Happily Ever After

by Alison James

Genres: Holiday books; Women's Fiction; Amateur Sleuth; Private Investigators; Thrillers; Crime Fiction; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

At a luxury resort in the Maldives, two newlywed couples are on honeymoon. On the surface, they seem to have it all. But behind the filtered photos and fake smiles is the truth… Tansy isn’t really in love. Daniel is trying to escape the biggest mistake of his life. Nikki’s past is catching up with her. Arne’s heart is about to be broken. They all have secrets. And before the honeymoon is over, their happiness will be shattered. Because one of them is going to die… This dark, addictive thriller will have you gripped until the final, shocking twist. Fans of Behind Closed Doors, The Guest List and The Wife Between Us will be hooked by the latest page-turner from US top five bestseller Alison James. Why readers are gripped by Alison James: ‘ I held my breath all the way through, wanting, yet not wanting to know the outcome. Spectacular read.’ Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Oh. My. God… I am all tingly inside, filled with excitement of this fast paced, suspenseful, a minute a twist thriller… I had to scream out loud when I finished the book… It took me on a dizzying ride, a perfect roller coaster.’ Book Reviews by Shalini, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Wow what a read!… I was up all night reading this… An absolutely gripping psychological thriller that will keep you guessing until the last page… Full of mystery and suspense with twists and turns to keep you on your toes, I was completely hooked… Gives you goosebumps.’ Once Upon a Time Book Blog, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ Oh my god! This had me on the edge of my seat, read it in one sitting… Fantastic… I was completely gripped… Absolutely loved it, totally deserves five stars. ’ Bonnie’s Book Talk, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

‘ WOW!!!!! Hooked from the first page and read this book in one sitting… Full of tension and suspense. A real page turner, a domestic noir but OMG so much more!!!!! ’ Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Release date: June 22, 2021

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

‘Are these the flowers?’

Pippa Bryant frowns down at the bouquet, laid out reverentially on their bed of white tissue paper. She was expecting blooms in shades of cream and blush. These are garish yellows and golds. ‘These aren’t my flowers.’ She turns to her cousin Lauren, who is acting as her maid of honour, colour rising in her cheeks. ‘Christ’s sake, Loz, I didn’t order these! What are they playing at? They must have sent the wrong order.’

Lauren picks up the bouquet and examines it, as though the wrongness of the flowers is somehow in question. Pippa snatches them from her and tosses them back into the box. She feels panic rising through her body, surging from the soles of her feet to the top of her head, accompanied by an insistent ringing in her ears. The flowers are only a symptom of the problem. Of the feeling that something just isn’t right between her and Alastair, and hasn’t been for a while.

Sinking down onto the bed in the middle of the luxurious hotel suite, she fixes her gaze on her ivory lace wedding dress, spread out next to her. It’s calf-length, rather than a long gown, but undeniably bridal, nonetheless. A pair of eye-wateringly expensive satin Jimmy Choos stand ready, next to the dressing table. Her chestnut hair has been swept up in an elegant chignon rather than her usual loose waves, and next to the dress is a diamante headband to top off the whole ensemble.

‘I’m sure we can sort it out,’ says Lauren, forcing a bright smile. She’s a stolid, dependable sort, her blonde bob held in place with a diamond clip, and her curves already squeezed into her blush-pink bridesmaid’s dress. ‘I’ll get on to the florist right away; get them to bike the right flowers over to us. Or something very similar if they’ve mislaid the originals.’

She goes to pick up her phone, but Pippa reaches out and grabs her wrist.

‘It’s not the flowers. Forget the bloody flowers.’

‘Look, why don’t you have a glass of this Prosecco?’ Lauren pours some from the complimentary bottle provided by the hotel. ‘You’re just having an attack of nerves.’

Pippa shakes her head slowly. ‘It’s not nerves.’

‘What then?’

‘I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to get married.’

For weeks now she has been feeling a tension inside; not pre-wedding nerves but a sort of dread. The sensation has been one of watching her life from the outside; watching someone else prepare for her wedding. And as soon as the words are out of her mouth, that sets the seal on it. She knows what she needs to do.

Pippa starts rummaging through her open suitcase, searching for her normal clothes. She pulls out jeans and a sweatshirt and tugs them over her Myla bridal lingerie. ‘I have to go and find Alastair.’

‘D’you want me to come with you?’ Lauren looks down doubtfully at her own long gown and high heels. ‘I mean, we’ve come this far. Are you sure you want to—’

‘I’ve got to. It’s hard to explain, I’ve just got this feeling… you stay and hold the fort here.’ Pippa laces her trainers. ‘And if anyone asks, just tell them there’s a slight delay because of the wrong flowers being delivered. Or whatever. Just stall them, okay?’

