About the Author

Before turning to crime, A.M. CASTLE had a long career as a feature writer on national newspapers including the Daily Express, The Times and The Daily Telegraph. She grew up in south London and, after a stint in Brussels, she is back where she belongs. As well as writing psychological thrillers, she also writes cosy mysteries as Alice Castle. She is married with two children, two stepchildren and two cats.

The Perfect Widow
A.M. CASTLE

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © A.M. Castle 2019

A.M. Castle asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for 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.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © November 2019 ISBN: 9780008364717

Version: 2019-10-17

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

A Letter from A.M. Castle

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

To William, Ella and Connie, with love

Prologue
Louise

I thought nothing of it, the first time the doorbell rang.

Parcel delivery guy – bound to be. It was that time of the evening. School run done, supper running late. They just want to catch you at home, don’t they? Don’t care if the timing’s terrible, up to your elbows in kids and cooking. Not their problem.

I did a quick mental scan through my recent purchases. Hmm. A few. Well, I had to keep up appearances. And it was hard to get it right just now. A strange September, sweltering by day, then plunging straight to frost when night fell. I wanted to get everyone twittering in the playground when I appeared in something shiny and new. For a second, I was excited. Was it that red handbag? Bit pricey, but I hadn’t been able to resist. But no, it was bound to be those boots I’d ordered last week on sale. Helping Giles was more important.

I looked over at him. Dark head down over the exercise book. Bless. That maths. I could see the line of jagged numbers. He was snagged, like a lamb on a barbed wire fence. But would he ask for help? Ha. I stayed put. Boys. If I didn’t nurse him through it, he’d go off the boil, drift. I’d lose him to that new game, the one he’d been hankering after. He’d be skulking in his bedroom for hours. That would be that. So I called to Emmy – well, yelled. It’s a big house.

‘Love? Can you get that?’

I cocked an ear. No reply, no movement. I sighed inwardly. Girls were no easier. Emmy was 11 going on 17 when it came to attitude. Especially towards her mother. The more love and encouragement I lavished on her, the more elaborate the eye-rolls at everything I said or did. I envied her the freedom to rebel. Did I begrudge it? Most days, no. Today, I was feeling a bit antsy already. I couldn’t face more shouting. That last yell up the stairs had done my head in. It had been a busy day. Very busy.

I was about to give in and get up, but then Giles turned to me. ‘Don’t go, Mum. I can’t do this.’ The voice was all over the place, now he was 13 – Barry White one minute, Sam Smith the next. That pushed-out bottom lip, though, was the same as when he’d been 4, trying to ride his new bike without any help from us, and coming a cropper. I smiled, love filling me like light pouring through a window. Who could resist?

The bell shrilled again. I couldn’t break off, not now Giles was finally concentrating, but I certainly didn’t want to be schlepping to the post office tomorrow to pick up those boots. Outside, the guy would be scribbling the usual hieroglyphs on his card, ready to drop and run. I was torn. But, just in time, there was Emmy, scampering down the stairs, two at a time. Miracle. Bless her. That was the only little-girl thing about her, the bouncy gait.

She never did it again, after that afternoon.

I turned back to Giles. ‘Now, you take this number …’ But I still had half an ear out for Em. Heavy click as the door opened. Murmurs. The sharp slap of cold air. Distant street sounds. More talking. Too much.

I thought for a beat, then two. Why would she chat to the delivery guy? And was that two adult voices I could hear? A man and a woman?

Something was off. But it couldn’t be … could it? Not yet. Surely not.

Then her stifled gasp.

I breathed in, hard. But I was still reluctant to leave Giles, the books and pens at the table. If I didn’t move, everything would stay the same. The cluttered table, the peaceful room, the pristine house. My house, that I’d fought so hard for. I was paralysed.

‘Mum!’

Now there was no mistaking the bleat of fear in Emmy’s voice. But I sang out, ‘No need to yell, love,’ as though she was just being a pain as per usual. I pushed myself up, felt a twinge. It had been a long day, my muscles ached. That morning pilates class. And the rest. I even remembered to give the spag bol a quick stir as I passed the stove.

‘Mum!’ came the shout again, desperate now.

‘Coming.’

But as soon as I got out into the hall, there was no more escaping it. The door was flung wide open. Cold air, gusting in, knifing us after the sizzling day. Normally, I would have told Emmy off, letting the heat out, letting too many curious neighbours peer in, but my eyes flew straight past her to the two figures in the doorway, silhouettes bulky against the cold blue lights pulsing from their car.

Police.

This was real. It was actually happening. I felt sick, but my voice stayed steady.

