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

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СКАЧАТЬ had five kids and so she expects to have a hundred and twenty grandchildren or something. And if I’m up for all the prodding and poking, those bloody hormone injections …’

      Antonia takes a breath. The real reason for Sophie’s infertility is the one secret she has managed to keep. It has to be said.

      ‘Sophie, why would you want to go through it again when you’re pretty sure it won’t work? Why put yourself through it? You hate hospitals! And it’s hardly fair to Sami, you’re giving him false hope.’

      ‘Oh shut up, Antonia.’

      Sophie stands and paces, her hands on her hips and her eyes ferocious. ‘You really take your saintliness to extremes at times. Is there a Saint Antonia? Is that why you chose the bloody stupid name? Besides, you’re the one with the problem if you really think having a baby is a fate worse than death. Most normal women want a child, it’s what nature expects and I’m no different. You’re the bloody freak, not me.’

      It’s ridiculous, Antonia knows, at thirty years old, but on these occasions she still wants to cry. Instead she stands, walks to the sink and turns on the tap. Sophie will never change; her best line of defence is to attack and the assault is invariably below the belt. But when it comes to babies, she doesn’t care whether Sophie thinks she’s unnatural or odd. She doesn’t have and never has had any desire to procreate. There are enough unhappy people in the world without adding to their number. David understands. She told him from the start she didn’t want children and he accepted it at face value, saying it was fine and that he’d have the snip. He’s never broached the subject again and never asked why.

      David, oh, David. The thought of Friday night catches her breath again. He accepts her as she is, he doesn’t ask questions, analyse or dig too deep like her former boyfriends. He doesn’t want to control her, thank God. He’s steady and reliable. Isn’t he?

      She feels Sophie’s breath on her neck, then a hand on her back and the inevitable flutter somewhere deep in her stomach.

      ‘I fancy a drink, Toni. Shall we open a bottle?’

      Sophie kisses her cheek, then steps away to the glass-fronted wine fridge, crouching down to select a bottle.

      ‘This looks expensive,’ she says when she stands. ‘Come on, darling, don’t sulk, who knows what might happen?’ She places her chin on Antonia’s shoulder and softly blows a curl from her face. ‘You will be there to hold my hand, won’t you? All the way?’

      ‘You know I will,’ Antonia replies.

      There’s a tremor in David’s large hand which he tries to ignore as he struggles to insert the tiny key into the lock of his bottom desk drawer. He extracts the yellow file and stares at its cover where his secretary has written ‘Indemnity and Claims’ in red marker pen.

      He blows out his cheeks. Red for danger.

      He glances at his closed office door before taking a deep breath. Then he opens the file quickly, like ripping off a plaster. As though that will make a difference. As though speed will alter the fact that the renewal date for the firm’s insurance has passed, undeniably passed, and he hasn’t done anything about it.

      ‘Goodness me, the renewal date has passed. The practice has no insurance in place. If there are any claims for poor legal advice or mistakes, the partners will be personally liable! How did that happen?’ He tries feigning surprise to himself, but it doesn’t wash, even in his mildly inebriated state. As the partner in charge of indemnity and claims, he’s always known about the date, roughly known, at least. But he’s put it on the furthermost back burner of his mind. Because. Because he knows.

      He’d opened a savings account with a great rate of interest a year back. A deposit account for the firm and for the partners, but with himself as the sole signatory.

      ‘What shall we call it, David?’ the bank manager had asked over a long lunch.

      ‘Insurance,’ he replied.

      ‘But of course!’ the manager laughed.

      He paid in the huge premium up front. It was a great plan. There’d be less whingeing about the cost of ever-increasing insurance premiums from the partners when renewal came. A nice little nest egg of interest to put towards the following year’s premium, too. It made sense. Charlie agreed. ‘I knew you were the man for the job, David. Excellent work.’ The other partners concurred and he enjoyed the rare praise.

      He stares at the renewal notice in the file and then circles the premium figure with a pencil, whistling softly. Nearly a hundred thousand pounds and it has to be paid now. In a litigious society the firm must be covered for negligence claims. Claims for cock-ups, in short. He nods, his mind racing with thoughts of what to do. Cheque lost in the post? Yes. A backdated letter for the file? Absolutely. But the thing is to get it paid. PDQ. But there’s a problem, a huge heart-thrashing problem. Even though he hasn’t been able to bring himself to look at the ‘insurance account’, he knows without a doubt the money isn’t there.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      The Manchester rain hammers against the roof of Mike’s car. The traffic is at a standstill, Princess Parkway chock-a-block, with no sign of movement. He looks to his left. The queue at the drive-through McDonald’s is immobile with morose folk seeking their hunger-fix. Once, years ago, he and Olivia vowed their children would never eat junk. They wanted to do nothing but right for their girls. Mike sighs: how time and experience changes everything.

      There must have been an accident, he thinks, as he strains to see beyond the line of traffic in front of him. No habitual impulse of a prayer pops into his head, he forced those thoughts out long ago. His Catholicism, drummed in during childhood, had once burned deep, creating a wound he thought would never heal. That profound belief or fear or superstition, or whatever it is, that there is a god. No, not a god, but The God. But that scar has healed; when he needs his faith, he finds it has gone.

      He switches from Radio 4, to 2, to Capital, listens for a moment to Rihanna and thinks of his girls dancing, giggling, showing their pretty white teeth. ‘Look, Daddy. Watch us dance!’ It’s a happy thought, he knows this, but he’s lost the feeling of happiness, its sense, its touch.

      He turns off the radio and watches the rain splatter and spread against the windscreen. It’s making shapes he’s never noticed before. Interesting, he thinks, but the ruse doesn’t work for long; his bleak thoughts are too dominant, too powerful for Rihanna, or the rain, or even his lovely girls.

      Shaking himself, he tries to resurface, to focus on the traffic tailback and the noise of the vehicles happily jam-free on the flyover ahead. He looks at his watch, knowing that he should text Olivia, but wondering what he should say. ‘Stuck in traffic’ is the obvious choice, but he can predict the reply, ‘How long will you be?’

      How long will this go on? The gloom, the pestering, dark thoughts. He had them before as a teenager, but they were intermittent then, somehow controlled by the guilt of the priest’s regular Sunday words, ‘There’s always someone worse off.’ But this time it’s been months and he bores himself. It’s truly pathetic. Always the same, it’s the little things that pull him down. He can go for hours without giving it a second thought and then something will happen to make the black dog bound in. Today it was an email circulating around the office inviting the staff to contribute to a СКАЧАТЬ