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

  As Emily enters the dining room Mark and her dad are just closing the laptop.

  ‘Job done!’ bellows Bill. ‘And a very good thing I was involved with that, let me tell you. When it comes to barbecuing, I am the expert, as we all know!’

  ‘Thank you Dad, I really appreciate it. But don’t tell me anything else, I’d like all the presents to be a surprise when I open them.’ What Emily means is, I don’t want to be tempted to change anything. ‘So, good news. I have just asked Sally to be my chief bridesmaid and she has agreed.’ Emily’s eyes dart to Mark to catch his reaction. And there it is, the warmest of smiles and the words great choice escaping his perfect pink lips. ‘And I was thinking, we are doing really well with the wedding plans, aren’t we?’

  ‘I should say so! I’ve got a few pointers to run through with you both later but I feel very confident that in the time we have, we are well and truly on target for a beautiful day. Wouldn’t you agree Glo?’ Bill is typically full of it.

  ‘Absolutely! Why? Is there something you’re worried about, Emily?’ Nothing gets past Glo.

  Mark is looking at her now, immediately concerned that something is troubling her. They’re all looking at her. OK, here we go. She feels light-headed. Keep it casual, keep it casual.

  ‘Nope. What I was wondering is, why are we dragging this out? If we’re ready, let’s get married sooner.’ She’s trying her best to look nonchalant, like the words have just slipped out without much consideration, with no deeper meaning at all. She picks up an apple from the fruit bowl and takes a large bite out of it, trying to prove this is no big deal.

  ‘Sorry, what?’ Bill is not understanding the question at all.

  Emily ignores him for a moment and directs her attention to Mark. She needs to get him on side, quick.

  ‘What d’you think Mark, shall we?’

  ‘Hang on a second.’ He’s standing now, stepping towards her, one hand on his hip, the other rubbing his forehead in concern. ‘What’s going on here? First you’re showing no interest in the gift list and now you want to pull the date forward? I’ll happily marry you any day of the week, any time of the year, Emily, you know that. But, is there something else I should know about?’ All Mark’s usual optimism has been suffocated by her suggestion, she should have known this wouldn’t be straightforward. If she doesn’t nail this now she’ll have to stage a huge climb-down just to halt his questions before Mum and Dad start flapping too.

  ‘I love you Mark, I’ve always loved you. I don’t want to wait a second longer than I have to, that’s all.’ Her voice is timid and loaded with emotion. ‘Sorry, I thought you’d be pleased about the idea.’ OK, this is more than a little embarrassing – the verbal equivalent of having a dirty big snog in front of your parents – especially as she can see Glo going all gooey out the corner of her eye.

  ‘No, it’s me who should be sorry, it’s a lovely idea. You’re lovely.’ He can see her discomfort and wants to end it immediately. ‘And I’m an idiot. But are we ready? Isn’t there a lot more to do? Don’t we all want a bit more time to cover everything, not rush it?’

  ‘I don’t think so. The invitations haven’t gone out yet so that’s not a problem and what is there left to organise other than our honeymoon, which we can easily sort? Mum, do you think the catering can be done in time?’

  There is an odd, almost knowing look on Glo’s face that is slightly unnerving. What is she thinking? What does she think she knows? wonders Emily.

  ‘Consider it done! Depending on how much earlier we’re talking, we may have to make some slight changes for seasonality – you’re not going to get fresh figs in mid-July – but otherwise, I can do it, of course, if it’s what you want. My outfit was sorted months ago, so you’ve got no complaints from me.’

  Which just leaves Dad – and he’s not about to play ball.

  ‘I’m sorry, has everyone lost control of their senses? The planting! The rose bushes aren’t even in the ground yet and I wanted to get all that moss off the front path and re-turf the bit of lawn there. And the church is booked, for crying out loud!’

  ‘Actually Dad, I have checked and there is an earlier date available – in a couple of weeks’ time.’ It’s three against one now, Emily is feeling reasonably confident this will go her way.

