The Ex-Wife

by Jess Ryder

Genres: Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

You’ve got everything she wants....

Newly married Natasha has the perfect house, a loving husband, and a beautiful little girl called Emily. She’d have it all if it wasn’t for Jen, her husband’s ex-wife who just won’t leave them alone....

Then Natasha returns home one day to find her husband and Emily gone without trace. Desperate to get her daughter back, Natasha will do anything even if it means accepting an offer of help from Jen. But can she trust her? And do either of them really know the man they married?

If you loved The Girl on the Train, Gone Girl or The Couple Next Door, then this dark, twisting psychological thriller from Amazon best-seller Jess Ryder is guaranteed to grip you.

"This is, without a doubt, one of the best psychological thrillers I have read this year.... OMG this book is so darn good!.... I kept telling myself, 'Just one more chapter', then before I knew it, I had devoured it in one day! If you are looking for a fast-paced engaging read, this is the book for you! I highly recommend giving it a whopping 5 stars." (Sistas with Books Book Club, 5 stars)

Release date: June 5, 2018

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

Anna

Usually I walk home the pretty way, crossing the river by the iron bridge and skirting what’s known as the Rec, several large fields divided into sports pitches. But there’s a music festival going on this weekend and my route has been cut off by temporary fencing and plastic tape, the sort you see at crime scenes. Lingering by the paling, I watch the kids queuing up to collect their wristbands. A hippy couple – colourful tattoos and matted dreadlocks – are waiting with a little girl in a pushchair piled high with camping equipment.

Time to go home – not that it feels like home yet. Time to go back, anyway.

There’s no way across the fields, so I’ll have to retrace my steps over the bridge and take the road instead. But when I get there, it’s closed – festival traffic only. A steward in a high-vis waistcoat tells me I’ll have to go ‘round the back’. The back of what? I wonder.

Unlike most of the people who live here, I wasn’t born in this town. I’ve only been here for a few months, restricting my movements to the walk to and from work and the bus ride to the big supermarket near the rugby club. Margaret in Finance has promised to take me to a match when the season starts up again. Unfortunately I can’t stand rugby, or any kind of sport for that matter, but Margaret’s taken me under her wing and it’s going to be hard to refuse. I need to start making some new friends, preferably closer to my own age, but I’m not ready yet.

‘Round the back’ seems to mean via the industrial estate – a maze of flat-roofed units, most of them for rent, with grilles at the windows and ragged grass growing through their tarmac frontages. Metal fences line the dismal streets, rusty padlocks clustering at the gates. I pass security cameras, Beware of the Dogs signs and laminated notices boasting twenty-four-hour patrols. All lies. The units are deserted and there’s nothing left to steal.

As if on cue, a man walking a vicious-looking dog comes around the corner, heading my way. He looks straight ahead, but the animal strains at the leash to give me a good sniff as we pass each other. I turn the corner and almost collide with a group of teenagers sitting on a low wall with their legs outstretched. A couple of them are circling the road on small-wheeled bikes, hands cocky at their sides, their skinny bodies draped in football shirts. They follow me for a few yards, then race back to their mates.

I shouldn’t have come this way. Nobody else has. Locals clearly know about the industrial estate and give it a wide berth.

The dull thud of a bassline rises on the yeasty air – the first act has started playing, by the sounds of it. I walk on in time to the beat, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, letting the rhythm envelop me. Not the sort of music I like to dance to – too heavy and insistent – but it makes me feel less alone. Comforts me.

Where am I exactly, in relation to my flat? I take out my phone and search for my location on the map. I am a lonely arrow among blank grey squares and nameless streets, the blue line of the river the only recognisable feature. Hmm … Next left, then follow the road round the bend …

The smell from the breweries is growing stronger, even though most of them are north of the town centre and I’m walking south. It depends on the way the wind’s blowing, or so they say. Sometimes I can smell the yeast in my hair, my clothes, in the dark of my nostrils. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll soon get used to it,’ my boss said when I remarked on it at the interview. That’s how I knew I’d got the job.

