The Almost Wife: An absolutely gripping and emotional summer read Page 5

  And how could she not adore him for that? But just because he’s OK with it, that certainly doesn’t mean his parents will be, that’s the point. The lead weight hanging in Jessie’s belly now feels like a rock destined to sink her.

  By the time she jumps in her Mini convertible and, powered by road rage, floors it the fifteen miles back to their home in the exclusive Montpellier district of Cheltenham, her stomach is bloated from the knot of anxiety growing there.

  Jessie screeches to a standstill in front of the black wrought iron gates outside their white four-storey, double-fronted property and waits impatiently for the sensor to scan her number plate and automatically open them. Once through, she leaps from the car and takes the stone stairs to their polished black front door two at a time, darting past the perfectly sculpted bay trees that sit either side of the entrance. A gift from Adam’s parents for his thirtieth birthday, the property is one of the finest examples of a Regency detached period villa in Cheltenham. Huge rooms with decorative sky-high ceilings, giant sash windows and polished French oak floors are exquisitely designed with a muted palette of soft greys and eau de nil. Everything is in its place, clutter free; as it should be when you have a daily cleaner and no offspring.

  One hour later, and most of the contents of Jessie’s expansive walk-in wardrobe are piled high in one giant discarded heap in the centre of their emperor-sized bed. Jessie’s face is smothered in a La Mer deep nourishing serum and her hair is re-washed, blow-dried and in large Velcro rollers for extra glossy bounce. She is slumped on the floor behind the bed, legs outstretched in front of her, having only managed to decide on her bra and knickers and surrounded by a selection of the day’s newspapers. Tears of pure angry frustration are starting to roll down her face just as Adam bounds into the room. All these thousands of pounds worth of couture clothes and fabulous accessories, the best luxury skincare money can buy, every make-up product known to womankind and none of it can help her now.

  ‘Go for this,’ he says, calmly pulling a chic navy Nicole Farhi shirt dress from the designer jumble sale. Then he drops to his knees beside her, cupping her cheeks in both his hands, smiling at her sticky, teary face as he starts to gently kiss her tears away. ‘Come downstairs, have a cuppa with me and please calm down. I’ve got a few more emails to send and then I’m all yours for the afternoon. Let’s do something fun together. Honestly, Jessie, I don’t know why you do this to yourself, you have nothing to fear.’

  * * *

  In the half an hour it takes Jessie and Adam to drive to the Coleridges’ Cotswold estate in their top-of-the-range Landrover Vogue, neither one of them utters a word. Jessie feels like she is being driven to her fate, Adam doesn’t want to risk saying anything in case the tears start again. Instead, he places a supportive hand on her tense right thigh.

  As they round the corner, past one of the outlying entrance lodges, and turn between the two stone pillars that mark the opening to Swell Park estate, Jessie gets her first glimpse of the 750 acres of grounds. This might be the countryside but there is nothing accidently wild about it. Every manicured blade of grass looks like it is standing to attention on the orders of the head gardener. They make their way slowly along a concrete road that is flanked by farmland on both sides – pasture for the Coleridges’ 1800 ewes to roam. Beyond the first field Jessie can see a river gently curling towards a lake that’s dotted with mature trees and a flock of Canadian geese. As they continue on up the road – no one could seriously describe this as a driveway – they pass several stable blocks, barns, cottages and farmhouses inhabited by the fifteen staff that help manage the estate. Jessie looks to her left to see denser tree coverage, where Adam says his father, Henry, likes to host his pheasant and partridge shoots. As they sweep around one final bend and the incline gently increases, Jessie can see the house itself and the couple’s four chocolate labradors parading along a front lawn that has been cut in to strict stripes.

  As she looks up at the imposing Cotswold stone house now dwarfing their four-by-four it is absolutely mind-blowing to Jessie that anyone could call this home. Adam’s face is completely nonchalant.

