The Man She Married (ARC) Page 5

  * * *

  As soon as Dominic leaves for the office on the morning after Boxing Day, I fill a tote with a book, a bottle of water, some crisps and an apple and take a cab to King’s Cross.

  I cancelled the hotel booking, as Dom suggested, but decided to use one of the train tickets and visit my mother-in-law anyway. Some indefinable instinct makes me keep my plans to myself, for now at least. It’s probably that, having decided to make the trip, I don’t want to give Dom the chance to talk me out of it. But I will tell him eventually, of course. I’ll send him a happy, smiling selfie with his mother, captioned ‘Surprise! #girltime’, or similar. And he will indeed be surprised, but also delighted that the two most important women in his life have finally got together. How could he not be? After his mother’s heart problems, it’s a good thing that one of us can go and check on her. We can still head up there together in March for an overnight trip, if we want to. We could even purchase an extra ticket next time and bring his mother back with us to spend some time in London. Dom needs to understand that as I have no mother of my own, this relationship is hugely significant to me.

  Yesterday while he was at the gym, I made a cursory search through his desk to see if I could find his mother’s address written down anywhere, but he doesn’t seem to own a diary or an address book. In fact, he has no personal paperwork at all in Waverley Avenue. ‘Easier to keep it all in the office,’ he told me when he moved in with just a couple of suitcases of clothes. But I know from the table plans for the wedding that his mother is called Patricia Gill, and a quick search of the 192.com online address search engine throws up an entry for a Mrs Patricia Gill in Ponteland. She’s the only one in the Newcastle area, so I reason that must be her.

  The train pulls into Newcastle Central just after midday. It’s a lot colder than in London, with horizontal sleet scattered by a north-easterly wind, and I’m shivering in my lightweight duster coat, leggings and trainers. I make a short detour into the city centre to buy a pink woollen bobble hat with matching scarf and gloves, then I hail a cab and give the driver the Ponteland address.

  Patricia lives in a pleasant, prosperous cul-de-sac of detached bungalows. The street is flanked with broad grass verges and neatly trimmed hedges, and the properties all sit back from the road at the end of curving driveways. Number seventeen is a chalet bungalow, with a couple of first-floor rooms and a dormer window. I walk up to the front door and ring the doorbell. There’s no reply.

  I cup my hands against the glass panels in the front door and try to squint inside. There are no lights on, and no signs of life. A heap of mail lies on the front doormat. Slightly perplexed, I climb over a low box hedge and approach the picture window in what must be the living room. There’s a three-piece suite in dusky rose velour, a coffee table with a pile of magazines and a few houseplants. A half-moon Aubusson rug lies in front of the gas fire that provides the room’s focal point. On a side table, there are family photographs in frames, including one of a young man in graduate’s mortar board and gown, but they are too far away to see properly. The room is tidy, and orderly, but with no signs of life.

  I walk round to the back of the bungalow and peer into an equally deserted kitchen. Again, it is neat and tidy, but with no dishes in the drainer or fresh fruit in the bowl on the table.

  ‘Excuse me, miss, can I help you?’

  I turn round to see an elderly man with a white moustache, bundled up in a padded anorak and flat cap.

  ‘Hi…’ I’m flustered, and feel myself blushing. It must look like I’m casing the joint. ‘I’m looking for Patricia. Patricia Gill?’

  ‘She’s not here, I’m afraid,’ the man says, taking in my trainers and bright pink hat with a beady gaze. He extends a gloved hand. ‘Sidney Fairholme. I live at number nineteen – I keep a key and come by to water the plants and pick up the mail every few days or so while Pat’s away.’

  ‘She’s not back in hospital, is she?’ I ask.

  ‘Pat? Nay, lass, she’s right as rain. She’s gone off on her annual cruise left a few weeks ago. She’s not too fond of the cold, is Pat, so she goes off cruising in the Caribbean for three months every winter, starting just before Christmas.’

  ‘I see.’ This is news to me.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Alice. Alice Gill. Dominic’s wife.’

