In Karen Hamilton’s shocking thriller, THE LAST WIFE, Marie Langham is distraught when her
childhood friend, Nina, is diagnosed with a terminal illness. Before Nina
passes away, she asks Marie to look out for her family—her son,
daughter, and husband, Stuart. Marie would do anything for Nina, so of course,
she agrees.
Following Nina's
death, Marie gradually finds herself drawn into her friend's life—her family, her large house in the countryside. But
when Camilla, a mutual friend from their old art-college days, suddenly
reappears, Marie begins to suspect that she has a hidden agenda. Then, Marie
discovers that Nina had long suppressed secrets about a holiday in Ibiza the
women took ten years previously when Marie's then-boyfriend went missing after
a tragic accident and was later found dead.
Marie
used to envy Nina's beautiful life, but now the cards are up in the air and she
begins to realize that nothing is what it seemed. As long-buried secrets start
surfacing, Marie must figure out what’s true and who she can trust before the
consequences of Nina’s dark secrets destroy her.
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PROLOGUE
Clients trust me
because I blend in. It’s a natural skill—my gift, if you like. I focus my lens
and capture stories, like the ones unfolding tonight: natural and guarded
expressions, self-conscious poses, joyous smiles, reluctant ones from a teenage
bridesmaid, swathed in silver and bloodred. The groom is an old friend, yet
I’ve only met his now-wife twice. She seems reserved, hard to get to know, but
in their wedding album she’ll glow. The camera does lie. My role is to take
these lies and spin them into the perfect story.
I take a glass of
champagne from a passing server. I needn’t be totally on the ball during the
latter half of the evening because by then, people naturally loosen up. I find
that the purest details are revealed in the discreet pictures I snatch during
the final hours, however innocuously an event starts. And besides, it seems
this event is winding down.
The one downside
of my job is the mixed bag of emotions evoked. I rarely take family photos
anymore, so normally, I’m fine, but today, watching the wedding festivities,
the longing for what I don’t have has crept up on me. People think that envy is
a bad thing, but in my opinion, envy is a positive emotion. It has always been
the best indicator for me to realize what’s wrong with my life. People say,
“Follow your dreams,” yet I’d say, “Follow what makes you sick with envy.”
It’s how I knew
that I must stop deceiving myself and face up to how desperately I wanted to
have a child. Delayed gratification is overrated.
I place my camera
on a table as the tempo eases and sit down on a satin-draped chair. As I watch
the bride sweep across the dance floor with her new husband, I think of Nina,
and an overwhelming tide of grief floods through me. I picture her haunted
expression when she elicited three final promises from me: two are easy to
keep, one is not. Nonetheless, a vow is a vow. I will be creative and fulfill
it. I have a bad—yet tempting—idea which occasionally beckons me toward a
slippery slope.
I must do my best
to avoid it because when Nina passed the baton to me, she thought I was someone
she could trust. However, as my yearning grows, the crushing disappointment
increases every month and the future I crave remains elusive. And she didn’t
know that I’d do anything to get what I want. Anything.
ONE
Ben
isn’t at home. I used to panic when that happened, assume that he was
unconscious in a burning building, his oxygen tank depleted, his colleagues
unable to reach him. All this, despite his assurance that they have safety
checks in place to keep an eye out for each other. He’s been stressed lately,
blames it on work. He loves his job as a firefighter, but nearly lost one of
his closest colleagues in a fire on the fourth floor of a block of flats
recently when a load of wiring fell down and threatened to ensnare him.
No,
the reality is that he is punishing me. He doesn’t have a shift today. I
understand his hurt, but it’s hard to explain why I did what I did. For a
start, I didn’t think that people actually sent out printed wedding invitations
anymore. If I’d known that the innocuous piece of silver card smothered in
horseshoes and church bells would be the ignition for the worst argument we’d
ever had, I wouldn’t have opened it in his presence.
Marie Langham plus
guest…
I
don’t know what annoyed Ben more, the fact that he wasn’t deemed important
enough to be named or that I said I was going alone.
“I’m
working,” I tried to explain. “The invitation is obviously a kind formality, a
politeness.”
“All
this is easily rectifiable,” he said. “If you wanted me there, you wouldn’t
have kept me in the dark. The date was blocked off as work months ago in our calendar.”
True.
But I couldn’t admit it. He wouldn’t appreciate being called a distraction.
Now,
I have to make it up to him because it’s the right time of the month. He hates
what he refers to as enforced sex (too much pressure), and any obvious
scene-setting like oyster-and-champagne dinners, new lingerie, an invitation to
join me in the shower or even a simple suggestion that we just shag, all the
standard methods annoy him. It’s hard to believe that other couples have this
problem, it makes me feel inadequate.
One
of our cats bursts through the flap and aims for her bowl. I observe her
munching, oblivious to my return home until this month’s strategy presents
itself to me: nonchalance. A part of Ben’s stress is that he thinks I’m
obsessed with having a baby. I told him to look up the true meaning of the
word: an unhealthy interest in something. It’s not an obsession to desire
something perfectly normal.
I
unpack, then luxuriate in a steaming bath filled with bubbles. I’m a real
sucker for the sales promises: relax and unwind and revitalize. I hear the
muffled sound of a key in the lock. It’s Ben—who else would it be—yet I jump
out and wrap a towel around me. He’s not alone. I hear the voices of our
neighbors, Rob and Mike. He’s brought in reinforcements to maintain the barrier
between us. There are two ways for me to play this and if you can’t beat them…
I
dress in jeans and a T-shirt, twist my hair up and grip it with a hair clip,
wipe mascara smudges from beneath my eyes and head downstairs.
“You’re
back,” says Ben by way of a greeting. “The guys have come over for a curry.”
“Sounds
perfect,” I say, kissing him before hugging our friends hello.
I
feel smug at the wrong-footed expression on Ben’s face. He thought I’d be
unable to hide my annoyance, that I’d pull him to one side and whisper, “It’s orange,” (the color my fertility
app suggests is the perfect time) or suggest that I cook instead so I can
ensure he eats as organically as possible.
“Who’s
up for margaritas?” I say with an I’m
game for a big night smile.
Ben’s
demeanor visibly softens. Result. I’m forgiven.
The
whole evening is an effortless success.
Indifference
and good, old-fashioned getting pissed works.
Excerpted from The Last Wife by
Karen Hamilton, Copyright ©
2020 by Karen Hamilton
Published by Graydon House Books
About the Author
Karen Hamilton spent her childhood in Angola, Zimbabwe, Belgium and Italy and worked as a flight attendant for many years. Karen is a recent graduate of the Faber Academy and, having now put down roots in Hampshire to raise her young family with her husband, she satisfies her wanderlust by exploring the world through her writing. She is also the author of the international bestseller The Perfect Girlfriend.
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