Out in the street, patches of pale blue sky are emerging from behind clouds after a squally April shower. Dodging the puddles, Pippa jumps into the middle of the road and hails a cab by almost falling onto its bonnet.

‘Islington Register Office,’ she tells the driver, before hiding behind her sunglasses. They are due to marry at two thirty, and it’s already ten past two. Alastair, always punctual, will almost certainly be there already, probably most of the guests too.

Pippa spots him immediately, standing on the register office steps, wearing a well-cut navy suit and a dark pink silk tie. His skin is still tanned from their recent skiing trip, light brown hair swept back off his forehead. He’s talking to a couple that Pippa vaguely recognises. One of his colleagues… Michael? and his girlfriend, Anna. No, Amy. She has met them a couple of times at the annual summer cricket match and barbecue held by Alastair’s employers.

Michael – if that is his name – moves off, but Amy remains deep in conversation with Alastair. She’s tiny, and he has to bend down to say something to her, making her laugh. As he does so, his lips almost touch her curtain of pale blonde hair.

Pippa is distracted from her mission for a second. Her fiancé is as handsome as ever. Her heart lurches in her chest as he looks up at her.

Her jeans and sweatshirt throw Alastair so completely that to begin with he doesn’t recognise the woman he is there to marry. He is, after all, expecting a vision in cream lace. When he realises that this casually dressed woman with incongruous coiffed hair is his fiancée, he does a double take: startled at first, then concerned.

‘Pips? What’s up? Is there a problem?’

She puts a hand on his elbow and guides him away from the central steps – and the curious gaze of Amy and the other guests who have arrived early.

‘Look, Al… look…’

She lowers her voice, because everyone is staring in their direction.

How on earth to explain it to him, when she doesn’t really understand it herself? She could say that while she loves him, she’s not in love with him, but that’s such a cliché. She could suggest that without pressure from well-meaning friends, or their joint financial and domestic set-up, she suspects they would have parted ways before now. Confess that some tiny inner voice is telling her that he’s not the man for her, but that she has no idea where this feeling comes from.

Anthony, Alastair’s older brother and best man, starts to walk over to them, but Alastair waves him away impatiently, then turns back and glowers at Pippa. ‘What the hell is this, Pips?’

‘I don’t think we should go through with it. This doesn’t feel right. I don’t think we’re ready.’

‘Not ready?’ He gives a little laugh that comes out as a sneer. ‘For God’s sake, what sort of crap are you talking? We’re not kids: we’ve been together six years.’

‘I know, but—’

‘Bloody hell, Pippa, this is so embarrassing.’ He glances in the direction of the curious faces. ‘I can’t believe you’d do this now. In front of everyone we know.’

No mention that he loves me, or can’t bear to lose me.

‘I’m sorry,’ she mutters.

‘So, does this mean we’re off? All of it?’ He tugs his fingers up through his hair in an angry gesture, making it stand on end. ‘Or are we just talking the wedding?’

‘I don’t know.’ Tears suddenly prick the corner of Pippa’s eyes, and she brushes them away impatiently with the back of her hand. Now is not the time to cry. Later perhaps, but not now.

Alastair is sweating. He reaches for his silk pocket square and dabs his forehead. Behind him the gaggle of guests are now whispering to one another. ‘Fuck’s sake, Pippa. What about the bloody honeymoon?’

So he’s already moved on to the practicalities. Not heartbroken, then.

‘Do you want it?’

He shakes his head angrily. ‘No, I do not. Anyway, your parents paid for most of it. You can bloody well have it. Probably best if we’re on different continents for a while, anyway.’

‘Okay.’ Pippa takes a step backwards, with Alastair still glowering at her. ‘Look, please tell everyone I’m really sorry. But let them enjoy the reception. Drink champagne. Dance. Eat the cake. The cake is really good.’

She turns and runs back down the steps, rounding the corner to Laycock Street, where she asked the cab driver to wait for her. As it pulls away, she covers her eyes with her hands, so that she won’t have to witness the chaotic scene she had just caused. The shock is making her shiver, but she knows it had to happen. It was the right thing.

Lauren is, as instructed, waiting in the hotel room. She has kicked off her shoes and is eating M&Ms from the minibar while she watches a re-run of Come Dine With Me.

