The Man She Married: A gripping psychological thriller with a heart-pounding twist(11)

‘Of course, no problem, Madam. If you’ll hold on one moment, I’d just like to transfer you to our reservations team.’

I’m put on hold for a few minutes, then an apologetic female voice comes on the line. ‘So sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs Gill…’

I don’t bother to explain that I’m not Mrs Gill; not yet.

‘I’ve been through our online system, but I can’t find any rooms booked in the name of Gill. Do you know when the reservation was made?’

‘I don’t know exactly… my fiancé booked them… it would have been at least two weeks ago, I think.’

‘One moment, let me check again.’

I’m put on hold for another three minutes.

‘I’m so sorry, madam, but I can’t find a record of the reservation at all. If it was an error in our system, I can only apologise.’

‘Maybe my husband already cancelled,’ I say.

‘Yes, maybe,’ the clerk agrees tactfully, although we both know there would be a record if this was the case.

I zip the dress back into the bag and hang it up again, telling myself not to stress over little details like a hotel reservation cock-up. I have the perfect wedding dress, and Dominic and I are going to have the perfect wedding.



It was really Dominic who wanted to keep the occasion small, but even without the time pressure, I would have been happy to go along with him. The rigmarole of a big wedding would have been an uncomfortable echo of what should have been my nuptials with Alex.

So there are only eight of us at the ceremony itself – me, Dominic, JoJo, David and Melanie, my cousins Karen and Natalie, and Dominic’s best man, Adam. If Mrs Gill and Simon had made it, there would still only have been ten of us. We’ve been allocated the smallest ceremony room, designed to accommodate up to fifteen people, and I’m gratified to discover that our small party is a quite a normal size for a registry office wedding. It feels right; intimate.

A further fifty guests join us at the reception venue – a converted church in Islington, set up with trestle tables at one end and a dance floor at the other. The lofty space has been swagged with ivory muslin and filled with gold balloons, and the tables feature miniature pink rose trees amid banks of candles of differing heights. I intended the overall effect to be one combining chic with a hint of girliness.

After an informal reception with specially created cocktails, the guests sit down at the tables to enjoy chilled Vichyssoise, Wagyu beef and salted caramel fondants. The effect of the candles is spectacular, the champagne flows and the bonhomie is infectious. I’ve dispensed with speeches, apart from a brief ‘thank you for coming’ from the groom, and after the cake has been cut, people disperse into little groups to chat while the DJ sets up his decks. I survey the scene with satisfaction, then look down at my left hand with its new platinum wedding band; the engagement ring having been temporarily displaced to my right hand to leave an empty finger for the ceremony. The wedding ring still feels a little foreign and I slip it off and look at it closely for the first time. It’s only now that I have the chance to read the inscription that Dominic had specially engraved.

To the love of my life. Then there’s a small engraved heart followed by the date: 1 April 2016.

It’s so unexpected and yet so perfect. I pull my phone out of my clutch bag and take a close-up photo of the inscription, posting it to my Facebook with no caption save for a red heart emoji.

JoJo approaches, cramming a slice of vanilla sponge into her mouth, licking the buttercream from her purple manicure, and I slip the ring back onto my left ring finger.

‘Good call on the speeches, Al,’ she says, leaning in for an embrace.

I recoil. ‘Keep that frosting away from my hair, you witch!’

We’re both a little tipsy by now, and collapse into each other, giggling.

‘Talking of your hair, what’s with the colour?’ JoJo points at my updo. For the first time in many years it’s mouse. I used to dye it a vivid chestnut colour, but soon after we started dating, Dom admitted he preferred it undyed.

‘Dom likes my natural colour.’

She pulls a face at this. ‘Controlling, much?’ In recent weeks, JoJo has taken any and every opportunity to have a dig at my fiancé. ‘Seriously though… I wish more weddings would ditch the speeches. Hate them,’ JoJo slurs.

‘I thought you’d approve,’ I smirk, helping myself to a taste of JoJo’s cake.

‘I tell you who else was pleased – Dom’s best man. What’s his name again?’

‘Adam.’

‘That’s the one. You know what he said to me – he said he was dreading having to do a speech.’

I shrug. ‘Well, I guess public speaking is not everyone’s bag.’

‘No, no, that’s not why he didn’t want to do it.’

‘What do you mean?’ I’ve not quite drunk enough to prevent me from picking up a certain edge in my maid of honour’s voice.

‘He said he couldn’t make a speech because he hardly knows Dom. He’s from Ellwood Archer, so they’ve only known one another a few months.’

I make a so-what gesture. ‘You don’t have to have known someone for years to get on with them well.’

‘Yeah, but…’ JoJo licks a stray smear of buttercream from the side of her finger. ‘When you ask someone to be your best man, surely it has to be someone you’ve known for ages. Someone from school, or your hometown. Or uni, at least.’