# The Wife – Part Two: For Better, For Worse

ML Roberts

If you can’t stop watching Doctor Foster and The Affair, you won’t be able to put down this chilling new four-part series.Michael and Ellie are that couple.The ones who have it all.Success, charm, trust…but no relationship is perfect and the events of the past cast a shadow over their charmed life together.When lecturer Michael starts to mentor a new student, Ellie fears that history is repeating itself. As paranoia takes its ugly hold, it’s clear some things just can’t be forgotten…or forgiven.

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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2017

Copyright © ML Roberts 2017

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

Cover design by Ellie Game © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

ML Roberts asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy 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.

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Ebook Edition © September 2017 ISBN: 9780008259877

Version: 2017-09-26

For my husband. His constant support has been everything.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading…

About the Author

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

## Chapter 13

I start to pull the door towards me, a slight breeze blowing in from outside as it slowly opens, and then I hear it – that sound, a scream that barely has time to resonate before it’s quickly stopped, and it takes a second before I realise it was me, I was the one screaming; the one who was silenced by a hand being clamped heavily over my mouth.

It was me who was screaming…

Michael blamed himself for not protecting me. He blamed himself for everything, but it wasn’t his fault.

It wasn’t.

Not really.

I pull my knees to my chest and hug them tightly as I sit in the corner of the room that should have been our baby’s nursery. The light, bright yellow walls are almost taunting me, smiling down at me, reminding me of what this room should have been.

The people Michael and I should have been.

Parents.

Fourteen Months Earlier

I can’t feel anything but fear. It’s all-consuming. As I’m slammed back against the glass door I want to cry out in pain, but I can’t; that hand is still clamped firmly over my mouth.

I close my eyes, squeeze them shut, try to pretend this is a dream. I’m going to wake up any second now because this isn’t happening. And then the hand is roughly removed, and I let out a gasp, double over, clasp my stomach. I need to protect my baby.

A smell of a strong floral perfume fills my nostrils and I look up, my head seemingly taking an eternity to raise itself – it feels like everything is happening in slow motion right now.

‘You’re prettier than I thought you’d be.’

Her words both confuse and terrify me, and I back up against the door, my hand still splayed out over my stomach. I don’t know what to do.

‘How did you get in here?’

Her eyes glance over my shoulder at the door behind me. ‘You made it too easy.’

I frown, look behind me. I remember Michael took the rubbish out a couple of hours ago… We always check every door is locked before we go to bed, before we go out. Always, without fail. At least I thought we did.

‘I was just going to rock up on your doorstep, invite myself in, but, you know, it was nice of you to give me an easier entrance. Glad I checked first. All I had to do was scale that fence and there I was, out there, in your garden. Michael talked a lot about his garden. He’s got a vegetable patch, right? Over by the summer house?’

Who the hell is she? How does she know about Michael’s vegetable patch, my summer house? How does she know where we live?

She raises her eyes to the high ceiling, her mouth falling slightly open, and I watch her – this woman who’s invaded our home. I watch as she looks around her, turning a full three hundred and sixty degrees, spinning around until she’s back facing me. ‘You have a lovely home.’ She drops her head forward, her eyes staring straight at me. ‘And you … Ellie, isn’t it?’ Her head falls to one side again as she looks me up and down. ‘I don’t know … I guess I expected someone…’ She lets that sentence tail off, but her eyes continue to stare right through me, and I feel that fear rising, I’m terrified. ‘It doesn’t matter…’

She shakes her head as she turns away, walks back out into the kitchen; and that’s when I reach behind me. I try to fumble for the door handle, shifting my body slightly, I don’t want to turn my back on her for too long, I just need to see what I’m doing. But that was a mistake, turning away from her, even for a second; she’s behind me before I can grab hold of the handle. The kick she gives to the back of my legs knocks the breath right out of me, and I fall to the ground, hitting my head on the tiled floor as I land. Her fingers grasp my wrist, drag me up off the floor, a wave of pain shooting up my arm. I must have landed on it. But I don’t have time to dwell on that. I don’t even have time to take another breath before she’s thrown me back against the floor-to-ceiling window, her fingers winding in my hair, yanking my head back. Her sweet, cloying perfume is unbearably strong, and I feel a sickening jolt of fear at what this woman might do to my baby.

