Caroline England - The Wife’s Secret - A dark psychological thriller with a stunning twist

He’d started to drift off by the time Olivia returned to the bed. ‘You bastard,’ she said, quite clearly, as she turned off the lamp.

The unmistakable and sickening sound of two cars colliding on the busy main road outside Mike’s office building jolts him back to the present. ‘You bastard’, he still hears, but he knows it’s time to go home.

‘When you’re feeling sorry for yourself, remember there’s always someone worse off,’ his grandpa often said when life had gone awry and little Michael sought him out for a hug. Same words as the priest, but delivered so much more kindly. Mike nods in acknowledgement, hoping that no one has been hurt in the collision below. He collects his jacket from the back of his chair. But still he can hear the tip-tap of the dog’s claws on the laminate behind him as he turns off the light and heads for home.

Olivia smooths the clean sheets on the bed, then stares into space for a few breathless moments before trudging wearily down the stairs. She waits for Mike in the lounge, her head resting on the sofa’s curved arm. She’s exhausted; complete physical and mental exhaustion. Anger has sapped her and she wants to sleep. But at least it’s gone, or even if not completely, it has receded, to be replaced by that old, familiar feeling of self-loathing.

As a small child her temper was the family joke, her tantrums legendary. ‘Short-fuse Olivia,’ her dad regularly teased with his soft Geordie accent. As much as she tried, she was unable to count to ten, to bite her tongue, breathe deeply or any of the other things she knew she should do to control it. But coming down south to university in Manchester changed her. By writing, debating and using self-styled anger management, she stopped her knee-jerk reactions, she put her sharp mind and sharp tongue to good use.

But ‘short-fuse Olivia’ is still there, she fears, increasingly pestering to break free. She hates being a cow, even when she’s being a ‘justifiable’ cow, she hates it. She despises herself for allowing short-fuse Olivia and her knee-jerk reactions to escape.

She checks her mobile again. Still no word from Mike. He always sends a text when he’s leaving the office. Perhaps he’s still working; perhaps he’s angry; perhaps he’s buggered off forever. It’s difficult to judge. Last night she was a cow. Last night they were strangers.

She’s tried to make amends with the girls by buying Hannah a chocolate cake from Morrisons, undoubtedly full of hyperactivity-inducing additives which they’ll pay for tomorrow, and then covering it with sweets to make it look home-baked. She’s given Rachel a ‘don’t tell Dad’ expensive mascara. But with Mike it’s more difficult. Now that she’s calm she knows everything is fine, actually. He said some crazy things last night, but he was honest. Wasn’t that what the couple in the wedding photograph used to do? Be honest and open and talk? Talk for hours. About everything. Sometimes all night. She needs to say sorry, to get things back on track. ‘Sorry, Mike,’ she should say. As simple as that. And as difficult. Olivia struggles with that word. She always has.

She feels the vibration of her mobile under the cushion. Holds her breath as she opens the message from Mike.

On my way home , it reads.

‘Mum’s driving over on Sunday. I thought we could eat out. Catch a bite in the village,’ Sami shouts from the bathroom.

Sophie marks the page of the book club choice with a bookmark from Waterstones. She hates it when people fold the corner of the page. It’s just about the only thing she’s fastidious about and she vaguely wonders what that says about her.

She stretches and yawns, still sleepy from her afternoon nap. ‘You know she’ll think I’m not looking after you if we do that,’ she calls back. ‘She’ll think I’m a bad wife.’

‘No she won’t. Mum likes to go out.’

Sophie reaches for her glasses and regards Sami as he rubs his hair dry with a thick stripy towel. She’s pretty sure he has no inkling of how much his mother dislikes her. Martha made it clear from the start that she didn’t approve of her beloved only son’s choice of wife. Sophie doubts any woman would have been good enough, but a neat, compliant and privately educated posh girl might have done the job. ‘I know what you are,’ she once hissed when Sami’s back was turned. ‘You’re a fraud and you’re not good enough for my son.’ And the hostile relationship has continued unabated in private ever since.

Sophie has no intention of making Sami aware of his mother’s barbed comments, however bad they get. There’s just the tiniest fear at the tips of her toes that if Sami knows his mother’s real feelings he may be swayed by them and she isn’t going to take that chance.

She pulls back the duvet and stands up. Her breasts seem huge, but so do her legs and her belly; too much Chablis is making her fat. She needs to rein it in.

‘Whatever you want, my handsome husband. But if you’d like me to cook, it’s not a problem. I like to make the effort for Martha.’

Martha and her comments are better ignored. She finds that fairly easy, but wishes she could do the same with Sami’s occasional dalliances. ‘So, you don’t mind my son sleeping with other women?’ Martha had asked conversationally, having drawn her to one side during their third wedding anniversary celebrations. If anyone was looking, they’d have seen mother and daughter-in-law, happy, smiling, chatty.

The pain was intense, deep and physical. Sophie extracted herself from the tête-à-tête with her head held high, a smile on her face, but threw up moments later alone in the bathroom . She stared at her blanched face in the mirror, bewildered that she didn’t know. Sassy, streetwise Sophie, who knew everything and everyone, didn’t know that her husband was unfaithful. She could picture schoolgirl faces laughing, taunting and gleeful. It was all she could do not to run to her mother, despite their differences, to howl in her lap, to beg her to make it all go away. But she knew that she had to be strong if she wanted to keep Sami, she had to be willing to fight. ‘As long as he isn’t fucking you, Martha, it’s not a problem,’ she’d replied.

‘I’ll rustle up something tasty,’ Sophie now says, wondering which ready meal to buy from the small M&S local in the village. She’ll do the usual, buy soup or a casserole and throw in some fresh mushrooms and herbs to make it look authentic. It never fools Martha, but if Sami’s aware that his wife hasn’t spent hours over a hot stove just for the love of his mum, he isn’t letting on.

‘A touch of arsenic on toast for the good lady, I think,’ Sophie jokes with Antonia. But of course she’s never mentioned Sami’s infidelity, not even to her.

The thoughts of his unfaithfulness are there, always there, like a blade in her heart, but Sophie isn’t going to dwell on them today. She stands next to Sami in the mirror and looks at him with narrowed eyes. I’ll never let you go, never, she thinks, watching carefully as he splashes aftershave liberally on his newly shaved chin.

‘It’s only the lads’ Friday night in the pub, Sami. I don’t suppose they give two hoots how delicious you smell.’

‘It’s all to do with standards, woman. How many times do I have to tell you?’ he replies laughing, catching her around her waist, then kissing the side of her head. ‘Thanks for offering to cook for Mum. I appreciate it. She’s really excited about the IVF.’