The years melted away, and I was transported back to the night Stuart and I met. I’d practically torn his shirt off as he’d lifted my hair and kissed my neck. We’d fitted together like two pieces of a jigsaw. A kaleidoscope of images flashed through my head. Christmases, birthdays, weddings, christenings. Stuart had been by my side at every single one. I’d taken it for granted, because he was my husband, and that’s what happened when you were married. Your husband stood by your side through thick and thin.
Didn’t he?
I began edging away, freezing in horror when a stick snapped under my foot, as loud as a gunshot in the peaceful churchyard.
‘What was that?’ Melanie cried.
‘Nothing,’ Stuart soothed.
‘We should get back. The others will wonder where we are…’
It was my cue to leave, and I turned on my heels and ran out of the churchyard, my heart thumping in my chest.
Chapter Nineteen
I was so desperate to reach home that I didn’t see the man waiting outside our front door until I was almost upon him. It took a second to register that he was one of the reporters from the press conference. The man with the hooded face who’d had the gall to ask if it was reasonable to assume Immy was already dead.
Shit. I tried to sidestep him, but he thrust his phone in my face and said, ‘Mrs Cooper, I wondered if you could spare me a minute of your time.’
‘No,’ I said, pushing past him to the front door.
‘What do you think’s happened to Immy?’ he asked.
‘I’m sorry, but I’m not giving any interviews. You need to go through the police.’ Shit. I’d come out without my key. I rapped on the front door, hoping Bill wasn’t still in the garden.
‘Do you think your daughter’s still alive?’ the reporter pressed.
‘Of course I do! It’s the only thing that’s keeping me going. Now will you please leave?’
‘The thing is, the Mail’s offering ten grand for an exclusive interview with you and hubby. Is that something you’d be interested in?’
‘It is not.’ I rapped on the door again before turning to face him. ‘I don’t want their money, and I have nothing to say to you, do you understand?’
He held his hands up in apology. ‘No need to bite my head off. I get it. But here’s my card if you have a change of heart.’ He pulled a business card out of the top pocket of his scruffy shirt and brandished it under my nose. Harry James, freelance journalist. A mobile phone number, an email address and a Twitter handle. Behind me, there was a click and the front door swung open.
‘Cleo?’ Bill said, his gaze sliding between me and the reporter. ‘Everything OK?’
‘It’s fine. Mr James was just leaving.’
The reporter handed me the card and gave a little bow. ‘Thanks for your time, Mrs Cooper.’ He turned on his heels and sauntered off down the street.
‘What was all that about?’ Bill stood to one side to let me into the house. As I passed him, he frowned. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What did he say to you?’
‘Nothing. He caught me by surprise, that’s all,’ I said, wondering at what point I should tell Bill that I suspected my husband and his wife were having an affair.
‘Come on,’ he said, taking my elbow. ‘You’ve had a shock. Let’s make you a cup of tea.’
I let him guide me along the hallway and into the kitchen. As he pottered about filling the kettle and finding tea bags, my mind raced. I hadn’t witnessed Stuart and Melanie doing anything they shouldn’t. What if I’d misheard them or misinterpreted their hushed conversation? What if I was wrong?
Empathy may not have been one of my strong suits, but I had always prided myself on being an excellent judge of character. I was intuitive, astute. I watched people, saw how they reacted, listened to subtext, and trusted my judgement. I knew the minute I met Stuart that he was as straight as a die. That’s not to say he was perfect. Far from it. He was as flawed as the rest of us. He was cautious, unambitious, and saw the world in black and white. But for all his faults he was not devious, or deceitful, or disloyal. What you saw was what you got.
Melanie was harder to read. On the surface, she was attentive and thoughtful. She never missed a birthday and was always on the end of the phone if I wanted to chat. She heaped compliments on me. My suppers were always delicious. My outfits perfect. Our garden stunning. Although we mostly socialised as couples, occasionally she and I met in town for coffee, the two of us. To the outside eye we were best friends, had been since university, yet I’d always sensed an undercurrent of disapproval. A shard of ice buried in that warm friendliness. It felt to me as though she found my ambition distasteful, my success hard to accept.
After graduating with a first in French, Melanie had worked in one of Canterbury’s many language schools while Stuart had stayed on at university to complete his MA, and Bill and I had started FoodWrapped.
I was always badgering her to pursue a career as an interpreter with the European Union or in the City of London, but she claimed to enjoy teaching and, when FoodWrapped started making serious money, she left work, happy to be a kept wife. I assumed she and Bill would start a family, but they never had. She never disclosed whether this was because they hadn’t wanted children or couldn’t have them, and I never asked. It was of no interest to me. She and Bill made excellent godparents, having the kids over for sleepovers and spoiling them rotten at Christmas and on their birthdays. As far as I was concerned, that was all that mattered.
Had I missed the
