The First Wife: An unputdownable page turner with a twist

by Jill Childs

  My face glowed with humiliation. All those taut smiles and false kisses at parties and perhaps all the time the other women had been thinking: ‘Poor her. How much does she know? I’m so glad I’m not in her shoes.’

  Celia finally disappeared to find the Ladies’ room. I sat very still, looking out of the window.

  Outside, the sun split into shards across the water as a ferry came in. The boat-hand threw a loop of thick, blackened rope round a bollard and heaved on it, muscles straining, closing the gap and easing the boat in.

  You’ve got a nerve, Dominic had said. After what you did.

  His words had scalded me. I’d believed him. I thought I was the guilty party, after all. The adulterer.

  But why should I believe him? Didn’t I trust myself, despite everything? Didn’t I know myself well enough to know I would never be unfaithful to him, any more than I would hurt Lucy? I adored him. I always had. It was wrong. It was unthinkable.

  I shook my head, utterly confused. Maybe he was bluffing – taking advantage of what I couldn’t remember. I thought about the pages torn out of my notebooks. Was that him, doctoring my memories, stopping me from remembering what he’d done? Maybe Mong Kok was just another one of many lies he’d told.

  Down below, the wooden gangplank crashed to the dock and people streamed out. Some were dressed in business suits, some in summer dresses, others in jeans and t-shirts. It was a familiar, everyday scene. It was real. It was now.

  As I watched, some darkness, some shadows passed through my mind. I’d been here before. Here, looking out, feeling this same confused wretchedness. Was it just false memory, a feeling of déjà vu? I didn’t think so. It wasn’t just the ferry and the harbour, it was something more profound.

  It was a sense, deeply buried, that I was right. That he was having an affair with Fi and it wasn’t the first time. He’d been unfaithful before. I couldn’t remember. I could just sense it, as if it were an echo from another world. I breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly, trying to calm rising panic.

  One step at a time. It was all I could take. I must trust my intuition, the last shred of myself. It was all I had.

  Seven

  Sophie

  It was kind of Caroline to give me time to myself but, the truth was, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.

  On the first day, I stayed in bed later than usual, trying to keep out of their way. I followed their movements through the house by noise. I’d become so used to looking after Lucy since I’d been here. Maybe I was flattering myself, but I felt we’d formed a bond already, something special. Lying there, listening to Caroline calling to her daughter, I realised how much I missed being the one to care for her. I felt almost jealous.

  I shook my head. I must watch myself. Caroline was Lucy’s mother. I’d be leaving soon. If being with Lucy stirred a need in me, a longing for my own child, that was my problem, not theirs.

  Caroline’s voice called up the stairs: ‘Hurry up. Breakfast!’

  A few moments later, Caroline’s heavy tread sounded on the staircase with a creak of banisters as she swung past my door and headed up to the nursery.

  I crept to the bedroom door and opened it a crack to listen.

  Caroline, now two floors above, sounded cross.

  ‘You put it on. Come on, you’re three now, Lucy. I’m not doing it for you.’

  I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. It wasn’t for me to interfere.

  The hectoring carried on as they headed downstairs and started breakfast. I couldn’t help myself, I had to listen. I worried about Lucy. I missed her.

  I washed and dressed and steeled myself. Maybe I could go down and join them? I could say I just woke early.

  I had my hand on the door handle when Caroline’s voice moved suddenly into the hall – ‘pick your bag up, for heaven’s sake, we’re late’ – and the front door slammed.

  Silence. I crossed the bedroom to the window and peered out, trying not to be seen. Caroline bundled Lucy into her car seat in the back and fastened her seatbelt, then climbed into her own seat and pulled out. I craned but all I could make out was the small, low shape of Lucy’s head as she was driven to nursery by her impatient mother.

  Caroline had left me a scrawled note on the kitchen table, saying they’d be back later and to help myself to food. A mobile number was scratched across the bottom – her new one, I assumed.

