The Bride

by Wendy Clarke

Genres: Women's Fiction; Crime Fiction; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

The moment Joanna told me she was engaged, I had this awful feeling that something was wrong. We used to speak on the phone every day. Growing up I spent more time at her house than I did at my own. I’d always imagined what it would be like to see her get married, and now I didn’t even know her fiancé’s name. She asked me to come and meet Mark and I intended to tell her to slow down. You can’t know someone for a month and be sure that you want to spend the rest of your lives together. When I got to Joanna’s front door, only Mark was there. He was charming and gorgeous and nothing but nice to me, and I started to understand. And then he told me that Joanna was missing. The Bride is a twisty, unputdownable psychological thriller that will have you reading until late at night. Perfect for fans of The Girl on the Train, Gone Girl and anything by Lisa Jewell. What readers are saying about The Bride: ‘The suspense literally had me missing a heartbeat because I just couldn't work out where this story was leading me… Had me had me hook, line and sinker till the very end… My eyes were on stalks reading the last couple of pages. Wow.’ Echoes in an Empty Room, 5 stars ‘ One of the best psychological thrillers I have read in a long time, I read this book from cover to cover in less than 24 hours, unable to put it down… It's been a long time since I have read a book that captivated me quite so much. ’ Real Mum Review ‘OMGee!!!!! The twists and turns in the book were unbelievable!! I could not put this book down. I have read a lot of thrillers, but this one has beat them all. It pulls you in from page 1!! A must read. 5 million stars. ’ Goodreads Reviewer, 5 stars ‘Wow oh wow!! I didn't expect to finish this book in just one sitting. I completely and utterly flew through it. This is definitely one of those books which you can't put down because you just have to know what was going to happen next.’ Little Miss Book Lover 87, 5 stars ‘I was not expecting it to pull me in the way it did. It absorbed me that much, I devoured it in two hours!... You are hit with twists after twist!’ Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars ‘ OMG what did I just read! I never even thought it to be like this. This book keeps me pulled in. The first chapter is curious enough to keep you reading. The twist always go higher and higher until it blasts! Definitely unexpected… The twist is definitely commendable, and noteworthy! I never even thought! Though there are things which I made a correct guess but I still didn't expect the happenings. It's a shock! A bomb! ’ Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars ‘WOW! I hope I can give this 10 out of 5! This book was amazing. I did not want to put this down, high praise to Wendy Clarke for The Bride. This book has so many twists and turns it is great. Fantastic read. Recommended.’ Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars ‘The suspense literally had me missing a heartbeat because I just couldn't work out where this story was leading me. It made me doubt myself and had me had me hook, line and sinker till the very end. The ending really made this book and my eyes were on stalks reading the last couple of pages. Wow. ’ Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars ‘Unbelievable! Loved this book. This one blew all the others like it away! Had me flying through the pages to find out what happened.’ Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars ‘ This thriller had it all... Everything I thought I knew, I didn't, and what I read I couldn't believe. Forced to put the book down, I was truly excited to pick back up the next night and read her whirlwind finish. ’ Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars ‘What can I say but wow. Such a brilliant book full of suspense twists and turns on every page. Kept you doubting yourself. So good I read it in one day. ’ Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars

Release date: May 20, 2020

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

Fingers are on my eyelids, first one then the other, prising them gently open. A circle of light. Too bright and then merciful darkness again. When my hand is lifted, it’s like it’s made of lead. There’s a pressure on my finger as something is clipped to it. The rasp of Velcro, then tightness around my arm.

I try to remember what happened. Why I’m here. But there’s nothing.

Through the fogginess of my brain and the pain in my head, I hear voices. A man. A woman. Words moving in and around one another, some coming to the fore before drifting away again: concussion, vital signs, lucky.

Who’s lucky?

The covers of my bed are too heavy, and I try to push them down, but the sharp pain in the back of my hand stops me. When I force my swollen eyes to open a slit, I see that taped to the skin is a thin tube attached to a metal stand.

Where am I? Why am I here?

Then more sounds. The clink of the side rails being raised on my bed. The metallic slide of a curtain. A small jolt as my bed begins to move.

Sliding doors. More voices. A cool hand on my forehead.

It’s a hospital, but why am I here? I’m looking down on my pale face as though from a great height desperately searching for answers, but all my fuzzy brain can conjure is a memory from the distant past – a time when I felt just as alone. Just as scared.

Instead of a hospital ward, I’m standing in the doorway of a classroom, two other new girls beside me. A sea of faces I don’t recognise staring up at us from their desks.

