The Dream Wife Read online

  Dedication

  For Chris and Ben

  THE DREAM WIFE

  Louisa de Lange

  Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  The stuff dreams are made of

  Chapter 10

  Mist

  Chapter 11

  Bright yellow cabs

  Chapter 12

  Part Two

  Chapter 13

  Sand

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Blank

  Chapter 20

  Marlboro Lights

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Winter’s gloom

  Part Three

  The test

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  The Old Boatman

  Chapter 26

  Evergreen

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Part Four

  White

  Chapter 32

  Face-down photo

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Newspaper

  The ballroom

  Smudged and worn

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Reading Group Questions

  Author Biography

  Double Take advert

  Copyright

  Prologue

  I’m not surprised by how heavy the gun feels in my hand. I’m not surprised that out of nowhere I know how to unclip the safety, pull back the firing pin and gently squeeze the trigger, both hands cradling the gun for support. I aim and get a direct hit, square in the forehead. I’m not surprised about that either. I’m not surprised about the mess that appears against the wall, skull splintering open, and the chaos of blood and brain scattering across the room, stray drops freckling my face.

  I am surprised about my lack of caution, my lack of hesitation. Maybe I thought something would hold me back; I might think twice or have doubts about what I was doing. What I knew would happen. But no, I don’t even flinch. Not even when I can taste the steel tang in my mouth and a piece of something biological hits my shoe.

  I have been lied to; the people I love have been hidden from me. My patience has run out and I am angry. I am really fucking angry.

  Killing someone gets easier once you have done it before. And I know I am right to go ahead. If someone threatens the only thing you truly love, the thing you are connected to with every fibre and sinew of your being, and tries to take that away from you, what would you do? Well, the decision is easy. This is easy.

  After all, this isn’t real, is it.

  Part One

  1

  If the past has taught me anything, it is that nothing good can happen at four o’clock in the morning.

  If the urban myths are true, four a.m. is the hour of souls. The time when people are most likely to die in their sleep. The hour when the majority of supernatural activity occurs. The time when only the most hardened criminals are awake; when the drug dealers and petty thieves have settled down for some shut-eye, and only the real evils are still up and marching about on this earth. Nothing good can happen at four o’clock in the morning.

  Yet here I am, four o’clock, and it is the best time in the world. The house is silent. From where I sit on the sofa next to the window, blanket pulled over me and curtains open, I can see out onto the pavement below. The street lights cast a strange orange glow, where the rest of the world exists in monochrome. I don’t need to flick a switch to see what I am doing; the light outside provides everything I need.

  A lone fox canters down the middle of the road, unperturbed in his environment. Scraggy-looking and suspicious, he noses round the wheelie bins and eyes the gates into our gardens, knowing how to get in and out without a sound. He knows the world is his, that nobody will disturb him. He trots out of my view, confident in what he is doing. I envy him.

  I look down, and in the dim illumination from the street light I can see the green-brown tinge on my wrist. I rub at it with my other hand, expecting the brief motion to wipe away the bruise. It doesn’t hurt now, and neither it nor its matching twin on the other arm give me any problems, but the discoloration on my skin acts as a reminder I could do without.

  I listen for a moment and hear my husband’s snores coming from the room next door. Even with the door closed and a wall between us I can hear him take a whistling breath in and a guttural grunt back out. I imagine him lying on his back, mouth open; exposed and vulnerable, yet still dominating the environment he inhabits.

  My only companion, and the reason for my state of awake, takes a break from his drink and looks up at me, beaker of milk clutched in pudgy paws. He smiles, a grin of triumph. A stuffy nose has woken him, and for once, Mummy has caved on her night-time resolution: she has pulled him out of his cot, still warm in his sleeping bag on this freezing night, and brought him into her room, to sit here and drink milk with her. Best things in my son’s life – milk, Mummy and Rabbit – all here at the same time. He sticks the beaker in his mouth and takes another gulp, Rabbit gripped in his other hand.

  But I don’t mind being awake. He is the best companion at this time of night. Always happy to be with me, sharing his body heat, even from within the sleeping bag. Just the two of us. Alone and quiet.

  Outside, it has started to rain. The grey drizzle has evolved into a full downpour, large droplets battering the window and filling the street below. Water gathers and rushes down the gutters, cleaning away the rubbish and detritus of the day. The fox has disappeared and I am not so envious of his situation now. I sit back on the sofa and pull the blanket around me, warm in my sanctuary. Content while the world continues outside. There is nowhere I would rather be. No one I would rather be with than the person I am with now.

  Sometimes, when we’re driving in the car, stopped at traffic lights or in a queue, I turn round. He is sitting in his car seat, usually Rabbit keeping him company, and he grins at me, and points at something remarkable out of the window. A cow or a digger or a police car; always infinitely exciting. I make a comment and smile back, a smile different to my usual one.

