The Man She Married: A gripping psychological thriller with a heart-pounding twist(3)

When I look up again, it’s after seven o’clock. Dominic is now officially late, which is by no means unusual. As finance director of a multinational construction firm, his hours are long and irregular and there’s a good chance someone grabbed him for an informal meeting just as he planned to leave. So I’m not worried, but I am a little irritated. Especially since I’ve let the pregnancy cat out of the bag without waiting for him to get home. And because the option of refilling my wine glass and blocking out the irritation is no longer open to me.

I glance at my phone, but there are no new calls or messages. Sighing, I go into the kitchen, and turn on the oven in readiness for baking the fish. Once the fish is neatly parcelled up, I top up my wine glass with more sparkling water, mix a salad dressing and check my phone again. It’s almost seven thirty. Dominic was supposed to be home around an hour ago. My pregnancy announcement WhatsApp has two blue ticks, but my call to his mobile rings out, then eventually goes to voicemail. Instead of leaving him a message, I cut the call and FaceTime JoJo.

‘Wow – you look great,’ JoJo says as soon as she answers. ‘Pretty dress.’ She indicates her own sweater and leggings combo, ‘Bet you’re glad I made the effort.’

‘I did the test.’

Her eyes widen. ‘And?’

‘It was positive.’

‘Oh my God, that’s amazing! Have you told Dom yet?’

I force a small smile. ‘I messaged him, but I haven’t heard back. He said he’d be home an hour ago.’

‘Have you tried calling him?’

‘He’s not picking up.’

JoJo scowls into the screen. ‘Bloody idiot. Tell you what, I’ll come over and celebrate with you. I’ll eat his share of the meal, too. What are we having?’

‘Sea bass. And pink champagne. Which I can’t really have now, obviously.’

‘Even better: more for me. I’ll get m’coat.’

We both know she’s joking, but I almost wish she wasn’t. ‘It would probably be more fun, to be honest,’ I sigh. ‘I expect he’ll be home soon, but I’ve lost my nerve a bit when it comes to the whole Valentine’s pregnancy announcement thing.’

‘Where do you think he is?’

I shrug. ‘Something’s probably held him up at work. It just would have been nice if he could have told me. It is Valentine’s night, after all.’

‘Are you sure that’s all it is? It’s not like Dom hasn’t got form.’

This can’t be anything to do with her, I think. That’s all over: Dominic dealt with it. I know for a fact he did, because at the time I was standing right next to him at the front desk of the police station.

‘I’m sure,’ I say firmly. ‘We’re fine now. Better than ever. But this is a bit slack, even for him.’

‘Why don’t you call his office? Just to be sure.’

After pacing and fretting for a further half an hour, I take her advice and dial the number for Dominic’s PA. Predictably, she has gone home. Eventually, after trying a few numbers, I manage to get hold of someone on the reception desk, who says that Mr Gill definitely left the building around six fifteen. He drove to work today because of a tube strike, so I ask them to check the car park. Sure enough, his car has gone. It’s now eight fifteen. The drive home from Silvertown doesn’t usually take longer than twenty minutes, thirty if the traffic is particularly bad. I put the fish back in the fridge and go upstairs to the bedroom, where I take off my dress and heels and put on jeans and a hoodie. I return to the sofa and sit there, dejected, no longer wanting to think about the fact that I’m carrying a child.

Why now? I think. Why, when everything’s so great between us, does Dom have to be home late? Why – just for once – can’t he stick to the original plan? Does this mean the baby news has upset him in some way? But why on earth would it?

To distract myself, I pick up my laptop and start going through some of the dozens of unanswered work emails in my Comida inbox.

Finally, at ten past nine, I hear a car pulling up outside. I head to the front door and yank it open. But the person in front of me is not who I’m expecting at all.





Two





Alice





Then





I notice his eyes first.

His features are handsome in an unremarkable, conventional way. His dark blond hair is worn slightly long, curling up at his shirt collar, and styled with more product than I care for. But those eyes! The irises are the most unusual colour I have ever seen, and one I would struggle to describe. They are too light to be brown; more a sort of café-au-lait colour. Or taupe, like chamois leather, with a ring of amber flecks around the edge of the coloured part. He has a faint tan and every single cell of his body emits vitality and good health. And confidence.

We’re sharing a lift on the way down from the top floor of the Ellwood Archer building in Silvertown, on the north bank of the Thames. I’ve been meeting an executive assistant to negotiate for my company, Comida, to provide a series of directors’ lunches. If the plan comes off, it will be a major step up for my little catering business. So I’m smiling when the man steps into the lift after me, just as the doors slide shut. Even though it’s not aimed at him, he automatically smiles too.