It’s not a bad town. I could have landed somewhere a lot worse. There’s a small shopping centre with the usual chains, a cinema, a brewing museum and an arts centre converted from an old bottling plant. I picked up an events brochure the other day and saw that they ran classes – ceramics, jewellery making, life drawing, t’ai chi, Zumba. The usual stuff, and a lot cheaper than I’m used to. I ought to give one or two a try. I can’t stay in the flat every evening on my own, I’ll go mad.

Correction. I’m already mad. It’s my new normal. I’m supposed to be ‘learning to love myself’ again, but it feels impossible.

As the road curves round, a low single-storey building comes into view. It’s painted red, white and blue, with a battered sign above the metal-shuttered door: Morton Mechanics – MOT Wile-U-Wait. A black BMW with tinted windows is idling outside; the passenger door is open, and I can see a pair of bare legs hanging over the edge of the seat. White, hairless calves. Girl’s legs. Yellow flip-flops dangling from her dirty-soled feet. She’s lying on her stomach and it looks like she’s got her head in the driver’s lap.

Aggressive grime is blaring out of the car’s sound system, drowning out the comforting beat of the concert, claiming all the available airspace. Another girl, wearing baggy combat-style trousers and a parka, is sitting on the ground, her back against the garage door. She’s swigging a can of Special Brew and toking on a joint; dressed for winter, even though it’s late June. Two men are close by, standing in a huddle facing the wall, heads bent over something. One of them is tall and heroin-thin, wearing loose jogging bottoms and a baggy vest. The other is shorter and looks better fed – hair in rats’ tails, torn jeans hanging off his backside, his jacket filthy with mud and splashes of paint. The whole picture comes into focus. So this is where you come if you want to score in the pleasant market town of Morton on Trent.

Don’t pause. Don’t stare. Move on but don’t run. Just look ahead and walk past at an even pace.

As I approach the garage, the girl sitting on the ground barks something and the men turn around. Their eyes immediately settle on my phone, like flies on jam. I’m stupidly still holding it, trying to follow the map – it’s too late to put it away now. The shorter one stays back, shrinking into the shadows and turning his face to the wall, but the tall one lurches forward.

‘Oi!’ he shouts. ‘Oi! You! What you doin’?’ He stands in my way, blocking the pavement, his shaved pinhead nodding, hands on scrawny hips.

‘Lost, are ya?’ the girl in the parka cackles, getting to her feet and tottering over.

My mouth goes dry, my knees are wobbling. I step to my right, but he jumps in front of me, so I go left and he does the same. My way across the road is blocked by the parked BMW, and there’s no point in turning around and running. I’m wearing my work heels, and even though he’s a junkie, he’d still be able to catch me. Then there’s the pissed girl, and the skulking guy, not to mention the prostrate flip-flop wearer and whoever else is in the car. I don’t stand a chance.

He holds out his hand. ‘Come on. Make it easy.’

I know I should just hand everything over. The phone, my bag, my purse with the credit cards and fifty pounds in cash and, most important of all, that precious photo I’ll never replace. A voice inside me is pleading, Don’t protest, don’t fight, just let him have the lot. But I can’t. I just can’t.

‘It’s not fucking worth it,’ the other guy shouts from the shadows. ‘She’s seen your face, tosser.’

I gasp, recoiling as if something’s just hit me hard in the chest.

That voice.

I’d know it anywhere.

But it can’t be him. Impossible. It’s just my brain tricking me. The stress of the moment bringing everything back, mixing the past with the present. It’s a coincidence, that’s all. There’s no way it can possibly be him.

‘It’s the festival, right?’ the voice calls out again. ‘Pigs swarming all over the fucking place, man.’

I should be terrified, but my senses are distracted. It’s the same slight rasp in the back of his throat. Same intonation. Same slow rhythm. I peer into the shadows, but all I can see is the back of his head. No … the hair’s too long, he’d never let it get that filthy. And his clothes are disgusting. It can’t be him. No way would he have sunk that low.

I suck in my cheeks to find enough saliva to speak. ‘I don’t want any trouble. Just let me walk on, and I promise I won’t go to the police.’

The familiar voice pipes up again. ‘Let her go, man.’

The pinhead guy steps aside grudgingly. ‘Go on, then. Fuck off.’

