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

  ‘I might need to ask you some questions about the… process, I mean my… er… my options from here, if I can, please.’ Dolly is struggling. How do you broach this subject with a woman who has rigged her whole career around the fact that she loves babies, or so Dolly must assume. A woman who spends all day, every day bringing new ones into the world, not the opposite.

  ‘Of course, everyone starts to get twitchy about pain relief options at this stage, it’s perfectly understandable. We’re going to be pushed for time today but I can give you plenty of leaflets that spell out the choices.’

  Before Dolly can have another stab at making herself understood, there it is, the fast, fluttering heartbeat of new life filling the room. Dolly catches her own breath, silencing herself completely so she can concentrate on the sound coming from somewhere deep within her. She closes her eyes and lies there, perfectly still in the near darkness and thinks about the baby, Josh, the wedding, the decisions looming large in her mind. The horrible, big, messy situation that she must unpick – and soon.

  ‘Oh, that’s unusual.’ The midwife says it almost under her breath, as she leans in closer to the monitor, keen to get a better look at whatever it is she thinks she’s seen.

  ‘What? What is it? Have you seen something bad?’ Dolly’s belly is tightening around her as the dread of what’s coming next takes hold. Is this decision about to be taken out of her hands, she wonders? Is there something terrible happening in there that means this baby won’t make it after all? In the almost heart-stopping moment when the midwife is forming an appropriate response, all Dolly can think is how bloody relieved Josh will be.

  ‘No, nothing, it’s OK. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s absolutely nothing to worry about, honestly.’

  ‘But you did say it and now I am worried and you really need to tell me. Please.’ Dolly is pushing herself up on her elbows, trying to see the monitor herself.

  ‘I’d rather not – but I promise you all is fine.’ She looks like she’s dropped some real blunder, one that could bring an untimely end to her short career.

  ‘Please, tell me. Whatever it is, I really would rather know. It won’t go any further than this room.’

  It’s obvious Dolly is not about to jump off the bed like nothing was ever said and the only thing the midwife can do is reluctantly capitulate.

  ‘OK. At eighteen weeks it’s normally too early to see this but I am pretty sure I can tell the sex of the baby. Perhaps you’re a little further along than we thought.’

  ‘On my god!’ If hearing the heartbeat made this pregnancy real, then finding out the gender would almost be like holding the baby in her arms. ‘Tell me!’

  ‘Are you sure you want to know? I can’t be one hundred per cent positive so you will have to bear that in mind.’

  ‘I want to know.’ There is not a hint of doubt or hesitation in Dolly’s mind.

  ‘It’s a girl. I’m pretty sure, Dolly, you are going to have a beautiful baby daughter!’

  The tears are immediate. Soft silent ones at first that slide down the side of Dolly’s face undetected before she erupts into proper big heaving sobs that require nearly half a box of the midwife’s tissues. And as quickly as that, the decision is made. Dolly is going to be a mum.

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ is all she can manage. ‘Just wonderful.’

  24

  Emily

  I wish I could put a warning sign on the bedroom door. Do not enter, unexpectedly dead daughter inside. Or Go out for the day! Do something fun! But whatever you do, don’t come in here. Something, anything that would prepare my poor mum for what she is about to discover.

  I hear her get up, pad across the landing, pausing briefly at my bedroom door, her ear pressed to the woodwork probably, ironically, listening for signs of life from within. Then she carries on downstairs to make me a cup of tea. The fourteen minutes it takes her are agonising. While she’s cheerfully dropping a teabag into my favourite naff Easter mug, I’m lying here counting down the seconds, drowning in the horrible inevitability of what is coming. The tea that will go cold, the biscuits (two of my favourite custard creams, annoyingly) that will be returned to the old Fortnums tin in the kitchen cupboard. I listen to her coming back up the stairs, everything rattling on the wooden Laura Ashley tray I bought her years ago for Mothers’ Day with the matching teacups and saucers that she usually likes to keep for best. She’s humming to herself, enjoying being the first up and busy with the little act of love she is doing for me. Enjoying just being Mum – my Mum.