‘Who would like to look after these new girls today?’ The head teacher places a hand on my shoulder and prompts me to step forward. ‘Shall we start with Alice?’

One girl’s hand shoots up before the others, the smile she gives full of reassurance. She looks older than the others. A head taller than the girl who sits next to her and whose expression is registering hurt. ‘I’d like to look after her, Mrs Talbot.’

Pushing her chair back, she stands and walks between the desks, her hand outstretched. Tall. Confident. Everything I am not.

I force my way through the fog that’s enveloping the memory and realise that the little lost girl, with her pale face and ginger ponytail, is me.

‘You’re awake at last. Thank God.’

I’m brought back to the present. There’s a dark shape beside my bed. Someone sitting there. How did I not notice? As they speak again, the warmth of their voice enfolds me, and tears of relief start in my eyes.

‘Is it really you?’

Despite the incessant pain in my head and the memories that hover, refusing to be captured, I know I’ll be all right now.

‘Hush. Don’t talk.’

Her hand slips into mine; the gentle squeeze of my best friend’s fingers is reassuring.

Through chapped lips, I force the words out.

‘What happened?’

‘You’ve been in an accident, but you’re going to be all right.’

‘But I don’t remember.’ I thump my forehead with my fist, sending a jolt of pain through my skull. ‘Why can’t I remember?’

Reaching out, she takes my hand and lowers it to the bed. The pressure of her fingers warm and reassuring. ‘Hush now and rest,’ she says. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m here now.’

Why don’t I believe her?

The feeling that I’m going to die isn’t new to me, but it never gets any easier.

The first jolt shakes me into wakefulness, bumping the side of my head against the plastic edge of the window. Once. Twice. Three times. The noise of the engine is louder than I remember it being before I’d closed my eyes. Before I’d let sleep mercifully enfold me and blank out the awful week I’ve just had.

Trying to ignore the fearful twist of my stomach, I cup my hand to the cabin window in an attempt to centre myself, but, outside, the sky is no longer blue. Where earlier I’d been able to see the land spread out like a huge map below me: green fields and clusters of towns bisected with threadlike roads, there is now nothing but blackness.

Suffocating blackness.

It’s why I never take flights overnight, but the plane had been delayed, and there was nothing I could do about it.

The plane shakes again, and I grip the armrests, glad that the middle-aged woman who’s sitting beside me is too engrossed in her Hello! magazine to notice me. Next to her, the man she’s travelling with, Keep Calm and Drink Beer emblazoned across the front of his sleeveless vest, sleeps on, unaware of the turbulence.

I’m wrong, though; the woman’s seen my white knuckles. She stares at them, and then at me, and I want to scream at her. Stop looking at me. You’re making it worse.

She’d tried to engage me in conversation when we’d first embarked, asking me where I’d been staying. Was it Corfu Town? Had I enjoyed my holiday? Why was I travelling on my own? I could have told her how my visit to my father in Benitses had been a disaster. How instead of bringing us closer, staying with my father, his partner who’s barely older than me, and their baby, had only served to confirm what I already knew – that even if I’d wanted it, there’s no place for me in their lives. How my fiancé Drew’s idea had backfired.

Drew. In the week we’ve been apart, I’ve done a lot of thinking. I hope he has too.

I’d said nothing about my troubles to the woman, though. Why would I? Instead, I’d given innocuous answers, which she’d seemed satisfied with, and when I’d given a yawn and closed my eyes, the questions had stopped. I guess she must have got the message.

It’s the Easter holidays, and the flight is full, but despite this, and my neighbour’s unwanted attention, my growing discomfort is isolating. There’s no one to hold my hand, no one to help quell the growing fear before it overwhelms me. I force myself to look around me. The people who fill the cabin are mainly families returning from their Easter break and groups of teenagers. They look unconcerned. Surely, I can’t be the only one feeling trapped on this shaking plane, the darkness outside pressing in. The only one bothered by the rhythmic bumpiness that pushes my seat belt into the flesh of my stomach. The only one scared the lights might go out, and we’ll be plunged into darkness.

Our row is near the back of the plane, and the queue for the toilets spreads past our seats. A teenage girl, with pink hair extensions, waits with her friend and, despite my distress, I still notice the band of red sunburnt flesh above the waistband of her denim shorts. Corfu had been unseasonably hot.