  Lady C herself stands directly in front of the main house, waiting for them – looking immaculate. The woman is dressed in a way that is totally at one with her surroundings and the – let’s face it – anything but casual supper they are about to share; the perfect embodiment of low-key luxe. She is head to toe Bamford cashmere, from the luxurious caramel coloured cardigan tied neatly at her hip, to the loose culottes falling just above her quilted monochrome Chanel slippers and the neat pearl studs that catch the fading early evening light each side of her serene face.

  As Adam brings the Landrover to a halt, the dogs come to life, galloping towards them with such excitement they are body bumping each other all the way. Lowering both windows, Adam shouts ‘Lady C! Can you hold the dogs off please? Jessie’s not a fan.’

  ‘God, no! It’s OK, you don’t have to do that,’ Jessie tries to correct him.

  But it’s too late. Lady C is already rounding up the dogs who are clearly not happy to have been dismissed at the very moment they are about to be reunited with their long lost playmate. Jessie is urgently scanning Lady C’s face, searching for any sign of disappointment before she even places a foot on the gravel drive while a man in a smart green Barbour jacket and brown Dubarry boots escorts the dogs towards the back of the main house – where they no doubt have their own luxury quarters.

  ‘Darling!’ trills Lady C wrapping both arms around her boy. ‘I am so, so pleased that you could join us. It really has been too long, Adam. Henry is just putting some papers away in the library, he’ll be with us shortly. And hello again Jessica,’ she adds a touch more coolly, extending a slim hand that Jessie fears is more formal than friendly. ‘I’m thrilled that you could both make it. I can’t imagine why Adam hasn’t brought you for supper sooner.’ She’s smiling but her gaze lingers on Jessie, perhaps expecting an explanation that isn’t coming.

  ‘Lovely to see you again, Lady Coleridge,’ ventures Jessie. ‘I’m sorry about the dogs but it’s just that—’

  ‘Oh my goodness, you mustn’t call me that, it’s just Adam’s silly nickname for me. You might have told her that I’m not actually titled, Adam. I think Camilla will do just fine.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Jessie shoots Adam a discreet death stare but he’s too busy laughing to notice. ‘Um, these are for you,’ squirms Jessie, handing over the box of Rococo rose and violet chocolates she’d hastily grabbed on her way home earlier.

  ‘How sweet of you, thank you.’

  ‘You look great, Lady C,’ Adam continues, oblivious to Jessie’s reddening cheeks. ‘Have you been riding today?’

  ‘Yes, I did a wonderful hack on Marquis this afternoon while your father was walking the grounds. Do you ride, Jessie?’

  Still reeling from the dog disappointment and the wrong name gaff, Jessie has some ground to make up and finds herself saying ‘Yes, of course… well, a little’, which in fact means ‘No, but I’m not going to tell you that.’ Bloody Adam, why had he never bothered to explain that Lady C is in fact not a Lady at all?

  ‘Well, let’s get in shall we,’ she says clapping her hands together. ‘Sheila has prepared a divine supper for us all.’

  The three of them enter the house through a stone archway, leading into a domed entrance hall lined with all the paraphernalia of country living – muddy wellies, dog leads, wax jackets, an assortment of walking sticks and sturdy umbrellas. Camilla leads them through the entrance and into the main hall, off which Jessie can see at least three principal reception rooms overlooking formal landscaped gardens and the rolling parkland beyond.

  ‘Let’s go in to the yellow drawing room, shall we? The view is gorgeous at this time,’ says Camilla, as Jessie tries her very best not to look intimidated by her surroundings.

  The yellow drawing room is indeed very yellow. Three enormous floor-to-ceiling windows that line one entire wall are swathed i
n rich sunny velvet curtains, and framed with grand pelmets in a matching fabric. Each has a deep window seat, decorated with an equal number of plumped scatter cushions that have clearly never been disturbed. The opposite wall is covered in extravagantly framed art works, one of which looks like an original sketch and floorplan of the house. Jessie sneaks a closer look and wonders what goes on in a loggia, a scullery or a butler’s pantry. There is a huge stone fireplace at one end of the room, with two giant log baskets either side that she could easily stand upright in. Three large sofas form a square shape with the fire and between them is a low-lying ottoman covered in symmetrically stacked rural magazines.

