The Guilty Wife Read online

I was so flustered as I walked into the boardroom with my camera for the day’s first meeting that I hadn’t seen the black cords snaking across the entrance. As my toe caught underneath one of the cables, I’d cried out, drawing looks from the sombre businessmen around the table. Thankfully Vincent – one of Calum’s muscular security guards – caught me mid-fall, and I managed to untangle my foot without damaging anything more than my pride. Before I could say anything, Calum swept in, commanding the room’s attention away from my burning face. I swivelled around to mouth the words thank you to Vincent. He winked before I turned back to face the man who was speaking, and in seconds I was transfixed, my embarrassment forgotten.

  I remember every detail of those first few encounters as if they were photos hanging on my walls. And yet, I can’t remember exactly when I fell in love with Calum.

  It must have happened gradually because one day I just knew, like it had always been a fact. The more time I’d spent shadowing him and capturing his character, the less ordinary I’d found him. Those blue eyes and imperfect nose became infinitely more endearing. His passion for what he did was electric – contagious. I found myself looking forward to filming days more and more, and we gradually became closer, at first laughing in derision at the scenes that were being filmed, or acknowledging an awkward moment in a meeting. Then we moved on to flirting – harmless at first, and then more and more intense as time went on. Eventually it became physical; a pat on my arm here, a hand guiding me by the waist there, each touch laden with anticipation. We both knew exactly what was going to happen, we just pretended we couldn’t see it. And then one day his hands were gripping my thighs to keep me propped up against his kitchen wall and I was having an affair.

  The first time had been furious and quick, an encounter in his apartment that left my whole body tingling, and it was in that moment that I understood, not with any emotion but with a factual indifference, that I’d done something that could never be reversed. The thought flew through my mind with no more gravitas than remembering that I needed to buy tomorrow’s milk and then it was gone, replaced with the current of Calum’s hot skin against my own. Almost as soon as it had begun, it was over.

  And just like that, I was an adulterer.

  Chapter Six

  I’d never had trouble sleeping through the night. But I’d barely slept for three days now, ever since that argument with Calum. I couldn’t stop my brain from lingering on words I wished I could retract. And last night had only made things worse.

  As Jason twitched in bed beside me, I reached for my phone and glanced at the time. Sitting bolt upright, suddenly wide awake, I shook my husband.

  ‘It’s almost nine. You slept in.’

  He swatted my hand away and mumbled something incoherent.

  ‘What? Jason, you have to get up. You’re late for work.’

  ‘I’m taking the morning off,’ he said, voice gravelly. ‘I had a client thing. It went late.’

  I recalled being grateful the previous night when I got home and saw a note on the kitchen table from Jason.

  Client dinner. Don’t wait up x

  It had suited me perfectly.

  I padded to the kitchen, pointing the remote at the television in the lounge as I walked past, and began brewing a strong pot of coffee. Snippets of financial reports and the weather forecast floated into the kitchen as I waited for my bread to toast, and promises that the previous day’s downpour was the end of the bad weather for a while drifted towards me. I peeked through the kitchen curtains, past the brightly coloured tulips I’d recently planted, to confirm the weather lady’s prediction. Sure enough, the sky was gloriously clear.

  There was a change in pace of the news programme and my interest was piqued when I heard Calum’s name. It didn’t matter how many times I saw him in the media, I couldn’t help but give the story my full attention, trashy as it inevitably would be.

  When I’d first met him, it had been the thrill of seeing someone I actually knew on the screen in front of me that had held my interest. I’d casually flick through magazine pages, wanting to point and yell ‘I know him!’ to anyone who would listen.

  After the flirting began, I greedily devoured whatever stories I could find when I wasn’t in his office, staring at him in a way that I couldn’t when I was with him, fantasising and then glancing guiltily at Jason, hoping he couldn’t read my desire.

  Once the affair had begun, I’d watched the news anxiously, praying that I wouldn’t be the next big story.

