His Perfect Wife Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Natasha Bush

  Reader’s Guide copyright © 2018 by Penguin Random House LLC.

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Broadway Books, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  crownpublishing.com

  Broadway Books and its logo, BDWY, are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Extra Libris and the accompanying colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Simultaneously published in hardcover in Great Britain under the title, Exhibit Alexandra, by Michael Joseph, an imprint of Penguin Books Ltd., a division of Penguin Random House Ltd., London, and in hardcover in the United States by Crown, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, in 2018.

  “Motherhood Does Not Kill Creativity” was originally published by CrimeReads (crimereads.com) on March 21, 2018.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

  ISBN 9781524761080

  Ebook ISBN 9781984825254

  Cover design by Ervin Serrano

  Cover photograph by Karina Vegas/Arcangel

  v5.2_r1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Thursday, February 21, 2013: The Beginning

  1998

  Friday: Fourteen Hours Gone

  1998

  Twenty-four Hours Gone

  1998

  Saturday: Forty-eight Hours Gone

  1998

  Monday: Four Days Gone

  1999

  Wednesday: Six Days Gone

  1999

  One Week Gone

  2000

  March: Nine Days Gone

  2000

  Thursday: Fourteen Days Gone

  2000

  One Month Gone

  2001

  April: Six Weeks Gone

  2001

  Two Months Gone

  2002

  May: Ten Weeks Gone

  2003

  Three Months Gone

  2004

  June: Fourteen Weeks Gone

  2005

  July: Five Months Gone

  2007

  August: Six Months Gone

  2009

  September: Seven Months Gone

  2010

  October: Eight Months Gone

  2012

  December: Ten Months Gone

  2013

  January 2014: Eleven Months Gone

  2013

  One Year Gone

  April: 404 Days Gone

  2014

  A Note About the Art

  Acknowledgments

  Extra Libris

  A Reader’s Guide

  A Conversation with Natasha Bell

  “Motherhood Does Not Kill Creativity”: An Essay by Natasha Bell on the Double Standards for Women Artists

  About the Author

  Thursday, February 21, 2013

  The Beginning

  Marc sat on the bottom stair and tried not to think the worst. The voice continued: “The vast majority of people return safe and well within the first forty-eight hours, Mr. Southwood. There’s no need to panic.” There was a pause. Marc knew he should take comfort from this. Sit tight and wait for his wife to return with a perfectly reasonable explanation.

  The officer said goodnight and the line clicked dead. As if that had solved the problem. As if Marc should have felt better.

  Six hours down, forty-two to go.

  I wish I could put myself there with him. I’d wrap first my arms and then my legs around his body, cling to him until we lost our balance and tumbled to the hallway floor. Tell him with my touch the one thing he needed to know that night: I’m here. Right here.

  He stood up and replaced the receiver, severing his fingertip connection to the phone call and his one active plan to do something. The hairs on his arms stood on end as he shivered to a silent beat of something’s wrong, something’s wrong, something’s wrong.

  Perhaps he shouldn’t have phoned the police. After all, I was a grown woman. Perhaps it was over the top to report me missing. It’s not as if I had a curfew.

  But I was a mother. My children were home and I was not. It’s so unlike her. Marc had said that to the officer a moment ago. It’d felt like a whine; that childish word laughably impotent in the face of explaining the absolute abnormality of a woman who had always come home, day after day, year after year, not walking through our front door that night.

  I was meant to have returned by the time he brought the girls back from swimming. We should have ordered a takeaway. We should have sat with our chow mein, chattering about open days and council cuts.

  He tried my phone again. Off as usual. “My little Luddite,” he’d called me when he asked if I wanted an iPhone for my birthday and I said I was perfectly happy with the two-year-old handset I had. It made calls and showed me my emails—what more did I want? He should have pestered me more. Another man would have given me one anyway, synced our calendars and address books, downloaded an app to keep tabs on me, made sure I couldn’t get lost.

  “It’s Thursday, for God’s sake,” Marc said aloud. He paced to the window to peer on to the street again. I wouldn’t miss Thursday Takeaway without a reason.

  He raised his hand, scratched his left temple.

  He’d tried to explain to the officer. Was Jones his name? Officer Jones thought we’d had a fight. People disappeared all the time.

  I didn’t, though.

  I’d spent the day at work. Marc had rung my colleague, Paula, to check. She said we’d walked out of the building together. I’d wished her a good weekend because she had Friday off to attend some family wedding. She’d told me she’d try, though she hated the things, and we’d parted with a wave.

  Whole hours had elapsed since that exchange. It was now 11 p.m. It was dark.