  The smile for my husband is tired and worn out. To my mother-in-law it’s pinched and forced. This smile starts in my stomach, and takes over the whole of me, filling me up with warmth. It’s automatic and spontaneous. It ends with a laugh or a giggle, or a warm, sticky hug when we’re not in the car. I am happiest in his company, in his toothy grin and in the clutches of his sharp fingernails and tight grip. I feel the glow of being the most important person in his life, but at the same time it’s accompanied by a dread in the pit of my stomach. A constant worry about the calamities that will never befall him but that I must protect him from every day. Random things falling. Small pellets choking him. A stray peanut. Strangers deciding he is as exquisite as I think he is and kidnapping him. It stops my heart, imagining these fates. Even a nap that goes on longer than usual must mean he has silently suffocated. I think of the small things, the stuff I can control, the stuff that won’t happen, to distract me from the big stuff that might.

  This time of night we are alone, with no expectation or t
ask to complete. I should be putting him back in his cot, as I will need to be up in a few hours, but these stolen minutes are precious. I know I will be able to get back to sleep again quickly – I go from awake to deep sleep in a matter of moments. It comes in handy nowadays.

  I will be up at six, ready to make my husband his breakfast and get everything ready for his work. I know what is expected of me, what tasks I have to complete before he leaves and what must be perfect before he gets back.

  First thing, the lounge. My husband goes to bed after me, so I tidy up the room from the mess he has left behind. Straighten the sofa cushions; pick up the wine glass, the whisky tumbler and the finished bottle. Put his laptop in his briefcase and leave it by the front door. Straighten the coasters on the coffee table, all in a row, lined up with the edge of the table. Symmetrical, neat. Pick up the discarded packets of crisps, brush up the ones dropped on the floor; take away all trace of his mess.

  Now to the kitchen. Get his coffee ready. Empty the dishwasher, the washing-up already dried and put away before I went to bed. Wash the glasses and put them away. Hide the empty wine bottle and put the whisky back in the cupboard, label facing out. Straight: in line with the other bottles.

  Get his breakfast ready. Two fried eggs, two slices of bacon, two slices of brown buttered toast. One glass of orange juice, ice cold. I pour his coffee, fresh and hot, black, no sugar, and take it up to his bedroom, placing it quietly by the side of the bed, minutes before his alarm goes off.

  I wake the baby and dress him, bringing him downstairs with me, ready for breakfast. Whatever time my husband is up, we get up with him, never allowed to lie in or have an extra few minutes’ sleep. He says we are a family, and families get up together. We sit and eat breakfast. Me feeding the baby and my husband eating his, shovelling it down, hunched over, one eye on his mobile. I have my breakfast later, after he has left. Weetabix and banana – I still need to lose the baby weight.

  I clear away the breakfast things, I load the dishwasher, I clean up my boy and let him get down to play. All this under my husband’s watchful eye as he finishes his coffee and starts making his calls for the day.

  Leaving his mug on the hallway table, he slams the front door behind him with a cursory kiss on my cheek. His son looks up as he leaves but doesn’t even get a second glance. He doesn’t mind; his father departing signals the beginning of his proper playtime, as soft animals get thrown off the sofa, and towers are demolished across the floor.

  But right now, it’s time to go back to bed. My little man has finished his milk and is holding the beaker out to me, eyes already gently closing in the warmth. I pick him up and take him back to his cot, where he rolls over, settling himself to sleep.

  Back in my own bed, I drift off almost instantly. I dream. I always remember my dreams. I go to worlds I otherwise never see. I meet people, interesting people I would never be allowed to talk to when I am awake. I swim in the sea, I climb mountains, I shop at expensive clothes shops; I am fascinated by the randomness my brain spews out every night. And it feels real to me; everything that happens in my dreams feels like real life. I am alive and living the life I want to live, but not here. Never here.

  My alarm goes off and I jump into life. My day begins.

  2

  On a Monday, I do the cleaning. Top to bottom, every corner, every shelf, every floor and every ceiling. The house is a monstrosity, sprawling in all directions: five bedrooms, three bathrooms, and corridors suitable for the most ambitious of racetracks.

  It takes me the whole day to clean; I take pride in my work. I use all the attachments on the vacuum; all the cleaning products I can afford from my paltry domestic allowance. I scrub on my hands and knees on the granite floors, using cloths and dusters and brushes, until my head hums with bleach and my hands are red and peeling.

  Any less and my husband will notice. He points out a stray cobweb and asks what have I been doing all day. He doesn’t consider childcare to take any time. It’s all effortless to him, looking after small people and big houses, in comparison with what he does – looking after big money.

  My little boy is a fan of naps and books and children’s television that takes his attention while I work. He is used to the constant flurry of activity, of Mummy being busy.

  I have never understood babies. I have never been a fan, always shying away when someone goes to offer me a cuddle. Too afraid of their wobbly heads and willingness to cry. They don’t do anything, just lie motionless, and I never got the attraction of the smell. It’s just powder and sour milky vomit with a lingering undertone of poo. My hormones don’t race.

