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

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘There’s not going to be any Brides shoot now is there?’ Dolly tips forward, elbows on her knees, her face buried in her hands, slightly ashamed to even be raising the subject. And Tilly is having none of it.

  ‘Forget it. It’s gone, you’ve got enough to worry about without all the stress of a load of stylists crawling all over your big day – assuming that’s even going to happen now. Just send the email, pull out, and give yourself one fewer headache. It’s not important.’

  It might not be to Tilly, but Dolly is dying inside. Endless months of selling herself to ice-cold Annabel in the editor’s office and now she is going to send the unimaginable email telling her they can’t cover the wedding. All she can see is The Dick’s self-satisfied face, the one she’ll now be looking at for a while longer at least, all promise of that future styling career well and truly snatched away. While the realisations about Josh and his failings have been gradual – creeping up on her over weeks and months, allowing her to silently rationalise her way through it all – losing Brides is a fresh blow. It hurts. Maybe it even hurts more. But she’d sooner die than be featured all pot-bellied pregnant and anyway Tilly is right, there might not be a wedding after tonight’s chat with Josh. She needs to send the sodding email.

  ‘Just bloody do it now before you change your mind,’ Tilly is handing Dolly her iPhone. ‘And I’ll catch up with you later.’

  Five minutes later Dolly hits send, hearing the whoosh that tells her those devastating words are flying through the ether, soon to land on Annabel’s iPhone, no retracting them now.

  All she can do is focus on what little positive there is. If she does a good enough job styling the nursery, is it too insane to make a pitch to Vogue Baby? In the meantime there have already been some cracking upsides to the current state of play. Knowing her little secret has joyously ramped up her fuck-you attitude to critical levels at work. Just imagine if she gets to drop this shit bomb on The Dick. She’ll be untouchable. She could milk this pregnancy for all it’s worth. You name it, she’ll be having it, starting with midwife appointments inconveniently scheduled in the middle of the working day. Obviously. The sort of morning sickness that requires regular trips to the office canteen to regulate blood sugar levels, giving herself permission to eat anything and everything. Gone already are the late nights and relentless client suck-ups, thanks to a doctor’s note conveniently explaining she needs rest without saying why. So, Dolly is looking at a strictly 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. office existence with even less work populating those hours than ever before. Have some of that, The Dick!

  Less excitingly, the final pair of jeans she can still fit into are cutting painfully into her belly now and she heads to the bedroom to change. She’s sucking herself in so she can force the zip down, then holding her breath while she unpops the top button. As her flesh is gratefully unleashed she’s reminded of how quickly the pounds are coming for her. Will those gorgeously angular hip bones return? Or the satisfyingly deep curve at her now thickened waist? Will she ever again be able to slide her legs easily into the kind of jeans most women would struggle to get an arm into – once the water retention and bloating kick in?

  Dolly spends the rest of the day researching nursery designs on Pinterest, tagging everything that she thinks Vogue Baby might want to see in a forthcoming issue, before Josh finally swaggers into the kitchen early evening, pushing a hand through his lightly ruffled hair, looking, it has to be said, pretty bloody special. A quick shower and into a sky blue shirt and his favourite faded denim jeans has worked wonders after a sweaty day in the studio. He’s so beautiful, thinks Dolly, as she places the slab of steak she’s cooked for them in front of him, her own stomach somersaulting at the sight of the blood swimming around it.

  ‘So listen, I’m getting quite close to this client, Dolly, and I think there could be a lot more work coming my way – most of it likely to be in New York.’ Josh is hacking into the meat now, spearing it onto his fork, not noticing he’s causing Dolly to heave. ‘It will mean I’m in Manhattan more but for what they’re paying, I think we can suck it up.’

  ‘Oh, right. When do they need you again?’ Dolly is already feeling uneasy about where this is going. She’ll need Josh. More than he knows yet.