  The old man raises both eyebrows. ‘Young Dominic’s married, is he? Well I never. She never mentioned that.’

  ‘You said Patricia goes on a cruise every year? Not last year, though.’

  ‘Yes, every year.’ The man speaks slowly, as if I’m a halfwit.

  I know this can’t be right. Last year, when we were first dating, Dominic was at home for Christmas, here with his mother, texting me frequently because he was bored.

  ‘But… my husband – Dominic – was here last year.’

  The man hunches his shoulders and rubs his gloved hands together, his breath making white clouds in the freezing air. ‘That’s as maybe, but Pat was docked somewhere off the coast of Florida. I remember, because she was excited about playing golf on Christmas Day.’

  ‘Golf?’

  ‘Aye, she’s a proper devil for golf, your mam-in-law.’

  Dominic has never mentioned golf. When he refers to his mother, it’s as though he’s talking about a semi-invalid.

  ‘Aye, well, you’d better get yourself in out of the cold, lass,’ the man observes, before turning and trudging away across the frosty grass.

  * * *

  I order an Uber to take me back to the city centre, where I head into the first café I find and order a pot of tea and plate of fish and chips. I eat in silence, staring out numbly at the shoppers scurrying to the seasonal sales, before returning reluctantly to Newcastle Central.

  In the comfort of the first-class carriage on the London-bound train, I manage to relax sufficiently to gather my thoughts. If I had found Patricia Gill at home, and spent time with her, then I would definitely tell Dominic about my trip. He would be pleased; at least I assume he would be. But having had a wasted journey, things feel different. It hardly seems worth raising the issue, especially as the plan is for us to visit his mother together, in a couple of months.

  The problem boils down to the unfamiliarity of my situation. If Dom and I had dated for years before marriage, then I would know exactly how he would react in a situation like this. I would be able to second-guess him. I’d already have met his family, for a start. But having only met a little over a year ago, we’re each still finding out how the other ticks. He’s a wonderful, considerate husband, but our relationship still has the fragility of newness.

  The other obvious issue is him not telling me about his mother’s annual cruise when I presented him with the tickets. Or at any other time. But then, he rarely mentions his family anyway. Perhaps he was so engrossed in the Qatar project he’d simply forgotten about it. Or perhaps because he didn’t think either of us was making the trip north immediately after Christmas, he didn’t consider it worth mentioning.

  My mind goes back to what Sidney Fairholme told me. He must have been mistaken about Patricia being away the previous Christmas. Maybe he’d just muddled the dates, and she’d left for her cruise immediately after her son’s visit. Or was confusing it with the year before. That must be it: the old boy looked eighty if he was a day.

  * * *

  My train gets into King’s Cross at 5.45, and by the time Dominic returns from work, I’m back home in the kitchen, chopping onions for a lasagne.

  ‘Been shopping?’ he asks, waving the pink bobble hat in my direction. I left it on the newel post in the hall.

  ‘Yes, I popped into the West End, just to check out the sales. Thought I might as well make the most of my time off.’ Comida is on a seasonal break until New Year’s Eve, when we have a couple of big parties to cater.

  I redden slightly at the fib, but Dominic doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he wraps an arm round my shoulder and reaches in for a kiss. ‘I won’t need
to go in to the office tomorrow, so maybe we could go to the flicks, see one of the Oscar contenders you’ve been talking about?’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Anything else to report?’

  I look intently at the chopping board. ‘Nope.’

  I continue to avoid eye contact as I reach into the fridge for garlic and celery. Whether or not Dom has lied to me, I am definitely lying to him.

  Seven

  Alice

  Then

  I earmark the first weekend in April for our first marital visit to Tyneside. We will just miss Easter, but it can still be a celebration of sorts, especially as it coincides with our first wedding anniversary. A whole year has raced past. I continue to say nothing to Dom about my failed attempt to meet his mother.

  But for now, I’m very busy running Comida, with a glut of new clients and extra staff to hire. I put the issue of Dominic’s family firmly from my mind. David has just announced his engagement to Melanie, so there’s another family wedding on the horizon, and I’ve promised my help with the catering. Dominic is also working longer and longer hours at Ellwood Archer. Our time together is limited, but always fun. We eat out as often as we can, and squeeze in cinema trips, walks in London parks and gallery visits at weekends.

