The Younger Wife by Sally Hepworth – Free Extract

By Katy Blott
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A sneak peek at The Younger Wife: the twisty and unputdownable new domestic thriller from Sally Hepworth

 

 

The Younger Wife publishes on 7th April in eBook and you can pre-order now 

 


I always cry at weddings. Nothing original there, I know—except, perhaps, the reason. Most people cry for joy apparently, or be- cause they’ve been catapulted back to their own wedding day and are overwhelmed by the emotion of it all. I cry because I am sad. Sad for me, sad for the bride, sad for the institution of marriage. Sad enough that it makes me cry. I’m especially sad at this wedding. When I arrived, half an hour early, the surrounding streets were already jam-packed with shiny black Range Rovers, Mercedes, and Porsches. I suppose Stephen Aston’s wedding was always going to be a fancy affair. It’s a warm day and I’m sandwiched into a pew in the nondenominational chapel, surrounded by bunches of freesias, hyacinth, and snapdragons. The venue is entirely too small for the number of guests. The altar barely has space for the groom and celebrant—Lord knows where the bride will stand when she decides to show up.

I am seated toward the back and no one pays me any mind. Why would they? I’m a woman of a certain age; for years I’ve been bland and forgettable. People around me—the young, primarily—are al- ways happy to take centre stage. My friend Miriam often laments how we have disappeared now that we are older. No one sees me any- more, Miriam says. (Hello! she shouts aggressively at the deli server who has chosen to serve the pretty young woman in the yoga pants, even though Miriam has been there longer. I suspect Miriam is not as invisible as she believes.)

Stephen is at the front, and it has to be said that, even now, he still takes my breath away. He is flanked by two tiny boys in dinner suits—his grandsons, I expect. It’s ridiculous; the little one isn’t much more than a toddler and the other is five, tops. They should be at home napping or playing in the mud, not standing in a chapel! Still, it doesn’t surprise me that Stephen would want this. And the guests, judging by their cooing, think it’s adorable. Stephen’s adult daughters, Rachel and Tully, are bridesmaids, no doubt at their father’s insistence. Their dresses are navy and flatter them both—no mean feat given Tully is as slim as a whippet while Rachel is what my mother used to describe as “porcine.” Their smiles are painted on, unconvincing, but then who would be pleased to see their father marry a woman young enough to be their sister? And while their mother looks on to boot.

I was shocked to see Pamela here. Guests had exchanged worried looks as she entered on her daughter’s arm, smiling and waving as if arriving at a red-carpet event. I’d wonder why she was invited, if I didn’t know Stephen. Despite what happened, Pamela is family, and to Stephen, family is everything. Pamela takes her seat in the front row, then immediately rises to her feet again, walking purposefully toward Stephen.

The music changes and everyone turns to face the back of the room. The bride is fresh-faced, fake-tanned, and strapped into a dress that likely cost more than the deposit for my first home. She is very attractive—slim and brunette and thirtysomething. I sneak a look at Stephen. He looks proud as punch, and why wouldn’t he? Stephen may be a handsome man, but if you’re marrying a woman in her thirties when you’re in your early sixties, it has to be said you’re batting above your average.

The bride arrives at the front to find Stephen and his ex-wife standing there, but Stephen, being Stephen, manages to return her to her seat without anything being awkward—a feat that perhaps only Stephen Aston could pull off. With Pamela out of the way, the bride squeezes into the tiny space beside the groom, and the celebrant—a pigeon-shaped woman in a crisp white pantsuit—invites everyone to be seated.

The room is charged with aggressive goodwill—big unnatural smiles, wide eyes, comments about the bride’s dress (which is exquisite). Miriam recently observed that the vast majority of brides resembled the Barbie on a child’s birthday cake in their strapless gowns with skirts large enough to smuggle half a dozen leprechauns down the aisle. (Leprechauns, she’d whispered pointedly at the wedding of her niece last year. At least a dozen.) But not this bride. Heather looks positively elegant in her A-line gown.

As the celebrant starts her spiel, there’s the usual rustling in seats as people shift to get comfortable. A baby cries and is removed by his or her father. A few guests fan themselves with the wedding booklets while simultaneously trying not to touch the person on either side of them (a challenge in the cramped space). Then, just as everyone seems to have settled, Pamela stands again. The energy of the room shifts from aggressive goodwill to scandalised breath- holding as she wanders onto the altar, observing her surroundings casually as if perusing produce at the supermarket. Stephen smiles, dispelling the panic in the room. “Carry on,” he says to the celebrant.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” she says uncertainly as Pamela charges past them. She appears to be interested in the stained-glass windows. They are quite beautiful. “You may kiss the bride.”

The kiss is chaste and imbued with what appears to be genuine affection. When they separate, Stephen, impossibly pleased with himself, gives a little fist pump and the crowd erupts in applause, with a few whistles thrown in for good measure. The noise spooks Pamela, who looks around worriedly. She grabs an ornate brass candlestick, holding it up in front of her like a shield. Stephen beams at the crowd. He’s a newlywed. An ex-wife with Alzheimer’s isn’t going to rain on his parade.

“Now, if you’ll excuse us for a moment,” the celebrant says, “I’m going to take the bride and groom into the sacristy to sign the register.”

She leads Stephen and his new wife into a room to the side of the altar. The trio is followed by the two little boys, plus Rachel and Tully and Pamela, who is still clutching the candlestick. Will someone take that poor woman home? I think.

With the bridal party out of sight, the guests start chatting among themselves.

“Wasn’t that lovely?” “What a beautiful bride!”

“Isn’t it wonderful that he found love again?” “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer man!”

It seems as good a time as any to take my leave. I stand, gather- ing my things, and that’s when I hear it. A young woman’s scream and then, a dense, meaty thud. I rise at the same time as every other guest. I look to the front of the room, but my view is obscured by large hats and bald heads. I am craning to see through the gaps between the guests when the celebrant reappears. Her face is ashen and her white pantsuit is covered in blood.