  ‘Adam!’ booms Henry, striding into the room in slightly too baggy pillar-box red cords, a smart tweed jacket and a pink and blue checked shirt. It’s quite a look. Henry slaps his son on the back with one hand, pulling him into a firm handshake with the other. ‘Bloody lovely to have you here. And you Jessica,’ he practically shouts before planting a firm kiss on each of her cheeks. Henry smells expensive and clean and for the first time it’s obvious to Jessie where Adam gets his confident good looks from.

  ‘Right, drinks. What will you have, Jessica?’ asks Henry.

  ‘Oh, um, what are you having?’

  ‘Well, we’re celebrating aren’t we? Let’s have some champagne.’

  ‘I must say, Adam,’ says Camilla. ‘I am more than a little disappointed that you have chosen not to marry here, on the family estate. It would have meant a great deal to your father and I.’

  Jessie’s throat tightens. It’s bad enough that her mum’s love affair with the great British soap opera is inevitably going to be exposed to Henry during the two hours they will be seated next to each other on the top table. It is quite another to imagine her arriving at the Coleridge’s, wearing nothing but Next and remarking at how fancy everything is.

  ‘Well, Willow Manor is booked now and I know Jessie can’t wait to tell you all about it,’ offers Adam.

  Three pairs of eyes flick in Jessie’s direction just as she is upending her champagne flute, draining it in three fizzy gulps; Dutch courage urgently needed, the belch that is now building in her throat definitely not. She can’t open her mouth through fear of releasing it, causing a rather awkward silence.

  ‘… Well, a toast then!’ shouts Henry. ‘Here’s to getting to know you and your family SO much better Jessica and, in the meantime, welcome to ours.’

  All four of them clink their glasses together, Camilla’s eyes unfortunately falling straight to Jessie’s empty flute.

  ‘As mother of the groom I am, of course, duty bound to enquire what your own mother will be wearing, Jessica, God forbid that we should clash.’ Unlikely, unless Camilla is also a fan of the Next catalogue. ‘And if she hasn’t decided yet then please at least give me an idea of her personal style so that I can make the most appropriate choice.’

  Jesus Christ. ‘Her personal style… well… I’d say it’s, it’s quite…’ How do you describe the contents of a wardrobe bought entirely in the sales – and not even in the first excited flush of them, oh no, three or four weeks in when the final dregs have been pulled out from the back of the dusty store cupboard, styles that no one ever remembers being in the store in the first place because in all probability they never were. ‘Safe! Yes, safe, that’s it. That’s how I would describe her style. She won’t go for anything too bold.’

  ‘Gosh, you’ve got to give me more than that, Jessica. What would she wear to—’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, Mrs Coleridge.’ It’s Mr Dubarry boots again. ‘Everything is ready for you in the blue dining room, as requested.’

  Supper is mercifully more relaxed than Jessie is expecting. Well, the food is – a delicious spread of poached whole trout with salads and vegetables from the estate’s own organic kitchen garden – the interrogation not so much.

  ‘So, Jessie, Adam tells us you’re no longer working at the estate agency, is that right?’ asks Henry with the same casual openness she’s heard a hundred times before from Adam.

  Here we go…

  ‘Well, I’m not working at the moment, no. I will be of course but there has just been so much to organise between the London and Cheltenham houses and Adam is working so hard and of course the wedding planning is taking over a bit.’ God she feels like a fraud, like she’s trying to justify her existence to a boss who thinks she’s overpaid and underworked. It’s making it impossible to meet Henry’s eye, making her feel even more duplicitous.

  ‘You could always help me with my fundraisers if you’re bored,’ suggests Camilla who has turned to speak to a member of the waiting staff, making it impossible for Jessie to read her expression. Is she suggesting some quality get-to-know-you time together? Or making the point that a day filled with such frivolities must be a pretty empty one, crying out for something more worthwhile to fill it. It can only be the latter.