‘Do you have your car here?’ Pippa demands, opening her suitcase and throwing her make-up bag and toiletries into it. She tugs the pins from her chignon and it falls in stiff, lacquered curls onto her neck.

‘Yes. I left it in the hotel car park, down in the basement.’

‘Great. I need you to drive me to Gatwick.’

Lauren sits up and forces her feet back into her silver shoes. ‘Pip, you’re not…?’

‘Going on the honeymoon? You bet I am. It cost £6,000: I’m not going to let it go to waste.’

Lauren’s eyes widen. ‘Won’t your fiancé have something to say about that?’

‘He’s my ex-fiancé now. And he said to take it. That’s about all he did say, to be honest. He didn’t exactly try hard to persuade me to go through with it.’

Pippa’s voice breaks, and she reaches up and brushes tears from her eyes.

Concerned, Lauren places a hand on her cousin’s arm. ‘Christ. I thought everything between you two was fine, I mean I assumed…’

Pippa zips her case, and manages a strained smile. ‘Let’s just say things aren’t always what they seem.’

Lauren raises an eyebrow, but gathers up her things and opens the door for Pippa as she wheels her suitcase into the corridor.

‘If you say so. Honeymoon for one it is.’

Daniel Halligan opens his eyes a crack and squints upwards, using his hand to shade his eyes from the brilliant sun.

The sky above him is a vivid sapphire blue, with not even the suggestion of cloud. He sits up on the lounger and reaches for the beer that the butler has thoughtfully left beside him, in an ice bucket. The villa’s private pool stretches away towards the ocean, surrounded by a garden of shady palm trees and purple bougainvillea. Apart from the occasional peal of laughter from the living area of the thatched villa, the only sound is the screech of parakeets, and the gentle sigh of the Indian Ocean.

Daniel is on his honeymoon, yet he is lying here alone. His bride, Tansy, is in the middle of a photoshoot, promoting the Excelsior Resort Mauritius to her three million Instagram followers.

‘That’s the deal, darl,’ she explained in her Aussie drawl, with a faint lilt that betrays her Filipino origins. ‘We get a fabulous honeymoon all paid for if I do a little spon-con while I’m there. Just a few piccies for the ‘gram. No big deal.’

But it is a big deal. In order to satisfy her online following, Tansy has to post on social media every day. And it isn’t just a question of a hastily taken selfie. These images are painstakingly curated, and often have to feature the brands who are sponsoring her. She has brought her ‘glam squad’ – as she terms them – on honeymoon, for God’s sake. There’s Ljubica, Tansy’s make-up artist, a sullen Croatian with watchful eyes; and Sebastian, her waspish hair stylist. The two of them are not staying in the newly-weds’ villa, but they spend so much time fussing around Tansy that they might as well be.

Sebastian appears on the terrace now and flounces over to a frangipani tree, where he plucks a large creamy bloom.

‘For her hair,’ he says to no one in particular, pivoting on the balls of his bare feet before sashaying inside again. Daniel follows him, and stands in the open French window watching, as Sebastian tucks the flower into Tansy’s glossy dark hair. She stands on tiptoes at an unnatural angle, stomach sucked in. Her skimpy turquoise bikini barely covers her buttocks, and a filmy white beach wrap billows behind her in the draught from an electric fan held by the devoted Ljubica, improvising a wind machine. As the breeze lifts her long hair, Tansy touches the fingers of her left hand to her face and smiles knowingly into the screen of the phone that Sebastian is wielding.

‘That okay?’ she asks, dropping the pose and marching over to view the results. She frowns. ‘My thighs look fat. Let’s go again. Oh, wait, hold on…’

She scurries off and comes back with a flask of vivid green liquid and a straw, which she proceeds to place provocatively against the tip of her tongue. ‘Got to push the product in the content!’

It’s only now, as she looks up from rearranging the white wrap, that she notices her husband.

‘You okay, darl?’ she demands, in a tone that suggests she does not care to know the answer.

‘Not really,’ replies Daniel, calmly. ‘I didn’t really plan on spending my honeymoon on my own.’

‘Seriously, I won’t be much longer.’ Tansy waits while Ljubica touches up her make-up, then bunches her full lips into a duck-like pout, flask of green smoothie held at a provocative angle. ‘Why don’t you go to the bar? I’ll join you when I’m done.’

‘I don’t want to go on my own. I won’t know anyone.’ He’s aware he sounds petulant, like a child bored with waiting for a parent to finish some adult activity and pay him attention.