  After breakfast, I trailed around the house, restless and out of sorts. I sat for a while in the sitting room and finished The Seven Dials Mystery, then replaced it on the shelf and flicked through the others there, finally settling for another of Caroline’s old favourites. I stuck her note with her new number in the front as a bookmark, grabbed my coat and headed out. I had to resist calling to check up on Lucy. She would be fine.

  The walk along the cliffs was blustery and I pushed my hands deep in my pockets and lowered my head. I should use this time, use it to think and decide what I was going to do next – to chase the solicitor, get my affairs in order and decide where I was going to go. Caroline had mentioned a career consultant, a friend of Dominic’s. I’d been thinking about it. I could see she meant well. But I just didn’t think I could cope with that. It all sounded too humiliating, to have someone forced to see me because Dominic had arranged it, only for them to realise, once they met me, how little I’d actually done.

  I shook my head. There must be recruitment agencies in town. Maybe I could call them later and see if I could arrange a meeting, just to register and ask their advice. If they were rude about my chances, Caroline and Dominic need never know about it.

  My stomach contracted at the thought. I imagined some willowy young agent in stilettos looking over my CV with disdain. My confidence didn’t need a fresh battering, not just yet. Everything still felt too raw. I had no one left to cheer me on. No mum. No dad, either. I was in my mid-thirties. Where had the years gone?

  You underestimate yourself, Caroline had said, all breezy and patronising. Easy for her to say. She brimmed with self-confidence. Always did. And she always had money behind her. She didn’t have to work if she didn’t feel like it.

  I looked up. Already I’d passed the wood and was approaching the gnarled old tree on the edge of the cliff which signalled the turn-off to the village. I took it.

  The café was warm and fuggy with milky steam. It was also deserted.

  The woman who served me last time was sitting on her own in the window with a cup in her hand, reading a newspaper. She looked up reluctantly when the door jangled.

  ‘Back again?’

  I smiled. ‘I’ve got the day off. Thought I’d come and try one of your cakes, please.’

  She raised her eyebrows as if she was considering whether it was worth getting up to serve me, then put down the newspaper, heaved herself to her feet and carried her cup behind the counter.

  ‘The coffee and walnut’s the freshest. I made it this morning.’

  ‘OK. And a cup of tea, please.’

  I sat down at a table and waited. Maybe I could find some sort of job round here, while I decided what I really wanted to do? Not right on the coast. Not so close to Caroline and Dominic. But I could easily look in town. I’d be near enough to come and see Lucy once in a while.

  There must be local clubs I could join? I could get hiking again, join a walking group and explore the coast, then end up at a cosy country pub for drinks. Maybe take up sailing…

  All those outdoor pursuits I used to love, I had gradually dropped because Andrew didn’t like them. He sneered at people who got muddy in the countryside and hung out together in groups. His idea of a great weekend was to see an obscure foreign film with subtitles, then explain the symbolism to me at length over a bottle of wine. I shook my head. I couldn’t believe I’d stayed with him for so long.

  I felt my spirits lift as I imagined a fresh start, new job, new friends. If I moved here, I could even take Lucy out for treats now and then. See her at weekends, if Dominic was in London. Babysit
. Caroline would be only too pleased.

  The woman plonked a tray down on the table and unloaded a plate with a large slice of cake and a fork, then a cup and saucer, jug of milk and a chipped teapot.

  I looked past her to the newspaper, abandoned on the next table. It was a cheaply printed local rag. Free, probably, as so many were nowadays. Still, it might have a jobs section. Or small ads with properties to rent.

  ‘Are you still reading that?’ I pointed.

  She shrugged, reached for the paper and handed it to me.

  I flicked through to the back and read through the small ads as I ate the home-made cake.

  There wasn’t a great deal there. A column of lonely hearts. Local tradesmen and accountants offering services. A half page ad with photographs which showcased a new property development on the other side of town. A few flats to let and houses for sale and one plea for a flat-share near the hospital. It gave me a sense of local prices. I wouldn’t need a big income to rent a room, at least.