‘Patrick,’ I said, looking from one granite face to the other, automatically reaching for Emmy. She burrowed her head into my side. I heard the maths book thud heavily from Giles’s hand, his chair scrape back. He ran out into the hall. And then we were three.

Chapter 1
Now
Louise

Looking back on that night, I see the whole thing playing out like one of those jerky black-and-white newsreels. Some bits speeded up, some in slow motion. That policewoman moving towards me, breezing down my hall as though she owned the place – this part was fast, much too fast. Then, when we’d all reached the kitchen, time got stuck, snagging on her brutal words. Patrick. Dead.

Then my mouth was open in a big, round O. Was that right? I didn’t know what to do, how to be. Where to put myself, even in my own home. There I was, backed up against a unit, the handle pressing into me. And wearing Lycra, of all things. I was suddenly horrified. I should have been in black, a proper widow’s weeds, but instead, I stood there in my least favourite yoga pants, with the waistband going and the colours clashing.

The kids had no such qualms, they just did what came naturally, both running to me. Giles slamming into my side so that the bruise was visible the next day, Em trying to crawl almost up into my arms like the baby she’d so recently been. They knew what to do, what was necessary, without being told. The three of us, then, clinging together as though we were on a raft and too much motion would pitch us off into the deepest, darkest sea. A little clump of sorrow. That felt right at least.

Even if you are ready for the news – if someone’s being dying of cancer for years, say – there is still no preparing you for the actual moment when you hear. The gulf between your acceptance of the way things must soon be, and the bald fact itself, is as big as the divide between the living and the dead. That last goodbye, the final slam of the door. Patrick gone, already?

Now time was moving like treacle, as I tried to compute it all, get my head round it. Patrick was beyond explanations, apologies, reproaches. All the opportunities I’d had over the years to sort things out, call a truce, make things better, or even just to enjoy life with him, were just ashes now.

Of course I asked, I had to. I forced the mask that was now my face to frame the question. Whispered it over their heads. ‘What happened?’ I didn’t want the kids to hear, but I knew it had to be done.

‘A fire. At the office.’

The heads that had been buried into my side lifted at that, both of them. ‘Dad hates fires,’ said Giles. We were the only house that didn’t have a big shiny barbecue in the garden. No scented candles. And the fireplace by the sofas was gas, flicking on and off with a remote control.

I couldn’t quite see Giles’s face from the angle he had found, but I could imagine it crumpling, like all the times he’d cried as a small child. The mouth suddenly shifting sideways, the rest of his face creasing over it as though to hide the shame of giving in to tears. Em cried differently, so much more openly. Her face now was as wet as though she’d been under the shower. She held it up to me, my beautiful broken-hearted girl. I pressed a kiss onto the top of her hair, with its summer holiday scent, the coconut shampoo she loved. Which I would now forever associate with this moment. I wrapped my arms tighter round the two of them.

‘There were smoke alarms …’

‘Yeah. Didn’t work, did they?’ This was the stocky little policewoman, her head on one side as she looked up at me, face as shuttered as an off-licence after closing time. ‘Or no one heard. Inhalation.’

Did she want a reaction of some sort? I could do nothing but stare back at her, feeling these two smaller hearts beating against mine. It made me think of all those months when I’d carried them inside me, long ago. I didn’t have time to appease her, too. Things were going fast again.

‘Do I need to …?’ I tailed off. Swallowed. I couldn’t bring myself to say it. Someone had to identify him, didn’t they? Go to the mortuary, give that nod so they’d pull back the sheet. I felt nauseous at the thought.

‘No, that’s being taken care of.’ The policewoman looked at her notebook briefly. ‘His mother.’ There was a stab of pity for my mother-in-law, but also a wave of relief. The building?’ She looked back at me. Her eyes, dark as currants, were narrowed, expectant. Had there been a question?

‘Sorry?’

‘The building.’ She tapped the notebook with her pencil. ‘It would have been insured?’ she persisted. This time she was shushed by her colleague. A big, kindly man. Now he apologised, put a hand very briefly on my arm. His knees creaked slightly as he bent forward, almost like a toy policeman. He had the kind of pale skin that mottles with the sun, hair that would have been ginger once but was now the colour of a British beach. His eyes were a watery blue. Patrick had had a polo shirt that exact shade. My sight blurred suddenly. At last. ‘So sorry for your loss. Anyone we can call?’