Another jolt and I gasp. The girl lurches sideways, grabbing at the seat of the man on the end of my row. When her shiny pink nails make contact with the skin of his shoulder instead of the chair back, he wakes and glares at her.

‘For fuck’s sake.’

The girl wipes her hand down her shorts as though contaminated. ‘All right. Keep your hair on.’

Sweat beads at my hairline, and I wipe it with the back of my hand. My fingers are trembling, and I link them before the woman next to me can see. Am I imagining it, or is the plane getting hotter? The night outside blacker?

There’s a sharp ping above my head. The yellow seat belt sign has come on. Instinctively, I feel for the metal buckle around my waist and tighten it, my heart rate rising.

Why is it so hot? Reaching up a hand, I twist the air vent one way then another, but it’s not making any difference. In front of me, there’s nothing but heads. All the way to the front of the plane. Row upon row.

Somewhere near the middle of the plane, a baby cries. Then another, nearer. The woman beside me tuts and shifts in her seat, taking a sip of her wine just as the plane gives another lurch.

‘Damn,’ she says, mopping at her top with a serviette.

Her tray is down, strewn with the detritus of her in-flight meal: the remains of an egg sandwich, its sulphur smell making me feel sick. A small pot, with the foil lid peeled back, offering up a view of the vivid orange jelly that’s stuck to the bottom. Next to her, her husband’s head lolls against the red nylon cover of his fat horseshoe-shaped neck rest, his fingers linked across his large belly. Even if the seat belt sign hadn’t been on, it would be a struggle for me to get out.

Fighting my instincts, I press my forehead against the Plexiglas, forcing myself to breathe slowly and deeply. The reason I always choose the window seat is so I can pretend I’m a bird, free to fly where I like in the huge expanse of sky – not stuck in a metal tube along with hundreds of people. But there’s nothing to see except the blackness. It’s as if we’re no longer moving.

Desperately, I search for the red blink of a light somewhere on the wing, but I’m too far back in the plane to see it. My anxiety rises a notch.

‘Hot, isn’t it?’ The woman next to me is reaching up, twiddling the nozzle of the air vent as I had a few moments ago. ‘Is this thing even working?’

She’s dressed in an orange, sleeveless T-shirt, the half-moon of sweat on the stretchy material under her arm disappearing again as she lowers her hand. I don’t want her to talk to me.

The plane shudders, making the table that’s secured to the seat in front of me rattle, and I wish that Drew was next to me instead of the woman whose bag is wedged on the floor between her legs and mine. He’d know the right thing to say to calm me. Explain how there’s nothing to worry about. That thousands of planes fly through turbulence every year and nothing happens. Only he’d be wrong about the reason for my shortness of breath and dry mouth. It’s the fear of being trapped in the dark with no way out that’s sending my pulse racing.

If I could just get to the toilet, splash cold water on my face, I might feel better, but there’s nothing I can do as we’re no longer allowed to leave our seats. Besides, it looks like it would take more than a bit of turbulence to wake up the man on the end. A child behind is pushing the back of my seat with his feet and the teenage boy in front has reclined his slightly so that the space I have is reduced. I think of the oxygen mask tucked behind its panel and long to breathe in the sweet air.

The woman next to me is talking again, wondering how many people it would take to use up all the air in the cabin. I want to scream at her to shut up because the whine of the engines, the shuddering of the plane and the press of the bodies is becoming unbearable.

The cabin crew are no longer in the aisle with their drinks trolley. It’s been stowed away in the galley. They must be in their jump seats by the emergency exits, their seat belts pulled tight. It does nothing to quell my rising panic.

There’s a humming in my ears that’s competing with the vibration of the engines, and my fingers are starting to tingle. ‘Please,’ I whisper to myself. ‘Not now.’

Because I know what’s happening. Recognise it from before.

As I think of the pressure of air outside the window, I start to imagine the walls of the fuselage crumpling and crushing. The space inside shrinking. I want to get out, but there’s nowhere to go.

Without knowing it, I’ve unbuckled my seat belt and pushed myself up, one hand on the back of the seat in front of me, the other to my throat, pulling at the neck of my T-shirt.

I stare desperately at the woman in the seat next to me, nearly falling into her as the plane drops then settles again.

‘Please. I’ve got to…’

She’s staring at me wide-eyed. ‘What are you doing?’

In front of me, a few heads have turned. They’re wondering what’s happening. Why this red-haired woman is standing up, her eyes wild. Pupils dilated.

‘I… I can’t breathe.’

I feel a tug on my arm. ‘Sit down. The seat belt sign’s on.’