  The door handle turns. God, I wish I could make this stop. A crack of light breaks through and I see a flash of her lilac dressing gown before the shattering noise of the tray hitting the floor cancels everything else out. I can’t help it but I think about the carpet and what a mess that lot is going to make. Then I’m snapped out of hoping she’s got enough Shake n’ Vac to sort it by her chilling scream. She’s going to wake the neighbours. My father’s name is screeching through the air, so high pitched and agonised I wonder if every dog in the village can hear it.

  She sees immediately that I’m gone and I wonder how? Are my eyes open, starring lifelessly up at the ceiling? Is there a streak of blood coming from my nose? My ear? My eyeball? Do I smell bad? Am I deathly white? I don’t know.

  There’s a clattering noise from outside the room, the sound of Dad getting out of bed at speed and then his slightly panicked face appears panting in the doorway. Bless him, he’s probably expecting a large spider. He’s frozen now, eyes flitting from me to Glo and back again for what feels like an eternity. The penny is about to drop – and when it does his face morphs slowly. He was mildly irritated at the early wake-up but now his features are a map of hurt and disbelief – until he looks at Mum, really looks at her and sees in her face what she is seeing all over mine. There are shouts of Do something! and What’s wrong with her! and Call a bloody ambulance! No one mentions the D-word. Then Dad swoops quick and low, still fit as a flea, catching Mum just before she collapses over me on the bed.

  Everything is on fast-forward, like those TV shows when high-speed traffic is pictured by a single streak of bright red light. It’s all happening so quickly, blurred at the edges, hectic, stressed and full of confusion.

  Dad snatches my mobile from the bedside table and dials 999, panting down the phone for an ambulance. If I could smile I would because he was always banging on about how I should put a security pin on that phone so no one else could use it. For once Dad, I win! He’s struggling to make himself heard over Mum’s wailing and pleading to help her Bill! Quickly! Her cries are so loud I can feel them deep within my ear, like she’s in there drumming out the beat of her pain. While Dad is trying his best to sound calm and in control, she’s holding my hand, squeezing it tightly, praying for a reaction she’s not going to get. Then she’s pulling me up and trying to shake the life back in to me. Oh God, this is getting desperate now. Make her stop Dad, make her stop!

  The second he disconnects the call Mum is screaming at him again to call Sarah Blake because she’ll know what to do. Then the same man who always keeps a stack of change in a dedicated tray in the car so he never gets caught short at a parking meter is searching for my pulse, a breath, the faintest pump of a heart beat. When there is none, he’s closing my eyelids with the soft pads of his fingertips, sending my lovely mum to her knees again.

  The room fills with people and quicker than I expect, it comes. One of the paramedics steps back from my bed, hangs his head and blinks so slowly I wonder if his eyes are ever going to open again. A mark of defeat. When they do open he almost doesn’t have to say a word but confirmation is needed and he knows it. I’m so sorry, we’re too late. I’m afraid your daughter has been dead for several hours.

  I don’t know how many times he’s had to deliver this blow but he does it so sensitively, I half expect my mum to thank him for his kindness. But instead she lets a moment pass. She’s summoning all her raw strength, I can feel it powering up from the pit
of her stomach, building, ready to shout him down.

  ‘No she’s not! Don’t be so bloody stupid! She’s normal, healthy. So… stop wasting time!’

  ‘She’s gone, luv. She’s cold. There is nothing more anyone can do now.’ The whispered, reasoned voice of my dad takes the sting out of her panic and I think about how even in the most awful moment imaginable, they are so good together. Solid. Unbreakable.

  Sarah Blake arrives bringing some much-needed facts about headaches, scans, the neurologist’s opinion, the verdict that never made it in time from the Americans and how she tried so desperately to persuade me to tell them.

  ‘Does Mark know?’ The words whisper out of Mum.

  ‘No. Emily was adamant no one must know. She just wanted to get married and spare you all the heartache. I’m so, so sorry Glo, Bill. I wanted to tell you, I really did. I hope one day you can forgive me for that?’

