Peter James - A Twist of the Knife

After breakfast the two men joined in the Bridge class once more and were paired up with a couple of doughty elderly women. After the session they went to their respective cabins to check on their spouses, then met in the bar for a couple of large gin and tonics, and lunched together.

‘She’s a tasty lady, your Shirley,’ Harry Tucker said.

‘Doreen’s very beautiful,’ Clive lied.

‘She is. I’m a lucky man,’ he replied.

‘You are indeed!’

The following morning, Clive decided, was the time to raise the alarm. The ship’s motion was still very uncomfortable as he staggered along to the purser’s office on B deck and informed the officer, ‘I’m worried about my wife. She’s been feeling sick as hell for the past day and a half. I woke up this morning and she wasn’t in the cabin. I’ve searched the ship high and low and can’t find her. Could you please help me?’

An hour later, after the crew had searched every inch of the Gloriana , the captain made a decision to turn the ship around, and also to send out a Mayday signal for all ships in the area to look out for someone in the water. Although, the captain told Clive, the chances of surviving for any length of time in this cold water were not good.

‘Even someone fat?’ Clive asked.

‘That might give them a few extra hours,’ the captain told him. ‘I’ve done my best to calculate the current, and we’ll retrace our steps as close as possible to where she might be. There’s also an RAF Nimrod search plane on its way.

For the rest of that day, Clive, accompanied by Harry Tucker and a large number of the ship’s company, stood around the bow rail, several of them with binoculars, staring down at the ocean or towards the horizon dead ahead. For several hours the Nimrod flew low above them. But all any of them saw were occasional bits of driftwood, a half-submerged container that must have fallen overboard from a vessel and a school of dolphins. At dusk, as the light began to fail, the captain abandoned the search.

Clive Marples was inconsolable.

As his mother said to him much later, at least if they found her body, there could be some closure. Tearfully, he agreed with her.

Eight months on, after a good show of mourning, much sympathy from everyone he knew and copious quantities of alcohol downed with his friends and frequently on his own, attempting to obliterate what he had done, one rainy Thursday morning in early June, Clive Marples’s phone rang. It was from a cheery lady at DreamWife.com telling him that Imogen was ready for collection. When would be convenient?

The following morning, Clive threw a sickie from work and spent much longer than usual in the shower. He inserted a brand-new blade in his razor and shaved extra carefully. He rolled on deodorant and sprayed himself liberally with his favourite cologne. Then, with his iPhone playing his favourite music through the car’s hi-fi, he headed off from his house in Brighton, the satnav in his Lexus, programmed for the DreamWife Corporation’s headquarters, near Birmingham.

He sang along to his favourite tracks all the way, feeling in a great mood, if a tad apprehensive about just how Imogen would turn out. He felt he was on the verge of a whole new adventure, the start of his new life. He could not wait!

In truth, he was a little disappointed when he reached the address. He wasn’t sure quite what he had been expecting to find, but certainly swankier and more glamorous premises than the address he pulled up outside. It was a large, but very ordinary-looking unit in an industrial estate, sandwiched between an exhaust-repair outfit and a timber warehouse. But there was no mistaking he was at the right address: There, beside the door in small letters, were the words ‘DreamWife Corporation’.

He went in and found himself in a small front office, with a plump lady in her mid-sixties sitting behind a tiny desk, eating a Pot Noodle. The walls were decorated with large colour photographs of smiling, beautiful young women, and there was a drinks dispenser. He gave the receptionist his name.

She looked at her computer screen, frowning. ‘Mr Marples, did you say?’

‘Yes.’ He was irritated by her manner.

‘Did you bring ID with you? Your passport and driving licence?’

He handed both to her and she looked at her screen again, frowning further. He felt his heart sinking, and started to wonder if he had been conned. Then, suddenly, she smiled. ‘Ah, yes! Here we are! Imogen?’

‘Imogen.’

She handed him a receipt to sign, then she picked up her phone and pressed a button. ‘Mr Clive Marples to collect Imogen,’ she said to someone. Then she pointed to a chair. ‘Do take a seat,’ she said. ‘Help yourself to a tea or coffee. She’ll be down in a few minutes.’

He made himself a coffee, sat on the hard plastic seat and waited. And waited. Then he needed to pee. The receptionist pointed at a door and gave him directions. A few minutes later he returned to the reception area and stopped in his tracks.

An apparition awaited him that totally took his breath away. A tall, leggy blonde in a short, clingy dress that showed off every contour of her voluptuous body and stopped several inches short of her knees. She had, quite simply, the sexiest legs he had ever seen in his life. And the most beautiful smile. And two elegant suitcases on the floor beside her.

‘Clive!’ she said. ‘I’ve been dreaming about you for so long!’ She threw her arms around him and gave him a long, deep, kiss that made him instantly, incredibly horny.

He carried her bags out to the car and put them in the boot. A couple of minutes later they were heading out of the industrial estate.

‘Turn left here, and then in one and a half miles make a right,’ she told him.

‘You sound like my satnav,’ he said.

‘Oh yes? Well, I’ll bet your satnav lady doesn’t do this,’ she replied, fumbling expertly with his belt and then his zip. By the time they were four miles down the M40 he’d had his first orgasm.

The rest of their journey home passed as if it was a dream. They chatted easily. She knew everything about him, as if they had been together for years, as if they were soul mates.

For the first two heady days after they arrived back at his house, they made love for most of the weekend, only interrupted by Imogen cooking him meals and rushing to the shops to get him the Saturday, then Sunday newspapers. At ten o’clock on Sunday night, falling into a blissful, sexually sated sleep, Clive Marples considered himself the luckiest man on the planet. He truly had his dream wife.

Imogen rapidly became the envy of all Clive’s buddies on The Foresters estate, and at the Dyke Golf Club. A few Sundays after Imogen had come into his life, having had one too many beers at the 19th hole, Clive announced to his regular golf buddies, ‘Know what they say? The perfect wife should be a chef in the kitchen, a lady in the living room and a whore in the bedroom? Well, my Imogen is all of that and more!’

Of course, they all wanted to know where he and Imogen had met. And Clive had the perfect answer ready. ‘Online,’ he said. ‘On a dating agency website.’

All his pals agreed he was one lucky bastard.

The following Friday night, Imogen proved to be the perfect hostess when Clive entertained his new boss and his wife to dinner. The five-course meal she prepared was, their two guests declared, some of the most delicious food they had ever put in their mouths. And after they had gone home, Imogen, just as she did every night, treated Clive to the most delicious love-making he had ever experienced. Never had he felt so alive, so fulfilled, so youthful!

His friends at the Dyke Golf Club told him he looked ten, maybe even fifteen years younger. It had to be down to the new lady in his life. What was his secret? How the hell had a middle-aged git like him pulled such a lovely woman? Several of them — all married men — surreptitiously approached him, asking for the number of the dating agency. Cheekily playing the moral ticket, he told them he could not possibly give such temptation to married friends.