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

  A Jimmy Choo evening clutch, frosted with thousands of Swarovski crystals and just about big enough for a lipstick and credit card is swinging from the index finger of Jessie’s left hand. The designer’s silver mirrored leather four-inch pumps are wedged under the same arm while the other is cradling her mobile to her ear. She’s running through some final pointers with Willow Manor’s wedding planner. And it kills her to admit it – so she won’t – but this girl is tantalisingly close to meeting expectations.

  ‘The vicar has finally agreed to us removing the orange aisle carpet so our guys will get in there in a few weeks and rip it up.’ Her voice is full of spirit, so pleased to be confirming the news they have been waiting weeks to hear.

  ‘About bloody time too.’ Jessie might be happy to hear it but it never occurs to her to show it with a thank you.

  ‘Quite, yes. The new cream one you’ve chosen will be laid the night before the wedding and covered so that it remains spotlessly clean until the Saturday morning. I’ve also taken care of all the arrangements to re-lay the original one after the big day. What would you like me to do with the cream one then, Ms Jones?’

  ‘Bin it. It’s no use to me. What was it in the end? The renovations to the spire or a hefty donation to the retired servicemen fund that swung it?’

  ‘Both, I’m afraid. But I can promise you it’s going to look incredible.’

  Jessie’s not bothering to listen now, she’s too busy admiring her Carolina Herrera cherry red palazzo pants, imagining how they might look on her in whatever luxurious location Adam has chosen for their honeymoon.

  ‘The florists will arrive at 10 a.m the day before and we will keep the seven thousand David Austin rose heads cool in the old kitchens below the hotel until the last minute so they will stay super fresh for you. The planting on the front lawn is all on schedule so everything will look perfect for the champagne reception, and the oak trees, as you know, have already been removed.’ Her voice is laced with a little embarrassment, possibly recalling their first meeting when Jessie bulldozed her way across the lawn making all sorts of ludicrous demands that somehow have all been achieved.

  ‘And doesn’t it look so much better for it?’ Jessie isn’t going to miss an opportunity to snatch another thanks to me moment.

  ‘Well, yes, I think once we re-laid all the surrounding lawns I agree it does, but we’ll be answering complaints from the locals for a long time to come. Still, that’s my problem. The team from Jo Malone arrive the morning of the wedding and they will get all the atomisers in place to pipe Orange Blossom into the ceremony space for two hours before your guests arrive and then seventy candles will be lit forty-five minutes before you make your entrance. They will then return on Sunday morning to replace them with the Blackberry & Bay candles and diffusers throughout the hotel and grounds ahead of the garden party. The scenting will be the perfect distinction between the two events, I think.’ Jessie can practically hear the tick, tick, tick as the planner is working her way through the checklist. Time to add something last minute to it then.

  ‘I’ve been thinking, it would be such a lovely memento of the day if everyone left with an Orange Blossom candle. Please can you arrange for one to be positioned at each place setting. And not the travel ones, the full-sized ones that burn for forty-five hours.’

  ‘OK, another three hundred candles, one for each guest?’ There’s no incredulity in the planner’s voice any more, she’s merely fact checking. Just over five months jumping to the borderline insane orders of this bride-to-be has trained her well.

  ‘Yep.’ One word that instantly adds more than £10,000 to the wedding bill.

  ‘Right. I’ll call them as soon as we’re finished and have them couriered here and stored for you. Peggy Porschen has confirmed she will arrive the afternoon before to begin constructing the ten-tier cake, while you are all at the rehearsal dinner at the Coleridge’s estate. That’s when we will start chilling the Dom Perignon, exactly as you requested.’

  ‘I want it at seven degrees please. No warmer or it’s just not right. Now, who have you assigned to look after Hugo when he gets there on the Saturday morning?’

  ‘I spoke to his studio yesterday and I will be greeting him, doing a final walkthrough of all the areas he wants to shoot in and getting all his photographic equipment safely stored. He mentioned he’s bringing more than originally expected for the honeymoon, is that right?’