  ‘Sorry, but this is ridiculous! I’ve got an arch-lever file full to bursting with itineraries, spreadsheets, plans and counter-plans all working towards August 25th and now you’re telling us we’ve got two weeks!’

  ‘Bill! A word if I may, please?’ Glo has him by the elbow now and is directing him sharply into the kitchen, closing the door behind them but not before Mark and Emily both overhear the start of his scolding.

  ‘Bill! For goodness sake, isn’t it obvious? Why does anyone pull a wedding date forward?’

  ‘OK, you know your mum is in there telling your dad you’re pregnant, don’t you?’ Mark has pulled Emily into a bear hug and is trying unsuccessfully to contain his giggles. ‘Just to be clear, you’re not… are you?’

  ‘No! Of course not. That’s just Glo getting ahead of herself as usual. She’ll be off to town this afternoon to pick up the Mothercare catalogue, I bet you.’

  ‘Oh God, really? Well, just so you know it would have been wonderful. I would have been delighted if you were pregnant, I mean. Maybe we shouldn’t wait too long for that either?’ His face is so full of excitement, if she lowered her head a little closer into his chest she could probably hear his heart pounding out his love for her. Emily’s face starts to crumple slightly, knowing what he’s imagining may never come to be, then she is distracted as a fully chastised Bill and a jubilant Glo step back into the dining room. Bill’s eyes immediately fall to Emily’s belly before he snaps them away again.

  ‘Sorry if I seemed a little unreasonable then, of course we can make this happen in time for you, honey. Let’s get a meeting in with everyone in the next couple of days shall we, and go over everything that still needs to be organised. I love you and we will make it happen for you, I promise, whatever it takes.’

  Emily needs to get out of there.

  ‘Thank you so much, everyone. Must dash anyway, I’m off for an appointment with Helen at The White Gallery and I need to confirm the new date with the vicar. I’ll see you all later.’ Emily belts out of the front door, hot tears starting to fall down her face before she even reaches the front garden gate. She completely misses Sarah Blake sat a little way up the road, slumped low in the driver’s seat of her black BMW. She looks exhausted, on the edge even, but that’s probably because she’s been beating herself up over the meaning of doctor patient confidentiality, wondering whether for the first time in her long successful medical career she is about to break it.

  Emily also misses Glo bounding out of the house two minutes later, her face alight with happiness as she is intercepted by a neighbour jogging across the road to join her. The two of them exchange a few quick words then start to walk away together arm in arm, forcing Sarah to restart the engine and drive off in the opposite direction. She’s missed her chance and Emily has got her way.

  Now the two of them will have to deal with the consequences, whatever they may be.

  17

  Jessie

  Jessie is staring at Adam, hoping the words that are falling so easily out of his grinning mouth cannot possibly be right.

  ‘You can’t have done that, Adam. You haven’t had time. And you would have spoken to me first. I know you would.’ She’s saying it through a pinched smile that’s more of a terrified grimace. The fear is creeping up inside her, washing up over her chest and running down her arms like a cold shower. It’s pure panic and she needs to contain it.

  ‘Not this time, darling! It’s all organised. I could hardly fly off to Miami with the boys knowing you haven’t organised a hen do for yourself, could I? That wouldn’t be fair so I put the best woman on the job. Tilly was only too happy to help.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to have one, Adam!’ OMG I can�
��t actually cope with this.

  ‘I know you weren’t. That’s the point!’ His grin is widening, the look of a man who is sensationally pleased with himself, which is only making Jessie’s blood boil faster.

  ‘Who have you and Tilly invited?’ He surely wouldn’t have…

  ‘All the obvious choices: your mum, Lady C, your sister, Annabel—’

  Jessie doesn’t hear anything after that, only the sound of her heart banging against the wall of her chest, drowning out all his words.

  She knows she’s been had – and by the one person she cares about most in this world. Adam knows damn well she would never organise a hen do and she’s pretty sure he knows exactly why too. This is his way of nudging her in the right direction, encouraging her to face down her demons, make new friends, accept – and my God maybe even enjoy – bringing their two families together. That was the cheery version taking shape in Adam’s head anyway. What is now going on in hers is a very different story, one she can’t see a happy ending to. How could it be – when it would involve having Claire and Annabel in the same room together? Her mum and Camilla? The unspoken judgements that would hang over the evening like a big toxic cloud, slowing poisoning them all against each other.

