The Widow: The page-turning, unputdownable psychological thriller from Valerie Keogh

1

My parents loved each other. They were always hugging, holding hands, touching. If separated in a crowd, they’d exchange passionately adoring glances. Parted by distance, they’d pine and make frequent phone calls. They rarely used their given names, the plain John and Eve everyone else used; instead it was ‘darling’, ‘honey’, ‘sweetheart’ and other various nicknames, the most nauseating of which was ‘sex bomb’ for her, ‘stud’ for him, these last only used in the privacy of their home.

Where I lived.

Their love was exclusive, inward-looking, nothing remaining for anyone else, not even the children these self-obsessed people had brought into the world. The children they’d named Allison, Beth and Cassie but dismissively referred to as A, B and C or, as I overheard my mother calling us once… the ‘alphabet sprogs’.

We weren’t mistreated, not really. Hard to mistreat someone you barely acknowledged being alive. We offspring of these two were fed, and clothed, but little money was spent on procuring either.

Our eyes were opened when we went to school and, as the eldest of the three sprogs, I was first to suffer for the sin of being ‘different’.

I was the child the other children laughed at; my thin, spindly body clothed in well-worn, badly fitting, charity-shop clothes. The child who from self-preservation became a skilled, believable liar.

Lies to save face – the ones when I insisted I wasn’t hungry as classmates unwrapped their lunchtime sandwiches, my mother’s attitude being if I didn’t want to eat the meagre bread and jam provided free by the school, I could do without. Jam sandwiches, no butter so that the bread was soggy, the resultant mess unappetising. Maybe I’d have eaten it, hungry as I was, if taking one of those vile offerings hadn’t pushed me further down in the already low estimation of my classmates.

Lies to protect me from my mother’s ire when a teacher asked if I’d eaten breakfast the morning I fainted. Even at a young age I was aware that although my parents didn’t care about their children, they did care about how they were perceived by authority.

Lies to cover my petty thieving, the bars of chocolate, packets of crisps, anything I could slip into my pockets or my scuffed, raggedy schoolbag.

I was the child other children laughed at.

The child who gazed about her and wondered why her life was so incredibly sad.

2

Allison met Peter at a party given by Lorraine, a work colleague she wasn’t particularly friendly with. The invitation was unexpected and Allison, who wasn’t keen on social gatherings of any sort and work ones in particular, desperately searched for an acceptable excuse to avoid an event where she’d have to make small talk with people she wasn’t keen on.

‘It’s my fortieth. Do come, it’ll be fun.’ Lorraine, clipboard in one hand, a pen in the other with its point pressed to the space beside Allison’s name, gave an impatient huff as she waited for an answer.

Guessing she’d been invited to make up the numbers rather than any real desire to have her company, Allison wanted to say an unvarnished no. She didn’t owe Lorraine anything. They weren’t friends. But, unable to think of a good enough excuse, she found herself nodding and spouting lies. ‘Of course, thank you, I’d love to come.’

For the remainder of the day, all kinds of acceptable reasons to refuse popped into her head. Too late, as these things usually were. It was a week to the party, and she promised herself she’d find an opportunity to tell Lorraine she couldn’t, after all, make it, that something unexpected had come up and how genuinely sorry she was. But the week had flown by and a chance to tell her, even if Allison could have found the words, never occurred.

The night of the party, she took out a dress she’d bought months before and never worn. It had been in the window of an expensive boutique she regularly passed on her way to work. Her social life being non-existent, there was no requirement for fancier clothes than the rather dull suits she bought in M&S, so she’d never gone inside.

But on a particularly grey morning, the colour of the dress had caught her eye… a shade of turquoise she associated with the tantalising seascapes on the covers of holiday brochures. She’d stood staring at it as busy commuters surged by, then turned to join the flow, trying to put it from her mind. It was a busy day with little time for daydreaming but now and then, just for a few seconds, she allowed her mind to drift to the dress. A woman wearing such a divine garment couldn’t be dull; she’d be dazzling, oozing charm; her conversation would be sparkling and witty. She’d be everything Allison wasn’t, everything she longed to be.

