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

  That pregnancy scare. Dolly is pretty sure there were two tests in that packet – and she’d only ever needed one. The other was probably still wedged at the back of her bedside drawer in amongst old pay slips and unopened official-looking brown envelopes. Of course it would be out of date by now. Probably wouldn’t work, certainly couldn’t be reliable. But… perhaps she should just see if it’s there.

  It is. The sight of the Clear Blue box with its oddly cheerful pink and blue wording brings back the awful memory of the last time she picked it up. Like someone’s just punched her hard in her chest. She can remember the colour of the nail polish she was wearing the day she ripped off the cellophane and scanned the pages of small type advising about when to pee, how many days to wait after your period was due blah blah blah. She hadn’t taken it in then and she isn’t bothering to read it now. She’s remembering how she hated Josh for days after the scare, struggling to even look at him until an enormous bunch of red roses arrived at the office. She should have been more grateful but all she could think was what a predictable cliché. And what an idiot for landing her with the need for a quick explanation to satisfy all her nosy colleagues. Perhaps if he’d sent her flowers more often it would be less interesting to them all.

  OK, let’s just confirm that I’m not pregnant this time either, thinks Dolly. Then I’ll write the day off, forget the past month and get focused again on Monday, starting with some serious HIIT sessions.

  Slight problem; she doesn’t need a wee. She perches over the loo willing it out of her, imaging that TV ad where the man is surfing the waves in search of the perfect shave… but nothing. She stomps back in to the kitchen, downs three glasses of water and waits. Still nothing coming. A cup of tea. More water. A rank two-day-old smoothie left in the fridge that has separated into an unappetising half water, half sludge mess. Then back to the loo and it’s game on: just enough wee to thoroughly wet the fabric tip of the white plastic stick – and most of her fingers.

  She watches as the moisture floods the little window with its pink paper backdrop, turning the whole thing a deeper shade. But nothing else, yet. Now what? She leaves the stick on the side of the sink and pads barefoot back in to the lounge, swiping the new issue of Brides off the coffee table. It’s not long now until Pippa Middleton marries her hedge-fund millionaire and the Ed’s letter is devoted to sketches from leading international bridal designers, auditioning for the role of her chief couturier. Dolly looks at the sketches, imagining which would look best encasing that perfectly peachy bottom of hers. There are gorgeous outfit sketches from Jools Oliver for Princess Charlotte and Prince George too. Dolly is thinking about the kind of wedding she might have designed, with Pippa’s budget. There is always someone doing it better. Always someone with more contacts, more money, more imagination.

  The piss stick! There is a part of Dolly that can’t really be arsed to walk back to the bathroom. She knows she’s not preggers. But what’s the point pissing on the stick if not to know for sure? She may as well indulge this game a little longer now she’s started. It’s her head that makes it through the bathroom door first, not her body. That stays outside. She is on her tiptoes, head tilted sharply upwards, trying to angle herself high enough to sneak a look at it from above. She can see something, something black. What is it? Not lines, which is what she’s expecting. What does it mean? She takes one step into the bathroom and lifts her back leg off the floor allowing her to extend much further forward, ballerina-like, arms steadying herself on the door frame. She’s above the stick now and can see the result clearly. Just one word blazing back at her.

  Pregnant.

  Dolly is not proud of her reaction. Not proud of the very first thought that enters her head in the heart-stopping moment just after her eyes bring the word into sharp focus and she stops breathing for a second: Will Brides still want me? Will they want some big pregnant fatty all over the pages of their stylish magazine? It’s irrational and she knows it but it’s important, so important to her. She puts the loo seat down and perches there, holding the pregnancy test up close right in front of her face. Clearly this thing is broken. She’s knows it’s not. She’s thinking, processing it all, trying to plan her way out of it. How many weeks pregnant might she be? Fuck knows! How many months would she be on their wedding date? Too many. She’ll have a belly. Her boobs will be massive. Fat will cling to her. That’s what happens to pregnant women, isn’t it? Their bodies start to hold on to every calorie they can, readying themselves to sustain and nurture the tiny life forming inside them. She remembers a woman in the office who boldly confessed to everyone one morning she put on two and a half stone with her first baby and three with her second. The youngest is three years old now and still the baby fat won’t let go of her. Dolly expected her to be depressed telling this story but no, the nutter is blissfully content because that’s the story my body tells now. That’s how I became a mama.