  But with my own, it was different. They placed him on me, skin to skin, and he lay there quiet, helpless, weak. I was the same, hurting and sore. I didn’t know what to do. He was still no more than a ball of cells, needing to be fed, changed and put down to nap, but something connected us, something intrinsic and innate. I would have bashed down walls, I would have fought wolves with my bare hands – anything – to keep him safe.

  Hospitals have a unique smell. A combination of disinfectant, bleach and sweat, with a tinge of something else, something slightly unpleasant. On that particular fuggy night in August, the night after my baby was born, there was a distinct odour of hot under-washed and over-exerted bodies, blood and meconium.

  Policy dictated the nurses send my husband home, and I shut my eyes tight as my new baby snuffled. Left alone on the ward, I listened to the faceless voices behind curtains: crying babies and their weeping mums. First night of motherhood and it was already far away from the world I knew. In the dark, I could just see his shape. Wrapped tightly in a blanket, his little head poking out, eyes screwed shut. I knew I would do anything for him, and wanted to do everything I could, but I had no idea what that even was. I was terrified. Every twitch saw me pull myself up and hover uncertainly, call button in my sweaty hand.

  Eventually fluorescence turned into daylight, and chinks of sun started to edge into the room. My eyes were bleary, the bump on my head hurt and my mind was befuddled with lack of sleep. I kept glancing at the time, wondering when my husband would turn up, half of me keen to have someone else share responsibility for this new little person, and the other half nervous about how he would respond.

  Two Weetabix and a small carton of milk appeared, and I ate it slowly, and drank the weak tea on my tray. My baby lay in his plastic wheeler crib next to me, fast asleep, swaddled in his blue blanket. I gingerly picked him up, cradling his head as I had been taught to do. In the light of day, I could take a better look at him. He had smudges of blood on his forehead and a red mark in the centre, with dark fluffy hair. He smacked his lips together in his baby sleep.

  The curtain moved and my husband arrived. Other new fathers looked nervous, protective and scruffy, while he was dressed in a smart black suit, hair freshly washed and slicked back, not a trace of stubble, coffee in one hand and BlackBerry in the other. His gaze was fixed firmly on the screen. He looked up and started, surprised by my appearance.

  David was a striking figure. He stood tall at over six foot, shoulders back, head held high, with a permanent expression somewhere between welcoming and mocking. He knew he was more intelligent than you, he knew he was more successful and had more money, and he was going to make sure you knew it too. He was a supercilious bastard, but irresistible.

  A month after we first met, he took me dancing, to the newest club in town and apparently the place to be. I remember being excited, stomach-grinding-ready-to-puke-in-a-bucket excited, to be going out with David. I spent hours buried in my meagre wardrobe, trying on outfits in different combinations, deciding what accessories, what jewellery, anything to make sure I looked as good as I could. I took a taxi to the club, a rare expense, and as I got out and walked towards David, I felt my legs crumple a little.

  He was waiting outside the club, leaning nonchalantly against the brick wall, talking on his mobile. He laughed at something, showing a clean row of bright white teeth, and ran h
is hands through his hair, and a little bit of me relished the anticipation of being closer to him. I could imagine what he would smell like and how that would make me feel. He would be wearing some sort of cologne, something dark and earthy, mixed in with an undertone of his last cigarette and beer. Unmistakably masculine. In charge, in control. As I said, irresistible.

  As I walked closer, he saw me and smiled. ‘I have to go, mate,’ he said, and without a second comment closed his mobile and put it in his pocket. He held both my hands and looked me up and down. ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘Very nice,’ and pulled me closer for a kiss. He smelt and tasted like I imagined. Expensive and clean.

  Later that night, when I couldn’t put it off any longer, I took myself off to the ladies’. The usual queue brought me head to head with the mirror and I glanced across. In the smoke and sweat of the club, my once poker-straight hair had turned fluffy, my immaculately applied make-up was smudged, with no lipstick in sight. But I looked incredible. My cheeks had a healthy glow, my lips were full and smiling and my eyes bright. This is love, I thought at the time, this is what love does to you.

  But in that hospital bed, hair plastered to my forehead, red-faced, pyjama top hastily done up one button out of line, I was quite a sight to behold. Looking hot and sweaty and sexy on a night out was one thing, but this was something else entirely, and David didn’t like it.

  He tried hard to put on his best good-husband face, and sat down on the bed next to me. I had the Weetabix spoon in one hand and an arm full of baby in the other, so the greeting was awkward and flinching. I can’t imagine I smelt that nice.

  David’s gaze turned to his son, and his expression changed to something approaching pride. His chest puffed up and he looked down adoringly. ‘My son and heir,’ he said.

  ‘Do you want to hold him?’

  He glanced at his watch.

  ‘Are you heading off?’ I asked. Other dads were here; I could hear their soothing tones behind their own curtains, ready to share the worry.