‘He loves me. Did you know that? Me and Michael, we were meant to be together. We’re going to be together.’

I don’t know what she’s talking about, I don’t understand…

‘You have no idea, do you?’ she sneers, tugging at my hair, and I cry out as another wave of pain hits me, one that feels like my hair is being ripped from the roots. ‘No idea that your husband is in love with another woman. With me. Your husband loves me.’

I shake my head. This is not true. It can’t be.

‘I knew it the second I saw him. I knew he was the one. Michael knows it too, he just won’t admit it, not yet. But he will, eventually. All that time he spent with me, all that attention he showered on me, he wouldn’t have done that, would he? If he didn’t love me. So, you – I need to deal with you. You’re just getting in the way now. You’re getting in the way of me and him being together.’

She lets go of me, pushes me back against the glass with a force so hard I’m surprised it didn’t shatter, and I stay completely still for a second or two as the breath is forced out of me, painful and ragged as it escapes the confines of my throat.

My hands don’t leave my stomach. I’m desperate to protect my baby. I have no idea what this woman wants, because, what she’s telling me it makes no sense.

I slowly raise my head, but her eyes are down, they’re looking at my hands resting on my stomach, and her expression changes so quickly it’s utterly terrifying, because she’s guessed now.

‘You’re pregnant.’

It wasn’t a question, but I nod anyway. I can’t breathe, can’t speak; I just want her out of my house.

‘You’re having Michael’s baby?’

She doesn’t wait for my answer, and the terror that swamps me as she rushes towards me is suffocating, the kick to my stomach devastatingly brutal, and I cry out as my legs give way beneath me. I hit the floor again, and she continues to kick me. She’s screaming words I can’t make out. She’s hysterical. I squeeze my eyes shut as kick after kick rain down on my body. The only thing I can do is curl my knees up to my chest, keep them there, try to maintain some kind of makeshift shield for my baby. I can’t even cry. I’m too terrified, too scared of what’s happening here.

And then it stops, just like that. But I stay curled up; the foetal position seems the safest place to be right now. I keep my eyes closed, and I try to breathe through the pain, aware that, suddenly, all has gone quiet. I can only hear my panicked breathing, my heart hammering hard and fast against the threatening silence. She hasn’t gone. I know she hasn’t. I can still feel her here, in this room, I just don’t know what she’s doing. And I want to look, I want to see what’s happening, but I can’t open my eyes. My brain isn’t letting me. It’s almost like it’s shutting down all my senses, one by one.

‘You can’t have his baby. You … you can’t … have his baby … he doesn’t want you any more…’

Her tone is calmer, she’s lost that hysterical edge, but that just makes it even more terrifying. Each word she speaks is filled with an unspoken, sinister threat, and I feel hot, angry, scared tears finally start to roll down my cheeks. I’m helpless, but I need to do something. I need to get out of here. Is this woman high? Or is she just fucking crazy? I don’t know…

My eyes spring open as she grabs hold of my arm, yanks me up from the floor, presses her hand against my stomach. She’s staring at me as though I’m nothing. Nobody. ‘You can’t have his baby,’ she repeats, her voice barely audible, and as she puts her other hand over my mouth the smell of her perfume hits me again, causing me to gag. I can barely breathe. ‘Do you hear me?’ And then she laughs, just a small, quiet laugh; and she steps back, removing her hand from my mouth. ‘You know what? It doesn’t matter.’ She shakes her head, continuously, over and over again. It’s terrifying to watch. Her eyes stay locked on mine, but she isn’t speaking now, and I don’t know whether this silence is better or worse.

She breaks the stare, her eyes darting this way and that, as though she’s looking for something. I don’t know what, and I don’t care; I just want her out of here.

‘What’s in there?’

She jerks her head in the direction of the indoor swimming pool at the far end of the orangery, the dim lights that surround the small oval pool making the water seem almost blue, what little of it you can glimpse from back here.

