The Almost Wife: An absolutely gripping and emotional summer read Page 27

  ‘Good point. OK, what’s your top choice?’ After weeks of solo decision-making, Dolly is ready to roll over and be told what to buy. But the thought of joining a new group of women who need to be impressed and entertained every second she’s in their company sounds exhausting. More people to judge and quite possibly reject her – just as soon as they work out what a tragic case she really is. Dumped single mum. Not the best intro is it?

  ‘Well, you could look at the Versace stroller, very nice with its brocade fabric and gold trim. Or the Fendi which obviously screams luxury fashion house. But in my opinion nothing beats the Silver Cross Aston Martin collaboration. It’s covered in baby-soft suede, the very same used inside the car’s roof and it’s sold in very few places which means there won’t be ten of you with it at sing-along time.’

  ‘It sounds expensive.’ Will she now have to endlessly compete for the crown of star new mum when all she wanted was to be snuggled up on the sofa every night, the baby and her wrapped up safely in Josh’s arms?

  ‘It is. But here’s the really splendid bit. I happen to have a contact at their PR agency who is going to swing you the fifty percent press dizzy, you just need to pretend you write for Mother& Baby or something. Then it’s all yours for the absolute bargain price of one thousand, five hundred pounds. Do we have a deal so I can go back to bed?’

  ‘Sod it, yes, deal! Thank you so much Tilly. That’s the last big thing I needed to get all sorted.’

  ‘Fantastic. Now before I go how’s that… devoted boyfriend of yours? Found somewhere else to live yet or not?’

  ‘I wish he had. I’ll tell you about it all next weekend. We are still on for Adam’s wedding aren’t we?’

  ‘Are you actually kidding me? This is going to be the most ridiculously lavish event we’ve ever been to. The sort of wedding that will make Elton John look tight. Apparently Adam’s fiancée Jessie is spending more than our combined annual salaries on the canapés. So, yes! We’re very much going.’

  ‘Great! Bye, lovely Tilly.’

  Dolly is just about to log off when Josh steps into the room and clocks the open laptop.

  ‘You’ve chosen the pram?’ he seems disappointed. ‘I was hoping I might help you do that.’

  ‘Why?’ Dolly sounds harsher, more incredulous than she intended. Total disinterest and now suddenly she’s supposed to consult him on the choice of pram?

  ‘I just thought it might be something I could help with, that’s all.’ Christ, he looks sorry for himself.

  ‘Nope. It’s all sorted thanks. Tilly helped me. Anyway, haven’t you got a shoot to plan? New York can’t be that far off now?’ Six weeks ago Dolly might have been pleased – grateful even – for this approach. Not now.

  ‘New York’s off actually.’ Josh’s eyes hit the floor, suddenly the little boy outside the headmaster’s office. ‘A change of marketing director and global advertising cuts are top of the agenda for the new one. So, it’s on hold at least but more than likely canned altogether. I’m gutted.’

  Oh. My. Actual. God. He’s seriously looking for comfort and sympathy. Wants all the benefits you might naturally expect from a devoted live-in girlfriend – just doesn’t want to return the compliment and give a toss himself.

  Well she’s not going to do it. Dolly’s not going to stand there and pretend she cares less about this shoot when she doesn’t. Let him feel the bitter pinch of disappointment for once.

  ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll work something out Josh, you always do. I need a nap.’

  ‘I admire you, Dolly.’ He’s trying to position himself so he’s blocking her route to the bedroom. Obviously wanting to chat, several weeks too late.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The way you’re handling everything. Having the guts to do this. Not being frightened… like me.’ Finally, some honesty.

  ‘Who says I’m not frightened? Of course I bloody well am. I’m about to have a baby on my own. It’s not exactly how I imagined my life would pan out.’

  ‘Maybe it doesn’t have to be that way?’ He can’t even look her in the eye now, knowing full well how pathetically late this is coming.