It was a Thursday night. Late-night shopping. When she left the office for home that evening, the streets were heaving with shoppers who ploughed onward, laden carrier bags bumping into others willy-nilly as they passed. Allison slowed as she approached the boutique, half-afraid the dress would be gone, half-hoping it would be. If it was still there… she might go inside, try it on. Not buy it, of course, she’d nowhere to wear a dress so elegant.

It was there. She stood with her nose almost pressed to the traffic-dusty glass of the shop window. The dress was more lovely than she remembered and absolute longing consumed her. There was no harm in going inside to look at it, was there?

The interior of the shop was large and lavishly decorated with gold trimmings. The only assistant, a short, attractive woman who moved about on towering stilettos as if floating, was busy with a customer who was holding up a dress in two different shades as if trying to decide which to purchase.

Conscious the suit she was wearing had seen better days, Allison resisted the temptation to hug the large satchel she carried to her chest like a shield. Instead, overcompensating, she swung it in what she hoped was nonchalance, praying it didn’t look as odd as she feared.

When neither the assistant nor the other customer as much as glanced in her direction, she relaxed and looked around. Dresses were hanging on a rail on the far side of the shop. As she crossed, her footsteps on the polished wooden floor seeming over-loud, she scanned the collection, hoping the dress in the window wasn’t the only one.

No, there it was! She reached out to touch it, fingers skimming over the fabric. The colours were more vibrant up close, the material soft and light. She held the skirt of the dress out, picturing herself in it, the fabric swishing around her legs. With a sigh, she let it drop. She didn’t need such a dress, but it didn’t stop her searching for the price tag. Perhaps if it weren’t too expensive…

But it was. Ludicrously expensive, in fact. The assistant was still busy; Allison could simply leave and put this nonsense behind her. Her fingers, however, had other ideas and reached out to touch the dress again. Then, suddenly, she had the hanger off the rail, and she was crossing the shop floor with it in her hand.

After all, it cost nothing to try it on, did it?

But when Allison tried it on, when she twirled and admired her reflection in the triad of mirrors that formed the back walls of the small changing room, when she saw how the dress transformed her from dull to scintillating, she knew she had to have it.

‘How is it?’ the assistant asked through the thin curtain of the changing room.

Allison nodded at her reflection. ‘It’s perfect. I’ll take it.’

The dress had sat in her wardrobe, unworn, in the months since she’d bought it. Now and then, she’d take it out, getting pleasure from the sheer gorgeousness of it. Reluctant as she was to attend Lorraine’s birthday celebrations, it was an opportunity to wear it.

On the night of the party, Allison hung the dress on the outside of the wardrobe door. An unexpected excitement edged away any lingering reluctance and pushed her into making more of an effort. Normally, she pinned her long brown hair up… a tight chignon for work, a low ponytail at the weekend. That night, she allowed it to dry naturally rather than blow-drying it, and gentle waves framed her face before falling to her shoulders. Against the turquoise fabric of the dress, her hair looked more auburn than mousy brown.

Reaching for her usual make-up, she hesitated. For years, she’d applied the same heavy foundation, eyeshadow, lipstick. It had become as much part of her work uniform as her M&S suits. She ran her fingers over the smattering of freckles on her cheeks. Perhaps that night, she’d go au natural with maybe just a flick of mascara and a touch of lipstick. She stared at herself in the mirror, pleased with the results.

She looked like someone else. Even better, she felt like someone else. The woman from her imagination… the one who dazzled. The woman she could have been had she made different choices all those years before.

3

The party was held in the small upstairs function room of a pub near King’s Cross station. Allison had been inside it years before, not long after she’d joined McPherson Accountancy and had been eager to fit in. It had been a work night out to celebrate something or other; the reason had long since slipped her memory. The group had quickly descended into drunken bawdiness, and she’d made her exit as quickly as possible, swearing never again. She hadn’t socialised with her colleagues again, and the memory of the previous debacle swamped the excitement of her dress.