  I set the crumpled paper on the table beside my tea and focussed on the cake. Whatever this woman lacked in small talk, she made up for in baking. It was good. I tried to turn and catch her eye to give her a thumbs up but she either didn’t see me or chose to ignore me. She was leaning on the top of the counter, her eyes glazed, staring through the café to the half-empty car park beyond.

  Afterwards, once she’d stepped forward to retrieve the empty cake plate, I picked up the paper again and laid it out on the table to find the front page and turn the pages the right way around again.

  I smoothed out the front page.

  * * *

  The Billingslow Gazette.

  Founded 1913. All the news you can use.

  Mystery woman washed up on beach

  The banner headline was above a grainy photograph of two police officers standing on the stony beach, the waves behind them. A tape cordon had been set up around the scene and they were bending forward, looking down at a long but indistinct shape in a plastic bag. I shook my head. Poor soul.

  I ran my eyes down the copy. The remains of a woman, fully clothed, had washed up further along the coast. Police were appealing for information. So far there had been no positive match with any persons reported missing in the area. It was not yet possible to determine the exact age of the woman. She was thought to be Caucasian, probably in her late twenties or early thirties with no skeletal abnormalities.

  ‘Did you see this?’ I held up the paper and pointed to the picture.

  The woman nodded and shrugged. ‘Anderson Cove’s not far from here. Sounds as if she was in a right old state when they found her. Not much left.’ She snorted. ‘Rather her than me.’

  I shook my head and read on.

  There were more comments by the local police about what they knew about the mystery woman – not very much by the sound of it – and their appeal for information. The advanced decomposition of the body made it difficult at this stage to determine when and how she died, they said. They weren’t ruling anything out. Yes, it may have been an accidental drowning. There was no evidence of trauma to the limbs or skull. A post-mortem might yield more. No, they were not in a position to rule out the possibility of foul play.

  There was a short interview with the man who found her. It didn’t add much. He was out walking his dog, he said. He always went down to the cove if the tide was low. He thought at first it was just litter, a roll of old carpet thrown into the water and abandoned, but the dog splashed in and started worrying it with his teeth and barking and he had to go in after him to drag him out.

  I imagined his shock when he realised it wasn’t a roll of carpet after all.

  ‘How awful.’

  It was clearly the biggest story the Billingslow Gazette had covered for a while. There were comments from a forensic analyst who explained the difficulties in identifying remains which had been in water for weeks, probably months. Not much left. There was no artist’s impression, no sketched reconstruction of her face.

  No-one wanted to spell it out. This might be a local wife or sister or mother. But it was clear she’d been in the water for some time and come out of it little more than a skeleton.

  Dental records might hold the clue to her identity, the analyst said. Or possibly DNA if they found a match.

  I sat quietly for a moment, looking out at the car park and the patch of grass beyond. A man crossed in front of the café, heading for the local shop next door. I thought about Caroline, pitting her strength against the power of the storm and dragging me to safety when I tried to wade in after her. The cake sat heavily in my stomach, too much and too rich.

  I turned back to the newspaper and followed the report inside to pages two and three. There were more photographs. There was the man, grave-faced, posing beside his dog on the shoreline, pointing into the waves. Then a series of smaller photographs showing the dead woman’s belongings. They were stretched out, one by one, on surfaces covered with sheets of plastic and tagged, like lost luggage.

  A heavy coat with metal buttons, speckled with a residue of salt. A pair of lace-up shoes. Sensible, walking shoes. A pair of trousers. Well-cut. A shirt and plain jumper.

  I frowned. Why was she fully clothed? Had she fallen from the cliff? No trauma, the police had said. That didn’t fit. If she’d tumbled into the water from a boat, someone would know. Someone would have tried to save her, surely, or at least raised the alarm?

  I looked at the last photograph, set to one side underneath the rest. It was badly reproduced. A tarnished enamel pin of some sort. A plain brooch in the shape of a bird. A bird with a long neck. A swan, maybe. Silver and dotted with sparkly chips. Diamonds, or a cheaper imitation.