  ‘There will be a couple of smaller jobs over the next few months which will put me out there for a week or so each time, then the big one will come in December when they’re re-shooting their global ad campaign. I’ll be gone for most of the month, travelling to a few different locations across the States.’ In his excitement, he’s speaking quickly, Dolly can see the barely cooked steak tumbling around his mouth and is struggling to suppress the nausea.

  ‘But, the good news is, none of this is going to impact on the wedding date. It just means you’ll be doing most of the last minute organising – but let’s face it, you’re much better than me at that anyway. You don’t mind do you, babes?’

  Dolly can see he’s buzzing about the opportunity – who wouldn’t be? – but that’s because he doesn’t know yet, they can’t be on different continents when she’s giving birth, any man would understand that. There will be other jobs. Josh is good at what he does, he has good contacts, people won’t not hire him again because he turns down one commission.

  ‘Dolly? Are you even listening to me? I know it’s a lot to take in, but they are already hassling me for an answer. I had a text on the way home from the creative director asking if I’m in. What d’you think?’

  ‘I think you’d better look at this!’ Dolly slides the scan picture across the table towards Josh and fixes her eyes on him. As the nerves take over she’s motionless, barely breathing, waiting for the flash of realisation to slap itself across his face.

  Silence.

  It occurs to Dolly that this is probably the first pregnancy scan picture he’s ever seen, he might not know what he’s looking at. She sits patiently, giving him all the time he needs to work it out.

  Then, finally, ‘Whose baby is this? Not Tilly’s?’

  Jesus Christ.

  ‘No Josh! It’s ours. I’m pregnant!’

  ‘What!’ His fork clatters loudly to the floor where it stays. His mouth has fallen open and his head is shaking disbelievingly from side to side, as if trying to erase her words, telling her this can’t be right. Dolly’s hands slide protectively under the table to her belly, something deep within her already feeling the emotional pull towards her baby, not him, shielding it from the insults she fears are about to come.

  ‘But it can’t be… you’re on the pill. You take it every day, don’t you? I thought we were safe? Shit, have you been forgetting them again?’

  As the smile starts to fade from Dolly’s face, the corners of Josh’s mouth dip into a frown and his eyes burn with blame – it’s momentary and he knows Dolly can see it. He doesn’t recover himself quite quickly enough and now a prickly silence is spreading between them as they both realise how the other one feels. Dolly goes to push her chair back with her legs, choosing the flight option, but he grabs her arm before she makes it to her feet.

  ‘Shit! Wow! Are you sure?’ He’s scrambling for words, caught in that brain-freezing no-man’s-land between what he should say and what he wants to say.

  ‘There’s the evidence right in front of you, Josh but if you need any more, I’d take a look at my belly.’ Dolly’s angry now. Fucking typical. Most men in this position would celebrate now, panic later, out of sight where it wouldn’t matter. Not Josh, the selfish prick. Dolly shakes her arm free from him.

  ‘I’ve given it a lot of thought, Josh, and I really think we should postpone the wedding, have the baby and then plan a more low-key wedding afterwards. There’s going to be so much to pay for, a nursery to plan, we might have to scale back on the wedding. But we need to decide quickly because I’m already twelve weeks and due on 30th December.’ Dolly is trying to keep the emotion out of her voice. She wants to sound practical, factual, show him one of them is thinking this through c
learly but that’s not easy when he’s staring at her like these are the words of a raving mad woman.

  ‘But I’ll be in New York then!’ His hands have fallen open on the table, palms facing upwards as if he’s spelling out what should be glaringly obvious to her, mocking her ignorance even.

  ‘Josh! No, you won’t. Are you seriously suggesting you’ll be on a shoot when I’m pushing this baby – your baby out? Has it occurred to you that I might need a bit of fucking support? I can’t do this on my own!’ Dolly didn’t want to get hysterical but the fear, panic and anger are all combining in to what she knows must be an ugly rant face.

  ‘Bloody hell, Dolly, you can’t just dump this shit on me and expect me to have all the answers.’ Josh pushes the unfinished meal away from him and gulps back some water, buying some brief thinking time.