I shook off all offers of help, even their suggestion that they make me tea or coffee, though later I realised that had no doubt come over as churlish. The widow should accept things gratefully, graciously, after all. Pity is her lot. And the woman officer was probably dying for a cuppa, not to mention a biscuit or three. Never mind. I had very little faith in the ability of that great cure-all, hot sweet tea, to improve this mess. I just wanted these two out, away, gone, with their platitudes and darting eyes. I wanted the doors shut, I wanted to sit and comfort my babies. To push all this horror far away. As far away as my dead husband now was.

So the three of us could start living again.

Chapter 2
Now
Becca

PC Becca Holt turned to leave Louise Bridges’ house, whacking her hip painfully against the doorjamb. She still wasn’t used to the extra inches her stab vest put on her, together with all the paraphernalia of radios, cuffs, pocketbook … the list went on. Ironic, really, when you thought about the hours – who was she kidding, years – she’d put into dieting. In this little lot, you couldn’t see if she weighed eight stone or fifteen.

She remembered her mum’s face. Wanting to be proud of her daughter, longing to cheer her on after all that training. Then, seeing her in the full kit, she hadn’t been able to hide her disappointment, rushing forward to try and yank Becca’s stab vest down over her bust. But there was nothing even the most determined mother could do to make this rig look attractive. So much for all that stuff about uniforms being sexy. ‘Well, the hat’s nice, anyway, love,’ her mum had finally managed, turning from her with a sigh at the grandchildren she’d never have.

Becca felt it all the more sharply, ambling out of Louise Bridges’ place. There was something about the woman’s freshly ironed blonde hair, even the way she stood there, pushing the wooden spoon into the spaghetti Bolognese once she’d finally allowed them over the threshold, her work-out gear (athleisure, Becca sniffed) gliding over yards of leg. On Becca, those leggings would have been creased like an accordion, cratered like asphalt after snow. But Mrs Bridges’ thighs were as smooth as an airport runway, and as long. Cellulite? How very dare you.

All that shouldn’t matter. It was irrelevant, absolutely. And so was the fact that the house – what a house! – was like something you’d get in a sitcom about perfect family life. Though Becca had a suspicion that there weren’t many laughs around the place, even at the best of times.

It was all very serious. Seriously stylish. The huge, open-plan kitchen-cum-living room, with high-gloss units that looked like they were polished on the hour, every hour. The whisper-grey velvety sofas in an L-shape, arranged around a plasma telly on the wall, just an inch short of out-and-out vulgarity. The large room, lined floor to ceiling in books, that they’d passed in the passageway. Even that kitchen table, casually strewn with the homework that had been abandoned and sheaves of papers that Louise had rapidly gathered up and tried to shove in a cupboard. A mess that wasn’t really messy. It gave Becca a pang. It was a symbol of family life, something that, according to Becca’s mother’s ill-concealed fears, she was unlikely ever to achieve, going on the way she did.

Becca was acutely conscious that she and her partner, PC Tom Burke, had lumbered into this show home like creatures from a sub-standard zombie movie, where things went wrong and life got tangled.

Was she crazy, envying a woman who’d just had the news they’d broken? It was surely the worst thing that could ever befall a wife, a family. How could Becca even be thinking this way?

It was the woman’s behaviour. Yes, she’d clasped her children to her, yes, she’d asked all the obvious questions. So far, so normal. But had she really been shocked? As shocked as you should be if you got the news, out of the blue, that your husband had just died a horrible death? Becca really didn’t think so. It had been more like the kind of reaction you’d have when a nasty rumour about a nextdoor neighbour is confirmed. It’s unpleasant, it’s upsetting for the kids – but it’s something you’re half-expecting.

No, there was something out of kilter with this Louise Bridges woman. She’d been too watchful, too guarded. And, crucially, she was not nearly sad enough, in Becca’s view.

It was a cliché, a woman breaking down, sobbing, turning pale, tearing out her hair. Expressing some genuine emotion. But clichés existed because, well, they fitted the bill.

Maybe it was because Becca herself cried if she ran out of teabags. She might be built like a tank, yes – and now like a tank festooned with novelty items, like cuffs and sticks – but she was a marshmallow inside, welling up whenever she saw an anxious child or a dog waiting for its owner outside a shop. She felt for others. But not for this Louise Bridges woman, it seemed. Becca had looked on for once, a disinterested observer. She hadn’t had to restrain herself from coming over all unprofessional, hugging and crying too.

The fact that Becca’s not-insubstantial sympathy gland wasn’t working, at this of all times, said something. Surely?

As she buckled up in the car, she turned to Burke. ‘What’d you make of her, then?’

Burke was silent for a moment, his face hard to read in the gloom. The drive at the Bridges’ place was long, and the streetlights were a way off. Becca waited.