When I don’t move, the woman stretches, her damp T-shirt brushing my arm, and presses the call button; the ding as the light comes on, causing a physical pain through my skull.

I don’t remember anything else.

When I come around, I’m in the aisle seat and a flight attendant is holding out a glass of water to me.

‘Here, drink this.’ She wraps my fingers around the plastic cup. ‘You fainted. How do you feel now?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You had a small panic attack, but it’s nothing to worry about, Alice.’

I don’t remember having given her my name, but I must have done. She’s crouching in the aisle and, although she’s not old, her face is so close to me I can see where her make-up has settled into the creases around her eyes. Her dark hair is scraped back from her face into a rolled bun at the top of her head, tightening the skin at her temples, but her eyes are kind. The light from the reading lamp catches her name badge, and I fix my eyes on it, repeating the mantra. You’re safe. You’re safe.

‘We’ll be landing soon. Is anyone meeting you at Gatwick? Can I call someone for you?’

The words are out before I can stop them. I could have said Drew, but for some reason his name isn’t the one that comes into my head. Instead, another name is on my lips.

‘Joanna.’

By the time I finally get home, after paying the cab driver the extortionate amount of money he’s asked for the twenty-five-mile trip from the airport, I’ve calmed down considerably. My meltdown on the plane is no longer something life-changing, just an embarrassment I’ll have to put behind me.

What I don’t understand is how I let myself get into such a state. Over the years, I’ve learnt how to control my claustrophobia by practising the breathing techniques my doctor showed me and repeating to myself that my fear is irrational. The dark can’t hurt me. But today, it hadn’t worked. Something had gone wrong.

Of course, I hadn’t let them ring Joanna. Why would I? It was just the stewardess’s name badge that had put her name into my head. A name they both shared. No, it was Drew I’d needed. Drew who I’d really wanted to call, to hear his reassuring voice telling me it was all right to be scared. But I didn’t make that call either. He’d still have been in the warehouse, driving his forklift between the tall metal shelves of cardboard boxes. Doing an extra shift. I couldn’t expect him to drop everything for me.

And why would he after the things we both said.

While I was away, I could pretend that it had never happened. Pretend he hadn’t said he wanted to leave. I’d pushed down the hurt and the pain – my anger at my father, and his new family, a good distraction. Now my misery has returned.

The taxi driver has dropped me on the opposite side of the street from my house. The street light picks out the number on the gatepost and, as I slam the door and watch him drive away, the tail lights disappearing around the corner, I wonder what made me give him the wrong number when he first asked me. 87, the flat I’d shared with Joanna in our university days. It was only when he’d stopped the taxi further along the street that I realised my mistake.

Strange.

Compared to Corfu, the evening air feels chilly, and I’m glad I have my coat with me and didn’t pack it in my case. The street looks drab: the sodium glare of the street lights picking out the petrol-black puddles on the pavements and the beige pebble-dash on the fronts of the semi-detached houses. More autumn than spring. There are no lights on in the house, but there wouldn’t be. Drew won’t be back for at least another hour. And when he comes home, we can talk properly about things. Sort everything out. I’ll tell him that I didn’t mean what I said… that we’ll have a baby, if that’s what he wants. Anything… as long as he doesn’t leave.

Taking the handle of my case, I start to cross the road. What is it I’m scared of? Why have I been so reluctant to give him the child I know he wants? I wonder if it’s the conscience on my shoulder that holds me back. The whisper in my ear telling me I don’t deserve to bring a new life into the world. That I should be punished for what I did.

Deciding I should let Drew know I’m home and that I want to talk, I pull my phone from my pocket, typing as I cross. When I reach the kerb, I stop and, one-handed, try to bump the case onto the pavement. I don’t see the car that rounds the corner until it’s almost upon me, just hear the skid of its tyres as it brakes hard. The shock makes me stumble, and I lose my footing. As my foot twists and I make contact with the ground, my phone skitters into the middle of the road.

Through a fog of shock, I hear a car door slam and a woman’s voice.

‘Christ Almighty. Are you all right?’

She’s standing in front of me, and I squint up at her, mortified, realising how much worse this could have been for both of us. The woman’s older than me, about the age my mum would have been had she still been alive. She’s visibly shaken, and my guilt grows. Sitting up slowly, I assess the damage, touching my fingers to my ankle, relieved that it’s probably only twisted.

