The Almost Wife: An absolutely gripping and emotional summer read Read online

  ‘Let go! Are you actually mad? This wedding is going to set the tone for the rest of our lives together. Everything has to be perfect or it will be imperfect forever.’

  There is something so incongruous, thinks Helen, about seeing a beautiful girl, in such an incredible gown, look so unhappy. ‘Can I ask if you have spoken to Adam about this, does he feel the same way?’ Helen is working her fingers down the run of silk-covered buttons that sit at the back of the gown, the dress fitting more perfectly with every one she does up.

  ‘I don’t need to, he’s not the one being judged, is he? They all love him. Being loved comes naturally, some of us have to work a little harder.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s the point. This shouldn’t be hard work, should it?’ Helen is placing a flawless powder-blue suede shoe on each of Jessie’s feet, giving her the height needed to make this gown drape effortlessly from her slim frame. ‘There’s nothing wrong with aiming for the perfect wedding. But aiming for the perfect marriage isn’t the best idea. All people are flawed and so are all marriages. All of them.’

  ‘Look, it’s like this. I am the CEO, Helen, I’m in charge of the smooth running of this wedding and the marriage – and the growth strategy is getting everyone in Adam’s circle to accept me, love me even.’ The tears have dried up now and Jessie is miraculously back to her ball-busting best, a hand on each hip, stamping her authority on the conversation.

  ‘If I were you, I’d give myself a demotion.’ Helen lifts Jessie’s glossy hair, twisting it into a loose bun and pinning it at the back of her head. ‘Or at least remember the best bosses sometimes sit back and let people work it out for themselves and have the confidence to know that everything will be fine. Trust me, Jessie, no one is looking at you to have all the answers, least of all Adam, I suspect.’

  Silence now as they both admire the vision staring back at them in the mirror. Helen is relieved that finally Jessie is allowing herself the first smile since she arrived.

  ‘Do you have all the Carolina Herrera accessories I requested?’ asks Jessie.

  ‘I do – but honestly, I’m not sure you need them.’

  ‘But that’s how the designer pulled this look together and I think she knows what she’s doing, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course she does but the accessories are very expensive and—’

  ‘Do you really think I care about that?’ Jessie snaps back.

  ‘Just because something costs a lot of money, it doesn’t make it right for this look or, more importantly, right for you. This dress is perfect in its simplicity. When Herrera paired this gown with these accessories she was creating drama for the catwalk, it was a piece of theatre. You don’t necessarily need that. Trust your own instincts on what looks good for you, Jessie. Let me show you.’

  Helen spends the next fifteen minutes transforming Jessie into the carbon copy of the bridal vision that Herrera created for her last New York show. She adds a billowing silk sash that explodes into a giant bow at the back of the gown, a pair of oversized pearl earrings that extend all the way to Jessie’s lightly tanned shoulders, a floor-sweeping lace-trimmed veil fanning out magnificently over the already heavily detailed dress.

  ‘It’s an incredible look,’ Helen concludes when she is finished. ‘Beautiful in fact. But is it wearable, Jessie? Are you comfortable in it?’

  Jessie looks baffled. ‘I don’t know. What do you think?’

  ‘How do you feel in it?’ Helen is walking around Jessie now, eyes all over the dress, giving Jessie the space and time to form an opinion.

  ‘A bit self-conscious, actually, and I’m worried the earrings are a bit much.’

  Helen removes them.

  ‘And does the bow seem a bit over the top?’

  ‘If you’re worried about that, let’s lose it too.’

  As Helen removes the sash, the smile returns to Jessie’s face and Helen can see her work is nearly done. She pins the dress where it’s needed, raising the hem slightly, tightening the waist a fraction, taking her time to ensure the fit is precisely what it should be for Jessie’s body. The two women stand quietly for a moment admiring what Helen has created before Jessie breaks the silence.

  ‘What was your flaw?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You said all marriages are flawed, how was yours flawed?’