‘Totty, obviously.’

She swatted his arm and he laughed. ‘Well, come on, I’m only human. Yeah, she’s a bit chilly, if that’s what you’re getting at. But seriously, Becca, what are you expecting, news like that? She’s not going to welcome us like long-lost members of the family.’

‘No. But don’t you think something was odd? The way she kept stirring that bloody stew?’

Burke faced the front for a moment, hand on the ignition. ‘Bolognese, you heard her. They’ve got to eat. She’s got to feed the kids, whatever’s happened.’

‘But—’

‘Becca. Not everything is more complicated than it looks.’ He sighed, his hand dropping from the car key, resigned. She knew he found her attitude tiring at the best of times. ‘Poor woman, give her a chance. You’re expecting her to be on the floor. She can’t do that with the little ’uns. She’s got to be strong, hold it together.’

‘What about when she saw us at the door? The first thing she said was “Patrick!” She knew. She knew what was up. That means – that means she must have had something to do with it.’

There was a silence. Becca could almost hear the cogs turning. Finally Burke spoke. ‘You’re right, that was a bit funny maybe. But you’re making a huge leap. She makes a wild guess, so she’s a killer. Nah, I don’t think so. Look at it the other way, who else would we be coming about? The rest of the family was already sitting there. It was obvious, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes but … she didn’t know we were coming with bad news, did she? Could have been anything. Neighbour’s cat missing, whatever.’

‘People always know, Becca. There’s an instinct.’

Becca hated it when Burke adopted that lofty ‘seen it all before’ tone. She tried again. ‘Yes, but when we asked her if she wanted someone with her? If she wanted us to ring her mum, for example.’

Burke gave her a look. She could just about interpret it as exasperation in the gathering dusk. ‘I can’t think of anything worse than having my mum around in a situation like that.’

‘But what about your kids? Wouldn’t it be good to have their gran there?’

‘You’re making a lot of assumptions. Not every family works like yours. Mine aren’t crazy about their nan, she’s pretty strict. Maybe Mrs Bridges, or whatever, is the same? Maybe they just don’t get on?’

‘OK, so not her mum – but why not another friend? Is she seriously going to sit there all night on her own with those kids? After what we’ve just told her?’

‘Why not? Maybe she wants to get her head around it first. Maybe she doesn’t actually have any friends. Basically, Becca, that’s not a crime.’

‘I’m not saying it is, but—’

‘You’ve got to stop expecting everyone to be the same as you. When you’ve been doing the knock for as long as I have, you’ll realise people take it all ways. Forget the textbook, forget what you think you’d do.’

A cold drizzle started to fall. The windscreen wipers were soon beating a soothing tempo, as English as a nursery rhyme.

‘Truth is, you won’t know till you’re there. Where she’s sitting now. Just pray you never are,’ Burke said, turning the key at last, putting the car into gear with his usual heavy deliberation and signalling to pull out.

Perhaps he was right. He had years of experience, in the end. All she had was instinct, and they were always being told to make that secondary to the rule book.

‘Amen to that.’ Becca shrugged, accepting defeat. For now.

Chapter 3
Now
Louise

All I want to do today, the day of the funeral, is make sure Giles and Em get through it, that we all do, as best we can. It’s not going to be easy. There was the delay, due to the … circumstances. You’d think that would make things less painful. It should be less raw. But it’s like pulling the plaster off bit by bit. They’ve had time to get used to the pitch of their grief, we’ve pared down our lives to fit around it. Now we have to open ourselves up again, parade in front of strangers.

Still, if we can keep putting one foot in front of the other, get to the end of this long and dreadful day, then it’s one major ordeal over. I’m not saying we can then move seamlessly on with our lives. I know now that recovery will be slow. But still, it will be one less thing hanging over us.

Em is in a dark-purple dress, one that Patrick liked. Better than black, for a girl of her age. We’ve scrambled together a dark suit for Giles. Boys can look wrong, dressed up in men’s clothes. Vulnerable necks, shiny jackets. But Giles looks good. Pale as his shirt, of course, and so sad, so brave. But smart, well turned out. Just like his dad.

I’d taken one of Patrick’s suits to the undertakers. His best. They’d asked me if I wanted to see him then. I refused, of course.

Unwisely, I mentioned it to the kids and then, of course, they felt obliged to see him. So I had to do it after all. Back to the funeral parlour, the careful obsequiousness of the staff, the décor that was so inoffensive it managed somehow to be revolting. We waited with another red-eyed family, offering each other stunted little smiles. Then we were led into the ghastly viewing room. Real flowers, at least. A pale pink carpet, suspiciously clean. I loathed it all. I looked at anything except the dazzling high shine of the coffin we’d picked, and the snowy white satin around his head. We were a tight little clump again. I could feel their fear and dread, the horror the living have of the dead, but I could feel their determination too. They are the best part of me, that’s for sure.