‘You can see what it is,’ I reply, my flippancy instantly rewarded with a slap across the face, so hard it snaps my head around.

I reach up, touch my cheek, the skin burning from where her palm caught me, my heart racing so fast now it’s painful. Hard to breathe. I feel a terrifying inevitability, and I wonder if it’s best to just let this happen. Let her do whatever it is she’s come here to do. I don’t think I have the energy to fight her. I feel an overwhelming exhaustion flooding over me, taking charge of every sense, every emotion.

Her hand clamps around my wrist, pulling me back from those dark thoughts, and I suddenly find myself being dragged along behind her, towards the pool, my legs crashing into tables and chairs. She doesn’t care that she’s hurting me

And then everything starts to fade.

Everything goes black…

## Chapter 14. Present Day

Yellow is such a happy colour, but this isn’t a happy room any more. The day I returned home from hospital, the day after I miscarried our baby, I stripped this room of all the furniture, got rid of all those things we’d already bought even though we’d only known our child for a short time. I got rid of it all. And even though none of it was Michael’s fault, for a while I couldn’t help but throw some element of blame in his direction. I was angry. I was upset and confused and angry. How could he not have noticed her behaviour? How could he not have seen this coming? He was her lecturer, for Christ’s sake! He’d tutored her one-on-one; hadn’t he noticed anything? Hadn’t he seen some sort of sign? I didn’t understand how a man as intelligent as him could have missed something like that. So I blamed him, and that was unfair, but I’d needed to blame someone at the time. We were both to blame, really. Both of us. All of us.

I get up off the floor and leave the room. It still hurts to be in here sometimes. But even though people tell me I should change the colour scheme, turn it back into the guest room it originally was, I can’t do it. I can’t … I can’t forget.

I go back into our bedroom, walk over to the window and look outside at the garden – at the higher fences Michael had erected after that night. Security cameras were installed all around the house, locks put on all the outside gates. I couldn’t feel safe until something had been done. It’s just that: I don’t feel safe. I’m not sure if I’ll ever feel safe again.

My eyes shift to the corner of the garden, to that space next to the summer house; that empty spot where a swing used to stand. Michael had bought it just two days before that night. I remember the huge grin he’d had on his face as he’d lifted it from the back of the car and hauled it into the garden. I remember him and Liam trying to build it, testing it to make sure it was safe, and I can’t help but smile slightly at the memory of them pushing each other like a couple of kids – the way I’d laughed so hard at their messing about – and I’d known, right then, that Michael was going to be an amazing dad. And then she came along, that night happened, and our entire future, everything we’d planned, was all ripped away from us, just like that. So yes. I blamed him. For a while.

‘Ellie?’

I don’t turn around. I don’t reply. I continue to stare out across the garden. I feel him come up behind me, and I flinch slightly as he touches my hip, causing him to pull his hand away. I want him to touch me, yet there are times when I hate it. His touching me. No wonder he’s looking for a distraction. And maybe that’s also why his touching me makes me flinch – because I know he’s touching someone else?

‘We really should think about redecorating that room…’

‘Because a lick of paint will help erase the memory? You tried that once before, remember? And I told you not to touch that room again.’

‘Ellie, will you look at me, please?’

No. I won’t look at him. Why should I? Why should he get to say how this all works?

‘This isn’t helping. This behaviour…’

I swing around and stare at him, this man I fell hopelessly in love with all those years ago. And I know he’s changed. Forgetting and moving on, that’s how he’s dealt with it; but I’m not him. The repercussions of those events spread wider than just that one night, and Michael blames himself. But he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t blame himself. Like I said, we’re both to blame. We both made mistakes.

‘What we did…’

He shakes his head as he backs out of the room, and I start to feel that barrier slowly rise up between us again. ‘No, we’re not doing this, okay?’

‘Because you don’t want to?’

‘Because you’re going to make yourself ill if you don’t stop this. Every time I think you might be…’

‘What, Michael? Every time you think I might be what? Getting over it? Forgetting it?’

He turns his back to me and walks out onto the landing.

I let him leave. I have to think of another way to win this. I have to find out what’s really going on with my husband. Only then can I start to fix what’s broken … if I want it to be fixed at all.