‘Well, that’s just too bad.’ Tansy checks herself in a mirror, flicks her hair over her shoulder. ‘Anyway, how about that Swedish guy we talked to the other night?’ She’s looking at the camera phone again, dipping her chin.

‘Smize, darling!’ coos Sebastian. ‘Fabulous!’

‘I suppose so,’ Daniel sighs. ‘If he’s there.’

‘I met his wife when I was in the spa yesterday,’ Tansy goes on, as Sebastian shows her the latest shots. ‘Seems like a nice chick. Well, I say chick – she’s about your age. And they’re on honeymoon too, just like us. Go find them.’

‘I’ll look out for them. But don’t be too long. Please.’

‘I won’t. And if you see them, why not ask them to join us for dinner tonight.’ Tansy waggles her fingertips at him without making eye contact, then goes back to choosing her favourite shot.

Having been dismissed, Daniel picks up his shirt from the lounger, slides his feet into his flip-flops and heads down the path towards the hotel’s main building.

Ten minutes later, Daniel sits on a barstool under the shade of the thatched pergola, nursing a cold beer.

The bar is empty apart from one older couple, but gradually, as it draws nearer to lunchtime, more people wander in from the pool area. They seem to be mostly wealthy retirees or other honeymoon couples. The Swede the Halligans talked to at dinner walks in wearing swim shorts, drying his naked torso with a towel.

‘Good afternoon,’ he says to Daniel, a touch formally. ‘I think we already met? Arne Lindgren.’

He’s tall and lean, with an impressive suntan and wintry grey eyes that crease at the corners when he smiles. His hair, currently wet with pool water, is dark blond, greying at the temples.

‘Daniel Halligan. Dan.’ He extends a hand. ‘Buy you a drink?’

‘Thanks. I’ll have a vodka soda.’

More because he’s bored than because he wants to make a new friend, Daniel falls into making small talk with Arne. Daniel would be happy to stick to the weather and the hotel amenities, but with customary Nordic directness, Arne quizzes him about his job (‘I’m in real estate’ Daniel replies evasively), and talks at length about his own successful digital start-up providing online platforms and logistics to e-commerce subscription services. It sounds lucrative but incredibly dull.

‘Are you here on your honeymoon?’ Arne asks.

Daniel nods. ‘You?’

‘Also on honeymoon. My wife is coming to meet me here in a minute, actually.’ Arne’s English is fluent and barely accented. ‘She is also British.’

‘Ah,’ says Daniel, redundantly.

‘And your wife – she is the dark-haired lady we saw you with? She’s Australian, I think?’

Daniel nods. ‘She lives in Australia now – we both do – but her mother’s from the Philippines. She was born there.’

‘Aha. And what does she do? A model, yes?’

Daniel feels the heat rise up his neck, and presses his cold beer bottle to his cheek. ‘She’s… she’s actually a social media influencer.’

Arne’s left eyebrow lifts the faintest amount. ‘Really? And she makes money from this?’

‘Yes. Quite a lot of money, actually. She has a wellness business too, selling a health supplement. It’s all about online promotion these days, right? Well, you’d know that, from your own line of work.’

He wonders if Arne would also be surprised to learn that one of his new wife’s sponsorship deals was paying for their honeymoon at this very resort. Or ‘comping it’, to use Tansy’s lingo. That, indeed, much of their very glamorous lifestyle is now funded this way. Not that he intends to confide in his fellow honeymooner. He still has some pride intact.

They make some more stilted small talk, until Arne’s face lights up and he waves as his wife walks into the bar. ‘Ah, good: Nikki’s here.’

Daniel wonders which of them was more relieved at the arrival of a social lubricant in the form of a third person. Nikki Lindgren is a slim, attractive woman with dark brown hair cut in a short bob. It makes her look younger than her true age, which Daniel estimates to be around thirty-five. And she is a Londoner: she and Arne met when he was there on business.

‘How about you, Dan?’ she asks, sipping an ice-cold vodka and tonic through a straw. She wears a colourful printed cotton sarong knotted over her bikini. ‘Are you from London?’

‘I used to live there. From Surrey, originally.’

‘Oh, wow! Me too. Well, until I left for uni, anyway.’

He nods. ‘My wife and I are based in Sydney at the moment.’

‘She’s an Australian citizen,’ Arne supplies, keen to get his wife up to speed. ‘And guess what: they are on honeymoon too.’