  The hairs on the back of Helen’s neck lift and the tug in the pit of her stomach returns the second she thinks of Phillip. She lets out a long slow breath, preparing herself for the words she doesn’t want to say.

  ‘It was too short. That’s what was wrong. We were running out of time the moment we met, we just never knew it.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Jessie’s hand instinctively moves towards Helen, understanding the loss she isn’t yet being explicit about, but she pulls it back before it makes contact, perhaps fearful it will be rejected after all the crass comments she’s made today. ‘When did you lose him?’

  ‘Nearly four years ago but it hurts as much today as it ever did.’ It’s impossible to confess such painful words and maintain the bright and breezy demeanour Helen is aiming for, knowing Jessie’s sympathy is only going to make it worse.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Helen. What kind of man was he?’ She can see asking Helen to talk about him is going to be hard, but she is genuinely interested. What kind of man would a woman like Helen devote herself to?

  Another deep breath, as Helen tries to busy herself putting some of the accessories away – but having delved so deeply into Jessie’s life, she senses the weight of expectation, she must allow Jessie to do the same. But how does she sum up a man like her Phillip in a few quick sentences – giving someone enough to satisfy their curiosity so the conversation can move on, but not so much that she plunges herself back into the abyss of her own grief? Having cheered Jessie up the last thing Helen wants is to drag her back down with her own sadness. Depressing clients is not exactly in the job description.

  ‘He was everything to me, Jessie. He was gentle, kind, honest, devoted to his family.’

  ‘But why him, over any other man?’

  Helen places the earrings back in their soft velvet pouch and the two of them take a seat on the chaise, Helen leaning back against the wall, fingertips lightly sweeping under her eyes in an attempt to halt the tears that are perched there.

  ‘He made me feel loved, Jessie. Even towards the end, after so long together, he looked at me in a way he never looked at anyone else, even his own children. It’s hard to explain but I was more precious to him than anything. He would have done anything for me, I know that – one of those rare people who lived his life for someone else; my happiness always coming before his own. He kept his promise, to love me until the very last moment.’

  ‘He sounds wonderful.’ And despite the years that divide them, Jessie might actually get it. Helen is articulating so beautifully the exact essence of what she hopes for from her own marriage.

  ‘He is. He was.’ Helen turns to face Jessie, placing a hand softly on hers, eyes finally giving way to the tears they can no longer hold back.

  ‘I envy you Jessie, you have it all to come.’ Helen’s forced smile reveals the torture she feels as she recounts what she had and how she must live without it now.

  ‘There is a life full of happiness stretching out ahead of you. I’ll never experience that feeling of togetherness again, I know that. But you will for a long time to come. Don’t waste it by worrying what everyone thinks of you.’

  She looks so broken now. Not the strong, together woman Jessie first met. But so fragile, exposed and vulnerable, like she’s baring her very soul to Jessie. But even in this moment, Helen’s instinct is to help, warning Jessie not to walk a path that can only end in disappointment and feelings of total inadequacy.

  Helen makes an excuse to step back into the shop knowing she needs to collect herself, grabbing a tissue and fixing her face a little in one of the ornate wall mirrors. As she leans closer to the mirror she is surprised to see a figure at the door i
n its reflection. There’s no one booked in for at least another hour and she can see from the outline through the glass that this is a man. Adam, perhaps, here to collect Jessie?

  She quickly removes the last traces of smudged mascara, takes a deep breath and opens the door to find probably the last person on earth she wants to see right now. Roger.

  ‘Oh, hi Helen, are you OK?’ His face is already full of misplaced concern.

  ‘Um… I’m fine thank you, but with a client at the moment, I’m afraid.’ Helen can feel the heat rising in her cheeks and isn’t entirely sure why.

  ‘I wasn’t sure whether to bother you or not but I was wondering if you might like to go for a drink one night this week?’

  ‘No! I couldn’t possibly.’

  ‘Or, um, I could cook you dinner, if you prefer?’

  ‘No, no thank you.’

