The Man She Married (ARC) Read online

  I check the time. Seven fifteen. ‘Surely there’s a diversion?’ I ask desperately.

  ‘There might be, but I can’t even get far enough to find out. Look, I’d better go… hang tight, and I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll put my foot down as soon as I get to the M40.’

  ‘Well, how long do you think it will be? We’ve got a table for dinner at eight. We can’t—’

  ‘Alice, I’m doing everything I can, okay! Don’t make this even more stressful than it is!’

  I hang up, mildly shocked. He never uses my given name, preferring ‘Ally’, ‘Al’ or a playful term of endearment instead.

  Shivering, I head back to the bathroom. My skin’s damp and clammy and the bathwater is cooling, so I abandon the bath and wrap myself in one of the plush robes. I’d planned to depilate and moisturise with something fragrant and enticing but can no longer be bothered. I dry the damp ends of my hair, change into sweatpants and a baggy sweater and fire up Netflix.

  * * *

  Dominic eventually arrives at eight fifty.

  The front desk offers us a nine thirty table in the restaurant, but I’m too tired and hungry to wait and reluctant to change my clothes again, so we have club sandwiches, fries and ice cream sent up to the room. I try not to sulk, but I can’t help myself. I polished off three-quarters of the champagne on my own, and now have a horrible, migrainey headache. As soon as we’ve eaten, I take some painkillers and collapse into bed, leaving Dominic on the sofa with his iPad; headphones on. We don’t have sex.

  The next morning brings teeming drizzle and an even worse headache. And although the collapse of our romantic evening was Dominic’s fault, he acts as though he’s the injured party. I’ve never known him so tense, or so snappy. Deciding a little space would be in order, I change into my workout gear and take myself off to the gym for an hour, then sit alone and miserable in the ‘market’ coffee shop, nursing a double espresso and a croissant. I eventually return to the room to find Dominic in his gym kit, about to have a workout of his own. We manage to avoid one another for a whole morning this way, but eventually we’re forced to speak.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry I was late last night, okay?’ Dom’s tone does not convey the slightest contrition. ‘But it’s over with now. No good you whining on about it.’

  ‘I’ve not been whining! I’ve not said a bloody thing!’ I retort. My cheeks turn pink, which always happens when I’m agitated.

  ‘But you’ve been sulking. Amounts to the same thing.’

  I’m about to protest that it’s not the same thing at all but decide against it and lapse back into silence.

  The morning’s drizzle has gathered pace to become relentless, cold rain. We can’t ride or take out a boat on the lake, so we call a truce and decide to go for a swim.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mr and Mrs Gill, the pool is closed today. There’s a problem with the heat pump,’ the receptionist tells us, pulling a sorrowful face. ‘There’s a selection of board games in the library, or we’ve got a movie screening at 5.30 p.m. It’s Gone with the Wind.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what…’ I adopt a conciliatory tone, as we return disconsolately to our room with our swimming stuff. ‘There’s a nice little pub on the edge of the village – traditional stone, horse brasses, log fires. Why don’t we walk down there for a drink? Then we can come back here and have the roast lunch in the restaurant. I know it’s not Sunday, but I could murder some Yorkshires and gravy.’

  ‘We can get a drink here,’ Dominic points out.

  ‘Yes, obviously,’ I sound more patient than I feel. ‘But at least this way we’ll get to stretch our legs.’

  ‘I did that in the gym.’

  I give an exasperated sigh. ‘Well, to get some fresh air then. Get off-site for a little while.’

  We walk silently through the rain to the pub, and when we’re inside, Dominic sits with his elbows on the table, simultaneously flipping a beer mat over and over and tapping his foot on the stone flagstones. Every time the pub door opens and closes to admit another punter, he jerks his head round in that direction.

  ‘Christ, Dom! Just relax, will you?’

  I go to the bar and order a pint of the local ale for him and a white wine spritzer for myself, together with a bag of pork scratchings. I’m not in the least bit hungry but decide it will at least give Dominic something to do with his hands.