  ‘Yes. He will be accompanying Adam and I on honeymoon too – I want a beautiful record of every part of this celebration, nothing should be missed. Presumably Adam has told him where we’re going because I haven’t got a clue. And on that note, this next bit is very important.’ Jessie is pulling a selection of Heidi Klein bikinis out of a drawer, examining them all for the most flattering cut.

  ‘Hugo only wants the most attractive members of the congregation sat aisle-side. And so do I. These are the people who will be in the shots he takes of the two of us coming back down the aisle, just married. I have selected the appropriate people and I will email you a file later with their details and a head shot so you can identify them. It is imperative these people make it in to the correct seats. And, I don’t care what it takes, but my sister Claire must not be visible at all.’ All of Helen’s hard work, the big talking-to she gave Jessie, the cold hard logic she laid out in the hopes of preventing her from alienating her family for good have all been blown away in the final run-up to the wedding, like petal confetti on a summer breeze.

  ‘I want her sat as far from the aisle as possible and I am personally charging you with this task so please don’t let me down.’ Jessie is beyond caring how heartless this sounds.

  There is only the faintest pause from the planner while she computes what has just been said.

  ‘OK. I will make sure you are entirely happy, Ms Jones, please don’t worry about a thing.’

  ‘Are there any changes to the guest list?’ Has Annabel broken her neck horse-riding by any chance?

  ‘No. There are no dropouts – obviously. A few guests want to upgrade to suites which is all under control and Tilly Hunter-Browne has confirmed her plus-one is Dolly Jackson, so I will tweak the seating plan and run it past you again later. The only thing you haven’t confirmed for me, Ms Jones, are the speeches and who will be giving one so we can add that to our itinerary of timings for the day.’

  ‘I’ll have to come back to you on that.’ Jessie is suddenly sounding much less sure of herself. ‘One or two are still up in the air.’ Jessie disconnects the call and gets that gnawing feeling in her stomach, the sort that only surfaces when you know deep down, even if you can’t admit it to yourself, that you’re about to steamroller over someone’s feelings.

  Her dad’s speech. She’s been stewing on this for weeks. That moment when he stands from his seat on the top table and the innocent tinkle of knife on glass will make her backside clench, her throat dry, turn her into a bottomless pit of angst. How is he ever going to pull this off? He’s not. She knows it. Put bluntly, he lacks the skills. He’s not a dinner party kind of man, has never held a table of rambunctious guests enthralled while he regales them with clever, fast-paced anecdotes – and why would he, what does he have to draw on? Hours sweeping the playground at the end of the school day, changing light bulbs, unblocking drains – it’s hardly the backdrop to a cracking after-dinner speech. Worse, he’ll prattle on about how well she did at school, exceeding all the teacher’s expectations – like overachieving would be anything new or interesting to this audience – while Jessie is forced to watch the yawns build around the room.

  Jessie knows a bad speech will hang in the air for the rest of the day. People made to feel uncomfortable will stay that way. It will be a major, irreversible vibe kill and she’s not going to let it happen – not when there’s someone else far more qualified for the job.

  Henry.

  He’s already agreed to say a few words at the rehearsal dinner. Once Dad sees how good he is, it will be easy then. It wi
ll pave the way for her to suggest that Henry is a better candidate for the day itself. Who says they must follow tradition? This will all be terribly modern and interesting, people will prefer it. Dad can still walk her down the aisle, still have his proud moment, she’s not denying him that. But she will save him from the stress of all that inner rehearsal when he should be enjoying the day, from those last minute trips to the gents’ for a mental run-through when he could be celebrating with Mum. Save him from the possibility of getting nervous-smashed. No one wants that.