  If there is forgiveness to be handed out, it’s not going to happen today, not now.

  ‘Can I ask you please to go and collect Mark? He needs to be here and I don’t want to leave Glo. His details are in the book next to the phone, under Jacobs.’ Well done, Dad. I feel bad for all the times he irritated me with his organisational obsessions – lawns that had to be religiously mown, the central heating timer always changed with the seasons. But that orderly calm is getting him – and everyone else – through this now.

  ‘Of course, I’ll do it now,’ I can feel the relief radiating off Sarah, now that she has a chance to be useful.

  Sarah and the paramedics leave the room while Mum and Dad kneel on the floor by the side of my bed, in amongst the cracked china, spilt tea and broken biscuits. They cradle each other and sob so sadly in each other’s arms I just want to vaporise. No one should have to watch their parents’ hearts break in front of them like that. I pray long and hard that wherever I’m going next, this memory won’t be travelling with me.

  Time hangs frozen like that for I don’t know how long before Dad says he needs to speak to the paramedics. Now it is just me and Mum and I feel warm again, so safe with her. She starts to brush my hair, taking her time to gently tease out every last knot. She’s holding it firmly between the brush and my scalp in case she unexpectedly hits a tangle and I want to tell her, don’t worry Mum, do your worst, nothing can hurt me now. She washes my face with a warm wet flannel, removing every last trace of yesterday’s make-up (God, I’m so slovenly) tears streaming down her own face as she does it. I wonder if it’s possible to run out of tears while she dabs a little lip balm across my dehydrated lips.

  She talks to me, tells me that she’s cooking my favourite Jamie Oliver garlicky chicken for dinner tonight, she got all the ingredients in yesterday while she was in town, even the expensive heritage tomatoes I love. She met Mark’s mum for lunch too and they made plans to surprise us both with a joint photo album of our lives so far – up until our wedding day. Weirdly, I like hearing this, the plan is working and these two wonderful women are becoming good friends.

  All the while she’s telling me this, she’s changing my clothes, heaving me out of my seriously unstylish pjs and into a pretty floral summer dress, the one I wore to our engagement party last year. I remember when I came down the stairs in it that day and she got all emotional. She tried to hide it but I saw Dad hand her a tissue and tell her to stop being so silly. To me she’s always her best when she’s silly.

  As she leans over me, I can smell her citrusy Penhaligon’s perfume and I’m transported back through a million happy memories – her pulling a birthday party dress over my seven-year-old head; being pushed on the swings, face crimson with the giggles, cuddles on the sofa hoping she wouldn’t notice it’s past bedtime, days ill off school with grapes and dry crackers in bed.

  By the time Mark arrives, she’s even painted my fingernails a light baby pink. That last bit is odd but I get it, I really do. She’s only thinking of me. She always did care more about my appearance than I did. Maybe she also knows it’s probably the last time Mark will see me and she wants me to look lovely for him.

  Dad is back in the room and I’m shouting at him Look after her Dad, don’t let her spark go out. Maybe those words will hang in the air somewhere and creep into his ear sometime soon when he is sleeping. I hope so.

  ‘Glo, Mark’s here. Please can we let him have a moment alone with Emily?’ Sarah’s obviously broken the news, because I can hear Mark through the brick wall out on the landing making a valiant effort to compose himself. But his breath is ragged and uneven and I can feel the nervous vibrations through the floorboards as he shifts from one foot to another.

  Mum doesn’t hear a word at first. She’s lying on the bed with me, side by side, our fingers interlocked together. She doesn’t want to leave me and I don’t want her to either. I want to roll over to face her and take in a huge lungful of her comforting smell. What if this is the last time I see her? I might not be here when she comes back. I have no idea how long I’m going to occupy this observation deck between life and death.

  Seeing Mark is going to kill me all over again. Mum takes another minute, saying nothing before she slowly gets off the bed and leaves the room. She pauses briefly on her way out and swipes my white Tie The Knot Smythson notebook off the shelf. I knew it! She’s drawn to it somehow, she knows there’s something in there she needs to read, I’m convinced of it. She doesn’t look at Mark, she can’t, preferring the comfort of Dad’s chest instead.

