, they came most weeks. Dominic didn’t understand what I was going through and I didn’t try to explain. He hated weakness. The only sign that he was aware of anything happening was when he joked about me once or twice with friends.

  ‘I know I’m getting boring when Caroline zones out,’ he’d say, sitting back in his dining chair at the end of the meal, cigar in hand, when the wine and port had flowed and the conversation turned edgy. He made a joke of it, but I sensed the tension in his voice, as if it worried him. His friends laughed and I managed to laugh too, pretending it was nothing.

  My friends called it daydreaming. One of my old school friends, Becca, had a way of waving her hand in front of my face. ‘Hey, Caroline! Anyone home?’

  I stopped driving. There was little need to in Hong Kong anyway when transport was so good and taxis so cheap. I tried not to think about what was happening to me. I told myself it was just part of the hectic lifestyle I had lead. Perhaps Dominic was right, I just zoned out from time to time.

  I never grew used to the sensations. The lights, the heightened noises, the intense smells, the sense that I was careering into a void and losing myself forever. But I grew a little less terrified. I learned to trust that they would end, these bouts, and I would be restored to sanity. To my earthly body.

  Some days, I thought of them as payment. I had no right to such happiness, to so much glamour and opulence. I’d made my pact with fate. I had so much. It was a small enough price.

  * * *

  And then I became pregnant and, after all the grief, the bleakness of losing my father, there seemed a fresh reason to hope. Dominic was thrilled. He threw himself into work with renewed energy, determined to build his business, and started bringing home lavish presents for our unborn child. A rocking horse. A tiny table and chairs. A stuffed rabbit with big eyes and long, drooping ears. He seemed brim-full of happiness and his joy was infectious.

  For me, the feeling, as our baby grew inside me, was one of calm contentment. I threw myself into painting, sketching and building colour, lost in my own world, as the hard tropical light slowly turned golden and I waited for Dominic to come home to me, finally, from his clients’ after work drinks and late meetings.

  The memory thing started slowly. Or rather, it took me time to realise. Dominic started teasing me. Fondly at first, then with increasing impatience.

  Little absences at first.

  How could you not remember that film? We only saw it last year.

  Why did you walk straight past Jennifer and George in the restaurant, as if you didn’t recognise them?

  I struggled. ‘Jennifer and George?’

  ‘We spent a whole day on their junk, remember, with the Levinsons and the Jarretts? Yes? It was scorching and we had a champagne barbeque on the beach.’ His brow furrowed. He was getting frustrated with me. ‘Come on, Caroline. Please. How can you not remember?’

  He got out his phone and scrolled back to find photographs to show me. A group shot on the beach, champagne glasses raised. I was there, in the midst of these beautiful people, smiling. It looked like me. That was my swimsuit. Dominic at my side. But was it me? I didn’t think I’d ever been there. I didn’t know these friends. I’d never seen that beach before. Had I?

  I nodded and made a big show of pretending to remember. I was shaken, but all I wanted right then was to calm him down, to make it all alright.

  ‘Oh, of course, silly me. I’m sorry, Dominic. Really. It was a lovely day. Look, I didn’t mean to be rude. I’ll apologise when we see them next. They’ll understand, won’t they?’

  He put his phone away and strode away, still irritated. It seemed to frighten him, this lapse in my sanity. Perhaps it was simply too great a threat to our happiness for him to handle.

  Little incidents like this happened time and time again. I began to keep a diary, my own record of what was happening in our lives before it slipped away.

  One time, I put my hand out innocently to introduce myself to a woman who approached us one evening during interval drinks at a concert.

  Her face clouded. Her hand stayed rigid at her side. ‘I just came across to say congratulations.’

  I faltered, aware of her anger, of Dominic at my side, watching. ‘Thank you. I’m sorry. Have we—'

  She glared. ‘Have we met?’ Her voice was sarcastic. ‘Just once or twice. Honestly, Caroline.’

  She turned on her heel and walked off, leaving me staring helplessly after her.

  Dominic took my elbow and steered me away. ‘Why did you do that?’ He seemed cross too. ‘I know you and Jayne crossed swords sometimes, but she was just being polite.’

  Jayne? I shook my head, confused. Already the evening was spoiled. I sat miserably through the second half, wondering who that woman was and how I knew her and how to navigate this blankness in my head.

