The Almost Wife: An absolutely gripping and emotional summer read Page 18

  ‘Isn’t this just hilarious!’ squeals Tilly. ‘Adam is such a clever bugger, you never suspected a thing, did you?’

  ‘I certainly didn’t, no,’ Jessie is trying to look relaxed while scanning the room.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll recognise everyone,’ continues Tilly, flying through the introductions. ‘Carine and Pandora were both at school with Adam. Amber works with him, and Anya and Delphine have known him since university. They all did the ski seasons together so if you’re after all the dirt, they’ll know it! And Annabel you’ll remember from the Beaufort hunt. Of course! You two must have talked, she works in the editor’s office at Brides and they’re covering your wedding. Why wouldn’t they be!’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Jessie says through a weak smile. Annabel says precisely nothing, not deeming Jessie worthy of actual words, apparently.

  Tilly quickly moves Jessie on around the room and as they leave Annabel she whispers into Jessie’s ear, ‘You know it’s eating her alive that you’re marrying Adam, don’t you? My advice? Be as nice as you can bring yourself to be. She’s as stuck up as they come, can usually be found drowning in a pool of herself. But you’ve got the one thing she wants that she can’t have, Jessie. You’ve done us all an enormous favour actually, putting her back in her box, temporarily at least!’

  Thank God for Tilly. The one person so far who seems even vaguely human to Jessie, the one who has gone out of her way to be helpful. No wonder Adam has so much time for her. She’s going to be useful, Jessie needs to keep her close, not least because Camilla has told her to. The fact that she’s had to deal with Jessie’s family to organise tonight – and is still talking to Jessie – is something of a major surprise.

  As for Annabel, on the few occasions they have been in each other’s company, Jessie has noticed the way she stares at her, visually picking her apart, unable to work out why Adam could possibly choose Jessie over her. Everything else has come Annabel’s way in life, why not him? As Jessie passes behind her now she hears her sneer into the ear of the woman stood next to her, ‘Who is that?’ She’s looking directly at Jessie’s mum still languishing alone in the corner.

  ‘I don’t know but I can feel the static electricity off those polyester trousers from all the way over here!’ The two women erupt into a fit of snorty giggles.

  Jessie knows she should defend her mum, should turn on the spot and embarrass the two of them. But she’s too embarrassed herself and besides, Camilla is waving at her now from the bar. She pretends she hasn’t heard the insult and starts to work her way across the room to Camilla, collecting kisses on the way from women she barely knows, one eye trained on her mother who looks deeply uncomfortable.

  As she is about to reach Adam’s mum, Claire grabs her roughly by the arm.

  ‘I know you’ve got a lot of people to say hello to, Jess, but Mum is all on her own over there waiting for you.’

  ‘I’m saying hi to Adam’s mum first and then I’ll be there. Can’t you look after her, Claire? Great dress by the way.’ Jessie can’t help herself and the sneer attached to the put-down is vicious.

  Claire stands there for a moment, clearly trying to work out what she did to deserve that, fury starting to fill her face.

  ‘Don’t be a bitch, Jess,’ she snaps. ‘I’d say it doesn’t suit you but actually we can all see it does.’

  ‘Seriously, Claire, do you really think that outfit is appropriate for tonight?’ The exasperation of months of worry, exhausting herself trying to pre-empt and stage manage the moment her family would have to mix with Adam’s, is suddenly weighing very heavy on her. ‘Look where you are, Claire. Look around you. Do you see anyone else dressed like a barmaid?’

  ‘You total cow! We’re all here for you, you know. Because it’s your special time apparently. And that’s how you treat me?’ The actual insult surely isn’t what hurts, Claire’s collected a few in her time. It’s Jessie’s superior attitude that will be killing her.

  ‘Have you got anything else you can put on, Claire. Anything less trashy?’ Jessie is well over the line now, no way back but Claire is not about to be bullied into submission.

  ‘You don’t fool me, Jess. I can see how hard you’re working to impress all these people you barely know. How you’ve changed the way you look, the way you sound – you’re so desperate to fit in, aren’t you? But you’re not one of them, Jess. It doesn’t matter how rich you are, you never will be. You do know that, don’t you? That none of them would give you a second look if you weren’t marrying Adam.’

