THE
LAST WIFE
Author:
Karen Hamilton
ISBN:
9781525831744
Publication
Date: July 7, 2020
Publisher:
Graydon House Books
Book
Summary:
In Karen Hamilton’s shocking thriller, THE LAST WIFE (Graydon House, July 7,
$17.99) Marie Langham is distraught when her
childhood friend, Nina, is diagnosed with a terminal illness. Before Nina
passes away, she asks Marie to look out for her family—her son,
daughter, and husband, Stuart. Marie would do anything for Nina, so of course,
she agrees.
Following Nina's
death, Marie gradually finds herself drawn into her friend's life—her family, her large house in the countryside. But
when Camilla, a mutual friend from their old art-college days, suddenly
reappears, Marie begins to suspect that she has a hidden agenda. Then, Marie
discovers that Nina had long suppressed secrets about a holiday in Ibiza the
women took ten years previously when Marie's then-boyfriend went missing after
a tragic accident and was later found dead.
Marie used to envy
Nina's beautiful life, but now the cards are up in the air and she begins to
realize that nothing is what it seemed. As long-buried secrets start surfacing,
Marie must figure out what’s true and who she can trust before the consequences
of Nina’s dark secrets destroy her.
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Excerpt
PROLOGUE
Clients trust me because I blend in. It’s a natural
skill—my gift, if you like. I focus my lens and capture stories, like the ones
unfolding tonight: natural and guarded expressions, self-conscious poses,
joyous smiles, reluctant ones from a teenage bridesmaid, swathed in silver and
bloodred. The groom is an old friend, yet I’ve only met his now-wife twice. She
seems reserved, hard to get to know, but in their wedding album she’ll glow.
The camera does lie. My role is to take these lies and spin them into the
perfect story.
I take a glass of champagne from a passing server. I
needn’t be totally on the ball during the latter half of the evening because by
then, people naturally loosen up. I find that the purest details are revealed
in the discreet pictures I snatch during the final hours, however innocuously
an event starts. And besides, it seems this event is winding down.
The one downside of my job is the mixed bag of emotions
evoked. I rarely take family photos anymore, so normally, I’m fine, but today,
watching the wedding festivities, the longing for what I don’t have has crept
up on me. People think that envy is a bad thing, but in my opinion, envy is a
positive emotion. It has always been the best indicator for me to realize
what’s wrong with my life. People say, “Follow your dreams,” yet I’d say,
“Follow what makes you sick with envy.”
It’s how I knew that I must stop deceiving myself and
face up to how desperately I wanted to have a child. Delayed gratification is
overrated.
I place my camera on a table as the tempo eases and sit
down on a satin-draped chair. As I watch the bride sweep across the dance floor
with her new husband, I think of Nina, and an overwhelming tide of grief floods
through me. I picture her haunted expression when she elicited three final
promises from me: two are easy to keep, one is not. Nonetheless, a vow is a
vow. I will be creative and fulfill it. I have a bad—yet tempting—idea which
occasionally beckons me toward a slippery slope.
I must do my best to avoid it because when Nina passed
the baton to me, she thought I was someone she could trust. However, as my
yearning grows, the crushing disappointment increases every month and the
future I crave remains elusive. And she didn’t know that I’d do anything to get
what I want. Anything.
ONE
Ben isn’t at home.
I used to panic when that happened, assume that he was unconscious in a burning
building, his oxygen tank depleted, his colleagues unable to reach him. All
this, despite his assurance that they have safety checks in place to keep an
eye out for each other. He’s been stressed lately, blames it on work. He loves
his job as a firefighter, but nearly lost one of his closest colleagues in a
fire on the fourth floor of a block of flats recently when a load of wiring
fell down and threatened to ensnare him.
No, the reality is
that he is punishing me. He doesn’t have a shift today. I understand his hurt,
but it’s hard to explain why I did what I did. For a start, I didn’t think that
people actually sent out printed wedding invitations anymore. If I’d known that
the innocuous piece of silver card smothered in horseshoes and church bells
would be the ignition for the worst argument we’d ever had, I wouldn’t have
opened it in his presence.
Marie
Langham plus guest…
I don’t know what
annoyed Ben more, the fact that he wasn’t deemed important enough to be named
or that I said I was going alone.
“I’m working,” I
tried to explain. “The invitation is obviously a kind formality, a politeness.”
“All this is easily
rectifiable,” he said. “If you wanted me there, you wouldn’t have kept me in
the dark. The date was blocked off as work
months ago in our calendar.”
True. But I
couldn’t admit it. He wouldn’t appreciate being called a distraction.
Now, I have to make
it up to him because it’s the right time of the month. He hates what he refers
to as enforced sex (too much pressure), and any obvious scene-setting like
oyster-and-champagne dinners, new lingerie, an invitation to join me in the
shower or even a simple suggestion that we just shag, all the standard methods
annoy him. It’s hard to believe that other couples have this problem, it makes
me feel inadequate.
One of our cats
bursts through the flap and aims for her bowl. I observe her munching,
oblivious to my return home until this month’s strategy presents itself to me:
nonchalance. A part of Ben’s stress is that he thinks I’m obsessed with having
a baby. I told him to look up the true meaning of the word: an unhealthy
interest in something. It’s not an obsession to desire something perfectly normal.
I unpack, then
luxuriate in a steaming bath filled with bubbles. I’m a real sucker for the
sales promises: relax and unwind and revitalize. I hear the muffled sound of a
key in the lock. It’s Ben—who else would it be—yet I jump out and wrap a towel
around me. He’s not alone. I hear the voices of our neighbors, Rob and Mike.
He’s brought in reinforcements to maintain the barrier between us. There are
two ways for me to play this and if you can’t beat them…
I dress in jeans and a T-shirt, twist my hair up
and grip it with a hair clip, wipe mascara smudges from beneath my eyes and
head downstairs.
“You’re back,” says
Ben by way of a greeting. “The guys have come over for a curry.”
“Sounds perfect,” I
say, kissing him before hugging our friends hello.
I feel smug at the
wrong-footed expression on Ben’s face. He thought I’d be unable to hide my
annoyance, that I’d pull him to one side and whisper, “It’s orange,” (the color my fertility app suggests is the perfect
time) or suggest that I cook instead so I can ensure he eats as organically as
possible.
“Who’s up for
margaritas?” I say with an I’m game for a
big night smile.
Ben’s demeanor
visibly softens. Result. I’m forgiven.
The whole evening
is an effortless success.
Indifference and
good, old-fashioned getting pissed works.
Excerpted from The Last Wife by
Karen Hamilton, Copyright © 2020 by Karen Hamilton
Published by Graydon House Books
Author
Bio:
Karen Hamilton spent her
childhood in Angola, Zimbabwe, Belgium and Italy and worked as a flight
attendant for many years. Karen is a recent graduate of the Faber Academy and,
having now put down roots in Hampshire to raise her young family with her
husband, she satisfies her wanderlust by exploring the world through her
writing. She is also the author of the international bestseller The Perfect Girlfriend.
Social
Links:
Twitter: @KJHAuthor
Instagram: @karenhamiltonauthor
Facebook: @KarenHamiltonWriter
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