I walk past him with my head held high. I’m shaking violently, but I keep my balance and don’t speed up, even though I’m desperate to kick off my shoes and run.

Nobody follows me. As I put space between myself and the garage, the music from the car fades and the sounds of the concert take over again. Boom, boom, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4. I walk for another couple of hundred metres, then turn the corner.

The real world comes back into focus and normality resumes. I emerge from the industrial estate and cross at the traffic lights. To my left is a roundabout I recognise, its centre decked with a gaudy display of flowers for Morton in Bloom. Thank God, I’m only a quarter of a mile from the house.

I turn onto Ashby Lane, climb the gentle hill, pass the short parade of little shops and then take the third street on the right.

Mine is the ground-floor flat in the middle of the terrace. The house is gloomy and meanly proportioned; I have two narrow rooms and a tiny bathroom. Nobody seems to live above me – at least I’ve never met anyone, or heard them moving about. Mail arrives every day addressed to a dozen different people, and I put it in a pile on the bottom stair.

When I moved in nearly two months ago, the front door of my flat only had a simple Yale lock. I had a deadlock added and two bolts put on the inside. I pull them across, then draw the curtains at the windows, front and back. My stomach is too full of acid to eat, so I make myself a mug of peppermint tea and take it to bed.

That was close. If that other guy hadn’t spoken up, who knows what might have happened. I take the photo out of my purse and kiss it. Tuck it under my pillow. No more taking it to work, no more secret glances in the toilet cubicle at lunchtime. It can live here from now on, where it’s safe.

The voice of my rescuer keeps replaying in my head. I mentally place a graph of his voice pattern against the one I remember. Are they really a match, or am I imagining it? Thinking about it, that guy looked thinner, and he was a junkie, a homeless person. If only I’d managed a proper look at his face, it would have put my fears to rest.

Was he just being kind, or did he recognise me? Maybe he already knew I was here and had come looking for me. I shove the thought brutally to one side. Get real. That makes no sense. Nobody knows where I am. I’m two hundred miles away from where it all happened. Besides, if it was him and he did recognise me, he’d have been egging his mate on, not trying to save my skin.

So it wasn’t him, okay? I bang my mug on the bedside table and pick up my bedtime novel, my fingers hesitating at the folded-down corner of a page.

But what if it was?

Natasha

I always knew when he was speaking to her, even if I hadn’t heard the ringtone he reserved for her calls. It was the way he cradled the phone against his cheek, containing her voice so that I didn’t have to listen. And the way he never engaged, not even with an ‘okay’ or ‘hmm’. Not that she ever noticed. He could have stuck the phone under the cushion, finished his meal, washed up and made a cup of coffee and she’d have been none the wiser. On and on she went, hardly pausing for breath. She was always interrupting our evenings. I understood why, and to be honest, I didn’t blame her. I’m sure I would have been the same if our places had been swapped. But once, just once, I wished that Nick would say, I can’t talk right now, I’m in the middle of eating, or I’m watching a film, or even just, I’m really sorry, Jen, but I’m spending the evening with my wife.

I took his half-eaten meal back to the kitchen. The oven was still warm, so I popped his plate back in and closed the door. I lingered for a few moments, listening to the silence from the sitting room and wondering what it was she wanted this time. Was it help with some domestic crisis, or did she just need to hear his voice? It was Friday evening and she was obviously on her own, probably halfway down a bottle of gin, too. We’d been here more times than I could remember, and the situation wasn’t getting any better. As far as Jen was concerned, time was not the great healer it was cracked up to be.

The conversation was still going on, so I tiptoed upstairs and gently pushed open the door to Emily’s bedroom. She was fast asleep, her face dappled with plastic snowflakes as her night light whirred above her head. Her strawberry-blonde hair was sticking to her sweaty pink cheeks, her arms clasped tightly, as always, around Gemma Giraffe. I bent down to kiss her forehead, inhaling the smell of no-tangles baby shampoo. She was my first and only, my dearest treasure. Life without her was unimaginable. When I thought of the friends who’d turned their back on me, of the rift with my mother, the disapproval of Nick’s family, the endless issues with Jen – when, let’s face it, I started to have regrets – I always thought of Emily. Whatever price I have to pay, I told myself, she will always be worth it.