  And all that hard work of hers, manufacturing the image she wants people to see, the back story she wants them to hear, is now all unravelling in a quick series of phone calls and covert plotting. Is Adam just choosing to ignore the sweep of embarrassment that crosses her face every time she’s forced to admit what her dad did for a living or the name of the area she grew up in to someone who knows what the answer means? They’d seen her family only a couple of weeks ago and not one of them mentioned this hen do. Sworn to secrecy, no doubt. What would Tilly have made of them during her calls to make the arrangements? It’s a grim thought.

  ‘When is it, Adam? When is this hen-do supposed to be happening?’ Her voice is controlled, measured, unlike the volcanic stress erupting inside of her. Maybe there would still be time to get out of this.

  ‘Oh, it’s happening! It’s at Claridge’s, tonight. Everyone will meet you there. It’s all arranged. I’ve organised cars for your family to get them there and back, a private room for you all – cocktails, canapés and as much champagne as twenty women can drink in one evening. Then you’ll be staying in one of their top suites for the night so you can have a fabulous time without the hassle of getting home. Tilly says everyone is really looking forward to it!’

  Well, she’s got that wrong. Jessie knows she should be slapping an enormous smile on her face about now but she can’t. How could any sane person find the prospect of tonight anything other than utterly hateful? But there’s clearly no stopping it so Jessie does the only thing she can, she wraps her arms around Adam, thanks him as profusely as she can manage then huffs up the stairs of their immaculate townhouse to pack – in the sort of strop her sixteen-year-old self would have been proud of.

  As she is leaving the house an hour later, on the doomed journey to London, Adam stops her at the door. He places a firm hand on each of her shoulders, rooting her to the spot before he plants one tender kiss on her lips.

  ‘Don’t think I don’t know this terrifies you, Jessie. I’m not stupid. But people are nicer than you think, you need to realise that. Have fun. Go on, I dare you!’

  * * *

  Jessie’s driver pulls up on Mayfair’s Brook Street directly outside the front entrance of Claridge’s, taking his place in a long line of slick black Mercedes. She’s planning to sit there for a moment, gather her thoughts, one last pep talk before she goes over enemy lines. But a doorman in an immaculate top hat and grey tails is pulling open the back passenger door, making eye contact and extending a hand to help her out. She swings two perfectly smooth legs out on to the pavement, christening her new gold sequin Dior heels that both hit the pavement at exactly the same time, followed by the hem of her Carolina Herrera black silk chiffon dress. She glides through the revolving glass doors and into the famous 1920s art deco lobby with its soaring mirrored fireplaces and black and white checkerboard marble floor, pausing briefly to check in before she makes her way up to her suite.

  Adam has chosen well. The Diane Von Furstenberg Piano Suite is ordered, calm and elegant – everything Jessie is not feeling right now. More an apartment than a room, the reception area is dominated by a grand piano and full of carefully placed animal prints, oversized Chinese florals and an actual cocktail bar. Everything is dark chocolate and ivory coloured with touches of deep purples and lilacs. Adam has ordered a bottle of Laurent Perrier Rosé, on ice, with one glass next to it and a handwritten note saying ‘Be good!’. Jessie pops the cork, pours a glass and promptly drains it before refilling it. Tonight is going to be painful. The fizz might just get it somewhere close to bearable.

  7.10 p.m. She should be downstairs now. They will all be there waiting for her but the thought of leaving the suite is agonising. She wants to crawl into that giant bleached oak four poster bed, pull the DvF cashmere blanket up over her head and stay there until the last Lalique glass of champagne has been drunk. But she needs to get down there and assess any damage Claire and her mother may have already caused. She also needs to make friends and this is the perfect opportunity if she can summon the confidence to do it. All of Adam’s circle are here tonight, there is no better time to embrace them – and hope they will embrace her back.

