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

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       CHAPTER FIVE

      ‘Morning, Mike, lovely weather still,’ Judith says, glancing at him as she adjusts the collar of her blouse and wondering, as she seems to every day, whether she might have overdone her perfume. She does a double take. ‘Are you OK? You look terrible!’ She studies Mike’s handsome face. He looks tired, with shadows beneath his dark blue eyes. ‘Sorry. Perhaps not tactfully put, but I guess I’m not going to start being diplomatic after twelve years. Is everything all right?’

      Mike looks away towards the window, squinting slightly in the way he always does. She once asked him if he had worn glasses as a child, but he looked perplexed and said, ‘No, why?’ with a friendly smile. She now knows it’s just his thoughtful look. She’s been his secretary since she was nineteen and knows more about Mike Turner than he knows himself, or so she jokes. And the truth is that they’ve grown up together, in a way. She’s seen him through his marriage to Olivia and the birth of his girls; he’s been her ‘diamond, the sort of rock I like’ through two marriages, four broken hearts and breast implants that have recently been removed.

      ‘I didn’t sleep very well,’ he says, still gazing at something Judith can’t see. She busies herself with filing. She knows there’s no point in hurrying him, especially of late.

      ‘Bloody typist, diarist, dogsbody and counsellor!’ one of the secretaries declared yesterday over lunch, succinctly expanding on what her original job description had omitted. As Judith waits patiently for Mike to embellish on his lack of sleep, she understands what her friend means.

      He eventually turns with an awkward smile before sitting at his desk.

      ‘Turns out that I’m a rotten husband and a rubbish dad, Jude.’ His face is slightly flushed. ‘And there I was, thinking I was perfect!’

      Judith smiles and wags a finger. ‘That’s because I’m always telling you you’re perfect. I didn’t think you were listening.’

      ‘You’ve got it in one. I don’t listen, apparently.’ He puts his head in his hands for a moment and then rubs his eyes. ‘But the truth is they’re right. I haven’t been looking or listening. I’ve taken my eye off the ball.’

      ‘Trust you to use a football analogy, Mike,’ she laughs. ‘Is there anything I can do to help? Go into goal? Keep score?’

      She sits down in the chair opposite him. There’s plenty she’d like to do to help, she thinks affectionately as she strokes her ever-increasing bump, but that would certainly get in the way.

      Mike Turner has been at the top of the secretaries’ ‘I wouldn’t kick him out of bed’ list for years. Christmas after Christmas various young hopefuls have tried to snog him at the office party, without success. Judith is certain that he’s completely oblivious to these advances and to his charm. It’s the way his hair is always scruffy from raking his hands through it, she decides, it makes him look both trendy and vulnerable at the same time. Those cheekbones too, a real man with cheekbones! And of course his thoughtful Irish eyes.

      ‘I must make more of an effort, not just with Olivia but with the girls too.’ He looks at Judith and grins. ‘I would ask you for suggestions, but something tells me that would be cheating.’

      ‘And so it would,’ she replies, scooping up an armful of files from his muddled desk. Shame, she thinks as she leaves the room. Mike Turner isn’t and will never be the sort of man who would go in for cheating.

      Sami strides in late to the site meeting, looking sharp in his new navy suit.

      ‘You’ve got a smile on your face,’ the quantity surveyor comments. ‘You are one jammy bastard, Richards. Who’s the lucky woman this time?’

      Sami puts down his briefcase and places the hard hat on his head, careful not to unsettle his hair. ‘Who, me?’ he grins. ‘Well, since you ask. The wife. Really, Jack, the wife!’

      ‘You’re joking. I’m lucky if my wife cracks a smile, let alone …’

      Sami pulls up the leg of his trousers at the knee, crouches down and spreads out the plans on the dusty concrete floor as he recalls an extremely pleasurable start to the day. Sophie was dead to the world when the alarm woke him at seven. But that’s nothing new. She jacked in her job at the estate agents months ago (‘too early, too boring!’) and he suspects she sleeps in all morning during the week when he isn’t there to cajole her into the land of the living. He’d done his press-ups, showered and finished the box of no-added-sugar muesli, and was just about to unlatch the walled garden door of his townhouse when Sophie called his name. He turned his head in surprise and there she was on their doorstep, naked save for fluffy slippers and the chunky glasses she wears first thing in the morning before her ‘battle’ with contact lenses.

      ‘You haven’t given me a kiss, darlink,’ she called in her best Marlene Dietrich accent. He laughed. Her face looked crumpled and sleepy, her hair like a crow’s nest, but her body was beautiful; rounded, plump and still tanned from their Antiguan summer.

      ‘I haven’t cleaned my teeth, so …’ Sophie mumbled as she knelt on the floor of the hallway, the front door still ajar. She slipped one hand in the fly of his suit trousers and unbuckled his belt with the other. ‘So I’ll give you a different kiss goodbye.’

      ‘That was a very nice treat,’ he said afterwards. He stood at the lounge door for a moment and eyed Sophie thoughtfully. She’d put on the dressing gown he tries regularly to throw out and was lying on the sofa, the Daily Mail propped on her knees. ‘Was there a particular reason why you were kind enough to …’

      ‘I just like to keep you on your toes,’ she replied, her face still hidden by the newspaper. ‘Besides, you’ve been—’

      ‘What?’ СКАЧАТЬ