  These days, secure in the knowledge that our system of secrecy was working, I still followed stories about Calum with a mild interest. It never seemed to get old, seeing the face of someone I loved on my screen, or in the glossy pages I flipped through while I ate lunch at my desk.

  I wondered what this morning’s story was about. He hadn’t made many appearances lately, but the documentary was going to be announced soon, so perhaps it had been leaked to the press early. No amount of signed non-disclosure agreements helped. There was always going to be someone willing to spill the beans for cash. And the tabloids paid good money for a Bradley exclusive.

  I noticed the flicker of red and blue on the screen as I rounded the corner from the kitchen to the lounge and frowned, confused. The documentary wasn’t exactly an emergency. Had there been a fire at the Bradley Enterprises office? A break-in? I strained to catch what the reporter was saying.

  ‘… discovered in the early hours of the morning …’

  The flutter behind my ribs turned into a frenzied pounding. Whatever this was, it couldn’t be positive. I turned the volume up. There were emergency vehicles everywhere, and reporters swarming around the announcer. Toast hit the bottom of my stomach with a thud, and as words from the TV sped towards me, I tried to catch them, to absorb their meaning.

  I watched the screen in front of me, and waited for individual snippets of information to drop, like Tetris blocks falling into place in my brain.

  Of all the horrifying moments that were to come, this was the one that was seared into my memory, like the silhouette that lingers after staring at something bright for too long. When I finally understood what was happening as I saw the reporter, the white tent and yellow tape, the flicker of blue and red and white flashes, I understood that my life as I knew it was ending.

  If I’d known what was to come, I would have begged to remain in that instant for ever. I would have stayed in front of the TV, staring at the photo of Calum in the corner of the screen as I read the headline, white across the bright red banner. Capital letters. Words that suddenly came hurtling towards me, colliding with a force so unexpected that they knocked the air from my lungs.

  BREAKING: BILLIONAIRE CALUM BRADLEY DEAD.

  PRESUMED MURDERED.

  Chapter Seven

  Jason surged from our bedroom, his expression pure concern. Blue eyes flicked from my face to the TV, taking in the same headline I’d just absorbed. I watched dumbly as understanding flooded his features and in a second he was at my side, guiding me by the elbow to the sofa before retrieving fragments of the plate I didn’t notice slipping from my fingers and smashing on the floor.

  ‘Oh, Bethany, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’

  He perched on the soft arm of the chair and stroked my shoulder, my neck, my head. An invasive ringing filled my ears, so loud that it crowded my mind and eliminated any chance of coherence. I knew I should do something, say something, but I was paralysed, my heart a drumroll on my ribcage, announcing the arrival of a new chapter of my life.

  Entranced by the television, I tried to concentrate on the inappropriately positive newsreader. She reported live from outside a building, which had been surrounded by a white tent adorned with yellow tape. The area was buzzing with press, police and clusters of nosy onlookers. The facts were threadbare, so the presenter continued to repeat the same information using slightly different wording each time: Calum’s body had been found early in the morning by a member of the public, the person who had made the dis
covery was currently unavailable for interviews, and there were unconfirmed reports that Mr Bradley had been stabbed.

  An impulse, perhaps the same one that drives me to pick a scab, made my mind linger on the brutality of a stabbing. My imagination was smeared with vicious swipes of red, glints of metal, harrowing screams.

  My stomach twisted. Doubling over, I focused on not vomiting, on ignoring the images of hacked flesh and blinding pain. After a few seconds I was able to sit up again, but one glance at my sweat-damp face sent Jason running for water.

  The camera panned out to reveal a wider scene and I caught a glimpse of red, white and blue; the iconic shape of a Tube station sign peeking above the throngs of rubberneckers and reporters.

  I heard a groan slipping from my own throat. That couldn’t be where he had died.

  ‘Bethany? Are you all right? Do you need anything?’

  Ignoring Jason, I gulped the water in an effort to quench a rising sense of panic. Of course I wasn’t all right. But there was nothing my husband could do to fix that.