Nikki is naming some of the places in Surrey she knows, but Daniel isn’t really listening. Instead, he examines her face as she talks: the wide-spaced, doe-like eyes, the square-ish chin offset by a curving mouth. Not really his type, but an attractive woman nonetheless. And bright too. Probably not the sort of woman who would stoop to making a living plugging dubious health products on social media. He is about to ask her what she does for a job when Arne drains the last of his drink and stands up.

‘I really need a shower and a siesta. Coming, darling?’

Nikki nods and slips off her bar stool.

‘My wife thought we should all have dinner tonight,’ Daniel says. ‘You up for that?’

‘Great idea.’ Nikki smiles at him. ‘See you later.’

As Daniel is walking back along the flower-lined paths, a text arrives from his bride.

Taking some shots down on the beach. See you later.

The glam squad has, naturally, accompanied her on this latest quest for content, so the villa is empty. Daniel sinks down on the edge of their huge, four-poster bed in relief. He will shower and change in a minute, but first he needs to talk to someone, to offload some of this churning unease and dysphoria.

He pulls up his younger brother’s WhatsApp details and presses the phone icon.

‘How’s it going, dickhead?’ Ben asks, cheerfully. He sounds as though he’s in a wind tunnel. Probably still on the morning commute, given the UK is four hours behind.

‘Oh, you know.’ Daniel makes no effort to hide his glum tone.

‘No, I don’t know. Tell me.’

‘I… er.’ Daniel closes his eyes. ‘Shit.’

‘Shit, what? What’s going on, bro?’ Ben’s tone is concerned now.

‘I shouldn’t have got married. It’s a fucking disaster.’

‘Well, now…’ Ben is kindly, but there is a ‘told you so’ edge to his voice. ‘I did try and warn you not to do it. She’s not right for you, Dan, it’s so fucking obvious. You said as much yourself, remember.’

Daniel lowers his head into his hands and rubs his forehead, mumbling into his phone. ‘I know, I know. But given everything that happened, what choice did I have?’

The sign held by the limo driver reads Mr and Mrs Whelan.

‘Just me,’ Pippa says through clenched teeth when he remains fixed to the spot, waiting for the mislaid husband to emerge through the arrivals door at Mauritius International. After following him outside and being installed in the back of the car, she switches on her mobile.

It takes a few minutes to find service on the local network but, once connected, her phone vibrates incessantly in her hand as message after message downloads. Forty-eight WhatsApps, eleven missed calls and eight voicemails. She stares at the flashing screen.

Jesus. People aren’t adopting a discreet silence, then. It would be naïve to expect that in the wake of the wedding-that-never-was. In the age of handheld web-based devices, that is no longer how the world works.

Most of the missed calls are from her mother. She has not, however, left a voicemail or texted, for which small mercy Pippa is grateful.

There’s a four-word text from her younger brother, Jonathan.

What the actual fuck?

Just like him not to pussyfoot around the situation. The messages from her girlfriends are more sympathetic, keen to know if she’s all right. There’s only one text from Alastair, the last of the bunch to be sent. Pippa calculates from the time stamp that it must have been in the early hours UK time.

When you get back, there’s stuff we need to talk about. A

That was Alastair: practical, sensible, unemotional. She sends him a brief reply saying she has arrived safely and that she will be in touch. Then she switches off her phone.

The Excelsior Resort sprawls around the curve of Turtle Bay, fringed by a pale gold beach and huge palms whispering in the light breeze. The sky is a clear, bright blue.

Pippa approaches the reception desk with a degree of self-consciousness. The staff are expecting a freshly married couple, and here she is alone; crumpled, sweaty and pale, in a place where everyone else is tanned and glamorous.

‘I’m here by myself,’ she tells the girl at the desk. As if that isn’t obvious enough. ‘My… fiancé was unable to travel.’

This news is greeted with a sympathetic smile and a glass of fruit punch. She drinks half of it, just to be polite, then a charming man called Kaleem drives her and her luggage to her room in a golf cart. She and Alastair weren’t able to stretch to one of the villas with a private pool, but the thatched pavilion is still extremely comfortable, with a sunken marble bath and a terrace overlooking a fragrant tropical garden.

Pippa takes a shower and stretches out on the pristine bed in her complimentary bath robe, having first closed the shutters. She flew overnight and was awake for most of the flight, yet is still unable to sleep. A forest fire of emotions rages through her, ranging from relief to regret to fear. Alastair has been at the centre of her life for the past six years. Yes, the romance between them had faltered – or was it ever there at all? – but they share a home together, they have joint household accounts and bank accounts, they have the same friends. They became fully formed adults together, making a simultaneous transition from carefree, hedonistic twenty-somethings to established, mature thi. . .