I shuffled them forward, tried to make things easier, all the while averting my own eyes as much as I could. I couldn’t avoid a glimpse. And the worst thing was that he somehow looked so untouched, after all that he – we – had been through. That dressmaker’s dummy was not my husband. But he was still my children’s father.

Chapter 4
Now
Becca

Becca Holt stumped into the station building and dropped the results of her shopping trip on her desk. It was cluttered already with clumps of empty Costa cups and plastic bags as shrivelled as autumn leaves. Tutting audibly so her colleagues wouldn’t think it was all her rubbish, she shoved the lot into the nearest bin, hesitating only briefly over whether it should go into ‘recycling’ or ‘general waste’. Even throwing stuff away was complicated nowadays.

Once the decks were cleared to her satisfaction, she snuffled in the pristine white paper bag she’d brought in. Just inhaling the doughnuts calmed her, the reassuring, wholesome smell of vanilla undercut with the hidden raspberry jam. She breathed in a bit too hard and had to splutter, finding a sudden unwilling sympathy for the coke addicts they were constantly moving on from under the arches down near the station.

She darted a quick glance around. At most of the desks, her fellow PCs were sprawled flat or had their noses pressed up against screens. Opposite, Burke was knocking a biro against his teeth in a rhythm that was doing his dental work no favours and would soon be messing with her head. She’d bought the doughnuts to share. She knew she should be tearing open the bag, leaving it on the side of her desk, making a general announcement of her largesse. Getting them all to love her. But bugger that. She wanted them all to herself.

She carefully edged a doughnut up a tad in the bag, ducked her head down, bit and sighed. It was good. So good it was bad. A bead of jam oozed down the side of her mouth and she licked and rubbed ferociously. Didn’t want to look like Dracula, did she? Or be caught snacking, either. She could do without being teased. As she’d discovered, the banter here wasn’t imaginative. Give them a stick, and they’d be beating you with it until you collected your pension.

She chewed carefully and swallowed, the movement making her waistband dig in that little bit more. She felt a prickle of shame. It suddenly made her think of that woman’s thighs. Her first and only knock, and as such seared on her memory. But she didn’t think she’d have forgotten it anyway, even if she’d called on as many of the recently bereaved as the Co-op Funeral Service.

Louise Bridges. That had been her name.

There’d been something about her, for sure. She couldn’t say it had been eating away at her. She was the one who had been eating away, and not at that case, but at mounds of stuff she shouldn’t even be looking at. She knew that. But this was a tough job, physical. She could walk it off. In theory. Unfortunately, her beat didn’t cover Land’s End to John O’Groats. As often as not, she was welded to the seat of her patrol car, and even that was stationary in traffic.

The truth was, it was the kind of work that you wanted to compensate yourself for doing. Demanding, sometimes demeaning. Requiring a lot of patience. Being polite, however absurd the calls on her time. Stepping in to defuse rows between grown men that would have shamed toddlers. Picking drunks up out of the gutter, and still treating them with respect, even when they hurled all over her clodhopping shoes. She needed a treat after a long day – and sometimes in the middle of a long day. And occasionally, like now, right at the beginning of what was, after all, bound to be a long day.

Unbidden, that woman’s legs unfurled in her mind again. How did you even get legs like that? Genetics, that’s how. Her own tree trunks would always be just that, even if she ate nothing but tofu and quinoa from this day forth. She knew that to be the truth. Yet there were steps she could take, to make sure the rest of her didn’t run the same way as her legs. She didn’t need Mrs Bridges rubbing it in.

But that wasn’t really why the woman had stuck in her mind. Or wasn’t the only reason, at any rate. Something didn’t stack up. Whatever her partner said, Becca hated a loose end even more than she hated an untidy doughnut. She lowered her head to the bag again, and nibbled the corner until it was flattened off. Perfect. But was that another bit poking up? She sighed. And nibbled again.

Even the hit of sweetness wasn’t enough to keep her mind off Louise Bridges for long. With a powder-white thumb she prodded her terminal into life. Burke would kill her, but he didn’t have to know. Thanks to her IT degree, she could just sneak a quick peek, set her mind at rest. Then enjoy her snack for as long as the job would let her. She licked her fingers, pressed a couple of keys, realised they were getting sticky and shrugged. This wouldn’t take a sec. Then she could give the whole keyboard a good wipe down. She fumbled in her drawer, found a piece of paper, studied the letterhead and tapped in the name.

