The Woman in the Villa

by Helen Cooper

Genres: Family Life; Female Sleuths; Crime Fiction; Domestic Thrillers; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Don't miss Helen Cooper's next twisty, thrilling read - available to pre-order now!

A holiday to Italy with my husband and his family should be a dream trip. Spending two weeks in the scorching sun, relaxing by the pool, sipping on local wine...

Two weeks of trying to hide what I've done.

When I meet Carmen, the woman staying in the villa next to us, I'm immediately drawn to her, thankful to have some normalcy against the intensity of my in laws. I didn't expect to tell her my biggest secret, one that could tear my whole life apart.

But when I return the next day to beg Carmen not to tell a soul, the house is completely empty, and she is nowhere to be found.

Who was the woman in the villa? Why was she there? Who have I told my darkest secret to...

Praise for Helen Cooper:
'Dark and twisty with a shocking conclusion' Nicole Trope

'Another masterfully constructed novel from the queen of psychological thrillers' Sarah Bonner

'Gripping and unputdownable. There are secrets, mystery, betrayal and twists. The characters were mysterious... The plot was clever and I didn't see the twists coming. The twists were jaw dropping' Reader review ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'Twists and turns a plenty... A gripping read for your sunlounger this summer' Reader review ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'I was gripped by this beautifully, written, intricately plotted, tangle of secrets and lies' Louise Jensen

'An extraordinary read, filled with unforeseen twists that kept me flipping through the pages rapidly. I absolutely adored it' Reader review ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'Full of family secrets and betrayal. I was invested from the start and thought the relationships were all written and developed brilliantly. I really enjoyed this and was left thinking about it for days afterwards' Reader review ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'A brilliant read that had me gripped all the way through' Reader review ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 320

Sample

One

Our hire car zooms up the steep hillside, sun blazing through its windows as we weave and climb. In the passenger seat, I grip the door handle and try not to look down the sheer drop to my right, where a dark carpet of trees falls sharply away. Tom is Mr Blasé behind the wheel. I want to hiss at him to keep both hands on it, but he’s gesticulating, shouting to his parents in the back, talking shop only a few hours into the holiday. I close my eyes. Feel a tilting sensation, like the up part of a rollercoaster, as the road gets even steeper.

Just two weeks, I tell myself. Two weeks with Tom and my in-laws.

Two weeks pretending I’m not screaming inside.

‘… proud to be Umbria’s oldest vineyard, but also its most innovative,’ Tom’s mum, Rosaline, reads from her phone about our – hopefully imminent – destination. ‘Our wines are made using time-old techniques and cutting-edge facilities …’

‘Traditional meets modern,’ his dad, George, barks beside her. ‘People lap that stuff up.’

‘Best Trebbiano in the region, apparently,’ Rosaline says. ‘Last year’s vintage went viral.’

Tom laughs from the driver’s seat, turning his head. ‘Get you with the internet lingo, Mum. Will’s gonna find himself out of a job.’

‘Tom!’ I breathe. ‘Watch the road!’

He swivels back as a bend looms. We veer around it, my stomach sliding with the car, fingers tighter and tighter on the handle. I’m waiting for the plummet. Never did love rollercoasters, even as a kid. But instead the road levels out, and a view of the vineyard unfolds like a shimmering reward. A rustic stone farmhouse perches among swathes of candle-shaped pine trees. Fields cascade either side, striped with golden-green vines, all of it cradled by emerald hills rolling to a blue horizon.

Rosaline lets out a delighted ahhh. George gives a low whistle and Tom murmurs ‘nice’ in the same way he does when I serve an unexpected ace on the tennis court. Not that we’ve played doubles in a long time. But he sounds about as impressed as a man who’s spent his career importing wine from beautiful vineyards still can be.

This place does have an aura. Maybe Tom felt that when he booked it for this trip – his mum and dad’s long-planned fiftieth wedding anniversary celebration. Or maybe there’s a business opportunity in the offing. Cut the anniversary cake and cut a deal with the ­vineyard owners while we’re at it.

I flop my head back against the seat. The car is slowing, the sun softening as we drive among greenery and calm. But the tension won’t melt from my belly and I can’t seem to loosen my grip.

We bump along a track pointed by a sign reading Vigna Eterna – Eternal Vineyard – and past the ivy-covered farmhouse that’s the main winery building. Then on through luminous fields, until we’re surrounded by vines on trellis wires, regimented in their rows yet tangled and wild like shocks of backcombed hair.