  ‘OK. I just thought it might be nice if—’

  ‘I really can’t, Roger, sorry, I don’t know why you thought I would.’ Helen’s cheeks are flaming now, she knows she’s being rude and the atmosphere between them is instantly, horribly tense. Roger is looking at his feet, probably searching for the words that will excuse him from this horror.

  ‘If you change your mind, just let me know.’ He’s jabbing his hands in and out of his jacket pockets, desperate for something to do with himself, visibly shocked by such a determined rejection.

  ‘I won’t.’

  As rebuttals go, this one is brutal. And also quite foolish – wasn’t company the one thing she craved right now? Someone to call on, to share a joke with, someone to look out for her and punctuate the long lonely evenings with happy conversation that didn’t need to carry any significance or hidden agenda?

  But the thought of an actual date, with another man? She couldn’t. As if physically recoiling from the very idea of it, Helen is backing away from the door now uncomfortably imagining the innate intimacy of the two of them sharing a bottle of wine, the questions he might ask, fingers that might touch each other’s across the table, the assumptions people might make. Roger is lingering, needing to be excused. But Helen is struck silent by the thought of another man’s hand in the small of her back, as Roger insisted on walking her home again. No. ‘I have only slipped away to the next room’; that’s what Phillip had said. Damn Roger for forcing this on her and at work too, her one sanctuary from those awful feelings of Phillip’s loss – usually, at least. She is nowhere near ready for this. Surely he must know that. Helen mutters a quick goodbye, noticing the colour of Roger’s claret cheeks now match her own, and shuts the door, burying her face in her hands, knowing how badly she just handled the situation. He didn’t deserve that.

  ‘Well that was awkward!’ Jessie has stepped out of the fitting room and observed the whole wretched thing.

  For the first time, Helen is genuinely annoyed by her, bordering on angry that she could intrude into a private moment, making light of something so excruciating for her. Has she understood a damn thing Helen has said today? Her face must say it all as a less mocking Jessie quickly adds, ‘You are entitled to be happy again, Helen, you know.’

  ‘So are you, Jessie, so are you,’ is all Helen can manage through gritted teeth knowing she has pushed away the one man who might just understand how she feels, the private pain she is living with. Knowing also, that the chances of him ever asking – wanting even – to share her company again must surely now be non-existent.

  11

  Dolly

  Dolly’s eyes flick to the torso of the beautiful woman leaving The White Gallery, just as she arrives. The woman’s expensive looking skinny jeans are perched stylishly on her hip bones and there is a small flash of tanned flesh where her crisp white t-shirt, one that looks nonchalant but probably costs £300, doesn’t quite reach the denim. Gorgeous, thinks Dolly, as her heart sinks, now hating the jeans she’s wearing. Unfairly gorgeous. Where’s Tilly when she needs her ego stroking? She makes a mental note to squeeze in an extra core session later, regretting that she’s eaten breakfast this morning. Nothing wrong with the egg white omelette of course but that lovely empty feeling would have been better for her first crack at wedding dress shopping. Who was it who said nothing tastes as good as thin feels? They were spot on, whoever it was.

  The woman wafts past, engulfing her in a cloud of expensive-smelling perfume, not even registering Dolly’s existence. As the two women pass each other Dolly’s eyes shift to her tight butt sitting neatly above the, yep, there it is, the thigh gap. Bloody hell. She hates the thought that her own body is about to be compared to that in the fitting room.

  ‘Ahh, you must be Dolly. I’m Helen, please come in.’ The two women shake hands briefly and Dolly is instantly reassured by her warmth, the confident eye contact and a face that already seems to be inviting friendship.

  As Dolly steps into The White Gallery she feels a fresh buzz of excitement surge through her. The past twelve months have all been building up to this moment – when she steps into the kind of dress that will make Josh forget every woman he’s ever mentally undressed. And there are plenty. Because what Dolly is looking for is so much more than a white dress with so much more to do than simply make her look good. She needs a gown that will finally extinguish any last remaining thoughts of girlfriends past or models present. The catalyst to the ultimate moment of clarity. Of all the men she could have had – she chose him. He’s not just going home with her tonight, he’s curling up with her every night. For once she wants to see that thought engulf him, spread out across his proud face, finally making her feel that she’s no longer second best to the unreachable beauty Josh spends all day scrutinising down the phallic lens of his camera.