  Sitting in her bathroom alone with her maddening thoughts, Dolly has no clue what she is going to do. But she does know this. She is not walking up that aisle pregnant. Not going to be immortalised forever on the pages of Brides with a stretchmark stained beast of a belly sticking out the front of her. No way.

  It’s some time later when she is back on the sofa, gazing at herself and wondering what might be going on in there, that another thought finally crosses her mind. What the hell will Josh think?

  16

  Emily

  Eight weeks to go

  ‘I’ve decided they mustn’t know. You won’t change my mind.’

  Emily is sitting opposite a stunned Sarah Blake, trying to make her understand that sharing this news with her family is the last thing that needs to happen.

  ‘They are your parents, Emily, they will want to know, they will want to help you through this. I’ve known your mum for more than twenty-seven years and please believe me when I say that it will hurt her more not to know.’ Dr Blake is visibly upset. She’s lost all of the cool, emotionless doctor façade, again. In an almost funny way, she’s handling this whole thing worse than Emily is. She’s going to blub again, Emily can see it coming. Should she just tell her to pull herself together?

  ‘What do you think that sort of news will do to them, Sarah? It will destroy them. I’m their only child! I can’t do it to them. I won’t do it to them.’

  ‘Well, then at least tell Mark.’

  ‘I can’t! There is every chance he will tell them. There’s nothing anyone can do about this. And it could all be OK, you know. Have you forgotten that? I’m not dead yet!’

  ‘Don’t you think this is going to be a huge burden for you to carry, with no one else knowing what you’re dealing with?’ Sarah’s eyes have completely glassed over. She is leaning on her elbows across her desk, pleading with Emily but the battle is already lost.

  ‘Yes, it is and don’t think I haven’t spent hours silently screaming at my bedroom ceiling, I have. All of this is so bloody unfair. It shouldn’t be happening to me, not now, not when I’m about to marry the man I love more than anything in the world…’ She has to stop herself now, change tack before the walls come down, releasing every bit of emotion that she’s caged up inside herself.

  ‘But I’m not keeping it to myself, am I? You know. You’re the one person who can actually help me. You can give me medical advice, make appointments, help me decide what to do when the Americans come back with their verdict. That’s all helpful.’ Emily’s voice cracks. ‘I don’t want to see their sad faces. They are having the time of their lives planning this wedding and I’m not going to take that away from them. In fact, I’ve decided to bring the wedding date forward. You know, just in case.’

  Emily stands to leave and watches Sarah crumple over her desk, shoulders sinking, head dipping, knowing she is defeated. She feels like giving her a hug but doesn’t want to prolong this conversation for a moment longer, inviting more appeals to come clean.

  ‘I will be all right. I’m strong. I feel OK, for now at least.
Please Sarah, respect my wishes on this. I am right, it’s for the best.’

  As she pulls the door closed behind her, Emily hears Sarah let out a long, breathy sigh, and feels almost convinced that as her long-standing doctor and close family friend, Sarah will do as she has been asked.

  * * *

  OK, what to do? Emily needs to pull some masterstrokes to get this wedding where it now needs to be. Her objectives have changed. Get married as quickly – and cheaply – as possible. Very far from your typical bride now. There’s no time to wallow in it, that’s going to get her nowhere. Drowning in a pool of self-pity won’t help anyone. No, she’s facing the fact that life might not be building to everyone’s pre-planned happy-ever-after ending for her. And so what can she do now to protect them all, to ensure the dark days to come might be tinged with a little lightness for her beautiful family?