  I couldn’t grasp any kind of logic in what I was watching, in the words that were being hurled my way. And then a new thought suddenly occurred to me, sending relief flowing through my veins. It wasn’t Calum’s body that they’d found. It couldn’t be. There was no way he was gone. He was young and strong, and incredibly healthy. He had so many plans, so many more things to achieve. Someone had made an incredibly unfortunate mistake, and at any moment, the reporter would reveal that Calum was alive and well. He had to be.

  But the news persisted, and gained momentum, and barrelled towards me in an onslaught that became impossible to dodge.

  It wasn’t just the reporter claiming that Calum was gone now. The police had said it, and so had an ambulance driver who had been called to the scene. Even the Mayor had issued a statement saying that he was saddened by the news. Something inside me shifted as I acknowledged that perhaps they weren’t all lying to me. I forced myself – tentatively – to try to imagine that what was being said was true.

  It didn’t make sense though, because no one wanted to harm Calum. I didn’t know a single person who didn’t like him. He couldn’t have been murdered – it had to have been an accident. He must have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But why there?

  There were no additional facts to share so the morning news moved on, flicking back to the white tent as trickles of fresh information became available. At first, sources close to the police speculated that the murder could have been a mugging gone wrong, but that was swiftly dismissed when police confirmed that they had found Calum’s wallet, complete with cash, in his jacket pocket. The same police-friendly sources, who I suspected were fabricated to spread rumour under the guise of responsible journalism, reported that Calum’s security team was being questioned to discover what he had been doing in South Kensington at night without protection.

  Each piece of news brought with it a fresh twisting sensation somewhere deep in my gut, so I turned my attention to the threads of sentences Jason was saying that now wafted towards me from the kitchen.

  ‘… news … not taking it well … cancel her appointments … keep you posted …’

  I was grateful not to have to speak to Fran myself. I wasn’t sure how I would bring myself to say anything. And besides, I had no idea what there was to say.

  I closed my eyes and tried to replay the last few times I’d seen Calum. Had he said anything about someone wanting to hurt him? Had he seemed scared? Had anyone looked at him strangely? Could I have done something to stop this?

  Frustrated at my complete lack of answers, I opened my eyes again and noticed that Jason had returned to his position on the arm of my the sofa, observing me.

  I stared at him, grappling for words that wouldn’t come.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ he breathed eventually, breaking the heavy silence.

  ‘It can’t be him,’ I choked.

  ‘Bethany—’

  ‘No,’ I interrupted. ‘It isn’t him. It can’t be. I didn’t say goodbye.’

  There was a pause, and then Jason pulled me to his chest without a word.

  I thought back to the meal Calum had made me, just days ago. If I closed my eyes, I could still remember the taste of the sauce he’d been so proud of. It lingered at the back of my tongue. It was so vivid, so real. How could he be gone?

  Tweets scrolled along the bottom of the screen as the reporter relayed the same information with a smile. A seed of rage bloomed in me as I absorbed the flippant reactions to Calum’s death.

  Can’t believe it. Totally met Calum last year at a charity event & he was lovely. Such devastating news x #BradleyMurder

  sad news but v suspicious. these rich dudes are always into shady things it’s how they got rich #Calumbradley

  Literally in tears watching the news about #CalumBradley. He seemed like one of the good ones. Wtf is wrong with the world?

  I wanted to throw the remote control at the screen, to slap these asinine strangers who thought they knew something, anything, about the man I loved. I was furious at their stupidity. And I was jealous. These people, to whom Calum was nothing more than a rich and attractive celebrity, were allowed to publicly grieve.

  And I was not.

  The injustice of the situation I’d just been flung into hit me hard and fast, and I realised how ill-equipped I was to deal with it.

  I could be upset, of course. Anyone who’d lost a colleague in such a violent way would be. But I couldn’t be distraught. Couldn’t show how I really felt. Not unless I wanted Jason – and the world – to guess who Calum really was to me.