Beyond another sweep of trees, a giant villa rises. It’s a stone farmhouse too, three storeys high with shuttered windows and a double-peaked roof. A line of people stands on the front terrace, beaming and waving as if we’re VIP guests. Which I suppose we are – or ­Rosaline and George are, anyway. Fifty years of marriage. A family business built from one wine cellar into a worldwide franchise. Was that what I wanted to be part of when I met Tom? Did I think we’d be celebrating our golden wedding in Italy one day, too?

Tom stops the car and looks over at me. ‘What’s the matter?’ he says, as if we haven’t just been part of the same white-knuckle ride. ‘You look pale. But also kind of flushed.’

‘Is that even possible?’ I flip down the visor to check my reflection. Bedraggled, as predicted. Tom jumps out of the car, chinos barely creased, and spreads his arms as if greeting the whole of Umbria. I clamber out, too. The vineyard staff proffer trays of wine and iced water, and some of the family is already here. Tom’s sister, Imogen, strides towards us in a billowing white dress and a Fendi sunhat that almost takes flight in the breeze.

‘You made it!’ She kisses Tom and her parents, then hugs me, enveloping me in her perfume, rosé sloshing in her glass.

‘Just,’ I murmur.

‘Some hairy roads round here, right?’

‘I thought I was the only one who’d noticed!’ Now I smile properly. Imogen and I were close, once. She’s a die-hard Belmont, ferociously loyal to the family, but she took me under her wing when I first got together with Tom, and we kept up regular lunch dates until … well. Till I started ducking out of them. Making my excuses.

‘So, what do you think, Mum? Dad?’ Imogen turns to them, gesturing to our surroundings. Even in her forties, she’s still anxious for her parents’ approval. All the siblings are.

Perhaps with one exception.

‘I can’t believe Michael’s missing this,’ Rosaline says, as if reading my mind.

Imogen’s smile slips. Rosaline floats towards the villa in her head-to-toe linen, leaving Tom and Imogen to exchange a look behind her back. I know that look. It says, even in his absence, our brother’s her main concern. Then Tom notices that George has started heaving the luggage out of the boot and rushes over. ‘Dad, leave that!’

‘It’s fine. Not even heavy,’ George says.

‘You’re not supposed to be lifting!’ Imogen also scurries to her dad’s side. ‘That’s what the staff are for!’

I watch them, feeling as if a veil has dropped. As if I’ve already left them, blown up my life, but I’m still hovering, observing from the outside. Tom wrestles a suitcase off his dad and signals irritably to one of the vineyard staff. George throws up his hands, grumbling about never feeling fitter. Then Imogen turns and rolls her eyes at me and I’m pulled back into the scene. The glint of a bracelet around her wrist fills me with guilt. They all talk about my jewellery business as if it’s just a cute little hobby, but they wear my designs – or Imogen does, at least. That one’s even from my latest range.

I shake myself and call to them: ‘Stop your wrangling! Wine awaits!’

The magic words. Luggage forgotten, boot left gaping, they descend on the villa in a whirl of clinking glasses and immediate commentary on the wine. I make sure to thank the guy who’s been left with the suitcases, then follow slowly, trying to enjoy the breeze, the pureness of the air.

Two weeks. I can do this.

Two weeks of smiling, surviving.

Pushing my secrets deep down inside.

Two

Imogen’s husband, Cole, intercepts me outside the villa, clapping a hand onto my bare shoulder. ‘Long time no see, Lola. Where’ve you been hiding?’

His palm is cold from the bottle of beer he’s been nursing, as if in defiance of all things wine. Sweat gleams along his thinning hairline and his Hawaiian shirt flaps open.

I fight the urge to recoil. His hand stays on my skin a few moments too long until I shrug it off, an icy print seeming to remain.

‘I’ve just been busy,’ I say. ‘Haven’t made it to the last couple of family things.’

‘Or that dull suppliers’ reception.’

‘No—’

‘Or the new warehouse opening. Also a thriller.’

Has he been keeping count? ‘Like I say, Cole, I’ve been busy.’

‘Urgent demand for necklaces, was it?’ His eyes go to the pendant around my neck – a silver lightning bolt that gave me a shot of courage when I put it on this morning, which now dangles uncomfortably close to my cleavage.