‘I’m fine. Really.’ Taking her offered hand, I try to stand and, as my damaged foot touches the ground, I find that, although it hurts, I can put my weight onto it. Taking my arm, the woman helps me onto the pavement.

She’s near to tears. ‘I didn’t see you. I didn’t expect anyone to be crossing so close to the corner and—’

‘No, it’s my fault. I was distracted. I should have been paying more attention.’

Seeing my phone, the woman goes over to it and picks it up. She hands it back to me without a word, but I can guess what she’s thinking.

‘Thank you. I’m sorry for giving you a scare.’

‘Have you far to go? Can I give you a lift?’

I point to the house. ‘No, I live just here.’

Taking the handle of the case from me, the woman helps me up the front path and waits while I find my keys. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right? Is there anyone I can call?’

It’s the second time someone has asked me this question today. The second time the name Joanna has been on the tip of my tongue.

‘No, I’ll be fine now, really. Thank you.’

‘Well, if you’re sure.’

She walks back down the path, and I let myself in, lifting my case into the hall and shutting the door behind me. Turning on the hall light, the first thing I see, half blocking the hallway, is a red plastic box. I take it to school with me every day, or rather I used to, and the sight of it causes a hollow pain in my chest. It’s something else I’ve tried not to think about while I’ve been away.

The box is filled with folders of different colours. One for each subject I’ve taught this term at St Joseph’s. English. Maths. Music. Their names clearly labelled on the spines. But I won’t be using them again. Not since the devastating decision to close the school after pupil numbers fell. It was my unexpected redundancy that had instigated my spur of the moment decision to see my dad. That and the thing with Drew. A picture of my father stealing kisses with his young wife when he thought I wasn’t looking, rubbing sun cream into the plump arms of their baby, comes into my head. I wish now I hadn’t bothered.

Reaching my arms behind me, I press the heels of my hands into the small of my back and stretch. I’m too tired to sort the box out now. It will have to wait until tomorrow. Besides, I’ve too much on my mind to think about school.

I hang up my coat on the hook by the door. Without Drew here, the house feels empty. Lonely. Nothing like it was when we first moved in. In those days, it was full of noise and laughter. Drew was home more and on days he finished work after me, he’d call out, Honey I’m home in a terrible American accent as he let himself in. The bear hug he pulled me into would make me laugh and gasp for breath in equal measures.

I smile at the memory. We were idiots then.

I bend and unlace my trainer, wincing as I pull it from the foot I twisted. Using the wall for support, I take off the other one, then hobble into the kitchen and switch on the kettle. The room faces north and even on sunny days feels cool. Tonight, it’s decidedly chilly. As the kettle boils, I look out at the dark little garden. There’s nothing to see except my reflection, but I’m not missing anything – just a square of crazy paving, grass pushing through the gaps. There’s a cluster of terracotta pots that I’ve never got around to filling and in the middle of the paving is a small green wrought-iron table and chairs. We’d bought them at a car boot sale, imagining sitting there on sunny evenings, me with a glass of wine and Drew with a beer. It hadn’t happened, though. I’d been too busy with my lesson prep and, once it got warm enough to sit out there, it was rare that Drew was home before the sun left the garden.

I feel a stab of sorrow that now it’s something we might never do.

My throat tightens, and I sit down at the little kitchen table, the reality of my life beginning to sink in. My relationship is in tatters, I have no job and, if the woman hadn’t braked when she did, I could have been killed outside my own house. Turning my engagement ring around my finger, I start to shiver. My teeth chattering against each other.

I take out my phone, the message I was writing to Drew still there. Pressing send, I touch my finger to the screensaver before it disappears. The picture is of me and Mum taken on Brighton seafront. Walking along the promenade was something we used to do a lot back then when I was home from university. Ten years after her death, I’m still not over the loss of her. Still expect the phone to ring and to hear her voice. If she was still alive, I’d ask her what to do.

It’s getting on for eight. Drew should be home soon, and I wonder if he’ll be hungry. The kitchen is so small that I only need to reach behind me to open the fridge. There’s not a lot in there, just a few bottles of lager, and I wonder what he’s been eating while I’ve been away.

Deciding I’m not hungry, I close the fridge door again, a little kernel of worry lodging in my stomach. Why isn’t he home? Pushing back my chair, I test my bad foot on the floor, then walk carefully into the living room. It’s at the front of the house, and I part the net curtains, yellowed from the cigarette smoke of the previous owner, to look out onto the street.

The drive is empty. The street is empty. But there’s also an empty feeling in my stomach that has nothin. . .