A few strokes later and she was in. The doughnut, jam haemorrhaging away quietly inside the bag, was forgotten.

Chapter 5
Then

The first time I ever laid eyes on Patrick was at work. He just sauntered right past me. He didn’t need to tangle with me and Jen, the beautiful bookends sitting on reception. He was already in, shoulders swinging in his sharp suit, security pass wafted at the guard. Not that the fat, middle-aged geezer they’d hired to protect us all would have been able to stop anything other than a rampaging doughnut. Patrick knew where he was going, walked as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He owned everything. The job. The building. And now, suddenly, me.

That confidence. That sense of blithe entitlement. It wasn’t arrogance, he wasn’t really flash. He was just sure, steady, unshakeable. He was in the right place, at the right time. Everything was within his grasp, his for the taking. That definitely included me. Patrick was a living, breathing symbol of everything I’d wanted, my whole life.

I was attracted, an iron filing to a magnet. Stuck forever, just like that.

He gave Jen the ghost of a wink as he passed, shirt like a washing powder ad, glimmer of a smile, then clocked me and something changed in his expression. Too soon, he’d passed us and was at the lifts. On a better day, I might have mustered the boldness to get up, sashay past him, pretend I was on my way to the ladies’. But as it was, I just felt as though I’d been socked in the stomach.

That’s all it takes, sometimes. A look, and your life is sealed.

It was my first day in the job. God, I loved that place, the office building. Looking back on it, it was very ‘new millennium’, as they now say with a sneer. At the time, the shiny glass, chrome and marble seemed breathtaking. A palace to commerce, to possibilities, to a bright, clean future. Smart. Glitzy. Everything I badly wanted to have – and be.

So many things to remember, that morning. Who was who, where everything should go. It was crucial I shouldn’t look as though I was out of my depth. I’d blagged my way onto the temp agency’s books. The middle-aged woman at the dingy office had been deeply sceptical, but – surprise, surprise – the manager, puffing out of his shirt, was dead keen to have me on his books. Probably in all ways, but I just didn’t want to go there, even in my imagination.

This was my second temping gig. The first had been fine; boring. A solicitor’s office. Sitting there, I’d soon felt there was more dust settling on me than on the files they guarded so jealously. I hadn’t expected much from this next booking, as a result. But as soon as I approached the building, I got butterflies. Even the door handles looked like they had more class than I did. Long, chrome rods, running the length of the sheet glass doors. I was reluctant to grasp one, get my smutty prints all over it. But that only lasted a second. They had people who spent their days buffing this stuff. I took a deep breath and strutted in like I wasn’t dirt, like I didn’t come from nothing – as if, contrary to everything I knew in my heart of hearts, I had some sort of a right to try my hand at a better life.

It must have been an Oscar-winning performance, as Jen, the permanent girl, barely raised an eyebrow. They’d taken me on to cover her colleague’s two-week summer break, the idea being that Jen would bring me up to speed, though if I couldn’t hack it, it wouldn’t much matter, as she had everything under control. I couldn’t believe my luck. From the moment I sank into that leather-and-chrome swivel chair, rich and squishy as chocolate mousse, I was determined they’d never drag me out of it. It was beyond me why anyone would want time off from a job like this.

It’s hard work, pretending everything’s fine when it’s not, pretending you know what you’re doing when you really, really don’t. But I’d had practice. Sucking in every possible clue you can glean from your surroundings, your companions, can make the difference between passing unnoticed and getting into, well, let’s just say, a sticky situation. ‘Where are you from?’ Jen’s eyebrows were elegantly arched, but geography wasn’t on her mind. Her eyes travelled up and down as I gave out the mixture of truth and lies I practised every morning. She smiled and returned to her keyboard, shoulders relaxing slightly. She was somewhat reassured. My answers had passed muster. But I’d clocked that my outfit was a catastrophe which needed immediate attention.

As soon as I could, I ran to the loo. This little get-up had cost all the money I had. But it was wrong, wrong, wrong. I looked at myself in the mirror. Shame and disgust blurred my vision and when it cleared, I saw my fancy sheer blouse for what it was. So pretty, when I’d popped it on this morning and slid my feet into my towering scarlet heels. So tarty, now I looked at it coldly, while the shoes would have been better on a street corner. The tiny pucker between Jen’s eyebrows had shown me the terrible error of my ways. Highly polished invisibility was what we were after, as though we’d grown out of our marble reception desk like Greek goddesses.

