Beth Thomas - His Other Life

AVON

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2015

Copyright © Beth Thomas 2015

Cover images © Nikki Dupin 2015

Illustration © Helen Musslewhite 2015

Beth Thomas asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007544844

Ebook Edition © March 2015 ISBN: 9780007544837

Version: 2015-01-08

For my Babbagee.

You may be a sour-faced puss,

but it’s not your fault.

Contents

Cover

Title Page BETH THOMAS His Other Life

Copyright Copyright AVON HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2015 Copyright © Beth Thomas 2015 Cover images © Nikki Dupin 2015 Illustration © Helen Musslewhite 2015 Beth Thomas asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 9780007544844 Ebook Edition © March 2015 ISBN: 9780007544837 Version: 2015-01-08

Dedication Dedication For my Babbagee. You may be a sour-faced puss, but it’s not your fault.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Keep Reading …

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Beth Thomas

About the Publisher

There’s a text on my husband’s phone. It’s lying on the counter near the kettle and I just heard it vibrate. He’s turned the sound off, probably thinking I wouldn’t hear it – that’s the only reason someone would put their phone on silent, right? – but I still can. It sounds like an automatic gun; our neighbours probably heard it. Pam and Mike next door are no doubt up off their sofa already, frantically dialling three nines before you can say Crimewatch .

I look over at the phone but it’s face down, probably so that it doesn’t light up noticeably when texts or calls arrive. Bit of a pointless precaution if you ask me, given that it sounds like a horse falling downstairs. Maybe it’s also a precaution against someone – well, let’s be honest, me – getting a glimpse of the name of anyone who might call or text.

Eventually the glasses and cutlery stop rattling from the aftershocks and I glance over at hubby to see if he’s noticed. Of course he’s noticed; the house shifted on its foundations. But he’s not going over there to read the message, or even check to see who it’s from. Why is that?

‘I think you just got a text,’ I say über-casually, then pick up a tea towel and saunter over to the draining board. ‘Want me to see who it was?’

He’s working on getting a particularly stubborn bit of baked cheese off the side of the lasagne dish and doesn’t look up: this job apparently requires full concentration. ‘Oh, did I? No, no need,’ he says lightly. ‘I’ll have a look in a minute.’

I nod slowly. ‘Oh, OK.’

Adam finishes the dish, carefully rinses the soap off under the cold tap, then places it gently upside down on the draining board. He empties the washing-up bowl, turns it over, wipes its base, then wipes the excess water from the draining board. Finally he turns and walks to where I’m listlessly drying a wine glass. He’s smiling as he reaches out towards me but I don’t move. As soon as his fingers touch the tea towel in my hand, they stop approaching and intertwine themselves into the fabric, drying off.

‘Great grub, Gracie,’ he says, then grins and raises his head to look at me. ‘And I’m pleased to announce that the Wife of the Year award goes to …’ He performs a miniature drum roll with his index fingers on the kitchen side. ‘Oh, well, no surprises there, she’s been the hot favourite right from the beginning, it’s last year’s winner, it’s Mrs Grace Littleton!’ He raises his arms and makes whispery crowd cheering noises in the back of his throat, while glancing around the kitchen at his imaginary audience. I smile at him, charmed by his boyishness as usual, and, for the moment anyway, the mysterious text message goes out of my head.

‘Come on,’ he says, jerking his head towards the door, ‘let’s watch the lottery. Did you get the ticket?’

‘Yep, it’s in my bag.’ I retrieve the ticket from my handbag on the kitchen chair and follow him into the living room.

Adam and I have been married just a year – today is our first anniversary actually. We exchanged presents over dinner. One year is paper – I know this because I Googled it a few days ago – so I bought him a book called Keeping the Magic Alive: How to Get and Give Satisfying Lifelong Sex by someone called Dr Cristina Markowitz . On the front there was a full-colour photo of a pair of gorgeous naked models pretending to be a satisfied married couple, and the whole thing was wrapped in clingfilm, presumably so that people couldn’t sneak into Smiths when they ran into difficulties, read up on a couple of tips, then dash back home again to finish the job. There was a nasty moment when I was paying for it involving Chloe on the till holding the book up in the air and shouting at top volume down the store ‘ BRYONY! HOW MUCH IS THE SEX BOOK? BAR CODE WON’T SCAN’, but eventually I’d carried it home (in my fingertips, like a hot coal) and wrapped it in cool blue shiny paper, releasing a tense breath once it was finally sheathed. A small part of me half expected the steamy photo on the front to burn through the wrapping paper, like the lost Ark of the Covenant, leaving a naked-body-shaped scorch mark on the outside.