The Man She Married: A gripping psychological thriller with a heart-pounding twist(16)

‘Well, that’s something, isn’t it?’ My tone is meant to soothe.

‘So, Simon and I have decided once her ashes are back, I’ll pick them up from Heathrow and take them up to Newcastle, where we’ll have a very small memorial service for her friends and neighbours. Simon will take the ashes to Bamburgh and scatter them at one of Mum’s favourite spots.’

‘Good idea,’ I nod. ‘And I’ll come up with you, of course.’

‘There’s no need, babe, really.’

I give him a shocked look. ‘Of course there is! There’s every need. I’m your wife, and I need to be there. Not for your mum, but for you. To support you.’

‘Okay then…’ He kisses my forehead. ‘Thank you, babe.’



Patricia Gill’s cremated remains arrive in the UK on 6 March, and the memorial service is to be held in Ponteland the following week. I offer to accompany Dominic when he goes to Heathrow to collect the ashes and the death certificate, but he declines.

‘I just want a little bit of time alone with Mum, I’m sure you understand.’

He comes back with a zipped nylon bag, the size of a small rucksack, and puts it under the hall table.

‘Should we’ – I make a move toward the bag – ‘take her out, for the time being?’

‘No!’ Dominic’s voice is harsh, and he puts a restraining hand on my arm. ‘She’s been carted around enough, let’s just leave her in peace, for now, okay?’

‘Of course. Whatever you’re most comfortable with.’ I go into the kitchen and fetch Dominic a glass of his favourite Scotch. ‘How about I book us train tickets for next week?’

‘Thanks, Ally, that would be helpful.’

I book us each a return to Newcastle for the following Wednesday, and an overnight stay in a local hotel. The service is due to be held on Thursday morning.

On Tuesday evening, I come back from work early to pack, and find Dominic already home. He’s tense and restless, pacing up and down the bedroom while I search for his black tie.

‘I don’t think you’ve got one, darling,’ I say, after thumbing through his tie rack.

‘I know I have – it must be there somewhere.’

He snatches the tie rack from me, but, sure enough, there is no black tie.

‘Wear a dark blue one, that’ll be good enough. With a dark suit and black shoes.’

‘No, it won’t.’ Dominic runs his hands through his hair. ‘It will look disrespectful. You know what her generation are like about funerals: you have to be in black from head to toe. I’ll go out and get one – Whiteleys will still be open, or I could whizz over to Westfield.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure. I won’t be gone long. And, tell you what – why don’t I pick up a takeaway from Royal Shanghai on my way back?’ He names my favourite Chinese restaurant. ‘Let’s face it: neither of us is in the mood to cook.’

He returns an hour later, just as I’m closing my own suitcase, with a black silk Christian Dior tie and a steaming bag of pork dumplings, sesame chicken and chili beef.

‘Perfect,’ I say, loading the food onto plates I’ve warmed in the oven. ‘Two birds with one stone.’

We wash down the food with a bottle of Riesling and retire to bed. Thirty minutes later, my eyes fly open and I know instinctively that something’s wrong. My forehead is drenched with sweat, and there’s a terrible churning sensation in my upper abdomen, together with a nausea stronger than anything I’ve ever experienced before. I lurch into our en suite bathroom and fall to my knees, missing the edge of the toilet bowl and splashing vomit onto the floor tiles. For the next two hours, I vomit at intervals, a concerned Dominic hovering with glasses of water and damp towels to mop my face.

‘A touch of food poisoning, babe, that’s all it is. Pork is always dodgy.’

‘But we both ate the same thing. And you’re fine,’ I groan between bouts of retching.

‘Uh-uh. I didn’t have any of the dumplings.’

‘I’ll be fine in the morning,’ I groan, as I finally crawl back to bed. ‘I’ve got to be.’

And, sure enough, in the morning I feel a little better. Drained, and dehydrated, but no longer possessed by the violent nausea.

‘I should be okay to come with you,’ I assure Dominic as he hands me a cup of tea in bed. ‘Once I’ve had this and showered, I’ll be fine.’

‘That’s good, darling, because I need you with me today.’

But after I’ve drunk the tea and I’m heading for the shower, the sickness returns with a vengeance, and I spend another forty minutes with my head positioned over the toilet bowl, and my guts curdling.

‘I really don’t think you can come,’ Dominic says sadly. ‘You’re never going to cope with a three-and-a-half-hour train journey.’

‘I’ll manage,’ I whisper. ‘Honestly.’

‘Babe – be serious. What if you’re sick on the train and the toilet is already occupied? Or – God forbid – you throw up at the service?’

So I reluctantly agree that I’ll have to stay behind but insist on coming as far as King’s Cross with him in the pre-booked cab, clutching a plastic bag in case I need to vomit again. ‘It’s the least I can do,’ I say, clutching his hand all the way there, and then struggling out of the taxi to wave him off.