  My shoulders froze. I lifted the page and tilted it in the light, peered more closely. The newspaper rustled as it shook in my hands. I let it fall.

  The woman came across to clear away my teapot, brusque, eager to have me on my way.

  ‘Anything else?’

  I bit my lip, eyes staring. I couldn’t speak.

  She saw my face and frowned. ‘You alright?’

  I managed to shake my head. It was the most I could do. I pointed at the newspaper.

  She craned forward. ‘What?’ She glanced down the page, then back at me, her expression blank. ‘What about it?’

  I shook my head. I couldn’t get the words out. It was too hard to say.

  That brooch. I recognised it. I was almost certain. It was the diamante swan I gave Caroline, all those years ago, when we were just schoolgirls.

  * * *

  The police station was a short walk from the centre of town. It was a soulless purpose-built two-storey block, with dirty brickwork, a flat roof and square PVC windows. A battered flagpole outside flew the Union Jack. On the other side of the path, dwarfed by the flag, was an old-fashioned police lantern, Victorian-style with a squared blue-glass lamp, each panel emblazoned in white with POLICE.

  I took a deep breath and headed up the path into the small reception area. A young officer stood behind the counter, leaning forward on his forearms and gazing vacantly into space. He took a moment to register my arrival, then nodded.

  ‘Can I help?’

  I put the newspaper down on the counter between us and cleared my throat.

  ‘I read about the woman. The one you found.’

  He looked down at the pictures and paused, taking it in.

  ‘Ah yes. We’ve had a few calls about that.’ He lifted a large hand and scratched his ear. He looked embarrassed. Perhaps he wasn’t used to talking about unidentified dead people. Perhaps they didn’t get many around here.

  I pointed to the final photograph, the picture of the brooch. ‘That brooch she was wearing. I think I recognise it.’

  His eyes rose to my face, cautious and not convinced.

  I hesitated, feeling my cheeks flush, then pointed again to the article. ‘It said to get in touch, if you had any information.’

  He raised his eyebrows and gestured to the rows of
tired chairs against the wall. ‘Take a seat, please, Madam.’

  I sat on the edge of the chair while the officer murmured something into the phone, then set it down and started turning the pages of the ledger in front of him, back and forth, as if he were a film extra who’d just been told to look busy.

  I studied the noticeboard on the far wall. It was dotted with leaflets about stopping crime.

  Be Crime Aware! Would a burglar choose your home?

  A leaflet about what to do if you were leaving a property empty when you went on holiday. Another about Stranger Danger. I imagined the officers here visiting local schools to chat to the children and holding monthly community outreach sessions with Neighbourhood Watch groups. Tea and biscuits and weak, instant coffee.

  A middle-aged woman in a trouser suit burst out suddenly from a side door and was in front of me, hand outstretched, before I could properly register her arrival. I got hurriedly to my feet. Her grip was strong.

  ‘Detective Inspector Williams.’ Her eyes were piercing. She had a battle-scarred look. ‘I understand you wanted to see me?’

  ‘Well,’ I stuttered, feeling caught off-guard. ‘It’s about the woman you found. The one who washed up. Well, not about her, exactly, but her brooch.’

  She nodded and seemed to come to a decision about me, then stepped briskly to one side, opened the glass-panelled door and held it for me, inviting me to pass through to the corridor beyond.

  We sat across a table from each other in Interview Room 2. It was a small, airless space with one high window. My hands found each other in my lap and my fingers picked at each other, clasping and unclasping. Whatever I did, I had the sense she would know, this woman. Her eyes followed every movement. Her face was stern and emotionless, giving away nothing.

  ‘I’d like you to look at these photographs.’ She opened a cardboard file and set large black and white prints out in front of me. I sat without touching them, just looking. They looked like evidence photographs, professionally developed with large white borders. Reference or code numbers were written neatly along the top right-hand border in black ink.