I touch it self-consciously, then turn my back to grab a refill of wine. Cole and Imogen’s seventeen-year-old son, Will, is leaning against a pillar, scrolling on his phone. He lifts his Ray-Bans to flash me a look – a silent apology for his dad’s unique blend of smarminess and sarcasm. I half-smile back, then glug my wine in a way I’ve been trained not to. I stop when I feel Cole watching me with appreciation, as if we’re mutual rebels against the connoisseurs. Pretending someone’s beckoned me from inside the villa, I ditch my glass and hurry away.

The interior of the villa has the same traditional-­meets-modern vibe as the vineyard’s website described. Bare stone walls, terracotta floors, tall windows with wooden shutters thrown wide. But also a flat-screen TV on the living room wall, and a voice-activated sound system that starts playing dramatic classical music as I walk through, making me jump.

Tom is stalking around the massive kitchen, touching surfaces and opening cupboards like a hotel inspector. Sometimes I used to imagine having a child to chuckle with about his habits – Why is he staring into the fridge, do you think? What criteria should it meet? Being ‘Silly Dad’ might have suited him, softened him; kids might have softened us both. But somewhere along the way we missed that boat, and I can’t even picture it now. Can’t tease him myself, these days; I’m never sure how he’ll react.

A flash to my left makes me turn. Will is brandishing his phone, Ray-Bans back in place so I can’t tell if he’s focusing on me or over my shoulder.

‘Did you just take my picture, Will?’

He pans the phone around the kitchen, capturing the floor-to-ceiling wine rack, the solid pine table, the shiny copper pans hanging from thick wooden beams. ‘It’s a reel. For Insta.’

My eyes follow the mobile. On the other side of the room, Tom’s scrutinising the dishwasher, though I’m sure he’ll have paid people to clear up after us this fortnight.

‘Your Instagram?’ I ask Will, ‘Or Belmont Wines’? Either way, I look a mess! Please don’t post that!’

‘People are loving the hashtag-real-Belmonts stuff,’ he says. ‘They’re, like, obsessed with seeing us as a real fam. The rough and the smooth.’

‘Well, I’m not going to ask which I am!’

‘As if, Auntie Lo. You look fire.’ He’s already got the knack of the compliment. But none of his dad’s creepiness – I resist adding yet to that thought. Will’s the baby of the family, everyone’s golden boy. ­Especially ­Imogen’s. She steps into the kitchen then, and Will swings the phone towards her.

‘Speaking of fire, here’s the most beautiful mother in the world!’

Imogen lights up, beaming and twirling in her white dress like a girlish bride. There’s nothing girlish about her stature, though – she has the Belmont height – or the expensive multi-tone highlights in her bouncy blow-dry. Cole elbows past, muttering about her blocking the doorway with her photo shoot. Imogen and Will ignore him and he marches off into the lounge, barging past Rosaline as she appears from that way.

‘And giving total glam gran vibes …’ Will points the phone at Rosaline who clearly thinks he’s taking a photo, not a video, and poses with her chin lifted regally.

‘Nonna in Italian,’ she says. ‘Which is about the extent of my grasp of the language, except for wine terms. Where is Michael when we need him?’

‘Mum!’ Imogen says. ‘Let it go about Michael!’

Will stops filming.

‘Well,’ Rosaline pouts, ‘if Will can be here in the middle of his exams, you’d think Michael could spare us a few days.’

Imogen looks to me for back-up but I blank my face, desperate not to get involved.

‘He’s tied up with work, Mum,’ Imogen says. ‘Apparently. Believe me, I badgered him. But we’re here!’ She loops her arm through Will’s, pulling him close. ‘We’re going to have a perfect, perfect time! Soph and Jean Paul will be here soon and then we’ll all be—’

‘Almost all,’ Rosaline says.

Imogen exhales through her nostrils. I sidestep towards the stairs, mumbling about needing a shower. Heading up, I hear Will diffusing the tension with a joke about Tom’s ongoing kitchen inspection. He seems to get away with it. Laughter echoes through the villa, followed by the pop of another cork.

The villa goes up and up, the staircases steep, the stone walls coarse and cool against my hands. Every room has a giant bed and a welcome hamper full of fruit. Every window frames a lush, endless view.

Mine and Tom’s suitcases have made their way to a top-floor room at the rear of the villa. I peer into our hamper – shiny nectarines, huge peaches, a bottle of Montefalco red – then kick off my pumps and sprawl on the bed, relieved to be alone. The ceiling rises to a peak above me, crisscrossed by wooden beams. Turning my head, I see rows of vines through the window, stretching to the horizon where the sky now blushes pink. There’s a larger terrace out the back, with a long dining table and a pool that mirrors the sunset.