  But it’s clear there isn’t going to be any celebration tonight. No frantic fantasising about what the future might hold. They aren’t going to curl up on the sofa while he rubs her belly and they Google cool baby names. She makes a final plea for his support.

  ‘I’m scared, Josh.’ She’s reaching a hand across the table to him, then suffering the indignity of seeing it lie there, ignored. She’s too embarrassed even to withdraw it so starts to fiddle with the coasters stacked there.

  ‘Yeah, well maybe I am too. We were going to have a fucking great big wedding party with all our mates, then enjoy life for a while. Now we’re going to be tied to a baby before we’re even married. Have you thought about what that will do to us? A life full of shitty nappies, sleepless nights, babysitters and fucked finances.’ His arms are swiping across the tense air between them, like a conductor building to a heart-stopping crescendo, as he spits out his long list of objections. ‘I didn’t think either of us wanted that.’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased!’ She’s not even sure why she says it, not when in her heart she knew how improbable an outcome that was. Bloody hormones had got her hopes up, made her believe she might have the sort of happy ending other women get to enjoy.

  ‘Why? We came close to this disaster before. I thought we were both relieved when that turned out to be a false alarm. What part of you thought less than twelve months on the same thing would suddenly be really fucking good news? It’s not!’ The palms are fists now and Dolly can see he’s spitting across the table as he barks at her, too angry and wrong-footed to control the speed of his own mouth.

  ‘Right.’ Dolly slumps back in her chair in an attempt to diffuse the confrontation. She doesn’t have the energy for this and there’s very little point prolonging the showdown.

  ‘I wanted to marry you, Dolly, have fun with you. Throw stupid dinner parties that lasted all night, spend a ludicrous amount on Italian wine and French cheese just because we could. If you have this baby, we’ll be doing it all with one eye on the baby monitor waiting for it to start screaming so we can argue about whose turn it is to go and lie on the nursery floor until it stops. And the other eye on the clock because we’ll have to be in bed by ten anyway, too sodding exhausted to do anything else.’ He’s leaning forward in his seat towards her so she can see his conviction shining in his eyes, the you-know-I’m-right arch of his eyebrows, that confirms he thinks he’s winning this argument.

  ‘Well, I think that’s probably where I’m heading now. You can find somewhere else to sleep tonight.’ It’s not lost on Dolly that Josh is now talking about his desire to marry her in the past tense. To think; a few hours ago she and Tilly were busy giving him the benefit of the doubt, now she’s feeling the full force of his reaction and it is entirely, depressingly, predictable.

  ‘Thanks for your support, Josh. I’ll have to make sacrifices too, you know.’ She’s up now, keen to make a getaway, not wanting to look at that angry face for a second longer. ‘Do you have any idea how long it’s taken me to get Brides magazine interested in our wedding, to agree to come and shoot it so that I might finally escape that shitty job of mine?’ The attempted guilt trip is futile, she knows it, but she needs to hit him with something, this can’t all be her fault.

  ‘Why didn’t you just remind me to put a word in? I could have sorted that for you.’

  ‘But you didn’t, did you – when it would have been so fucking easy for you?’ Dolly leaves the room before they can hurt each other any more, at a loss as to how this could have all gone so badly tonight.

  It’s not until much later when she’s held her own belly through a good two hours of angry tears, that she tiptoes back into the lounge. Josh is sprawled across the sofa asleep, one arm dangling towards the floor, his phone dropped on to the carpet. She bends to pick it up and can see the last text message he received. It’s from the creative director that was hassling him for an answer on New York. It simply says I’m so glad you’re in.

  20

  Emily

  This is not the stuff of the movies. And most definitely not what your average bride signs up for. Emily is standing in The White Gallery fitting room wearing the Maya gown, a wedding dress that no one wants her to wear. Not her family, not Helen, not her. A wedding dress that she might never wear. If ever there was a moment to hold herself together, this is it. If she cracks now, shows even the slightest chink in her armour and lets Helen in on what’s really going on, she will be undone. If the tears come now, they’ll never stop. Her plan will implode and all her plotting will be for nothing.