I was devastated. Humiliated, yet again. A less determined girl might have thrown her hands up at that point, called the agency, asked for something … more suited. But I swallowed hard. Got to work. The desk would shield the shortness of my skirt. I couldn’t do much about the silly shirt, except fasten every single button, right up to the neck. I felt as though I was being strangled, but instantly the look was less … available. Anything else I could do? I scrutinised myself, tried to be dispassionate. The bling. I took off a bangle, then two, and stashed them in my bag. The fewer personal touches, the better. Instead of refreshing my make-up, I scrubbed half of it off, brushed my hair with furious vigour until my scalp burned. I did my best to glide back to my seat with a detached smile, just like Jen’s.

Every morning after that, I pared myself down, shedding hoops and necklaces, dumping outfits I’d saved up for, sloughing off the vibrant shades I’d loved. Working out that they shouted so much that I wanted unsaid. In the space of days, I became a monochrome, sober version of myself. The only ray of light left was my curtain of hair. It hung like the sun in the sky during that long, hot summer. Something told me that blonde would always be the one colour that went with everything.

Sometimes I’d see a hand on my keyboard and wonder who on earth it belonged to. Those tasteful taupe nails, just long enough to show they were high-maintenance, could they be mine? Fire-engine-red had been my favourite since I left school, except when I went for blue or a green or a shrieking neon. But soon I was swiping through my bathroom shelf at home, chucking my little rainbow straight into the bin. That was now definitely in my past. And the mound of jewellery on my bedside table, so beguiling when it was bought? It oxidised almost overnight, showing me who was right. All that glitters is not gold. Lucky I was a quick learner.

Chapter 6
Now
Louise

Standing in front of my mirror, today of all days, I know that, ironically, I’ve finally found a look I can definitely pull off. Well, who doesn’t suit a little black dress? Patrick’s wedding ring round my neck on a simple chain. And lilies – the other perfect accessory.

The rest of it isn’t so great. My eyes seem to have shrunk from crying, while the lids are as puffy as the vol-au-vents which are already standing in serried ranks downstairs in the kitchen for the wake. Well, reception. Or aftermath? Whatever you want to call the ghastly gathering after the funeral, where we will all chat awkwardly until the alcohol kicks in. Then the laughter will suddenly ring out too loudly and we’ll be embarrassed again.

Meanwhile, my children are in pieces and my mother-in-law has barely spoken since it happened. Because of the delay, you’d think things would be less awful. They’re absolutely not. By the time we get to the crematorium, I feel as though I’m floating about a foot above the scene, or six feet below it.

Jill’s arm is round my shoulders, mine round hers, as we progress slowly up the aisle. The children sleepwalk in front of us. It’s like a negative of my wedding photos, all that white tulle and hope swapped for black and nasty pine veneer.

Patrick is already here, as arranged. We meet at the top of the aisle, just like we did before. But this time I slide into my pew, leaving him in lonely splendour on his dais. The shiny coffin nailed down hard over his smart suit. Goodbye, my love.

I planned the service down to the last word but after it’s over I couldn’t tell you a thing that was said, done or sung. I know the pieces complemented him, and our life together, and celebrated our children, our finest achievement by far – and I know they did the trick because I could hear the sniffs behind me from the congregation. Giles and Em too, they snuffle on either side of me, tiny soft creatures again, needing all the protection I can give them. Jill is on the end of the pew, back ramrod straight, knuckles white on the shivering service sheet.

It feels right to be here, instead of in a church. We’ve only ever been fair-weather members of any congregation, only there for the jolly bits, not slogging it out every Sunday. The kids aren’t at church schools so, to put it bluntly, there’s been no need. The last time we were in one was probably Em’s christening, at Jill’s urging. She was too shattered to insist that we hold the funeral there. I’d feel bad about this awful municipal solution to Patrick’s death, but I really don’t have that much emotion to spare. I’m sure God, and Jill, have worse things to worry about.

As far as I know, Patrick had never given a thought to all this – death and the rigorous tidying away it requires. But he would have enjoyed being centre stage, all eyes on him. People often say that, and I’ve thought how discordant it sounds, yet today it’s true. The full rows of friends, neighbours, distant relatives and vague acquaintances who have turned out for him. And quite a number of attractive women sobbing. That would have tickled him. He loved to cause a stir. If he’d been here, he’d have been so busy, up and down the aisle, a handshake there, a kiss, a look, a word. And turning, now and then, to give me that wink.