And another villa, I realise, sitting up in curiosity. Didn’t Tom make a thing about having the whole vineyard to ourselves? But this smaller villa is about a hundred metres away, on the far side of a flower garden and a cluster of trees. Peering more closely, I see a red bikini strung up to dry on an upstairs balcony. So, someone’s staying there. I wonder if Tom’s noticed, if he’ll kick up a fuss.

My phone pings and I spin to grab it. So far, I’ve been struggling to get a network. But there’s a message.

I hope you’re surviving. God, I miss you xx

I close my eyes and hold it against my chest.

Then the panic comes, as if Will’s roaming camera might have followed me up here, and I run over to shut the door. Leaning against it, I sneak another look at my phone. We agreed no contact this fortnight. No risks. I mark the message with a heart and then, with a wrench, I delete it.

Three

I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, swaddled in a white towel, when Tom bursts in.

‘Soph and JP are here,’ he says. ‘Are you coming down? There’s food. And Mum wants a big family photo before it goes fully dark.’ He looks at me impatiently, as if he expects me to follow him straight down and pose for a group portrait in just this towel. ‘You’ve been up here ages.’ He frowns. ‘Thought you’d be in raptures over this place.’

‘I am,’ I say, but it comes out flat, and Tom’s frown deepens. ‘I’m just tired. But of course, this place is …’ I look towards the window. The sky is burnt orange now, and a light has blinked on in the silhouetted villa across the way, ‘…stunning.’ I don’t mention the other villa in case it makes him cross. In fact, there’s something comforting about that light glowing in our darkening surroundings.

Tom steps closer and I tense, conscious of my bare thighs below the towel, the fact that we’ve barely touched each other in months. We still walk hand in hand into the business events I don’t manage to wriggle out of. Kiss chastely, smile for the cameras. But he brings his laptop to bed most nights, while I curl on my side, blocking out his huffs of irritation at whatever’s on his screen. Now, as his leg brushes mine, panic grips me. Sadness follows – and guilt, pretty much a constant lately – but the strongest feeling is wanting to shove him away.

‘You in a mood about something?’ he asks as I go still, my heart beating disproportionately fast. ‘My driving earlier? You’re not still pissed about that?’

‘No!’ I say. ‘No, I’m fine. Just need a minute.’

He narrows his eyes, that knee still pressing. Is he thinking we’ll somehow rekindle things on this trip? We’ve managed it before when we’ve been away in romantic places, his laptop banished, both of us making an effort, but now the idea fills me with more guilty horror. Those days seem far behind us. But maybe not to him. Maybe he has no clue how differently I feel about him, about us, about this claustrophobic closeness.

How much things are going to change once this ­holiday is done.

‘Well, chop-chop.’ He steps away and I’m so relieved, I don’t even prickle at his chop-chop thing. ‘Pity the ­person who keeps my mother waiting!’

‘Yeah.’ I laugh weakly, hugging the towel tighter. ‘I’ll be right down, Tom, I promise.’

Come on, Lola. I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. Game face.

I slick on moisturiser and rub it in until my skin sings. A small dash of mascara, lip gloss, and my features come back to life in the steamy glass. I slip a crinkled yellow dress over my head, twist my hair into a bun, and put on my jewellery. My armour. I feel naked without earrings and a necklace, at least.

Deep breath. I’m here. I came. Plenty of people would kill for a fortnight on this vineyard; my friends’ WhatsApp group has been pinging with messages in the run-up, gushing about how lucky I am.

I haven’t told a soul it’s my last ever holiday with Tom. Not my friends, not even my mum, who had her misgivings about him and the Belmonts in the first place – not so easily dazzled as twenty-six-year-old me – but who’ll be shocked I’m blowing up my stable, comfortable life after two decades. Nobody knows how trapped I’ve felt the last few years. That the only shocking part, really, is that I had to fall in love with somebody else to make me do anything about it.

Another deep breath and I head downstairs, following a buzz of voices out onto the back terrace. Everyone’s seated around the long table beside the pool, candles flickering among platters of cured meats, cheeses, olives, white beans, asparagus, and bottles and bottles of wine. There’s a rich, gamey smell in the air, and all the platters have calligraphed labels – cinghiale; porchetta; fagliolina del Trasimeno.