  Sitting on her bed, she can hear her parents and Mark downstairs, laughing. Emily has just asked Mark to choose everything he wants on the John Lewis wedding gift list. She isn’t going to select a thing. When he looked disappointed that she wasn’t bothering to join in – in the one job most brides can’t wait to get their hands on, spending other peoples’ money – she said there was something more pressing that needed her attention upstairs. It’s the closest they’ve come to having a row in months.

  ‘Oh come on, you can’t expect me to shoulder the responsibility of choosing everything. What if you hate it all?’ It was hardly his fault but Mark’s whinging made Emily snap back, ‘Just do it, will you please? It’s not hard!’ before she huffed up the stairs, feeling all their surprised eyes boring in to the back of her.

  Now she’s left her dad and Mark huddled over the laptop together at the dining table and she can hear her dad advising him on the best BBQ, questioning his choice of tongs and insisting he adds two rain covers because once that thing starts to rust, you’ve had it. This is proper husband-to-be and future father-in-law bonding; dad advising, Mark learning from the master, it’s making Emily feel more than ever that this is the right thing to do. What if she’d broken the real news this morning? What would be happening now? They’d all be sitting around, weeping over her scan pictures, squeezing her, telling her everything is going to be OK. Well, it might be and it might not be, so it is down to her to help them all, should the worst happen.

  Emily picks up a smart, white Smythson notebook from her bedroom bookshelf. It has the words Tying The Knot embossed on the front in shiny gold lettering, a gift from Mark when they first got engaged. She thought it was too nice to fill with inky scribbles – and besides, Dad was taking enough notes for everyone, photocopying them and handing them out at every Sunday Summit. Now it has a real purpose. She opens it to the first page and writes: Wedding #2 then starts to note down the new action plan, point by point. There is something in the cool, methodical manner she is setting this out that is strangely comforting in a practical I’ve-finished-all-my-homework way. It doesn’t feel morbid, it feels useful and sensible – something she can be entirely in control of. There’s more of her dad in her than Emily cares to admit. She’s already ticked off the dress swap and getting Mark to choose everything he loves on the gift list. Slowing down the house purchase and delaying booking the honeymoon will be harder but she’s determined, she’ll find a way. She needs to simplify everything. It’s not long until several pages of the book are filled with her all-new important to-do list.

  Emily taps out a quick email to the vicar. Are there any other available dates he can marry them, preferably soon? The sooner the better. She scans the calendar page on her phone. The wedding date is currently two months off. Too far. There are birthdays, nursery open days at work and business trip dates for Mark to avoid but one Saturday looks clear. It’s in two weeks’ time. July 14th. Can it be done? There’s no expensive bespoke dress to wait for, they are hosting the reception at home, dad is well ahead of the game with the organising. It’s just the catering which Glo would make work somehow and the guest list; could everyone make it? She may have to accept that some confirmed friends will be forced to cancel, but it’s a risk worth taking. She hits send on the email.

  OK, this is not a bad start, although number four on the plan is controversial. Make Sally chief bridesmaid. Emily allows herself a small smile as she realises the one job not on dad’s agenda and left entirely to her isn’t finished yet.

  She knows Sally has a huge Mark-shaped hole in her heart – but that’s the point. They’ve all been friends for years, since those early days at university when Emily noticed the way she looked at him. It’s not lost on her how a beauty like Sally never committed to a man for more than a few months. She guessed long ago it was because no one matched up to Mark. There had been a night out years ago when Sally had said as much. She’d had one too many glasses of wine and cried on Emily’s shoulder about the state of her love life. The conversation should have stopped there but Sally, loosened by the alcohol, had gone on, telling Emily that every time she looked at Mark she could see what she was missing, how much she envied Emily. But there is nothing sinister about Sally, Emily knows that. She just loves everything about Mark, in the same way Emily does, she can hardly blame her for that. His warm nature, his old-school manners, his ability to see the positive in everything (that might seriously be put to the test soon) and his boyish, clean-cut good looks. The two of them would look good together. His foppish blonde locks, her sleek golden bob. His broad shoulders, her girly cheerleader bounce. How perfect he looks in a casual white shirt, the easy way she makes a pair of Gap jeans look cool.