It would be better to go home, and perhaps she would have done if the door of the pub hadn’t suddenly opened and a laughing group surged out. Their laughter released some of the tension that had gripped her. What harm could it do to go in for one drink?

Inside, it was busy and groups of raucous drinkers with brimming pint glasses stood between her and the door to the narrow stairway that led to the upstairs venue. She dodged around them, one hand holding the skirt of her dress tightly to her body. Her whew of relief was lost in the din as she pushed the door open and went through.

The stairway was dimly lit. From the bottom, she could see the startlingly bright lights of the landing, and as if lured, she climbed slowly. At the top, she stopped, taking stock. Girding her loins. She smiled at the thought. It was a party, not a battle; it was supposed to be fun.

Through double doors, she saw a crowd of people milling about laughing and talking. They were obviously enjoying themselves. She could walk over, crack a joke, smile, laugh, be just like them. They were no different to her, were they? Not on the surface, anyway. She slipped past the doors and followed a sign on the wall to the ladies’, relieved on reaching it to find she had it to herself. The facilities were surprisingly generous. An ornately framed mirror hung over each of the three wash-hand basins with a matching full-length one fixed to the wall at the end. On one side of this sat two velvet-covered chairs angled to face each other. They offered a comfortable place to sit. Perhaps she could simply stay there. Lorraine was bound to come in at some stage during the evening. Allison could sit on one of the chairs, wait till she did, say hello, wish her a happy birthday and make her exit.

She could. The lighting in the room was flattering. Allison smoothed a hand down the fabric of her dress and walked towards the full-length mirror. It was exactly as she’d imagined she’d look. It hadn’t transformed her into the life and soul of the party but she looked glamorous, attractive and like other women she’d admired who were dressed up for a night of excitement. Not a woman who came to a party to hide in the toilets. Allison was a grown woman, an accountant, not a child. Plus, it was a bloody expensive dress; showing it off would go somewhere toward justifying the ridiculous amount of money she’d paid for it.

When she returned to the landing, there was a group of people heading into the venue. She didn’t recognise anyone but tagged along with the laughing group until they were inside, where the noise was slightly louder than it had been downstairs in the pub. A few people were gyrating on the small dance floor, hands pumping the air with enthusiasm in time to the beat of a song Allison didn’t recognise.

She looked around for the birthday girl but couldn’t see her in the crowd. When her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light inside the room, she recognised a couple of people from the office; they raised their hands in greeting when they saw her but made no effort to invite her to join them.

A rising tide of red crept over her cheeks, her eyes flicking to the doorway as panic’s icy fingers gripped and squeezed. There were so many people between her and the exit, she wasn’t sure she could make it.

‘Allison!’ Lorraine appeared at her side, a drink in one hand, a party horn in the other. She blew it next to Allison’s ear, almost deafening her. ‘I really didn’t think you’d come.’ Alcohol slurred the edges of her words. ‘You didn’t come to the Christmas party, so I’m honoured.’ She waved an arm around the room, swaying alarmingly. ‘You know everyone; grab a drink.’ Another expansive wave pointed towards where a table was set up with glasses and bottles. ‘It’s free till it runs out’ – she giggled drunkenly – ‘which won’t be long at the rate everyone is drinking, so grab a glass while you can.’

Another blow on the party horn and she left. Allison’s panic had faded. Her duty had been done; the birthday girl had seen her. She didn’t want a drink; she could leave.

The music changed to a song she liked, a George Michael one she hadn’t heard for a while. With a shrug, she headed to the drinks table, humming along to ‘Faith’. She might as well stay for one drink.

The white-linen-covered table was festooned with birthday banners and helium balloons. It had probably looked jaunty and festive at the beginning of the night but now, only an hour into the party, it was looking bedraggled. The biggest of the banners was torn in two; two of the balloons had been untied and were bouncing lazily along the ceiling. To add a touch of Gothic horror, red wine dripped ghoulishly down one side of the white linen.