  She leaves the butler to unpack her case – a perk of booking one of the best suites in the hotel – and takes the lift to the ground level, passing under the original 1920s crystal chandelier, past the gently curving Victorian staircase, getting swept up in the grand theatrical feel of the place. She’s heading for the Fumoir bar that Adam has booked exclusively for them tonight.

  The calm elegance of this grand dame of a hotel is suddenly shattered by the sight of Claire across the lobby – in the orange dress. As if the vision of her enormous body squeezed into the sartorial sausage skin isn’t embarrassing enough, she has accessorised it with an actual hot pink feather boa. It’s enough to freeze Jessie on the spot. Why Claridge’s can’t just throw her out is her only thought – hope – really. Jessie notices her sister’s manly fist clamped around a champagne coupe, behaving for all the world like she is entirely at home, just another average night at Claridge’s. Not in the slightest bit registering that she looks like a kissogram who took a wrong turn and should be in the boozer around the corner being laughed at by a stag do. Her mother, by comparison, is all C&A circa 1983 – wearing a pale mint green trouser suit that’s cut all wrong so the legs come up unflatteringly short above the ankles and the well-worn material sags around her bottom.

  Camilla is perched at the marble horseshoe bar making witty conversation with a wolfish Italian bartender who is mixing her a cocktail, when he can take his eyes off her long enough to get the job done. Her rich caramel coloured Max Mara trousers are sitting high on her waist, revealing what all that horse riding is doing for her remarkable figure. A soft cream silk blouse, rose gold cuff and Jill Sander leather loafers complete the louche tailoring look, working perfectly in her elegant surroundings.

  Jessie can see from the drink in her mother’s hand that she’s already ordered her usual red wine and lemonade – at least she was spared witnessing that. She can only imagine what the same barman who is now kissing the back of Camilla’s hand would make of it. Everything about her mum is awkward and out of place, while the glossy gaggle of expertly put-together young women filling the room is all long, tanned limbs and expensive balayage highlights. They’re all chatting over each other about things Margaret knows nothing about – fashion, property, travel and people. In an act of social self-defence, she’s backed herself into a corner and now looks like she’s waiting for everyone to leave so she can clear the tables. Probably the best place for her, thinks Jessie, until this is all over.

  Everywhere Jessie looks, expensive embellished clutch bags are dangling from delicate wrists, catching the light from the table-top c
rystal lamps while at ground level, vertiginous spike heels in snake skin, blush suede and metallic studs are competing with each other. By the looks of it, every one of these women – with the two obvious exceptions – have spent the cost of a good meal out on a professional blow dry. Too fabulous or busy to wash their own hair, they’ve had their shiny locks teased out over crystal earrings, swept back to reveal long slender necks and Tom Ford highlighted décolletages. Not one split end among the lot of them. Fur-trimmed jackets are tossed over velvet aubergine-coloured bucket chairs like their owners don’t care if they’re there at the end of the night, and it’s all fizzy chitchat. A gorgeous waiter is circulating the room with canapés that no one is eating – not even Claire, who seems to prefer the silver finger dish of nuts on the glass-topped table she has bagged for herself.

  ‘Here she comes, our guest of honour!’ Tilly has spotted Jessie and is making a beeline. Margaret’s face suddenly looks relieved, her daughter finally here to save her. She won’t have to spend the rest of the evening shuffling from one foot to the other, staring into her glass, wondering what to do with herself. Jessie can see she is excitedly reaching into her handbag, trying to pull something out before Jessie joins the group… what is that? As Margaret digs deeper into her grey shopper, Jessie starts to make out the words on the foil sash: Jessie’s Chicks on Tour! Christ, she’s gone to the effort of having it personalised so Jessie can stand in one of the most historically beautiful bars in London looking like she should be sucking cheap cocktails through a cock-shaped straw in a nasty chain wine bar. She holds stern eye contact with her mum, not allowing the slightest hint of a smile to pass her lips, shaking her head slowly back and forth until she can see Margaret start to push the cheap tat apologetically back into her bag.

  Jessie is swept up into a cloud of expensive perfume and excited hellos.