  ‘Fuck you, Claire!’

  ‘What on earth is going on here?’ Margaret is at their side now, trying to stop the two of them ruining the night.

  ‘Apparently, I look awful and need to change,’ spits Claire.

  ‘Says who?’ Margaret’s face is full of hurt and confusion.

  ‘Says me! Look at her, Mum, it’s bloody embarrassing.’ Despite her best efforts to contain her rage, the volume of Jessie’s complaints is climbing too high and heads are starting to turn their way.

  ‘Let’s just leave it, shall we, girls? We’re all here to have a good time and I don’t want a little spat ruining everything. Come on.’ Margaret has a hand placed on each daughter’s shoulder, trying to take the sting out of their anger.

  ‘She needs to change!’ Having gone this far, Jessie can’t relent now, not until she gets the result she needs.

  ‘Leave it, Jessica.’ Margaret’s legendary patience is starting to wear.

  ‘Why should I? Look at the state of her.’ Even as the words are spilling out of her, Jessie knows she will regret them later.

  Something switches in Margaret’s face. Any sympathy she may be feeling for Jessica is evaporating swiftly. She is not about to stand by and watch her daughters attack each other.

  ‘Jessica, you cannot control everything around you, I’m afraid. You can’t dictate what people wear. How would you feel if this was Adam telling you what to put on?’

  ‘Well he doesn’t need to, does he, because unlike Claire I have some taste and… and I’m not the size of a small family car!’

  ‘No, you’re not but you are a stuck up bitch who thinks she’s better than everyone else. And I’d rather be a little heavy than—’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’

  ‘That’s enough!’ Margaret’s raised voice has caused the women next to them to stop chatting and openly stare. ‘I’m not going to stand here and listen to you both like this. I’ve been waiting in that corner for nearly forty minutes, Jessica, for you to come and say hello to me. Hoping you would introduce me to Adam’s mum and some of your other friends. And you haven’t. So, I’m guessing I’m embarrassing you too and if that’s the case, I think I would rather just leave.’ The last three words are pushed out through tears as Margaret bows her head and makes for the exit.

  ‘Find another fucking bridesmaid, Jess. Perhaps one of the skinny bitches who are looking at you right now, wondering who this total low life is that’s been forced on them.’

  Jess watches the two of them leave, Claire’s arse coming dangerously close to knocking over a table of drinks on its way out.

  She glances over at Camilla, who has watched the whole sorry situation unfold and is now trying to pretend she hasn’t. She spins back round to enjoy her barman, the whole thing apparently entirely beneath her.

  Desperate for someone to blame but herself and noticing the look of pure joy spreading out across Annabel’s polished face as her eyes dance between Jessie and Camilla, Jessie heads straight for her.

  ‘I know Adam has told you that Brides can cover our wedding in the next issue Annabel…’ She’s close now, invading Annabel’s personal space, causing her to pull back slightly.

  ‘Er, yes. We agreed it months ago, the pages are all planned. Adam is very happy with them.’ Even now she can’t contain the vile smirk.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid I’m not,’ snaps back Jessie. ‘I don’t want our wedding featured, so I’m afraid you’ll ne
ed to find a replacement.’ The sense of superiority is catching and a sarcastic sneer is pitched all over Jessie’s face, just as Annabel’s is caving in on itself.

  Killer blow delivered, Jessie snatches a drink from a nearby table, downs it in one and heads for the bar already wondering how she will explain to Adam how his beautifully planned evening for her has unravelled so quickly.

  18

  Helen

  ‘I am but waiting for you. For an interval. Somewhere. Very near. Just around the corner.’

  Helen has re-read those lines a hundred times this evening. Phillip hadn’t chosen to leave her. And when he knew the end was close, he made it clear to her through these words that he would never leave her. So what was she doing now, pulling all her best dresses out of the wardrobe and trying to make herself look attractive for another man?