‘Lola.’ Tom’s youngest sister, Sophie, rises to greet me. ‘We were wondering where you’d got to. Oh, you look so …’ her eyes flash to my dress, ‘comfortable in that.’

I smile blandly, used to Sophie’s anti-compliments by now. She’s wearing a jet-black trouser suit – a bold choice for a summer holiday – the waistcoat accentuating the sharp V of her bare collarbone. With her dark hair slicked back, she’s all angles and lines; a spiky creature deterring anyone from getting too close. And I never have managed to get close to Sophie. I guess I probably never will.

‘Jean Paul!’ she snaps at her husband, who is pacing on the far side of the pool, talking on his phone and waving a cigarette around. He nods and makes a winding it up gesture, then wanders even further away. Sophie tuts, but I’m glad to sneak a few more sips of wine before facing Jean Paul. He’s also the Belmonts’ lawyer, super smart and scarily observant – an impression enhanced by the bright blue contact lenses he wears. He’s not a divorce lawyer, of course. But I suspect he knows plenty of powerful ones, which makes me imagine him on the opposite side of a future battle line, shoulder to shoulder with Tom, with all of them … My hand shakes as I gulp my wine.

At the head of the table, George rises to his feet. A hush falls without him even tapping a fork against a glass – I can never help but be impressed when he manages that.

I sit next to Tom and join everybody in gazing expectantly at his dad. Age is catching up with George but he still cuts a suave figure, with his thick silver hair and wiry frame; still knows how to leave a beat of silence once he’s got an audience in the palm of his hand. Only Cole goes on crunching into a bruschetta, ignoring poor Imogen’s frantic nudges.

‘It’s an honour and a joy,’ George says, ‘to have you all here to celebrate the fact that Rosaline has put up with me for half a century …’

‘Somebody had to,’ Rosaline heckles fondly, prompting a ripple of laughter.

George winks at her. ‘And to be here in this magnificent place to celebrate everything we’ve achieved, as a family, since Belmont Wines was launched on a wing and a prayer.’

‘And a heck of an inheritance.’ Rosaline chimes in again, to more guffaws.

‘Well, that helped.’ George blows a kiss at the sky. ‘But in all seriousness, everybody here has played their part in making it a legacy I’m tremendously proud of.’

His gaze sweeps around the table, his kids all leaning forward, hungry for praise. ‘Imogen. Immie. I know I tease you about inventing your own job as head of branding, or Queen of PR, or whatever it is you call yourself …’ He chuckles and Imogen looks a little embarrassed. ‘But the truth is you’ve transformed the image of the company. The residential courses were your idea and they were a stroke of bloody genius. And all while raising this fine young man—’ He indicates Will, who is filming his speech, of course ‘—who’s dragging us into the twenty-first century one baffling app at a time.’ Will salutes with his index finger and Imogen breaks into a beam, appeased by the praise for her son if not for herself.

George moves on to his other daughter, who is sweating not one bit in her black two-piece. ‘Dearest Soph. I don’t think you could cross more t’s or dot more i’s if you tried. You keep us all in order, and the taxman happy, both of which are superhuman feats if you ask me.’

Sophie pulls a martyred face, her cheekbones even sharper in the candlelight. Jean Paul returns then, apologising to George who waves it away and claps him on the back. Sometimes I think Jean Paul could crap on the table and nobody except Sophie would bat an eyelid. I once asked Tom what their lawyer has on them all, but he just frowned and said I’d been watching too much Succession. He didn’t seem to realise I was joking.

‘And Tom …’ George rests his gaze on his elder son. Is that a glint of tears in his eyes, or just the light? ‘Your dedication to the business … there are no words, really. You’ve stepped up every time I’ve needed you. And with Lola by your side …’ I stiffen. Tom makes a show of clasping my hand and my palm turns clammy. ‘You’re my rock, Tom – along with Ros, of course – as I know Lola’s yours. Even when she’s distracted by rocks of a different sort!’

I force another smile, realising George means my jewellery. My passion, my livelihood – not some side hustle to being Tom’s wife. I employ people these days, I want to say. I even make a profit! But I’m too busy feeling like a horrible fraud as George tips his glass at me, still looking curiously choked.

‘And I know you’re going to step up to the mark again when I retire, Tom. Which …’ George hesitates. Rosaline nods encouragement. Tom sque. . .