## Chapter 15

My father wasn’t a good man. I’m not saying he wasn’t a good father; he was, in the beginning. Before I knew the kind of man he really was; before I realised why my mum was always so sad, so reclusive. Their marriage was a lie, from start to finish. A web of deceit that ended tragically when my mum took an overdose of whisky and pills that saw her go to sleep and never wake up. Because she didn’t want to wake up. Because of what my father did. Because of his cheating. Because of his lies.

And I couldn’t stop it from happening. She hid how she was feeling just a little too well, even though we all knew something wasn’t quite right. Everyone knew she was unhappy; that much was obvious, even to me, and I was barely a teenager when I lost her.

Nobody had known just how deep her sadness had run, even after she’d found the courage to leave my dad. She kept it hidden from me, as much as she could – tried to make life after my father as happy as possible – but it became too hard for her. My mum was a good woman. She was one of the best. Kind. Caring. There wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do for anyone, including my bastard of a father. She didn’t deserve what he did to her. His selfish weakness destroyed her, and I never forgave him. I never will. He killed my mum; that’s how I see it. Cheating, lying, deceiving – those actions destroy people. So to think that my own husband could be part of something like that … I won’t let it happen. I’m not my mother. She didn’t fight. I will.

Digging my hands into my pockets, I continue my walk through the centre of Durham. It’s one of my favourite places. Wandering around the compact streets of this small city is something I love to do. It’s calming – a chance to gather my thoughts, think about everything more clearly – and when the sun’s out and the weather’s a little warmer, as it is today, it fills me with peace. Out here, amongst all these people, I’m exposed, yet I don’t feel scared. Not today. Today I’m focused. I’m not feeling fragile or frightened; I’m fine.

Passing the small university bookshop on the corner, I start walking along a familiar street. One Michael and I know very well. We’ve been here so many times. I’m heading towards the Spanish restaurant we used to visit frequently, before that night. The same restaurant I know he’s been to recently, without me. I found the receipt, I saw the evidence, and that bill was for two meals. So, he didn’t come here alone. Maybe he was just having lunch with another staff member; it’s a possibility, but I doubt that was the case. He wouldn’t come here. Not here. He wouldn’t use this place for anything work-related; it was always our special place. And the thought of him sharing that with someone else…

I reach the restaurant and push open the door, the smell of paella, garlic and freshly baked bread hitting me head on, causing my stomach to rumble. I didn’t even realise how hungry I was until I came in here.

I look around until I catch the eye of a young waiter, someone I don’t recognise. I haven’t been here for so long that most of the staff seem different. New. This is a city with a big student population, and a lot of them find work in the many restaurants and bars, so it stands to reason there’ll be high turnovers of staff in places like this. Is that why Michael felt it safe to come here without me? Because no one would recognise him, no one would care; no one knows us well enough to tell me he’s bringing someone else to our restaurant?

The waiter throws me a friendly smile as he comes over, and I ask if I can have a table away from the window, a quiet table, at the side of the restaurant. I’m looking for somewhere with a good view of the room, a place where I can easily see the entrance but also remain slightly secluded, and the table he seats me at is perfect. I thank him and take the menu he offers me, ordering a glass of Rioja Blanca and some bread and olives before I’m left alone to check out the rest of the menu, although I already know what I’m going to order. My favourite Tapas dishes – Gambas Pil Pil, Albondigas and Escalivada. I feel like something familiar, and I haven’t been here for so long, just the thought of those spicy prawns, the beautifully cooked pork meatballs in that wonderful tomato sauce and those Catalan style roasted, chargrilled vegetables … it’s making my mouth water. I’m almost forgetting why I’ve come here. It isn’t for the food at all; I’m here on the off chance that I might see something, anything, that can help me work out what’s going on in Michael’s world, because for too long now it’s felt like we’ve been living in two completely different ones. And I know that that receipt I found means something – I know it was only one, just one receipt. There’s no evidence he came here any other time. I have no reason to think he’s going to turn up here today; no reason to think he’s made this a regular haunt with someone new. But I have no reason to think he hasn’t. So I’m here, and maybe I’ll continue to come here for lunch more often. Maybe I need to put more time in at the Durham salon. Spend more time at the spa, so I can be closer to here.