A waiter stood behind a table. The uniform waistcoat he wore had obviously been purchased many years… and a couple of stone… before. The small metal buttons that fastened it strained against the buttonholes and looked ready to pop at any moment. She imagined them firing into the crowd, making the drunks bleed.

He looked and sounded bored. ‘What can I get you?’

The choice seemed limited to white, red or beer. ‘A glass of white wine, please.’

Maybe he was in a hurry to finish the free drinks or perhaps he didn’t know any better because the glass he handed her was filled to the brim. Wine trickled down the outside as he passed it to her. As she hesitated, she caught him looking, a smile hovering just out of reach. He probably thought she was too precious to take it. She wasn’t, but she was conscious of her dress. ‘You can put it down, thanks.’

When he did, she used an edge of the table covering to dry the glass before lifting it carefully to take a mouthful. Only then did she move away with it in her hand, searching for a place where she could stand without looking conspicuously alone. Lorraine was wrong: she didn’t know everyone. In fact, apart from the few people from the office she’d already seen, nobody looked familiar. Or maybe, like her, they’d taken off their work masks.

Maybe if she downed a few glasses of this bloody awful cheap plonk, she’d be able to relax. Let go. Maybe join the group on the dance floor and sway in time to the music playing now, a song she remembered from her university days but couldn’t put a name to. She hadn’t liked parties then any more than she did now, but back then she and her equally nerdy friends would dance anywhere. The words came to her, and she sang along under her breath, shimmying in time to the music. Lost in the moment, she wasn’t aware of the man who appeared at her shoulder until she felt the warmth of his breath on her cheek as he leaned closer to be heard above the surrounding noise.

‘I’ve always liked this song too.’

Startled, she jerked around, her lips suddenly within kissing distance of a handsome stranger who was looking at her with an admiring glint in his eyes.

Allison took a step away and lifted her glass to her mouth, taking a gulp rather than a sip, her mouth dry. She hoped he’d think the colour in her cheeks was the result of alcohol, not embarrassment… or if she was being completely honest, the unaccustomed, overwhelming dart of desire. Small talk wasn’t her forte; she was great with numbers, above averagely useless with words. ‘How do you know Lorraine?’ An open question, she’d read, was better at promoting interaction.

‘I don’t.’

As a conversation ender, it was perfect. She stared at him, willing her brain to come up with something scintillating to say. It didn’t, but it wouldn’t have mattered; her tongue was suddenly large and clumsy in her mouth, refusing to work.

‘I don’t know anyone here.’ He put a warm hand on her elbow and led her away as they were crushed by a huddle of people attempting to reach the drinks table. ‘I suppose you’d call me a gate-crasher.’

A drunken roar from the dance floor drew their attention. Allison felt the heat of his hand on her elbow. She should pull away, glare at him for taking liberties, but she wanted him to stay, to keep his hand exactly where it was. It was times like this she wished for a Cyrano to slip her the right words, a quick, sassy comment to make this incredibly handsome man look at her in admiration. Be enthralled by her. Want to stay.

By the time the noise level had dropped again, she hadn’t thought of anything better to say than a very lame, and not very complimentary, ‘Why on earth would you want to gate crash this party?’ She pulled her arm away from his hand. The patch of skin he’d touched was instantly chilled; she rubbed her hand over it. It was time to leave. This man… with his well-cut suit, a glint of gold in the cuffs of his shirt, his tie undone just enough… he was out of her league. Previous boyfriends, and there had been many, had been those who, like her, lurked on the edges of whatever was going on. This man belonged centre stage.

‘I was in the bar downstairs with some work colleagues when I saw you come in.’ He reached forward and before she could stop him, he’d gathered a fold of her dress in his hand. ‘You stood out in this amidst all the dull suits and black dresses.’ He dropped the material and raised his hand to her hair. ‘Your hair caught the light. I was curious about you, so I followed.’