  Such things bothered my husband. It didn’t matter that I’d lived alone in cities before we met. It didn’t matter that I’d spent more than a year wandering the streets of Chicago, an optimistic student wearing an armor of Pabst Best against the gangs and gun crime statistics. It didn’t matter that I’d once parachuted from a plane, that I’d accidentally hit a black slope the first time I strapped skis to my feet, that I’d backpacked around India and spent a month living in a roach-infested squat in Alphabet City. My husband saw me as something fragile. He walked me home and met me from trains. He wanted to protect me.

  Should he search the streets? Was that what one was supposed to do? Maybe he could ask a neighbor to watch the girls. But where would he go? Did people normally look in pubs and bars?

  Marc clung to the idea that we were normal that night. We’d never aspired to be normal before. We’d felt unique. Special. But abnormal things didn’t happen to normal people. So we were normal that night. And, in keeping with normality, where everyday anxieties outweigh even the most horrendous fears, my h
usband continued to care how others perceived us. Behind his concern for me bubbled a multitude of mundane worries: had Officer Jones thought him daft? Had Paula decided he was overbearing? Had he made a fool of himself?

  I wouldn’t be lounging in a bar, of course; I didn’t even drink. Bus shelters? Restaurants? Late-night libraries? This was York in real life, not London in some dramatic episode of Spooks we were watching on a boxset binge. This was a picturesque tourist city where the most the police usually had to deal with was fishing stolen bikes out of polluted rivers. Besides, the races had been on and I abhorred town when the cobbled streets and listed bars filled with stumbling gamblers in their glad rags.

  He walked into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Al would laugh, he thought. If she were here.

  I’d have been more likely to roll my eyes, or stick my hands on my hips and give him that “seriously?” look. But maybe that’s me being defensive. Under different circumstances, maybe I would have been amused by my unfailingly British husband. I suppose it’s hard to tell from here.

  At least Charlotte and Lizzie slept. He’d told them I had to work late. He hated lying to them, I know, but what could he have told a seven- and a ten-year-old? “I don’t know where Mummy is, girls, and I’m trying not to imagine her dead in a ditch, so eat your noodles and we’ll find a bedtime story.”

  I wasn’t dead in a ditch.

  He couldn’t think like that.

  Those things didn’t happen.

  Not here.

  Not to us.

  There would be a perfectly rational explanation for my absence and we’d both laugh about it tomorrow. I’d shriek, he thought, when I found out he’d called the police. It’d get pedaled out at dinner parties: the time he lost his head because I fell asleep on a friend’s sofa. Our guests would hoot with laughter and he’d blush good-naturedly, happy as ever to play the bashful fool to my leading lady. I can still picture a future that looks like that.

  But he’d rung our friends. Patrick first, of course. They’d known each other since university and Marc always turned to him for advice. His wife Susan picked up, though; Patrick was out. He tried Fran and Ollie, the other staples of our little gang of dinner party couples. Patrick had introduced us all years ago, when he and Fran worked in the same surgery, before Fran “sold out” and accepted a job in a private clinic. We saw these friends every week, went on holidays with them, looked after their kids when they needed help; they were our York family. Mark also tried my old school friend Philippa, then some of the numbers on the PTA phone tree. Nobody had seen me since our Valentine’s party. Fabulous night. Tell Alex I loved her costume.

  Of course, Susan, as soon as I determine she has a pulse, that’ll be the first thing out of my mouth.

  It wasn’t Susan’s fault. He shouldn’t have snapped. But trust her to play the optimist, to utterly downplay even the most ridiculous of dramas. He made a note to apologize once this was over.

  Over.

  Despite his panic, he was still thinking in terms of resolution. The very worst things in life, our most fearful nightmares, they don’t happen all at once. They creep up, lodge themselves gradually in our brains, worming their way slowly in so that once they become a reality they are already somewhat familiar. If my husband could have known the extent of the horror still to come he wouldn’t have survived that night. As it was, he held hope like a pebble in his palm.

  The kettle finished boiling, but he no longer wanted tea. He wanted his wife to come home and come to bed. He yawned. He’d had to get up early to finish grading. He hadn’t been able to face it last night and the girls had wanted to play board games. I remember I’d sulked because he and Charlotte had formed an alliance, giggling mischievously as they swapped farmers for builders and negotiated defense strategies based on promised hugs and extra marshmallows on hot chocolates. I’d pushed my bottom lip out and batted my eyelashes as if blinking away tears. I remember noticing the new gap in Char’s teeth when she grinned, the scab Lizzie kept scratching on her shin, the hole in the heel of Marc’s sock, the hitch of the curtain where it’d been drawn hastily over the chair, the slight annoying angle of the Paul Nash print on the wall. The girls hadn’t wanted to go to bed, but I’d persuaded them, as I had a thousand times. Then I came back down in Marc’s favorite silk and did the same to him.