She let out a small cry, then settled back into her dreams. ‘Love you,’ I whispered, before creeping out, squeezing the door shut.

To my surprise, the phone call had already come to an end and Nick was in the kitchen, trying to remove his plate from the oven without mitts. He cursed as he bounced it on the granite worktop and sucked his burning fingers.

‘Sorry, I thought it was going to be a long session,’ I said. Fifty-three minutes was the record – I tried not to time their conversations, but I couldn’t help it. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Yeah, yeah. She had a migraine coming on, poor thing, so she had to go.’

We went back into the sitting room and resumed our places at the dining table, but the romantic atmosphere had evaporated. There was a chill in the air and the candles flickered ironically across our drawn faces. Nick looked tired, and the alcohol was starting to zing in my head.

Don’t ask him about the call, I instructed myself. Nick had only just returned from a business trip, and tonight was supposed to be a happy homecoming. I’d gone to some effort to look good for him. There were clean sheets on the bed, soft lighting and diffusers filling our room with exotic aromas. I adjusted the strap on my lacy push-up bra, part of a luxurious lingerie set he’d bought me for Christmas. Everything had been set for a special evening. Don’t let her spoil it, I said silently, but I knew the damage was already done. I sensed her ghost sitting at the table, dabbing her eyes with the edge of a napkin.

Nick tucked into his meal, but I stared at my plate, remembering how lovingly I’d peeled the shallots and fried the lardons in butter, how I’d squandered a good bottle of red wine on the shamefully expensive beef. I wasn’t a great cook, but I tried my best. Nick’s parents were always going on about how fabulous Jen was in the kitchen, whipping up gourmet meals with a flick of her spoon – it was probably true, but they mainly said it to hurt me.

‘This is delicious, darling,’ Nick said, refilling our wine glasses. ‘You really pushed the boat out tonight. Although I’ve eaten so much rich food these past few days, I would have been just as happy with egg on toast.’ So much for all that hard work, I thought, but I didn’t say anything. I was holding on to the remains of our evening by the tips of my fingers. One word out of place and it would crash to the floor.

‘Guess what? Hayley is having Ethan christened,’ he said a few mouthfuls later.

I frowned. ‘Why? She’s not religious. The other kids aren’t christened, are they?’ Ethan was a late surprise, the result of a bungled vasectomy. At forty-three, Hayley was considered to be a ‘geriatric mother’, and the whole pregnancy had been touch and go. Maybe, I thought, she wanted to thank God for his safe arrival. Or more likely she wanted to secure a place for him at the local church school. I didn’t get on with Nick’s younger sister – it was hardly surprising, considering she was Jen’s best friend.

‘She wants us to be godparents,’ Nick said, tearing off a piece of bread and dabbing it in the heady sauce.

‘What?’ I laughed as I settled my fork. ‘But I thought I was the bitch from hell.’

He flushed and looked down. ‘No, I’m sorry, I meant me and Jen.’ A sharp, cold blade plunged into my stomach. ‘Jen’s over the moon. You know how much she adores kids. She’ll make a fantastic godmother.’

‘Sorry, but that’s not on,’ I said, my voice breaking up. ‘It’s not appropriate. Hayley should know that.’ I paused, waiting for him to respond, but there was silence. ‘What did you say when she asked you?’

‘Hayley? She hasn’t yet. Jen rang to give me the heads-up. She’s worried it’ll be awkward for you but she’s hoping you’ll understand.’

‘Well, I don’t.’ I threw down my napkin and pushed my chair back. ‘It’s not fair, Nick. Hayley can’t be allowed to snub me like that. I’m your wife.’

‘She and Jen have been friends since school. It’s got nothing to do with – you know – with the divorce.’

‘Your sister hates me, so do your parents.’

‘No, that’s not fair. They were shocked when I left Jen, but they’ve accepted it now. They can see how happy I am with you, and they love Emily to bits.’ He stood up and tried to put his arms around me. ‘I’ll talk to Hayley. I’m sure Ethan could have two godmothers.’

‘I don’t want to be a godmother,’ I said, shrugging him off. ‘I don’t believe in God. And nor do you.’

