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

‘Rachel, go to your bedroom,’ he says quietly. ‘Your mum’s right. Don’t you ever speak to her like that again.’

Rachel stares at him, her face pained with reproach. ‘I knew you’d take her side,’ she says, before running up the rest of the stairs.

He stands for a moment, the slam of Rachel’s bedroom door loud in his ears. He shakes off his jacket and looks at Olivia. She hasn’t moved and her face is set. He’s never seen her so angry. ‘It’s raining,’ he murmurs, looking for time, wondering how best to handle such an unexpected situation.

‘What’s going on, Olivia? This isn’t like you two.’ He reaches out, placing his hands at the top of Olivia’s arms to draw her in. She’s trembling. He can feel the anger rising from her as she pushes him away, the flat of her hand firm against his damp shirt.

‘And how would you know?’

He stands and stares. Is Olivia laughing? He isn’t sure. He hardly recognises her.

‘How would you know?’ she repeats. ‘Tell me, Mike. You’re never here. And even when you are here you’re in some unreachable place. You don’t notice me, you don’t notice the girls.’

‘That isn’t true.’ He sees his daughters in his mind, dancing to Rihanna. ‘Of course I notice you all. Come on, Olivia, this isn’t like—’

‘When was the last time you gave me a compliment?’ Olivia isn’t laughing, she’s crying, but the soft contours of her pale face are gone. ‘When was the last time you bought me a box of chocolates or some flowers? I had my hair cut last week and you didn’t even notice.’

He gazes at her hair. It’s blonde, elfin short; it suits her petite face and her frame. ‘I did notice. Of course I noticed. It looks lovely. But flowers, chocolates? Come on, Olivia, you don’t do chocolates.’

‘Fuck the chocolates, then. Fuck everything. You just continue to take it for granted that I’m going to be here, the little wife with a smiling face when you come home, your bloody dinner waiting on the table.’

He catches his breath. This is Olivia, calm, capable, witty Olivia; Olivia who takes everything in her stride. She’s never been and will never be ‘the little wife’ . She’s clever, opinionated and strong. He stares again, aware that life has shifted, that the world has somehow moved without him noticing.

‘What do I do on a Tuesday, Mike? You never ask me how I am, where I’ve been, what I’ve done. I could be anywhere, with anyone. You’re just so used to me I’ve become invisible.’

‘That isn’t true. Really. You never said,’ he replies quietly.

‘I shouldn’t have to say anything. If you loved me, Mike, you’d see, you’d know.’

She stares at him for a moment, searching his face, her amber eyes wide and sad. ‘What’s the point?’ she mutters, then walks into the kitchen and closes the door.

A wisp of a thought enters Mike’s head, an impulse to turn around and walk out of the door he entered only minutes earlier. But it’s only a thought and only for a moment as his eyes catch the pink fur of Hannah’s favourite slippers. She’s under the stairs, hidden from view, her arms around her knees and her blonde head buried.

‘Is it my fault, Daddy?’

‘Of course it isn’t.’ Mike pulls her to him, his beautiful bag of bones, breathing in the cosy smell of shampoo and baked beans. ‘It’s Daddy’s fault. Don’t worry, I’ll make it all better, I promise,’ he says, hugging his warm living child tightly to his heart, wondering where on earth he should begin.

It’s late. Antonia is in bed, asleep, her long hair spread away from her face like a fan on the pillow. David studies her features for a while, taking in her glossy skin, the definition of her jaw and the graceful length of her neck. He longs to trace his fingers from the small lobe of her ear to the hollow of her throat, but he doesn’t want to wake her and spoil the moment. He slips in beside her, the clean sheets feeling crisp and cold, much like his sleeping wife.

In those few moments when the terror of his worries relaxed their grip, he thought of Antonia again today. He had a clear image of her in his mind; that of a honey marble statue, perfectly chiselled, incredibly beautiful, but cool and impenetrable.

Sleep doesn’t come and when Antonia sighs, he rests his head on one arm, stroking a finger along her naked spine, counting the tiny moles on her back. He always wants her, even when he’s too drunk to do anything about it and she’s never denied him. She’s soft, willing and compliant. But the reality is that even when he hungrily invades her, even when he comes with a thunderous rush of pleasure, even as she whispers, ‘Please, David, please,’ he doesn’t really penetrate her. It’s this insatiable desire, this urgent need to connect that makes him want her so badly.

‘I’ve tried to give you everything,’ he murmurs. ‘I’m sorry.’ He wants to add, ‘I know you don’t love me, but promise you won’t leave me. Stay with me forever. I’m nothing without you.’ But he’s afraid that saying the words out loud will validate them. And if Antonia hears, she’ll despise him for his weakness, of that much he’s certain.

As the whisky slowly drags David into sleep, his mind replays the last two days: insurance, his bank manager; Charlie, Charlie ill; angry clients; too much alcohol, too many lies. And finally Antonia. She laughed at one of his jokes over dinner and just for an instant he glimpsed a different person, but the moment passed as quickly as it came.

As a small boy on a boating holiday abroad he’d seen the same look on his mother’s face. ‘Look, the sea’s turquoise. Jump in, Mummy! I dare you!’ He’d said those words knowing that Mummy would laugh and shake her head. But despite her carefully made-up face and her jewellery, she jumped into the sea without a moment’s hesitation. He clapped his hands with delight as he watched from the side of the boat. Then he anxiously waited for his mother’s copper hair to reappear from the salty depths of the ocean, caught with a sudden fear she might drown, that he might never see her again. But when she emerged from the sparkling sea, just for a second as the sun caught her face, he thought she was someone else. Someone young, happy and free. But the moment was lost when his father pulled the pipe from his mouth and cleared his throat noisily. He stared at his wife and shook his head before replacing the pipe and pointedly consulting the map.

Mike’s head feels leaden on the pillow, crammed with listless negatives as he considers the day. Rachel, lovely Rachel, her face white with reproach. Little Hannah’s tears. And Olivia, his wife Olivia, unrecognisable Olivia. And his associate’s baby, a healthy son.

He closes his eyes, reviewing a scene at St Mary’s maternity hospital from over a year ago. ‘Just a routine scan,’ the consultant obstetrician had said with easy charm. ‘Nothing to worry about, the bump just seems a little small – probably a small baby.’

They’d strolled in for the scan, like many times before. But the face of the sonographer was blank as she looked at the screen. A face that told them everything.

‘What’s happened? What’s wrong?’ A look of panic on Olivia’s face.

But Mike knew. Mike understood. There was no need to wait until Olivia had wiped the gel from her stomach and covered her naked bump. No need to wait in a room with a door, not a curtain. No need to hear the words, ‘I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat, the baby has died.’