  And then there was the gold bracelet.

  On our wedding night, after we’d finally closed the door of the honeymoon suite, dizzy with champagne, and felt the adrenaline ebb and then exhaustion roll in, Dominic opened his bag and handed me a square red box. A jewellery box.

  I hesitated before opening it. I was embarrassed, worried that he’d felt he needed to spend a lot of money on me when I knew he didn’t have a lot to spare just then.

  ‘Well, go on. Open it.’ His jaw was tense.

  He sprawled beside me on top of the four-poster bed, his tie already loosened and the collar of his dress shirt open. His chin was dark with evening stubble. I don’t think I’d ever seen him so handsome or loved him so much. My husband. Husband and wife.

  I grinned and lifted the lid. Inside was a thick-set gold bracelet, curled on red silk. It was antique, I saw that at once. Edwardian, perhaps. I lifted it out and felt its weight as it ran through my fingers. Heavy links, as chunky as a bath chain, were set with three sapphires and two pearls.

  His eyes were on my face.

  I managed to say, ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘You don’t like it.’ He rolled away from me onto his back, angry. ‘I knew it.’

  I said at once: ‘I do. Don’t be mean, Dom. It’s stunning. I was just surprised, that’s all.’

  He pulled himself away from me and sat on the far side of the bed, his back to me, taking out his cufflinks.

  ‘Stop it.’ I waded through the counterpane to him and tried to wrap my arms round his waist, the bracelet still hanging from one hand. ‘I love it. It’s vintage, isn’t it? Tell me.’

  ‘It was my grandmother’s. And then my mother’s.’ His body stayed stiff. ‘Don’t lie to me. I can read you like a book.’

  I tried to twist past to look him in the face. ‘I love it.’

  He turned his head away. ‘I know how much you’ve got. It’s not easy. I’m not your bloody father, all right?’

  ‘Thank goodness for that. Or this would be a bit weird.’ I pulled his shirt out and started to kiss his side, his stomach, his chest. He tried to ignore me. ‘You’re being ridiculous. I love it. Really. I’m honoured. Now come here and be a husband, would you?’

  He finally stopped sulking, but I was worried by what he’d said.

  In those first years of marriage, I had made a point of wearing his family bracelet on special occasions, however clunky it felt, just to please him.

  Then, soon after I found out that I was pregnant, I lost the damn thing.

  I’d joined a load of girlfriends, Becca and Kate from school, Celia and a few others from my time at the bank, for a lunch and swimming party at one of the bank’s best apartment complexes on The Peak. I remember picking out the bracelet that day because I hadn’t worn it for a while and I thought D
ominic might appreciate the gesture.

  When we stripped off to swim, I zipped it carefully into a pocket in the lining of my handbag. I was sure I did. But afterwards, when I came to change again, it simply wasn’t there.

  My friends helped me search the place. The poolside. The loungers. The towels. There was no sign of it.

  Becca said, ‘You’re sure you had it on when you came?’

  I bit my lip. ‘Of course I’m sure.’

  Kate: ‘Maybe it slipped off in the pool?’

  We walked with care round the edge. The water shimmered with lazy ripples, flashing in the sunshine. The pale pool tiles covering the bottom were clear. Nothing.

  Celia, who knew everyone connected to the bank, looked worried. ‘We could ask them to check the filters?’

  I shook my head. I’d have known if I’d tried to swim with it on my wrist. It was too heavy not to notice. I’d put it in my bag. Hadn’t I?

  Becca whispered: ‘You don’t think someone could have…’

  We exchanged awkward glances. It was an exclusive block for executives. We had the pool to ourselves. The only other people around were the waiters who topped up our drinks and brought us snacks and the pool servants with nets on long poles to fish out leaves and debris.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Kate looked embarrassed. She hated a scene.

  ‘I don’t either.’ Celia was always practical. ‘We’d have noticed.’

  I went home distraught and sobbed in the silence, wondering how to tell Dominic.

  By the time, he came home, my eyes were swollen, my nose red.

  I took a deep breath and started to explain. It was an honest mistake. An accident. These things happen. Don’t they?

  He reacted as if I’d punched him. Wounded to the core. He said very little. It was the look in his eyes. The hurt.