  She watched Sally once, gazing at Mark, enthralled by him. They were sat in the laughter-filled beer garden of their favourite local pub. It was a scorching July day and the landlord had organised an impromptu BBQ. Hidden behind her sunglasses and slightly set back from the group of friends, Emily quietly observed how Sally hung off every word Mark was saying, not taking her eyes off him for a moment. It was like no one else was there. A blissfully unaware Mark noticed her glass was empty and offered to get her another drink, causing Sally to practically melt on the spot. Emily didn’t say a word about it to either of them. What was the point? What would it achieve? A truck load of awkwardness and not much else. Emily knows giving her this role will put her in Mark’s path more over the coming weeks. He’ll be reminded of quite how lovely she is – and pretty. He might need a soft female shoulder to cry on and Sally would care for him a great deal, Emily is sure of that.

  Under normal circumstances, she would arrange to meet Sally, ask her in person, buy her lunch and make her feel special. But today Emily reluctantly settles for a quick phone call.

  ‘Sally! It’s Emily, how are you?’

  ‘Hi Emily, I’m great, thanks. Just up to my eyeballs in work but otherwise all good. How are all the plans going?’

  ‘I’m glad you ask because that’s why I am calling.’

  ‘OK… you’re not about to ask me to supervise the kids table, are you?’

  ‘Far from it! I’m calling to ask you to be my chief bridesmaid. What d’you think?’

  A silence that is ever so slightly too long stretches down the line before Sally responds. Emily can imagine the quick internal trauma she’s experiencing. Can you be chief maid to one of your oldest friends when you have been in love with her husband-to-be for years? Fortunately yes, you can.

  ‘Wow, Emily, I am completely honoured to be asked and I would of course love to, thank you.’

  ‘Great. I’m so sorry not to ask you in person but everything has been so manic and I just never got around to making a date to see you. And speaking of dates, we’re so far ahead with the planning that we’re probably going to pull the wedding forward to July 14th. I hope that’s OK?’

  ‘Oh, right. Um… yes, I’m free. But that’s just two weeks’ time, right? Soon! I’ll barely have time to organise anything for you. Any reason why you…’

  Emily breaks her off.

  ‘Wonderful! I know Mark will also be thrilled
to have you more involved in the day.’ She pictures the broad grin that she knows will be spreading across Sally’s face right now at the mere mention of Mark’s name.

  ‘That’s so kind of you both, thank you.’

  ‘OK, let’s catch up asap then and I’ll fill you in on all the details. I’ve already spotted a great dress of you.’

  ‘Perfect. Thank you, Emily. See you then.’

  Another tick. Then another ping, a response from the vicar. The earlier date is free but she needs to confirm it immediately as another couple have asked about it.

  * * *

  Give me ten minutes and I’ll be back to you.

  * * *

  Emily bashes out the words, then sits back heavily on her bed for a moment, wondering how on earth she can sell this idea to her parents and Mark, who are all downstairs believing they have months to nail all the final arrangements.

  It’s a good time to tackle it. She is leaving the house in fifteen minutes to see Helen at The White Gallery. One final try-on of the gown and then she’ll be walking out the door with it. But first, this. She closes the little white book, replacing it on the bookshelf and starts to walk slowly down the stairs. What should she say? How can she convince them? In fifteen minutes? Do not cry, do not cry. This has to be casual. She’s slowing down, stalling for time, her mind racing through some options, none of them even vaguely convincing.