  The words that have provided so much comfort to Helen for so long are now holding her back. Was this Phillip’s way of saying he didn’t want her to find happiness in someone else’s arms – because he is still with her? But how can that be? Certainly in the visits she makes to her memories every day and the stabbing daily reminders of his gestures and mannerisms. But now, standing alone in her bedroom, her wedding dress still looming large in the background, Helen is questioning his motives. What was he expecting of her?

  As she pushes dress after dress along the metal rail in her closet with all the speed and focus of a determined sales shopper, discounting every one as she goes, Helen is transported back to that awful Sunday afternoon. When she sat next to him on the bed for hours, too afraid to leave even for a moment, in case he slipped away. The day was bright but she was forced to close the curtains as the sun streamed in and made Phillip squint and twist his head uncomfortably. Helen smoothed his forehead, gently sweeping his hair off his face with her fingertips, softly kissing his cheek and the back of his hand, knowing it might be the last time she would feel his warm skin beneath her lips. A whole lifetime of love flowing out of her and into him.

  She read the newspaper to him – avoiding the six pages on the death of his favourite singer Whitney Houston – and updated him on neighbourly news. Then she folded the paper neatly, placed it on the floor and held his hand until it went cold in hers, a final loving act for his wife and dedicated nurse. She hugged him afterwards, taking one of his arms and placing it across her. It didn’t feel like a strange thing to do at the time. It felt like an intimate moment together, just the two of them before phone calls were made and the room filled with the coroner and Phillip’s GP. Before she forced open the bedroom windows in a panic, unable to bear the presence of death that was engulfing her.

  And now here she is, a tear-stained mess and Roger is arriving in half an hour. She isn’t dressed. She isn’t mentally ready for her first date. She’s cursing herself for not just arranging to meet him somewhere, then at least she would have the option of not turning up. As it is, he’s going to arrive on her doorstep, all triumphant, and she’s going to have to stand there in her bra and knickers, shouting at him through the letterbox to go away.

  OK, let’s just at least decide what to wear, the rest will hopefully follow, one way or another, thinks Helen. She thought she had the perfect outfit – a beautiful deep-rose-coloured dress with a simple seam detail and a smart asymmetric collar. But now she’s remembering how she wore that dress to a close friend’s birthday party with Phillip and how the two of them had laughed all night as he’d spun her around the dance floor to an endless stream of Duran Duran – the pair of them thinking they looked so much cooler than they did. She’s also rejecting Phillip’s favourite dress – a slightly seventies number with its graphic floral print and subtle splits at the hem – the dress of a thousand different dates with Phillip. She can see them now, on a spontaneous weekend to the Cornish coast, sat on the beach until the sun stretched its deep pink arms across the sky and Phillip had wrapped his around Helen.

  Everything she owns is heavy with the memory of him, but eventually she settles on a comfortable deep-blue velvet dress with button-sleeves and a high neck. It’s elegant, not suggestive. Tailored but not tight. Simple rather than smart.

  What would Phillip think if he could see her now? Would he be pleased for her, she wonders? Jealous? Heartbroken? On the advice of dear friends, Helen had briefly put herself out there after Phillip’s death, before she sold the family home in Bristol and bought the business in the Cotswolds. But on the few times she did venture out, those friends looked just as uncomfortable as she felt with the empty chair next to her, no one to naturally fill it. She was no longer one half of a whole and no one knew what to do about that – least of all her. So, she diligently worked her way through all the stages of grief from denial to anger and depression.

  On someone else’s well-meaning advice she finished every day for months writing down ‘three things I did well today’, even if all that amounted to was ‘I washed my hair’ or ‘I made a sandwich’ just to help her find some comfort in the mundane and the routine. Helen read every article she could find on how to make herself emotionally available – capable of trusting again – to decide whether she was suffering from analysis paralysis and too busy fearing another loss to truly move on. She has passed through that mix of sorrow and anger at all the loose ends Phillip left behind. Their loose ends, frayed and exposed, had once found completion in each other. Without him, Helen’s had nowhere to go.