  He works his way methodically through the scratchings, drains his beer and says ‘Right. Let’s go.’

  At this point I no longer have the energy to argue, and trudge miserably back to the hotel. Our three-course lunch – including Yorkshire puddings and gravy – is delicious and very filling. We focus on our food instead of one another, washing it down in silence with a couple of gin and tonics and a bottle of Shiraz. Christ, I think, please don’t tell me we’ve become one of those couples. We were never one of those couples.

  The rest of Saturday afternoon is spent dozing with the papers in front of the fire in the library. I elect to go to the screening of Gone with the Wind; Dominic says he would rather go back to the gym.

  When I return from the four-hour cinematic marathon, it’s after ten o’clock. Dominic is still at the gym, but I’m slightly squiffy from the complimentary champagne served seat-side in the screening room and barely register his absence. In truth, after our discordant day, I’m relieved that he’s not here. I tug off my clothes, brush my teeth and fall into a deep sleep, sprawled starfish-style across the huge bed.

  * * *

  The next morning, two things are immediately obvious.

  The first is that Dominic has recently vacated the bed, because I’ve been shunted over to my own side and the pillows on his side are arranged in the way he likes them. The second is that he’s in a much better mood.

  ‘Morning, sweetie,’ he says as he appears from the sitting room with a piping-hot cup of tea, which he places on my nightstand. He kisses my forehead. ‘Made you a cuppa.’

  ‘My head feels wrecked,’ I groan.

  Dom disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a couple of paracetamol tablets and a glass of water.

  ‘Babe, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry about yesterday. And Friday night. I know I’ve ruined our anniversary by being an arsehole. It’s no excuse, but there are a couple of projects at Ellwood that are threatening to go tits up because we’ve hit problems with funding. The pressure’s on me big time, and it’s stressing me out. So… sorry.’

  I place my left hand on his wrist as I wash down the tablets with my right. ‘It’s okay. My sulking didn’t exactly help; I’m aware of that.’

  I’m also aware that our pro-conception weekend has been entirely chaste. I would pull him into bed now and get on with the fornicating, except that he’s already in his gym kit and trainers.

  ‘You know what, Al, the weather forecast is just as horrendous today… why don’t we cut our losses and leave after breakfast? No point moping around here in the rain.’

  I stroke a finger suggestively up his forearm. ‘I’m sure we could find something to do…’

  ‘Nice idea, babe, but we have to be out checked out of the room in about an hour anyway. Why don’t you make a start on packing while I have a workout? Then we can grab brekkie and go.’

  ‘I guess so,’ I agree, with a sigh.

  We leave Gray’s Farmhouse two hours later in our separate cars. That sums up the entire weekend, I think, as I drive home through torrential rain.

  Twelve

  Alice

  Then

  If Dominic hadn’t insisted on us going to report Shona’s harassment on Monday, then her visit might have slipped my mind.

  As it is, now I can’t quite let go of the thought of hearing her side of things. I go back to the kitchen bin to try and retrieve her phone number, but Dom has changed the bin bag and the dustbin contents have been taken by the bin men first thing that morning. I phone the office and tell them I’ll be in late, then take the Piccadilly Line to Baron’s Court. Whe
n I reach the Novotel, I bypass Reception and take the lift straight to the fourth floor. I tap on the door of Room 422.

  ‘Shona?’

  There’s no response. I notice the ‘Do Not Disturb’ tag hanging on the doorknob. Perhaps she’s sleeping in late. I knock harder this time, but there’s still no answer. Perhaps she’s gone down to the gym or the restaurant and forgotten to remove the tag.

  I return to Reception and ask the uniformed girl at the desk if she will phone Room 422 for me.

  ‘The guest isn’t answering,’ she says, uninterested.

  ‘This is Miss Watson? Shona Watson?’

  She scans her registration software and shakes her head. ‘No, we don’t have a guest of that name. Somebody else is in that room.’

  Shona must have checked out over the weekend, I think, as I trudge back to the tube station in the rain. I’m too late.