I take a sip of wine and glance around the restaurant at the random mix of people all enjoying their lunch. I’m the only one dining alone, but that doesn’t bother me.

A fresh group of people are entering the restaurant now, and I can hear the waiter asking them to follow him to their table. I turn my head to see if any of those people are my husband and for a brief second that small, rational part of my brain makes me wonder what the hell I’m doing here. Do I really expect Michael to walk in, with another woman, on the day I decide to come here?

Sitting back in my chair, I continue to watch everyone around me, and I wonder if any of their lives are as messed up as mine. I’m not sure anyone’s could be. But I know that what people choose to show to the outside world isn’t necessarily the reality. And I allow my mind to wander back to memories of my parents’ marriage; the way they’d acted happy, put on a united front whenever they were out in public, at family parties, gatherings, trips to the supermarket; anything that involved them being seen together. As I grew older, I could hear the arguments that quickly blew up once they were back behind closed doors; I was old enough to hear those rows, but not the accusations. I had no idea what they were arguing about, not at first. But once I realised what was really going on, that’s when I knew how quickly things –lives – could start to fall apart.

Because of them, I avoided relationships; anything that had even the vaguest hope of turning serious, I shut it down. Walked away. I never let myself get involved, fall too deep. I always took a step back from anything that I thought could hurt me. Until I met Michael. Michael was different. The second we saw each other – the first time he smiled at me, the way his hand touched mine as we reached for the same bottle of wine – I knew then that he was different. He was the man who made me realise all men weren’t like my father. Not all men cheated. Not all men lied. Not all men made you feel worthless and alone. Michael was different … or so I thought.

I look up as my food is placed in front of me, and the incredible smells that fill my nostrils help drag me back. I need to stay focused.

I thank the waiter, ask for a bottle of still water and look down at my food, picking up my fork and gently stabbing a large prawn, the garlic-laden juice dripping from it as I lift it up and pop it into my mouth. It tastes wonderful, and as I chew slowly a hundred and one memories of mine and Michael’s trips to Spain flood my brain; memories of a life I loved, and I’m not willing to let that life drift away from me. Not without a fight.

I’ll find out what’s going on.

I’ll find out if he’s lying; if he’s cheating.

I’ll find out if he really is just like my father. I’ll find out the truth.

And I’ll deal with it.

## Chapter 16

‘Am I driving tonight?’ Michael throws his bag down onto the kitchen table. He doesn’t even bother with pleasantries any more. It’s like we’ve forgotten how to communicate sometimes, and the fact that he seems okay with that – I struggle to get my head around it.

‘No. I’ll drive.’

We’re going to a dinner party to celebrate the anniversary of a couple we’ve known for almost ten years now. We are both aware that we will need to pretend tonight. Pretend we are still that couple. The ones who managed to pull through together, despite it all; still perfect. The pressure of this pretence makes me want to scream.

‘I’m going upstairs to take a shower. Is my grey shirt clean?’

I nod and take a sip of the tea I’ve just poured as I watch him leave the kitchen, hear him head upstairs. He’s left his bag on the table, his jacket slung over the back of a chair, his phone hanging precariously from the top pocket.

I wait until I hear the shower switch on, I put down my tea and I quickly rescue his phone before it drops to the floor; but instead of putting it somewhere safe, I keep hold of it. I turn it over in my hand and look at the screen, but I stop myself from doing what I really want to do – check his messages. Read his texts. Look at his call history. Am I really that person? That kind of wife?

The landline suddenly rings out, its sharp, shrill tone jarring against the silence, causing me to almost drop Michael’s phone. The slightest sound still has the ability to make me jump, and I reach behind me for the TV remote, switching it on for that background noise that helps drown out the perpetual, threatening silence. The ringing stops, abruptly, so Michael must have answered it. Sure enough, he calls down from the top of the stairs.

‘That was Laurel on the phone.’ I hear him run downstairs, and I quickly slide his phone into the back pocket of my jeans. ‘She needs me to pop back to the university, sign a couple of things concerning grants for a new research project. I should have done it before I left … I forgot. You know how it is.’