  But Helen’s clever; she’s done the homework, passed the theory test. Now it’s time for the real thing and she knows it. If she’s honest with herself about tonight, it comes down to one simple truth. She’s scared. Scared Roger will think she’s dull, the conversation will dry up or she’ll get emotional. Because Good Housekeeping can teach you many things but not how to be a great date when you’re terrified inside.

  The doorbell sounds, sending Helen’s stomach lurching upwards as a hundred butterflies collide with each other. Once you allow your heart to be cracked open again, you never know what's going to happen, she thinks, as her hand settles on the door handle, and right now she would trade anything to be free of the loneliness.

  When she opens the door, Roger is there in a smart business suit and tie, beaming from ear to ear and holding a single red rose. Helen cringes at the formality of it all, seeing immediately how seriously he’s taking this date. She is hoping for a casual supper in the pub, something that would at least look like no big deal, but judging by the way Roger is kissing the back of her hand and telling her she looks beautiful, it’s going to be anything but.

  ‘I’ve booked a fantastic table at Sotheby’s, only the best for you Helen.’ Roger winks at her, face full of expectation, waiting for Helen to look impressed. But she knows the restaurant, has heard clients moaning about how stuffy it is, how slow the service is. The sort of place that charges the earth for a plate of fish and chips because it’s been deconstructed to look nothing like fish and chips. Such an ill-planned choice for a first date, thinks Helen, committing them both to hours of conversation in a dining room of white tablecloths, silver cloches and where no one can talk above a whisper. Helen can’t let it happen.

  ‘Actually, Roger, I’m sorry to rewrite your plans already but would you mind if we stayed more local this evening? I have a full day of appointments at the boutique to plan tomorrow and something a little more low-key might be better. I’d be very happy at the pub across the road.’

  ‘Oh. Really? It might be a bit rowdy at the weekend, Helen, I wouldn’t want you to feel—’

  ‘Honestly, I would prefer it, thank you. If you don’t mind?’

  ‘OK. It will be considerably kinder on my wallet anyway!’ As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Roger’s face gives away his awkwardness and regret. He might have been thinking it but it’s a crass start to the date and one that isn’t lost on Helen. She hates the assumption that he’s paying, somehow making her feel beholden to him before they’ve even looked at a menu. She would have been impressed by a subtle offer to pay, la
ter in the evening when a glass or two of red wine had warmed them up a bit, but Roger has declared his intentions too early.

  The pub is exactly what Helen has in mind, the sort of place you hope to find on a weekend away in the country – all cosy sink-into sofas, low ceilings, flagstone flooring, shelves lined with help-yourself books and most importantly an easy relaxed vibe – thanks to a smattering of weekenders thrilled to have closed their laptops and now getting stuck in to the local ale. But Roger’s still trying to demonstrate he knows how a gentleman should behave. He’s opening every door he can find for Helen, making a big show of standing back so she can pass through first.

  ‘Right, let’s get you sat down and I’ll go to the bar. A white wine, yes?’

  ‘I’ll have a gin and tonic please, Roger,’ replies Helen, very much feeling the need for something stronger.

  With Roger at the bar, his back to her now, she can’t help herself thinking how different he is to Phillip. He seems older, physically and emotionally. The suit is swamping him a little and he’s shorter, less broad than Philip. She knows it’s a very ungenerous thought, but while everyone else at the bar is comfortable in jeans and quilted country jackets, Roger looks like he’s just finished a corporate conference.

  ‘There you go!’ Roger places a glass of white wine in front of Helen. She pauses for a moment, about to point out his error but decides against it, keen to keep the evening as fuss-free as possible.

  ‘So, that was some dressing-down you gave Irene earlier!’

  In all the panic of the date, Helen has completely forgotten about the incident at the local shop. It’s a reminder of how Roger landed this date in the first place. And also that she still owes him an apology.

  ‘I was actually coming to find you this morning, Roger, to apologise for how rude I was the day you dropped into the boutique unexpectedly.’

  ‘Think nothing of it.’ He’s flicking a hand dismissively in front of her, signalling the conversation can – and should – move on, probably not wanting to relive the awkwardness or lose the sense of control he feels he has tonight.