  * * *

  The following week, a manila envelope arrives, addressed to Dominic. The tax on his car is due for renewal, and since I pay the running expenses for both cars out of my business account, I open it.

  It’s a speeding ticket.

  The grainy CCTV image has captured the number plate on Dom’s Audi. The details for the time of the offence are printed in black and white: Old Oak Common Lane, W3, 30 March, 7.32 p.m.

  It takes a while for my brain to catch up: 30 March was Friday, the night we arrived at Gray’s Farmhouse. But at 7.32, Dominic was in a jam at the North Circular approach to Hangar Lane, several miles due west. I take out my mobile and check the time of his call – 7.15 p.m.

  The time stamp on the camera must be wrong, I think. If there was an electrical fault, then the time could be out by twenty minutes or so, surely? That must be it.

  I leave the letter on Dominic’s desk and head to the new Comida office in Richmond, where I’ll be catching up on paperwork and accounts. Matt is out meeting a recruitment agency, so I’m hot-desking where he usually sits.

  ‘How do you find out about road closures?’ I’m frowning at the PC screen in front of me.

  Milan looks up from his computer. ‘Why – did you get stuck in traffic on the way here? Wait, I’m confused – didn’t you come on the tube?’

  ‘I did,’ I confirm. ‘I want to look up a road closure that happened in the past.’

  ‘TFL London put them all on Twitter in real time.’ Milan holds up his smartphone, opened in the Twitter app, to show me. ‘I guess you could scroll back through their feed to the time you want to check… although why you’d want to know about closures that have already happened… Just saying.’ He gives a dramatic shrug and flounces over to switch on the kettle.

  I retro-actively search the London Transport feed for closures on the North Circular on Friday 30 March.

  ‘Nope. Nothing here.’

  ‘How about the Met’s website?’

  I click my way through to the Incidents page for the Metropolitan Police. It’s divided into areas and I select West London. Again, on the night in question, there was no road closure near Hangar Lane. Under ‘Latest News’, there’s just an appeal for some missing jewellery taken during a robbery, and a report of a woman missing for four days from the Hammersmith area.

  My mind is jolted back to my taxi ride through Hammersmith the previous summer. Dominic, sitting at a pavement table with the party planner. What was her name? As if I’d forget: it was Nicola. Nicola Mayhew. I search ‘Nicola Mayhew + party planner + London’, but there are no hits. I could have misremembered the name, I tell myself. But I know very well that I haven’t. That name is inscribed on my brain.

  My fingers trembling slightly, I dial the number of Atwell’s restaurant.

  ‘Hi, my name’s Alice Gill… we hired one of your private rooms for a party at the end of June last year. Could you just check some details for me? Yes, I can hold while you transfer me.’

  Milan is staring at me with undisguised curiosity. On the other end of the line, the events manager retrieves the client booking file and asks me what I need to know.

  ‘I wanted to know the name of the party planner my husband used.’

  ‘Mr Gill didn’t use a party planner,’ the girl says breezily. ‘That’s not company policy. All private functions are taken care of by our in-house events manager. Her name’s Ellen Gardiner. I can give you her details if that would help?’

  ‘No,’ I say slowly. ‘Thanks, but there’s no need.’

  I google Ellen Gardiner, but she looks nothing like the girl Dominic was with. The girl with the dark red lipstick.

  A trawl through social media brings up several Nicola Mayhews. I start to check them, one by one.

  And then. Oh God: Nicola Mayhew, Accounts Assistant, Ellwood Archer.

  My heart thumping, I click on the link.

  But this Nicola Mayhew is at least fifty; matronly-looking and plain. It definitely wasn’t her. If she’s a colleague, Dominic must know her, or at least know of her. He surely couldn’t know more than one Nicola Mayhew. In which case, who was the woman with the lipstick? I close down the window on the screen and press my hands against my eyes.

  ‘You okay, my darling?’ Milan asks. ‘Can I get you something?’