I think about him as the recorded organ music starts up. It was loud and rousing during the hymns, filling out the gaps where we all blundered, after the first couple of familiar lines. I muttered along for form’s sake, while Giles and Em were hardly audible. What do you expect? They don’t do proper hymns anymore at school, even the posh places like theirs. If they sing, it’s all about dolphins, not Dear Lord and Father and forgive our foolish ways. Jill’s voice was husky, catching on cigarettes and grief.

Now, the organ sound dribbles away, mild and meandering, ushering us out of the crematorium and onwards, to the rest of our lives. We shuffle obligingly to our feet when the celebrant, whose eulogy for Patrick gave new meaning to the word bland, gestures for us to go first. Once again, it’s a wedding march, except now Patrick is being left behind forever.

On the way back down the aisle, where once I grinned from ear to ear, my veil thrown back, ring gleaming on my third finger, my prize the wonderful man on my arm, now I walk uncertainly with Giles and Em, glancing quickly at the friends and colleagues who don’t know whether to smile or not. There’s Patrick’s university friend, they shared a flat back in the day, after graduation. A group from our old firm – it all seems so long ago now. A few more recent clients – I dread the chats to come. The miscellaneous blondes – my gaze skates over them and they busy themselves with bags and tissues, darting out of my view like a shoal of silvery fish. And there’s Jen, kind and lovely Jen. Still gorgeous. Still with that idiot Tim. She gives me such a lovely smile. Ah, Stacy Johnson, my best friend, right in the middle of a row. She’s in bits. Of course she is. I try not to catch her eye. I really can’t afford to set myself off again. I need to hold it together.

Then, in the last pew, I do a double take. The little policewoman. Not in uniform, but I recognise those bold, beady eyes, running over my face. She’s wearing a hoody and jeans. Not even black. Is nothing sacred? What is she doing here? It was bad enough that evening, her stare. But at my husband’s funeral? I hope the children haven’t seen or recognised her. I press them closer to me. Her gaze follows me as I pass. I do a mental tut. Here? Really?

And I swish on out, the flawless skirt of my black crepe dress flowing around my legs.

Chapter 7
Then

By my second day, I’d found a skirt that was within shouting distance of my knees, and I listened like an over-eager schoolgirl, lapping up everything Jen told me. Not that I needed much help to work out how the great bank of phones worked. Yes, it looked like something Lieutenant Uhura would have sat in front of in Star Trek, but I had mastered it in minutes. At least it wasn’t the olden days, when you had to plug in little wires and make a cat’s cradle, physically joining one call to another. That might have given me pause. Now it was just the flick of a switch.

Reception was all about smiling, really. The name said it all. Receiving people, welcoming them, looking them right in the eye. And pacing yourself so you didn’t feel as though your face was going to split after the first half-hour.

Where had I got the training for this? Ushering friends into our home? Ha. Don’t make me laugh. It had all been about keeping people out. ‘The busies,’ my mother called them. Not just the police. Social workers, top of the list. Then all the other undesirables. Relatives, not that they bothered much. Mum had successfully alienated all of them. Various complex grudges that I never really got the hang of, though I suppose everything boiled down to money and sex in the end. Women friends were the same. Sometimes she’d shout about it all, depending how far down the bottle she was. I learned to block out the noise. Then there were the more obvious no-nos – ex-boyfriends, retribution on their minds. Money lenders, occasionally. And, more than once, the bailiffs. Hard to stop them, though, after they’d stoved in the door. All of the above could fit more than one category, a Venn diagram with more circles than hell.

So my instincts were to curl up, protect myself, hide from the light. But I was desperate for this to work. So I learned. And soon, I blossomed. Not in a showy way. Concealing my feelings was one of the very few transferrable skills my upbringing had given me. But I could pin on a smile brighter than the chrome of my fancy office chair when I had to. And I felt so much more at home at that desk, than I ever had anywhere else before. Including my actual home.

Partly, that was because of Patrick.

I couldn’t have told you what it was about him that clicked with every bit of my DNA. But it was as though a key had been turned, somewhere. Like a Chinese puzzle, my shrivelled heart was now open, ready to be trashed. I distrusted the feeling. Protected myself as best I could. But it was no good. I didn’t know his name, which floor he worked on, or anything else about him. Yet I was already his.

As it turned out, the more I found out, the more I loved the idea of him. Or just loved him. I asked Jen, all casual, as soon as the lift had swished closed on him that morning, but of course she was no fool. Immediately, she warned me off.

‘He’s a bit of a player, Louise. You need to be a bit careful there. I’d think again, if I were you.’

Whether it was genuine concern for me or not, I neither knew nor cared. All it did was make me keener. If that were even possible. Though those words of hers would come back to haunt me.

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