She wanted to laugh, to dismiss him as an opportunist, a scam artist, one of those men who preyed on desperate or vulnerable women. Perhaps she would have done, if he hadn’t taken her hand and looked into her eyes with such intensity, she felt weak. She’d sneered at women who fell for such obvious tricks. How desperate they must have been.

‘Why don’t we get out of here and go somewhere we can talk?’

She wasn’t desperate, or vulnerable, she was an intelligent, mature woman who had no desire to become a statistic, but when he reached for her hand, she laid hers in his and went with him like a lamb to the sacrificial altar.

4

I learnt to read when I was very young and quickly discovered a fantasy world where everything was bright and cheerful. Where children were loved and cosseted by adoring parents. I would read the words, greedy for this imaginary world, reluctant to leave it, rereading my favourite stories, finishing the last page, turning immediately to the first page again, reliving a life so unlike mine.

Perhaps stories would have been sufficient if a new student hadn’t joined our class when I was almost nine. She was small, mousy, nothing special, although she was adopted, which caused a few minutes of staring as if being such meant she had to look different in some way. When she didn’t, we went back to ignoring her. Things wouldn’t have changed if I hadn’t walked out after school that first day to see her mother waiting for her with open arms. There was a beaming smile and a look of love on her face as she folded the mousy girl in her embrace as if she was the most precious thing in the world. Jealousy was a new emotion for me; it brought me to a halt, my eyes fixed on the scene, wanting desperately to be that girl, to have that woman as my mother, to have the life I knew I should have been born into.

The girl, Monica, became my obsession. Never a friend, though; losers like me, girls who didn’t have lunch, who never invited classmates to birthday parties, who were dressed in charity-shop cast-offs, who were obviously ‘different’, didn’t have friends. Even then, I knew my place. But I watched. I followed Monica and her mother home, stood outside their house for hours at a time and followed their comings and goings. Perhaps I wanted to see that the reality of their life was no different to mine, that the school greeting was merely for show, but no, they appeared happy, content, loved-up, every single time I saw them.

My envy grew. Especially when I had to go home after seeing them together, when I was forced to contrast their idyllic life with mine.

Why couldn’t I have been adopted into a loving family? That thought began to obsess me until finally I realised that I could be.

If my parents were to die.

5

Peter took Allison to a wine bar a short distance away. The clientele older, smarter, richer. The décor sumptuous. Damask chairs, polished wood, the light dim and flattering.

‘This is better.’ He brushed away the menu the waiter held out to him. ‘A bottle of Dom Perignon, please.’

‘Certainly.’

Allison bit back a sigh of pleasure as she sat on a chair so comfortable it was like being hugged. She was being swept along; it wasn’t a sensation she was used to. ‘You didn’t ask if I liked champagne.’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes, but that isn’t the point.’ She tried to put a little steel in her voice. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

He laughed then, the confident, self-assured sound of a man who always got his own way. ‘Peter… Peter Fellowes. Are you happier drinking champagne with me now?’

Once again, she wanted to dazzle him with her witty repartee. ‘Safer, perhaps.’ Safer, perhaps. That was the best she could come up with?

It may not have been scintillating, but it made him laugh anyway. ‘You think knowing my name makes it safer; I could be lying to you.’

‘Are you?’

Instead of answering, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘Here you go.’ He handed a business card across.

The card was thick, matt black, the writing in gold script. Peter Fellowes, Attorney at Law.

‘I’m not sure this makes me feel safer.’

This drew another laugh. Perhaps she wasn’t that bad at snappy retorts after all. The arrival of the champagne, and the palaver of opening it, gave Allison time to assess the man sitting opposite with a more objective eye. He was certainly handsome, reminding her a little of a young Paul Newman. Brown eyes, though, not blue. Lighter brown hair, cut a little too short for her taste. Large hands with slightly stubby fingers. No wedding band, no indent to say one had been there recently. All almost too perfect.

A discreet pop brought her eyes back to the waiter, who