  I gather up my coat and bag. ‘Thanks… it’s nothing. Well, not nothing, but I don’t want to talk about it right now. I need to get going.’

  I go straight home to Waverley Gardens, run upstairs to the bathroom and rummage through the medicine cabinet. Pulling out a packet of contraceptive pills – the same ones I abandoned just before our trip to the Cotswolds – I find the correct day of the week and swallow the tablet. I take yesterday’s pill too, for good measure, even though Dominic and I haven’t had sex since we got back from Gray’s. Then I pull out my phone and compose a text to JoJo. I’m reluctant to provide evidence to back up her theory that Dominic is untrustworthy, but the day’s discoveries have left me rattled, and I have to confide my fears in someone.

  Need emergency chat. Think D having an affair. X

  Thirteen

  Alice

  Then

  Immediately after the Easter weekend, Comida is booked to cater a national wedding fair at Excel, London. Although he usually covers events on the other side of town, Matt is drafted in to help me with on-site support. The venue has its own in-house food and drink outlets, but they want to add some wedding-themed extras to boost spending. Comida are providing a ‘Cupcake ’n’ Coffee’ stand, with pretty pink, silver and white confections to tempt the brides-to-be, although I’m privately convinced they’ll all be too worried about fitting into their dresses to chow down on vanilla sponge and buttercream. There’s also a mini champagne bar with bowls of strawberries and cream, and cute little silver and white picnic boxes for people to either take away or eat at the tables and chairs provided.

  None of the food is challenging to prepare, but the number of visitors is so huge that the job is still a tough, logistical challenge. Some of the servers we booked have not turned up, others are late, and I’m racing around the venue, red-faced and sweaty, snapping at anyone who gets in my way.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ I snarl at Matt. ‘Don’t just stand there staring at your clipboard: get on the bloody phone and call some people. See if any of our regulars can get down here and help out!’

  Later, when the food service is up and running and things have calmed down, I apologise profusely to Matt.

  He pats my shoulder. ‘It’s okay. I can tell you’ve got something on your mind.’

  I think back to my meeting with JoJo a few days ago. My best friend – usually cynical about affairs of the heart in general and my marriage in particular – surprised me by downplaying my concerns.

  ‘This Nicola bint could still be a party planner for all you know. Not being able to find her online means jack shit. She could work under a maiden name, or a company name.’

  ‘But Dom used the name of one of his female colleagues,’ I protested. ‘Like he had to think of a name on the spot, so he came up with a name
he already knew. Someone I was unlikely ever to meet. And, anyway, there wasn’t an outside caterer for my birthday thing at Atwell’s; I checked.’

  JoJo shrugged. ‘There could still be more than one Nicola Mayhew.’

  ‘Not exactly a common name though, is it? It would be a bit of a bloody coincidence. And, anyway, what about his alibi for being late to our weekend at Gray’s? He said there was a road closure, but I’ve searched online and I can’t find any evidence of it.’

  When I realised I’d just used the word ‘alibi’, as if a crime had been committed, I flushed.

  ‘Who knows?’ JoJo was sanguine. ‘Maybe the hold-up was just a short-lived thing that resolved before the police could get involved?’

  I thought back to the discrepancy over the time of his speeding offence and his call to me. ‘And what if he’s lying?’

  JoJo sighed. ‘Look, I’m not exactly an expert, but I’m sure it’s normal for marriages to hit a rough patch a couple of years in. When the novelty’s worn off.’

  ‘So what should I do?’ I pleaded. ‘I have no idea whether I should confront him or just let it go.’

  ‘You know that confronting him is not going to make anything better, don’t you? But if it’s bothering you this much, then maybe you should.’

  Since this conversation I haven’t said anything to Dominic, not yet. Because JoJo is right – to do so is only going to open a can of worms. If he’s innocent, he will just be resentful. If guilty, he will probably just continue to lie. So instead I’ve remained wretchedly tense and jumpy. And I’ve continued to take the contraceptive pill. Now is not the time to get pregnant. Not while I’m feeling so insecure and uncertain about my husband.