  He crept upstairs to check on the girls now. Charlotte was sprawled facedown across her bed, the Pixar cover kicked to the floor and a brown bear—Puddles, lost thrice, replaced once, worn from a thousand cuddles—hovering precariously near the edge, ready to topple. Marc stepped quietly inside the room, picked the duvet from the carpet and laid it over our daughter’s body. He moved Puddles to a safer spot by Char’s pillow and touched her dark tangle of hair before retreating to the landing. He stepped along to Lizzie’s room and cracked open the door. Our tightly balled eldest breathed evenly on the top bunk. Her face was turned to him and he opened the door farther so the light fell on her features. He watched her eyelids flicker with sleep, her lips move silently. She looked like me. Even though she has Marc’s fair coloring and everyone always said Char was my double, Lizzie his—as if our genes had been neatly split, offering us one daughter each—I could always see myself in Lizzie too. In the roundness of her face and the line of her lips.

  Marc closed the door to Lizzie’s room and descended the stairs. What was he supposed to do? He sat down and stood up. Paced from lamp-lit living room to shoe-cluttered hallway, on to Szechuan-smelling kitchen. Tried my mobile once more. He’d called the hospital an hour ago and I hadn’t been admitted. Was it time to ring again? He switched on the TV, but heard it through a tunnel. The only sound he wanted to hear was my key in the lock.

  * * *

  I should come clean about something before I go any further. A lot of what I’m writing almost definitely never happened. I wasn’t there, obviously. I was missing. Gone. So I can’t know Marc put the kettle on, then never poured a cup of tea. I can’t tell what thoughts went through his mind the night I never came home.

  But I don’t know how to tell this story without imagining certain details. And I do know my husband. He’s a knowable type of man. Just as I’ve been described as flighty and impulsive, Marc is a good, honest man whom one can rely on to do and think certain things. He’s a man who never deserved to go through everything he has.

  So I hope you’ll forgive my indulgence. I don’t wish to deceive. I’m allowed to listen to the tapes. It’s unclear if this is an act of kindness or a form of punishment. But the knowable facts are known to me. I’ve heard the recording of Marc’s phone call to Officer Jones, for instance. And I’ve seen the credit card statement showing his takeaway purchase at Monkey King. I’ve sat them in every chair in our house, imagined every combination of crockery they might have used, seen Charlotte animating her chopsticks and Lizzie picking out the onions until I can bear it no more.

  I have little choice, though. I’m asked constant questions, prodded to remember and imagine what has occurred beyond these four walls. His motives are unclear. Perhaps he’s fucking with me, hoping to turn me crazy by forcing me to bear my family’s torture as well as my own. I’m making him do this, he tells me.

  “Everyone has a limit,” he says and I see his smile. He gets off on this. “I’m trying to help you come to terms with your situation,” he says. The situation he is responsible for.

  I resisted at the start, told him to get lost. But there’s nothing else to do and no one else to talk to. I’ve started answering his questions. Whatever his motives, I’m ready to throw myself into this narrative of partial truths and things I wish were fictions. I’ll walk my way through Marc’s life since my disappearance. I have little hope it might save me, but the distraction is a comfort. If I could climb inside this story and stay there, I would.

  Some things I know firsthand. That my husband was wearing a creased, lightly striped, off-white
shirt with one too many buttons left undone that day. He has two that are similar, but this was the one with brown stripes. I watched him button it that morning, contemplating the stripe of dark hairs trailing from his navel to his belt. I’d tried to keep him in bed, but his mind was already on the day ahead. An ironing board lived between the wardrobe and wall, but as normal Marc failed to notice his crumpled attire and I didn’t offer.

  He also wore dark blue jeans and brown loafers, though I imagine he switched those for slippers when he arrived home. I’d never owned slippers before I met Marc, but he’d grown up in a shoes-off-at-the-door, slippers-warmed-by-the-radiator kind of house and a part of me loved turning ours into the same.

  His hair was freshly washed that morning, so would have still smelled of raspberry shampoo, but it hung slightly too long after yet another week had passed without his getting around to booking an appointment. If things had continued as normal, I’d have marched him to the barbers on Saturday morning and demanded they buzz it far shorter than he liked, arguing that this way he could leave it the extra weeks without my nagging. It was only half a joke. He would roll his eyes but acquiesce and later I’d run my hand through his stunted locks and kiss him on the mouth, freshly amazed by how attractive I found him after a little grooming.

  This story I have to tell is more than a collection of basic facts, though. It’s more than the “real-life” shockers you read in the papers and the tell-all exposés of glossy magazines. I have no reason to paint a better or worse picture than what really happened. I’ve already lost everything. I live within four walls. I’ve been tied up and drugged. I have no hope of salvation. I’ve realized I have only this. So despite my ignorance of events I cannot possibly have witnessed, the story recorded here is more honest than the police reports and newspaper articles. If it is not an actual truth, it is very much a human one.