  Funny, thinks Emily, as Helen adjusts the embellished shoulder straps of the otherwise very simple gown, the number of women over the past three months who said how defining this moment would be. The all-encompassing epiphany when a bride-to-be stands staring at her soon-to-be married self, cloaked in white and realises with total clarity that she is gazing at The One. It’s usually the veil that does it, apparently. That one unmistakably bridal accessory that transforms a woman from mildly embarrassed pretender to the real I Do deal. The problem is, Emily is not feeling it. Her mind is full of the dress that got away. The Reem gown that everyone chose for her – and how that dress was going to be central to the happiest day of her life. The nerves she would feel stepping in to it on their wedding morning. The heart-thumping walk up the aisle in it, gripping her dad’s arm just as tightly as he would be gripping hers. Countless photographs taken wearing it, that would tell the story of their very special day for years – generations hopefully – to come. Mark teasing it off her later that night. Then packing it away in layers of crisp white tissue paper until their first anniversary when she might get it out, sending year-old confetti cascading to the floor, and twirl around the bedroom in it – just for giggles. Then the day she would show it to her own daughter for the first time, maybe even trust her to try it on. See it swamp her little princess as Emily watches, her thoughts thrust forward to when she’ll be mother of the bride. Would she cry? Yes, she’ll be bursting with love and pride, just like Glo will be. Hopefully.

  There’s nothing wrong with the Maya dress, plenty of girls would kill to marry in it, Emily knows that. It’s just that it’s not making her heart sing. It’s making it feel heavy with the responsibility of what she feels she must do. And judging by the solemn look on Helen’s face, she’s not feeling it either.

  ‘You know, Emily, if you really want the Reem dress – or any other dress for that matter – and cost is the issue, I’m sure I can come to some arrangement for you.’

  ‘That’s so lovely of you, Helen, but no, no thank you.’ Such unexpected kindness from Helen is pushing Emily to her absolute limit. Just like a well-meaning colleague asking if you’re OK, when you’re really not, sending all your pent-up sorrow spilling out in a big unplanned cry. Emily can only hold her emotions in check for so long. This is much harder than she thought it would be. She needs to get these final dress tweaks done and get out of here. Out into the sobering fresh air and back to her to-do list. There is plenty still to be done.

  ‘OK, let me pin the hem for you and then I think we’ll be done.’ Helen is on her knees working her way around th
e bottom of the gown, lifting it as she goes and pinning it in place so it is the perfect length for Emily. ‘It will take about five days for the alterations and then it’s all yours. I’ll call you when its ready and then you can pop back to collect it. How does that sound?’

  ‘Perfect, Helen, thank you.’

  Fifteen minutes later they’re finished. Emily is back in her jeans, buttoning up her delicate silk H&M shirt and fielding text messages from Glo asking about menu changes when everything starts to go dark around the edges until there is only blackness.

  * * *

  I die at 11.05 p.m.

  The moment the overwhelming feeling of peace drowns me, like I have come to a point of no return, like there is no need to breathe any more but also weirdly no cause for alarm. I feel so serene.

  I know what’s happening to me. I’ve read about it. An account in one of the Sunday supplements months ago about a man who drowned but was then revived, recounted in exquisite detail how beautiful the experience is. How at the moment when utter panic should have been mauling him, as his lungs filled with water and a slow suffocation meant there was no air left to breathe, there was not one shred of fear in him, just a willing acceptance, no desire to fight it as he floated off into the warm cushioning water. And it’s the same for me, in my safe place, my childhood bedroom. And I am so pleased I’m here after the embarrassing fainting episode with Helen, not in some hospital bed, surrounded by the stench of other people’s illness. Face-planting on to Helen’s perfect cream carpet was just the beginning of the end for me. Now I’m comforted by the fact my parents are just the other side of my bedroom door. The trouble is they will never know how easy it was for me. Their imaginations will build a far more gruesome death that I’ll never be able to disprove. The pain of that thought is far worse than the act of dying and the only thing I’m fighting against.