Nick held up his hands. ‘But I don’t want to upset Hayley.’

‘No. I’m the only one you don’t care about upsetting.’

‘Darling, that’s not true, you know it’s not true.’

I stopped and checked myself. The last thing I wanted was a row, but it was so difficult not to rise to the bait. I imagined Nick’s sister at home, tipping back a glass of wine with a triumphant laugh. She loved nothing better than causing fireworks between us.

‘I understand how it’s horrible for Jen,’ I said after a moment, ‘but she’s got to let go. Move on. Find someone else. I know that sounds harsh, but—’

‘No, you’re right,’ he sighed. ‘I wish it were that simple. Jen’s been part of the family for years. We can’t just boot her out, it would be cruel. And besides, everyone loves her.’

‘What about you? Do you love her?’ I inhaled deeply, afraid of what I was about to hear.

‘Of course I don’t,’ he said quickly. ‘You don’t even have to ask that. Jen and I go way back, but I never loved her, not really, not in the way I love you.’ His words went straight to my heart and I held them there, stroking them for a few moments.

Then I said, ‘Don’t you think it’s about time you told her the truth? For her own sake?’

‘No. The truth is very overrated,’ he replied without a flicker.

I stared at him disbelievingly. ‘You can’t say that – the truth is everything!’

‘No, it’s not. People distort the truth all the time.’ He crossed the room and stood by the marble mantelpiece, momentarily distracted by a photo of the three of us taken a couple of hours after Emily was born. ‘I’m supposed to tell the truth in court next week,’ he said. ‘The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth – but if I do, I’ll lose my licence. And I don’t deserve that, I’m not a dangerous driver.’ Last month, Nick had been caught running a red light, and when they breathalysed him, he was well over the limit. His lawyer had prepared some story about Emily being taken ill and Nick having to rush home to look after her. The truth was, he’d been entertaining a Chinese investor.

I pursed my lips. ‘I’m talking about emotional truth. Surely it’s wrong to lie to people about your feelings.’

‘Not always. Sometimes it’s better to be kind.’ He walked back to the table and picked up his glass. ‘I want to build bridges with my sister, so I’m going to be Ethan’s godfather. And if she wants Jen to be godmother, well, that’s up to her …’ He drank the wine down. ‘I know it’s awkward for you, but there’s nothing I can do about it. If you don’t want to go to the christening, I’ll take Emily on my own. I’m sure everyone will understand.’

I shook my head. It was exactly what his family wanted, but there was no way I was going to give them that pleasure. I had to stand up for myself.

‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. It would be excruciating and humiliating, but I would cope. ‘Let’s stop talking about it. Dessert? I made a chocolate mousse.’

‘Maybe later, I’ve more delicious things on my mind.’ He approached and this time I let him kiss me. We sank into each other’s arms and I felt myself quickening beneath his touch.

Then Jen’s ringtone shrilled out again.

Natasha

‘Idiots! Fucking idiots!’ Nick stormed off ahead, pushing the double doors so hard that they almost banged in my face. I followed him down the courtroom steps, his lawyer a couple of paces behind. Johnny would get it in the neck now for not putting forward enough mitigating circumstances. The case for Nick needing his car for work had been strong, but the magistrate hadn’t bought the sob story about Emily being ill that night, and secretly I didn’t blame her. There had been no corroborating evidence from doctors, no record of a visit to A&E. Besides, it was Nick’s second offence for driving over the limit.

We stood awkwardly on the pavement, none of us knowing what to do. Forever the optimist, Nick had insisted on driving to court, despite Johnny’s warnings that he probably wouldn’t be allowed to drive home. Now the Range Rover was sitting on a meter that was about to run out.

‘Thanks for that, mate,’ Nick spat out sarcastically. ‘Nice one.’

‘I said you needed a criminal lawyer, not a media one.’ Johnny looked at his watch, as if to signal that he needed to be somewhere else.

Nick pulled at his hair. ‘Three years! I can’t not drive for three years.’

‘I’ll learn,’ I said, trying to be helpful.