  Dom also encourages me to be social without him when he’s busy with work. So one evening at the end of February, I’m out for drinks without him, celebrating JoJo’s thirty-fourth birthday. I’m crammed into the corner of the wine bar at the far end of a table with seven other women and several bottles of Prosecco, and the cacophony from their shrieks of laughter is so intense that I don’t hear my mobile ringing. Several times. When I eventually glance down at my bag, I see that I have six missed calls and a text from Dominic. I frown at the screen, surprised; Dom never contacts me when I’m out. I open the text.

  I’ve had some bad news. Need you to come home. X

  JoJo is so far into her third bottle of Prosecco that she barely notices me slipping past her out of the bar and into the street, where I race along the pavement to hail a passing cab. I text Dominic.

  On my way now x

  He’s waiting for me in the sitting room, still in his work suit, but with the tie removed. His expression is serious, and his eyelids are pink, as though he’s been crying. I’ve never seen him in tears. He’s never seemed the type of man who would.

  He perches on the edge of the sofa and pats it for me to sit beside him. I do so, my coat still clutched in my hand.

  I instinctively reach for him, but he pulls back. ‘What is it, Dom? You’re scaring me now.’

  ‘It’s my mum. She’s died.’

  I stare, my mouth slightly open. ‘What? How? What happened?’

  ‘Fatal heart attack. It was very sudden; she didn’t suffer.’

  I find myself mentally calculating dates. ‘But… is she… was she still on the cruise?’

  Dominic looks confused. ‘How the hell do you know she’s on a cruise?’

  And then I remember. I’m not supposed to know about the cruise, because I’m not supposed to have visited the North-East. I take a deep breath and confess; it seems only right in the circumstances. I tell him that I did in fact travel to Newcastle at Christmas in the hope of surprising Patricia, but that her neighbour told me she was away on a cruise.

  ‘Sorry,’ I finish, squeezing his arm. ‘I know I should have told you. But when she wasn’t even there, I felt a bit of a fool, to be honest… And since we planned a trip up there soon anyway, I suppose I just put it to the back of my mind.’

  Dominic sighs heavily. ‘I don’t mind you going, sweetie; your intentions were the best. I’d forgotten all about the bloody cruise… I’m just so sorry she wasn’t there, because at least then you would have met her. Too bloody late for that now.’

  He explains that the ship’s captain contacted his brother Simon, who was listed as her next of kin. Patricia’s body was kept in the ship’s mortuary for a few days, but since maritime practice is for the body to be offloaded as soon as possible, her remains were taken off the ship at Gibraltar and cremated. The ashes were now on their way back to the UK.

  ‘Apparently they held a little service for her on board ship, with prayers and flowers and stuff,’ Dominic says sadly.

  ‘Well, that’s something, isn’t it?’ My tone is meant to soothe.

  ‘So, Simon and I have decided once her ashes are back, I’ll pick them up from Heathrow and take them up to Newcastle, where we’ll have a very small memorial service for her friends and neighbours. Simon will take the ashes to Bamburgh and scatter them at one of Mum’s favourite spots.’

  ‘Good idea,’ I nod. ‘And I’ll come up with you, of course.’

  ‘There’s no need, babe, really.’

  I give him a shocked look. ‘Of course there is! There’s every need. I’m your wife, and I need to be there. Not for your mum, but for you. To support you.’

  ‘Okay then…’ He kisses my forehead. ‘Thank you, babe.’

  * * *

  Patricia Gill’s cremated remains arrive in the UK on 6 March, and the memorial service is to be held in Ponteland the following week. I offer to accompany Dominic when he goes to Heathrow to collect the ashes and the death certificate, but he declines.

  ‘I just want a little bit of time alone with Mum, I’m sure you understand.’

  He comes back with a zipped nylon bag, the size of a small rucksack, and puts it under the hall table.