I don’t, actually, but I leave it at that. I don’t think he’s lying to me this time. If that had been her, this woman, this girl, she wouldn’t call him on the landline. She wouldn’t be that stupid. That indiscreet. I think he’s telling the truth for now. He has to pop back to work. Fine.

‘Call Rachel and let her know we might be a few minutes late, okay?’

He issues that instruction without even looking at me, out the door before I have a chance to acknowledge him. And it’s only when I hear his car leave the driveway that I realise I still have his phone. He threw his jacket back on without even checking it was still there in his pocket.

I reach around and pull it out of my jeans, laying it down on the countertop. I look at it. I don’t do anything else, just look at it, because he could still come back for it if he realises soon enough. But if he doesn’t…

I glance over at the TV screen and focus on the local news programme that’s just started, and then I remember I need to call Rachel. Let her know we may be running late. So I quickly call her, and once I’ve done that I check the time. I don’t think he’s coming back for his phone. And it’s there now, calling to me.

I pick it back up and head towards my office at the far end of the orangery. But the second I open the doors of the pool house, I stop walking. I stand perfectly still, and, as I always do when I come in here, I remember. A lot of people still find it strange, that I have my office here, in this place, considering what went on just a few feet away from where I’m standing. And I can’t always explain the reasons why I’ve forced myself to come in here on an almost daily basis. Facing up to what happened is just something I need to do.

I look down at the water. I’ve always liked being surrounded by water. I grew up by the coast, spent a lot of summers at the beach. My grandma and grandad used to take me there a lot after my mother died. I think they sensed it was like an escape for me. Somewhere that allowed me to forget. Somewhere that made me feel happy. All they’d wanted was for me to forget the bad times and get on with my life. And that’s all Michael wants me to do too, isn’t it? Forget, and move on with my life.

Crouching down I drop my hand into the water, let my fingers trail through it, backwards and forwards. It’s almost hypnotic … What am I doing? I’ve been gifted this window of opportunity, and I can’t afford to waste it.

I snap myself out of that near-trance-like state I was close to falling into and head over to the small room in the corner that now serves as my office. There’s not a lot of space in there, but it’s big enough to house a decent-sized desk, a couple of filing cabinets, and some shelves. And there’s a huge window that means the room always gets a lot of light, as well as a decent view out over the garden. A view of the summer house that was once my haven. The space beside it that was supposed to be our child’s play area. I lean back against the wall and close my eyes, my fingers tightening around Michael’s phone as my breathing quickens, the pain of losing that life I wanted, that life I was living; it still hurts in a way nobody will ever understand.

Inhaling deeply, exhaling slowly, I pull myself together. Sitting down behind my desk, I switch on my laptop and lay my own phone down beside Michael’s, my heart beating like a jackhammer as a mixture of nerves and— am I finding this exciting? So many emotions are fighting inside me these days, it’s hard to tell which ones win out. And maybe exciting is the wrong word, but I’m feeling something. The anticipation of relief, perhaps. That I will soon know so much more about my husband than I clearly do at the moment. First I need to check his messages, even though I don’t expect to find anything. Michael is clever; if something were going on, if he was doing anything he shouldn’t, I doubt he’d leave any evidence on his phone. My scan over his texts proves me right – there’s nothing even slightly incriminating there. I still know something about my husband, then.

I start tapping away at the keyboard, watching as a list of instructions pops up on my screen, and my stomach dips as the realisation of what I’m about to do hits me again. But this is necessary. I can’t have him accepting that this life of distractions, silences and resentment is our life now. I can’t. I won’t.

Picking up my phone, I follow the steps listed in the instructions, and I watch as my plan kicks into action. The knot in my stomach tightens because of what I’m doing here – I’m tracking my husband. I’m installing an app on his phone that allows me to see where he is, where he goes, who he calls and texts. I’m still amazed at how readily available this kind of thing is. And yes, there is part of me that knows that this is wrong, but I also know that this is the only way that I can begin to rebuild my sense of trust in Michael.