  But Dolly is too tired for this. Too far beyond false promises and vain hopes to go all the way back to square one now. She looks at him standing there, knowing damn well the only reason he’s standing there at all is because New York is off, he’s been dumped. Well, not nearly as brutally as he dumped her every time he said he didn’t want the baby.

  ‘I think it probably does have to be this way, Josh.’ She reaches for her laptop, noticing the new email icon flashing at her.

  ‘Tell me something I can do, anything that might help.’

  She’s looking at him now. Really looking at him. All puppy-dog eyes, big soft lips and a chest that looks as though it’s seriously benefitted from more hours in the gym recently – all those hours he didn’t want to be at home with her. And it occurs to Dolly. She misses nothing about him. Not even the sex.

  ‘Start thinking of girls’ names.’ She shoots the words straight over her shoulder, without breaking stride. They’re designed to wind him and they clearly do. She leaves him standing there open-mouthed and floundering like a man who’s just realised with crushing clarity everything he stands to lose. Dolly slams the bedroom door behind her, conversation very much over.

  As she slides under the duvet and opens the laptop there is the name in her inbox that once meant so much to her. The name she spent months and months praying would appear.

  * * *

  Dear Dolly,

  * * *

  You’ll remember that we spoke about your wedding some months ago and I of course understand that this is no longer going ahead. However, the editor loved your ideas so much that she would like to adapt them into one of our own styled shoots. It would only be fair of course that we ask you to consult with us on the project. It would mean you sharing your list of expert suppliers and being there on the day to help style and direct the images for which of course we would be delighted to offer you the lead by-line credit across the ten pages that we have planned.

  * * *

  If you could let me know if this is something that appeals to you then we will think about scheduling some shoot dates and arrange for you to come in to Vogue House and work through your ideas with the creative team here.

  * * *

  With very best wishes,

  * * *

  Annabel Coutts

  Personal Assistant to the editor of Conde Nast Brides.

  * * *

  A grin so broad, so cheesy, so genuine starts to spread itself cross Dolly’s face, cementing itself there for some time. She can do this! It doesn’t matter that she’s pregnant. The morning sickness has passed, everything is pretty much organised and she can bunk work for however long is needed. What’s the point of being preggers if you can’t make it work to your advantage eh? As long as they move quickly there is still time before the baby arrives.

  It’s a sobering thought, but landing this job brings all the benefits of having the wedding in the first place without any of the all-encompassing negativity of marrying Josh and, despite all the pain of the past few weeks, Dolly couldn’t be happier about it.

  28

  Emily

  I’m watching my nearly-husband arrive to collect my wedding dress. Could there possibly be any sadder sight? And he’s so angry. I can sense the heat radiating off him as Helen lets him in to the boutique, like all his blood has been replaced with liquid rage. I didn’t choose to witness this. My spirit just got dragged along for the ride. One minute I’m watching Glo sat motionless on my bed, pink ted clutched to her chest, the next I’m here, like I’ve zipped through time and space at a giddying pace. But why? Think Emily, think. No one else is going to work this out for me.

  My beautiful Mark who was always so eloquent, so at ease, has had every drop of confidence stolen from him – he no longer knows what to say or how to say it. Is that why I’m staying close, following him wherever
he goes? But what possible use can I be?

  Now I’m listening from somewhere buried deep within a rail of tulle as he tries to spit the words out – Helen’s brain piecing the facts together quicker than his mouth can form them. It’s a whole twelve minutes of huffing and sweating, sitting down, standing up, pacing and fighting the hot, angry tears that are seething out of him before he finally manages to say the words that are killing him too.

  ‘She’s gone. Dead, Helen. Brain aneurism.’ He’s pointing in the general direction of his own head, trying to find a use for his big awkward arms.