  ‘Actually, Lady C, Jessie has been doing an amazing job of organising the wedding so far. I’ve done next to nothing – the poor thing has shouldered it all, haven’t you, darling?’ Adam’s defence, while so welcome, just makes Jessie feel even more inadequate, like she needs explaining – justifying. And God, is that what Adam’s thinking too? Is he aware of a judgment being made inside the minds of the people who paid for the house she now lives in?

  ‘Tell us Jessica, what are the plans?’ Camilla has shifted forward in her seat now, arms folded onto the table, her eyes trained squarely on Jessie.

  ‘As you know we will be holding the wedding for about three hundred guests at Willow Manor. We have the property exclusively for a week so after the wedding there will be a garden party on the Sunday. I’m just not sure about the plans for the rehearsal dinner on the Friday night yet.’

  ‘Well, you must have it here then! At least let us do that, Adam,’ demands Camilla.

  ‘No!’ the word bellows out of her much louder than Jessie intended.

  ‘Sorry?’ shoots back an obviously offended Camilla.

  ‘I… I just couldn’t expect you to take that on…’ With such glib reasoning, Jessie knows the battle is already lost.

  ‘Nonsense! It would be an absolute delight. You can leave everything to me.’ It’s the most excited Lady C has looked all evening.

  ‘Thank you Lady C, that’s incredibly lovely of you.’ Adam seals the deal.

  The look on Jessie’s agonised face says it all. Game Over. And so is supper. But apparently Camilla is not through with her yet.

  ‘Boys, I’m sure you’d love to enjoy a frame or two of billiards. Why don’t you leave Jessica and I to get to know each other a little better?’

  More than anything Jessie wants this evening to be over. To be sat back in the Landrover with Adam, pulling away and leaving it all behind them. But she has no choice and besides, Adam is already leaving the room, arm wrapped around Henry’s shoulders like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

  Camilla refills Jessie’s wine glass and with a subtle waft of her hand dismisses the one member of staff still hovering in case she is needed. The two women are sat directly opposite each other, giving Jessie nowhere to hide.

  ‘‘Funny isn’t it, they used to say you should never marry out of your age, class or religion,’ Camilla begins ominously. ‘But so many people ignore that now.’ The smile is there again but what is it supposed to mean? Is this an invitation for Jessie to unburden herself? Or polite window dressing around the barely hidden context of you’re not good enough for my son? Jessie honestly has no idea and she’s starting to fidget in her seat from the stress of trying to work Camilla out.

  Determined to break the rising tension, Jessie attempts to clear away the last remaining dirty dishes in front of them, anything to avoid Camilla’s direct gaze for a moment longer.

  ‘Just leave that,’ Camilla is on her feet now and leaving the room. ‘I have something for you. Wait there.’ When she returns a few moments later she is carrying a small leather-bound book that she slides towards Jessie.<
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  ‘The Debrett’s Guide to Modern Manners by John Morgan, a sensational piece of work. Take it and read it Jessica, I think it will help you enormously. I still refer to it from time to time.’

  ‘Thank you, Camilla.’ It’s all a dejected Jessie can think to say because the insinuation is clear to her. She obviously got more wrong tonight than even she imagined. But while she knows she hasn’t exactly been the most riveting company, she hoped it wasn’t so bad that she now needs the paperback version of finishing school.

  ‘Etiquette, although hugely derided, exists to give people a set of rules Jessica, to help them fit in.’ There is a warmth to Camilla’s tone that is totally at odds for Jessie with what she’s doing. She doesn’t sound spiteful at all but in giving Jessie this book she can surely only mean she is not yet up to the job of marrying a Coleridge.

  ‘We all have a universal desire to be part of a tribe, don’t you think, to be accepted Jessica, but there is no point pretending to be something you’re not. You’ve got to have courage to take this on. Having great wealth means everyone will have an opinion of how you conduct yourself, that is the price you pay.’

  ‘I see.’ Jessie gets it now, Camilla’s warning her, telling her she will be watching, ready to pull her up whenever she brings shame on the family, the implication being that she surely will of course. Jessie is only relieved that Adam isn’t hearing any of this.