  ‘Do you have any thoughts on the kind of dress you’re looking for?’ breaks in Helen, forcing Dolly back in to the room.

  ‘Something really cool, sexy, not traditional.’ Dolly is already scanning the rail, eyes drawn to a body-con dress with sheer cutaway panels running down each side, pure Jessica Rabbit; definitely no room for knickers under there. ‘Something that’s going to make me look really hot, like that.’ She is pointing at the gown.

  God, why couldn’t Tilly have joined her this morning? She’s feeling her absence terribly now. Of all the days to be taking a bunch of over-smug bloggers on a press trip to some swanky five star spa, why did it have to be today? Until very recently Tilly was the only thing that made the office bearable – largely because she took no shit from The Dick and Dolly loved her for that. Then one day the awful moment Dolly had been dreading came, and Tilly marched into his office and told him to stick it, she was setting up on her own, taking a couple of his favourite clients with her just to really turn the knife. Of course, Dolly was thrilled for Tilly, but overnight she lost her office crutch and she desperately misses their daily updates, tearing The Dick to shreds. Her on-staff personal style, relationship and career therapist was gone. Because, despite their wildly polarised lifestyles, Dolly trusts Tilly’s judgement implicitly. One scan of this room and she would know exactly which dress would have Josh dragging her out of the reception to satisfy himself before dessert was even served.

  ‘You’re very slim, Dolly, which means there are lots of different looks we can try.’ Helen’s smiling knowingly. ‘I’ll pop the gown you love into the fitting room, then let’s have a look around and see what else you like.’

  It’s 10.30 a.m. and Dolly should be at her desk. She knows The Dick will notice her absence, hopefully he’s buried in her masterpiece of a cupcake strategy. Chances are a colleague will cover for her for a while (traffic, dentist, crucial client breakfast overrunning, as if) but they won’t be able to hold him off for long. She scans the emails on her phone. Nothing from him yet. But there is a message from the entertainment company where she had, after several fruitless weeks of research, found the perfect band for the wedding night. Josh loves them too.

  * * *

  Hi Dolly,

  * * *

  I’m just getting in touch about your
provisional booking for The London Essentials. The deadline to confirm the booking and pay the 50% deposit has passed and so the booking has been released. Another couple have now secured the boys but I’d be happy to pass on any recommendations if you’d like?

  * * *

  Shit! Josh! He promised Dolly he’d taken care of this. She’s chased him, confirmed it with him, emailed him relentlessly making sure the bank transfer had gone through; he told her it was all sorted. The entertainment company must be wrong. They will just have to explain the double booking to the other couple. Dolly was first so surely they will honour it? She pings a quick email back, copying Josh in, feeling almost sure he won’t have messed this up.

  Helen returns and the two of them begin to work their way around The White Gallery’s breathtaking collection of gowns, Dolly selecting everything that looks spray-on: a red-carpet-worthy tight white fishtail; a clingy satin column; a backless empire line that dips dramatically from the bust around to the base of the spine, all join Jessica Rabbit in the fitting room where Dolly is starting to undress. As she discards her clothes she’s revealing over-exercised sinewy arms, a washboard stomach where a six-pack might exist if there was enough flesh on her to create one, topped with a rack of angular ribs that jut out as she bends to remove her jeans. Months of sugar deprivation have earned Dolly a pair of shapeless thighs and the non-existent chest of a thirteen-year-old girl. It’s the part of her she hates the most – that and the way the line of her knickers creates the tiniest lip of flesh across her belly. Her boobs used to be the first thing Josh made a grab for but he barely notices them any more – as her bras have got smaller and smaller, so has his interest in that part of her decreased too. Recently he has started to refer to them as her titties, like they don’t even warrant the full title of tits.