  Which just leaves Jessie’s speech. In the interests of keeping this wedding on-message she has decided to give one, keeping the focus well and truly on the future, not the past. She’ll centre the whole thing on the huge generosity of Camilla and Henry – it is only fair seeing as they have paid so much towards the wedding. And how welcoming they’ve been, opening up their lives to her, embracing her into her new family now. She’s imagining the bent-out-of-shape look on Annabel’s face when she says that! It doesn’t need to be about the Joneses, they’ll be sat on the top table for all to see, she’s not hiding them away. Guests will see the aisle walk, the mother-of-the-bride loudly blubbing into a fistful of tissues but the more glossing over of Claire that can be done, the better. There isn’t much to say anyway and really she should be focusing the word count on Adam, her wonderful new husband, the man who has changed her life in ways she never thought possible. And here he is.

  ‘Hi, gorgeous, have you got a minute?’ Adam steps into the bedroom carrying an excitingly large box in his arms, tied with a giant white bow. A grin is spreading across his beautiful face as he sees Jessie’s own features light up. ‘I wanted to give you something. Your wedding gift. I know it’s a little early but, well, I couldn’t wait!’

  Jessie’s heart swells. Adam is one of those rare people who always get it right. The right moment, the right man, the right words. Always so sure of himself. Before he has chance to say another word, Jessie pulls him down to the floor and they sit opposite each other grinning like two kids on Christmas morning while she rips the package open, filling the room with squeals of delight. Whatever it is, she knows he will have chosen it himself, given it proper thought. He has an army of friends, personal assistants and advisors he could delegate to but he’s not that sort of man. He’ll have done his own research, made the shopping trip, carefully selected it.

  It’s the square beauty case, wrapped in the classic monogrammed canvas. The one piece missing from her Vuitton collection – and the piece that says I’m sitting at the pointy end of the plane.

  ‘Open it.’

  As Jessie lifts the lid she can see a white envelope inside with his handwritten note on the front.

  To my Darling Jessie, why is it all the love songs are about you? Come away with me on our trip of a lifetime. Yours forever, Adam x x x

  Jessie glances up at him through eyelashes that are working hard to hold back the tears.

  ‘Go on…’ He’s every bit as excited as she is. It’s one of the things Jessie loves most about him. Despite the money and the privilege, he’s never lost the little-boy joy that comes from making other people happy.

  As Jessie opens the envelope, out tumble their honeymoon tickets and itinerary. Three weeks, the presidential suite, North Island in the Seychelles. Her eyes are darting down through the details: arriving by helicopter to this little pocket of paradise where they’ll sleep in a driftwood four poster, shower outside under a canopy of bamboo, with butler service, full-throttle twenty-four hour spa, no menus – just a personal chef who cooks every meal to order, and golf buggies to bomb around this modern day Noah’s Ark. Just the two of them – unless you count Hugo – in total and utter bliss. And there is no one on earth she would rather share it all with.

  ‘I can’t wait to start this adventure with you.’ Adam pulls her in to a bear hug and the two of them collapse together on the floor, rolling around like two playful puppies.

  ‘Neither can I. It’s going to be amazing, Adam. I just know it.’

  26

  Helen

  It’s Saturday morning in the height of wedding season and Helen has an appointments book rammed full of brides-to-be – at least she did. Two days ago she cancelled every one of them. Personally called each woman and explained: I’m desperately sorry. I’m afraid I have a personal issue I must deal with. It’s unavoidable. Not once in all the years she’s been running The White Gallery has she ever cancelled a bride. Now she’s cancelled eight in one hour of back-to-back calls.

  Helen knew this day would come – eventually. And when it did, she would have to face it down. When her heart told her the time was right, she would act. Today is that day. This morning she is setting the breakfast table for one. Her hand hovers briefly – habitually – over the second place mat, then no, she refuses to pick it up. She sits at her small dining table alone, picking at a plate of fresh pear and grapefruit segments. No need to extend the extra wooden leaf. It’s just her, as it always is. But the sadness is lifting. Determined Helen is nudging ahead, just, in the charge against loneliness.