  Poor Helen. She’s quietly crying too now. The two of them, relative strangers really, are in the middle of the boutique surrounded by a halo of white, holding each other and sobbing away, apparently oblivious to quite how weird this really is. It’s the first time I pick up on a deeper sorrow that is buried within Helen – something way down in the fabric of her, cellular almost, where no one can see it. But I can feel it. Mark’s grief is reigniting something in her that we never talked about. Why would we, I suppose? I was too busy dragging her into my dress deceit. She’s so attuned to what he’s feeling, I can sense her absorbing it, all the pain that is coursing through him finding perfect symmetry in her.

  I have no idea why Mark wants my wedding dress – in fact, I slightly fear for what he has planned for it. But that’s why he’s here. He’s asking Helen if he can pay whatever is outstanding and take the dress today.

  ‘I just… need it, Helen.’ He’s not making any sense, well not to me at least.

  ‘Of course you do. I understand.’ I love that Helen isn’t asking him any questions, not forcing him to elaborate, and just letting him explain in his own words, in his own time. She can probably see he’d struggle to recite his address right now.

  ‘Glo, her mum, said she chose something really beautiful.’ Of course, he doesn’t know about the dress switch. None of them does. This could be tricky for Helen. I see the slightest flare of panic crease the skin around her eyes, sense her pulse rise slightly as the same thought flashes through her.

  ‘Can you show me it please, Helen. I’d like to see it first.’ Oh God, why is he doing this to himself, to me?

  And then a truly gut-wrenching thought occurs to me that’s so wrong I struggle to even visualise it properly. Is he collecting the dress because he wants to bury me in it? And if he does, how on earth will I stop him? I won’t. The thought is so tragic, I have to look away from them. It’s like the sadness of what I’m being forced to witness has seeped into me and is contaminating every part of me, killing off any last remains of life that are still keeping me here. Please don’t do that, Mark! I’m screaming the words as loud as I can but they’re uselessly muffled, like they’re weighed down under a tonne of lace and beading that are destined for some happy bride-to-be. If only I was here and not somewhere very cold, waiting my turn for the pathologist’s scalpel.

  Mark is talking about the dress I should have walked down the aisle in, its expensive hand-woven fabric brushing past my friends and family as I glide along on Dad’s arm. The dress I would have twirled around in all night under the spotlight of a hundred camera phones.

  ‘I’ll get it for you now. Just take a seat and I’ll be right back.’

  He doesn’t sit. While Helen’s gone, Mark walks slowly around the room. He picks up a pair of beautiful baby-blue suede heels and turns them over in his hand, wondering if I might have chosen them too. I expect him to baulk at the price tag, an incredulous snort, at least, but there’s nothing. This Mark isn’t registering the cost. He starts to run his hand softly along a line of dresses. I can see him coming and pray I might be able to sense the passing warmth of his fingertips – but there’s nothing. It’s like I’m not even here. I’m not.

  What’s Helen up to? I can hear her creaking around on the centuries-old floorboards upstairs. She’s left the shop and is poking around in her loft, untying a box and retrieving something precious in a small white envelope, then she’s swinging the hatch shut and making her way back down the stairs. Secret mission complete. Whatever it is, I hope Mark’s ready for this.

  When Helen steps back into the shop I’m so shocked by what I see that I’m surprised they don’t hear the comedy loud intake of breath from behind the Vera Wang. Helen is holding the Reem Acra dress, the proper Cinderella number, the one everyone wanted me to wear. The dress that put a beaming smile on Mum and Dad’s faces – the kind every daughter hopes she’ll see at least once in her lifetime. I imagine briefly I might have seen those smiles again when I brought their first grandchild home from hospital. Not now. They’ll never know that boundless joy.

  It’s the dress I felt was far too expensive for a girl who might never wear it. I got that right at least. But of course, Helen and I are the only ones who know that. And I suppose it hasn’t occurred to her that I’m here, watching through a thin veil of tulle, clocking everything. She’s actually going to let him walk out of here with a dress worth thousands of pounds more than I paid for the decoy dress.

  Mark cuts through my shock by stepping straight forward and taking the dress. He drops the hanger to the floor and wraps both hands around the bodice, holding it as if I am in there, blood pumping under the grip of the boning. I wish more than anything that I was.