  ‘Should we’ – I make a move toward the bag – ‘take her out, for the time being?’

  ‘No!’ Dominic’s voice is harsh, and he puts a restraining hand on my arm. ‘She’s been carted around enough, let’s just leave her in peace, for now, okay?’

  ‘Of course. Whatever you’re most comfortable with.’ I go into the kitchen and fetch Dominic a glass of his favourite Scotch. ‘How about I book us train tickets for next week?’

  ‘Thanks, Ally, that would be helpful.’

  I book us each a return to Newcastle for the following Wednesday, and an overnight stay in a local hotel. The service is due to be held on Thursday morning.

  On Tuesday evening, I come back from work early to pack, and find Dominic already home. He’s tense and restless, pacing up and down the bedroom while I search for his black tie.

  ‘I don’t think you’ve got one, darling,’ I say, after thumbing through his tie rack.

  ‘I know I have – it must be there somewhere.’

  He snatches the tie rack from me, but, sure enough, there is no black tie.

  ‘Wear a dark blue one, that’ll be good enough. With a dark suit and black shoes.’

  ‘No, it won’t.’ Dominic runs his hands through his hair. ‘It will look disrespectful. You know what her generation are like about funerals: you have to be in black from head to toe. I’ll go out and get one – Whiteleys will still be open, or I could whizz over to Westfield.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. I won’t be gone long. And, tell you what – why don’t I pick up a takeaway from Royal Shanghai on my way back?’ He names my favourite Chinese restaurant. ‘Let’s face it: neither of us is in the mood to cook.’

  He returns an hour later, just as I’m closing my own suitcase, with a black silk Christian Dior tie and a steaming bag of pork dumplings, sesame chicken and chili beef.

  ‘Perfect,’ I say, loading the food onto plates I’ve warmed in the oven. ‘Two birds with one stone.’

  We wash down the food with a bottle of Riesling and retire to bed. Thirty minutes later, my eyes fly open and I know instinctively that something’s wrong. My forehead is drenched with sweat, and there’s a terrible churning sensation in my upper abdomen, together with a nausea stronger than anything I’ve ever experienced before. I lurch into our en suite bathroom and fall to my knees, missing the edge of the toilet bowl and splashing vomit onto the floor tiles. For the next two hours, I vomit at intervals, a concerned Dominic hovering with glasses of water and damp towels to mop my face.


  ‘A touch of food poisoning, babe, that’s all it is. Pork is always dodgy.’

  ‘But we both ate the same thing. And you’re fine,’ I groan between bouts of retching.

  ‘Uh-uh. I didn’t have any of the dumplings.’

  ‘I’ll be fine in the morning,’ I groan, as I finally crawl back to bed. ‘I’ve got to be.’

  And, sure enough, in the morning I feel a little better. Drained, and dehydrated, but no longer possessed by the violent nausea.

  ‘I should be okay to come with you,’ I assure Dominic as he hands me a cup of tea in bed. ‘Once I’ve had this and showered, I’ll be fine.’

  ‘That’s good, darling, because I need you with me today.’

  But after I’ve drunk the tea and I’m heading for the shower, the sickness returns with a vengeance, and I spend another forty minutes with my head positioned over the toilet bowl, and my guts curdling.

  ‘I really don’t think you can come,’ Dominic says sadly. ‘You’re never going to cope with a three-and-a-half-hour train journey.’

  ‘I’ll manage,’ I whisper. ‘Honestly.’

  ‘Babe – be serious. What if you’re sick on the train and the toilet is already occupied? Or – God forbid – you throw up at the service?’

  So I reluctantly agree that I’ll have to stay behind but insist on coming as far as King’s Cross with him in the pre-booked cab, clutching a plastic bag in case I need to vomit again. ‘It’s the least I can do,’ I say, clutching his hand all the way there, and then struggling out of the taxi to wave him off.

  Still queasy, I watch him as he strides towards the platform for Newcastle, overnight bag over his shoulder and the bag with his mother’s ashes in the other hand. He turns to blow a kiss at me, then heads through the barrier and onto the train.