  The door closes behind them and it’s just me and Mark now. He stands, several paces from the bed, hands clasped to his face, eyes bloodshot and full of sorrow, looking but not believing what he’s seeing. He’s shaking. My big, strong nearly-husband is shaking all over and there isn’t a thing I can do about it. Seeing him is a brutal reminder that this wedding is off. All that planning, decision-making, all those hours spent weighing up the gold foil versus the letterpress stationery and now none of it will come to be. I will never be Mrs Jacobs. My engagement ring is never going to be joined by the simple white gold wedding band we chose together. The thought makes me feel so hollow, so pointless. Why didn’t someone just tell me, when I was six years old and role-playing my way to the kind of life I thought I might like, Get a move on, because twenty-one years from now it’ll be gone before you even take delivery of the John Lewis thirty-two piece crockery set. Mark’s burying his face under my hair now into the softness of my neck and I can sense his tears on my cold skin. ‘I’m so, so sorry,’ he’s saying it over and over again and every time I hear that word it’s sending a painful stab of guilt right through me. I did this to him.

  The living me sometimes wasted time in idle moments, usually hormonal ones, wondering how I might react on hearing life-changing bad news. You know, the really grim stuff – your husband’s gone under the wheels of the number twenty-three bus on his way to work. Your mum’s blood test results didn’t just show a touch of anaemia after all. But what Mark does next really surprises me. Less than two hours after my cold, hardening body is discovered what does he do? He unpeels himself from me, muttering about needing to cancel my wedding dress and calls Helen on his mobile. At least he tries to. The call connects to her answerphone and he tries to choke out his own name but can’t. He makes several attempts before the tears take over and he has to hang up. He looks like he’s sulking now but maybe he just feels hugely cheated – out of a wife, a family, a future with the girl who was always meant to be his – forever.

  Before he has time to ready himself for another go, Dad is back with the paramedics.

  ‘We need to let these guys do what they need to do, Mark. Will you come downstairs with me please?’ Dad leans over me and tenderly kisses my forehead, leaving his lips on my skin just long enough to whisper a goodbye to his darling girl before he takes Mark by the arm and leads him towards the door. He needs directing, his brain has shut down. I know how he feels. I feel the ache in my no-longer-beating heart as I watch him disappear from the room. He doesn’t look back because he does
n’t believe it’s happening and I know it will hit him later. His grief is yet to come.

  As the two of them descend the stairs together, arms gripping each other’s shoulders for support, moving down towards the sound of my mum’s soft sobs, the body bag is zipping up around me. It smells synthetic inside with a hint of disinfectant and I wonder rather alarmingly how many have been in here before me.

  My body may be leaving the building but there’s still no sign of me following it and I’m no closer to working out why. But I do know I don’t want to be a spectator, forced to watch this tragedy and everything it will do to my beautiful family. I realise I’m a coward. I want out now. Much easier that way. For me at least. If I could action anything I’d happily stick around. But what’s the point when all you can do is sit and stare? It’s just going to be torture.

  I spend the night curled up on the sofa, watching them all, searching their faces for any clue of what might be coming next. The answer to why I’m lingering has to be within one of them.

  Mum doesn’t say a single word other than to decline an offer of tea from Dad every now and again. By the time the sun starts to poke its fingers through her net curtains, she’s finished reading my notebook. She closes it, places it silently into her lap and looks across the room at them both.

  ‘She was even more special than we thought.’ She says the words through the very faintest smile.

  I’m already past tense.

  25

  Jessie

  Four weeks to go

  Anyone would think Mariah Carey was in town. Six Louis Vuitton trunks are lined up side by side on the floor of Jessie’s enormous walk-in wardrobe, the kind of luggage any true fashionista would crawl on her hands and knees all the way to Paris for. These ones are ready to be filled with everything she needs for three days of thoroughly over the top wedding celebrations. And one super-luxe honeymoon.