  ‘Was she the last person to wear it?’ His tears are building again now and I drop my gaze to the floor, heart breaking all over again. I concentrate all my efforts on visualising my bedroom in the hope I might appear back there but I don’t have that much self-control. Whoever wants me here, witnessing this, is keeping me rooted to the spot.

  ‘Yes, she was.’ Helen is pulling a tissue out from her sleeve and dabbing away the drops of mascara that are starting to swim around the corners of her eyes.

  ‘I can smell her perfume on it.’ Mark is lifting the dress up to his face, knowing the delicate remains of my favourite fragrance are all he’s going to get. There is no hair to run his fingers through, no soft cheek to kiss, I’m not about to bound into the room and launch myself at him, chastising him for seeing the dress before the big day. His hopes and dreams are shattering before his very eyes – and mine.

  ‘It’s the funeral soon. Will you come please, Helen? I know Emily would want you there. It’s at the same church we would have been… well, you know the one.’ He’s handing the dress back to Helen who zips it in to a dress carrier with lightning speed. I’m not sure she can bear much more of this either.

  ‘I would be honoured, thank you. There is something else I would like to give you, Mark, if that’s OK?’ I can sense the pace of her heart pick up as she holds the white envelope out for him to take.

  ‘Oh. What is it?’

  ‘Just a little something I no longer need. Please take it and read it. I will pray it brings you some comfort.’

  ‘Thank you, Helen.’

  As soon as Mark gets back out to the car he shuts the door and rips the envelope open, thirsty for something, anything that might take away some of his hurt. He gets as far as the first two lines…

  * * *

  Death is nothing at all.

  I have only slipped away to the next room.

  * * *

  … before his head collapses backwards on to the head rest, his fists balled, pounding the steering wheel in front of him, before I hear his skin rip and tear, sending tiny splatters of blood on to the leather upholstery.

  I want to climb inside him and knit his broken heart back together again with a shower of soft kisses. If only he knew how very close I am.

  * * *

  I know blaspheming in church is a real no-no but Jesus Christ! Whose idea was it to put me in a white coffin? I’m guessing Glo’s. Still, I’ll take that over the wedding dress that is mercifully absent today – almost. Mark couldn’t bear to have it in the house after all, so it’s tucked under my bed in a big brown box but not before Glo cut a palm-sized heart-shaped piece of fabric from one of the underskirts. She’s placed it into the coffin with
me, where my beating heart once was. My arms are folded so that my fingertips are just touching it, like it’s the most precious thing in the world to me. A nice touch. So is the pretty lace bunting that Mark’s sister spent so long trawling online for. It’s been draped across the back pews. I suppose someone thought it was a shame to waste it.

  This place is packed. There are more people squeezed into the pews today than we’d invited to the wedding. My darling family are all in the front two rows, overlooking my coffin and the beautiful framed image of Mark and me that is propped on an artist’s easel next to it. I recognise it immediately. It was taken on our first mini-break together to Paris. Our arms are wrapped around each other on the Pont des Arts bridge, following in the footsteps of a million lovers before us. It feels like a lifetime ago, back in the days when we thought nothing of splashing the cash on lovely boutique hotels – long before I worked out how obscenely expensive personalised favours for ninety guests are.

  I gulp back a great heave of emotion as I realise I’m wearing my wedding band. I’m so pleased it’s there, as close to being married as I’m ever going to get now. Mark has his on too and this troubles me much more. I hope he’s not building a shrine to me in his heart that will never be prised open again. Sally will do it. I know she will. She doesn’t take her eyes off him throughout the entire service. Not even during her speech where she reminds everyone what an incredible man he is and how he made the best possible choice when it came to me. Her eyes never leave the top of his head, not even to flick to the handwritten notes in front of her on the pulpit. She’s only talking to him. He’s only thinking of me and the honeymoon that never got booked. The days we were going to spend wrapped up in each other.