He made a scoffing noise. ‘You’d be hopeless, you’ve no sense of the road.’ I wanted to protest, but didn’t dare. ‘Anyway, you’re not going to pass your test in the next five minutes, are you?’ He pulled out his phone and switched it back on, tapping the screen impatiently until it sprang to life, shouting at his PA above the traffic. ‘Lola? Can you get someone to come and pick up the motor? … Yes, they’ve banned me … Bastards.’ Johnny took the opportunity to mime goodbye and made a hasty exit in the direction of the Tube. ‘Three fucking years … Yes, three. I know … Rob or Charlie, whoever’s free … We’ll find a café. Get them to text me when they get here. Quick as poss, we’re on a meter, okay?’

There was a little Italian around the corner, and Nick planted me there like left luggage while he stood outside on the pavement making more business calls he said couldn’t wait. I sipped my flat white and looked anxiously at the time. Emily’s nursery session finished in an hour. If someone didn’t arrive soon, I’d have to get a taxi.

I was fed up with his insistence that I would make a terrible driver. What had started out as a joke seemed to have morphed into an irrefutable fact. It all went back to our first encounter, the plot like something out of a rom-com movie.

It was about half-eight in the morning and I was cycling to work. The traffic was at a standstill all the way into the city centre, so although the lights were green at the junction, there was nowhere to go. The cars were sensibly waiting behind the yellow box, allowing traffic coming from the other direction to turn right. But I was in the bus lane, speeding downhill in the sunshine and feeling smug as I flew past the queuing traffic. Okay, I was on the inside of a lorry, so I couldn’t see what was happening across the other lanes. I was taking a risk. I realise that now, but at the time I was just heading for that green light. I didn’t notice the Range Rover until it’d already turned. It crossed over the red tarmac bus lane, clipping the edge of my bike with its front bumper and sending me flying over the handlebars. I remember somersaulting through the air and feeling, for half a second, weightless and graceful. I remember hitting the ground hard, but thankfully not head first. I remember looking up and our eyes meeting.

He was standing over me, white-faced and open-mouthed, gasping as if he’d just emerged from deep water. I swore at him loudly and refused his hand when he tried to help me to my feet. I carried on giving him a mouthful about 4x4s and the Highway fucking Code, but he didn’t protest, just nodded and apologised about a dozen times.

Even then, mid rant, some other part of my brain clocked that he was good-looking. He was wearing a sharp grey suit, a plain white shirt (no tie) and highly polished black shoes. Nice, even features. His salt-and-pepper hair was well cut and he had a tightly clipped beard. About forty, I thought. Smart and obviously well off. I was twenty-five, badly dressed and flat broke.

‘Let me get the car out of the way,’ he said, climbing back into the driver’s seat and turning onto the side street. The wheel of my bike was twisted and a brake cable had snapped. I dragged it to the side of the road and leaned it against a garden wall. After he’d parked up on a double yellow a few yards ahead, he walked back to me. I was feeling light-headed and I was swaying slightly.

‘Are you okay?’ he said. ‘You might have concussion.’

‘No, I’m fine, it’s just my elbow.’ I peeled back my sleeve to reveal a bloody scrape.

He grimaced. ‘You might need a tetanus injection for that.’

‘Honestly, I’m fine. I’ll see to it when I get to work.’ I unclipped my helmet. ‘Where’s the nearest Tube station?’

‘You can’t just walk off. You’re in shock. You need to rest, have a cup of tea, lots of sugar. Why don’t you come back to my house and clean up? I live just up there.’ He pointed to the hill behind him.

‘Thanks, but I’ve really got to go,’ I said. ‘I’m going to be late. I’m already on a warning for punctuality.’

‘But it’s not your fault, it’s mine. I’ll speak to your boss and explain. Believe me, I can be very persuasive.’ He gave a disarmingly boyish grin.

I felt myself weakening. I was feeling a little dizzy, and the thought of getting some pity points from my boss was tempting. ‘That might help, otherwise she won’t believe me.’

He put the bike in the back of the Range Rover and drove me to his house. My jaw dropped as we swooped onto the driveway. I counted the bedroom windows while he wheeled the bike into the garage and locked it up.

‘I’ll pay for it to be repaired, of course.’ He pulled out his wallet. His fingers hovered over a thick wad of notes poking out from the soft black leather. ‘How much do you think it’ll . . .