  A pile of everything she needs for the job she must do today is neatly stacked in the kitchen. Black bin bags. A large cardboard box big enough to store a wedding dress. Smaller boxes to take care of Phillip’s last personal items. Cleaning products. And a stiff, self-sealing envelope, just the right size to accommodate the passage Phillip left her, the one she has read every single day since that day.

  Because no one can stay sad forever. Helen knows she can’t mourn her life away, especially when she has so much to be happy about: a beautiful daughter who surprised her with a text late last night saying she’s dropping by today; a thriving business that allows her to feel useful and talented every second of the working day; and in two weeks’ time, her first antenatal appointment with Dolly – the first of six sessions that will take Dolly all the way through her pregnancy and birth planning, with Helen fixed by her side for support. Time is finally wearing through her tears and sorrow and she is re-emerging on the other side. Sort of. Nearly. Transformed from the broken shell of a woman who was left alone after Phillip’s death to a much stronger businesswoman, friend and mother whose days are full and challenging, just the way she likes and needs them to be. OK, not everything is perfect. There was that horribly awkward date with Roger. But the point is, she did it when she could so easily have backed out. That’s progress on a grand scale.

  And perhaps that is why now she is doing something else that even a few short months ago she never imagined she could. She stands in front of her beautiful wedding dress, hanging elegantly as it always is from her armoire, taking one last indulgent look, before she will pack it away forever. She moves closer to it so her cheek is touching the soft fabric, burying herself one last time in the memories of that special day – on the precipice of the most joyfully full years of her life. She wraps her arms around the dress then allows them to glide slowly down over the silk, her fingers lifting over the delicate glass beads and across the aged lace. Details from a different era but still every bit as potent as if she were standing in the dress today, gazing into Phillip’s eyes and promising to love him so much – love him too much.

  The dress must disappear from daily sight. Too many memories are pressing up against the present now, dragging her back under in those more frequent moments when she pops up for air. Taking big relieved lungfuls of it, only to be pulled back under into the deep darkness below, weighed down by fifteen metres of taffeta. The dress, exquisite as it is, has become a symbol of everything that’s holding Helen back. She considers for a moment stepping into it, pulling the still soft material up around her ageing body. One last spin. One last visit to how it used to be before she closes the portal to the past forever. But she can’t do it. She doesn’t want to. She wants to stay strong, stick to the plan. Get the job done.

  She takes the dress off the hanger, spreads it out on the bed and starts to fold it neatly in on itself, taking care not to catch any of
the embellishment on the fabric. Then she tucks Phillip’s handkerchief into the bodice. This bit is hard. She wonders briefly about slipping it into her lingerie drawer, hiding it at the back so she won’t see it every day but she’ll know it’s there. She pauses. Lets her fingertips stay attached to it for a few seconds longer before she places everything into the box and reaches for the lid. There is one more thing to add. She takes the passage from her bedside drawer, perches on the edge of the bed and reads it one last time quietly to herself.

  * * *

  Speak to me in the easy way

  which you always used.

  Put no difference into your tone.

  Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

  * * *

  ‘Thank you, Phillip.’ Helen is looking down at the well-worn words – Phillip’s very last gift to her. She thinks of the nights she’s pinched it between her fingers like her life depended on it, most nights in the beginning. Some evenings she slept with it clutched to her chest, then slipped it into her purse the following morning among the first class stamps and dry cleaning receipts; unable to leave the house without knowing it was there. Not any more.

  ‘Please don’t think I love you any less, my darling.’ The sobs are building in her now. ‘But I need to do this. I pray you can understand why.’

  Then she places it into the envelope and seals it quickly before she changes her mind. This is the hardest thing – far harder than packing away Phillip’s toothbrush that has sat untouched next to hers all this time. His aftershave, too, or what’s left of it. That also accompanied her to bed some nights, dotted on the pillow beside her so when she woke, for a brief moment it was almost like he was there, ready to spring to life and get the kettle on.