  My husband continued to console me, alternating between bringing me steaming mugs of tea while I remained glued to the news, and just sitting with me, holding my hand. His presence was comforting, but that feeling was matched by a desperate desire to be alone, so I could grieve without worrying how it looked.

  Eventually, accompanied by a string of apologies, Jason left my side. He had a meeting that he couldn’t reschedule, he said, looking guilty. I tried to sound casual when I assured him that I was fine, that I needed to get up and get things done, anyway. I was just in shock. That part wasn’t a lie, at least.

  He left me with a fresh cup of tea and a promise that he’d be back as soon as he possibly could.

  In the pause that followed the sound of the front door latching, I grabbed my phone and began dialling. I almost laughed out loud when I stopped, understanding that I couldn’t actually call the only person I wanted to speak to.

  Standing in the middle of the living room, unsure what to do next, I slid down the back of an armchair until I was folded over myself on the floor, incapable of supporting my own weight. I clenched my phone and bubbled with the urge to hurl it across the room, smashing it along with whatever it happened to find along the way – vase, photo frames, candles, I didn’t care. I held my arm up, muscles tensed, to start the destruction. But reason, that inconvenient voice I desperately wanted to ignore, but that I knew was right, sternly demanded that I remain composed, that I carry on as normal.

  I stared at a small mark on the white wall in front of me and thought about getting up to clean it. But what would be the point? I knew I should do something, but I couldn’t think of a single thing to actually do. Calum was dead. Murdered. The word reverberated in my head, making me giddy, unfocused.

  I stayed in that spot for what felt like hours, staring at the stain, my mind overwhelmed and paralysed. Time refused to stay still which, it vaguely occurred to me, was shockingly irreverent. My legs became riddled with pins and needles until they went completely numb and still I didn’t care. My phone buzzed in my hand. I couldn’t muster enough curiosity to look at who was calling me.

  It didn’t matter who was calling me. Calum was gone. Someone had taken him from me. I scoured my memories in an attempt to recall anything I’d seen or heard that could point to who had done this, or why. But I could feel my thoughts sliding. Feeling guilty
, I tried to focus. I should be grieving, not worrying over whether anyone knew about our affair. Calum had been murdered. There were much bigger things to fixate on – like the fact that there was a killer walking around London – than my reputation.

  But the more I tried to suppress thoughts of self-preservation, the more insistent they became, until I had no choice but to indulge them.

  I didn’t feel strong enough, or skilled enough, for my secret to stay that way. But then I reminded myself that I’d already been lying for months. If Calum and I could hide our relationship from friends, colleagues, spouses, then I had to be capable of hiding grief, too.

  The secrecy had been Calum’s doing, though. Not mine. I couldn’t take credit for his skills in stealth. I’d just agreed to go along with his suggested measures to conceal our relationship.

  His rules had been pretty clear. No public appearances just the two of us. No time alone without an official meeting. Don’t only schedule private meetings. No contact outside work.

  No matter how much I hated not being able to see him, or even speak to him, whenever I wanted to, I couldn’t argue. After all, he’d been through this before. And the whole world had seen how things had turned out when his rules weren’t enforced.

  So we’d agreed early on that there would be no personal contact with each other by text, email or even social media. It was too easy to track and the story was too scandalous for the press to ignore. He’d learned the system from his wife, whose affairs had never been picked up by the media, and when he suggested it to me I’d quickly agreed, not really caring how we did it, as long as I was with him and our secret remained with us.

  But now it was mine alone to protect.

  Chapter Eight

  From out of nowhere, I got up. There was no revelation, no driving force that propelled me to movement. I just lifted my body, waited for sensation to return to my legs and then moved them, one after the other.

  Stepping into a hot bath, I stayed there until the scalding water turned cold. My arms floated to the top listlessly and I watched, uninterested, as my fingers brushed the cool porcelain. I knew, at the back of my mind, that I should be feeling something, thinking something. Reacting. And yet after the initial shock had worn off, I felt completely apathetic.