His Other Life
The story of a couple with seemingly perfect lives…and the secrets they hide behind closed doors.Perfect for fans of Liane Moriarty and Jo Jo Moyes.He was hiding a terrible secret . . .Grace’s new husband Adam seems like the perfect package. Good looking, great job, completely charming – almost too good to be true . . .So when Adam suddenly disappears from Grace’s life, she is left bewildered and heartbroken. And with a lot of unanswered questions.As she tries desperately to find him, Grace opens a Pandora’s Box of secrets and lies – and starts to learn that Adam wasn’t so perfect after all.What shameful secrets was her husband hiding? Is Grace in danger? And can she survive the truth? However terrible it may be . . .
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BETH THOMAS
His Other Life
Copyright
AVON
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2015
Copyright © Beth Thomas 2015
Cover images © Nikki Dupin 2015
Illustration © Helen Musslewhite 2015
Beth Thomas asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007544844
Ebook Edition © March 2015 ISBN: 9780007544837
Version: 2015-01-08
Dedication
For my Babbagee.
You may be a sour-faced puss,
but it’s not your fault.
Contents
ONE
There’s a text on my husband’s phone. It’s lying on the counter near the kettle and I just heard it vibrate. He’s turned the sound off, probably thinking I wouldn’t hear it – that’s the only reason someone would put their phone on silent, right? – but I still can. It sounds like an automatic gun; our neighbours probably heard it. Pam and Mike next door are no doubt up off their sofa already, frantically dialling three nines before you can say Crimewatch.
I look over at the phone but it’s face down, probably so that it doesn’t light up noticeably when texts or calls arrive. Bit of a pointless precaution if you ask me, given that it sounds like a horse falling downstairs. Maybe it’s also a precaution against someone – well, let’s be honest, me – getting a glimpse of the name of anyone who might call or text.
Eventually the glasses and cutlery stop rattling from the aftershocks and I glance over at hubby to see if he’s noticed. Of course he’s noticed; the house shifted on its foundations. But he’s not going over there to read the message, or even check to see who it’s from. Why is that?
‘I think you just got a text,’ I say über-casually, then pick up a tea towel and saunter over to the draining board. ‘Want me to see who it was?’
He’s working on getting a particularly stubborn bit of baked cheese off the side of the lasagne dish and doesn’t look up: this job apparently requires full concentration. ‘Oh, did I? No, no need,’ he says lightly. ‘I’ll have a look in a minute.’
I nod slowly. ‘Oh, OK.’
Adam finishes the dish, carefully rinses the soap off under the cold tap, then places it gently upside down on the draining board. He empties the washing-up bowl, turns it over, wipes its base, then wipes the excess water from the draining board. Finally he turns and walks to where I’m listlessly drying a wine glass. He’s smiling as he reaches out towards me but I don’t move. As soon as his fingers touch the tea towel in my hand, they stop approaching and intertwine themselves into the fabric, drying off.
‘Great grub, Gracie,’ he says, then grins and raises his head to look at me. ‘And I’m pleased to announce that the Wife of the Year award goes to …’ He performs a miniature drum roll with his index fingers on the kitchen side. ‘Oh, well, no surprises there, she’s been the hot favourite right from the beginning, it’s last year’s winner, it’s Mrs Grace Littleton!’ He raises his arms and makes whispery crowd cheering noises in the back of his throat, while glancing around the kitchen at his imaginary audience. I smile at him, charmed by his boyishness as usual, and, for the moment anyway, the mysterious text message goes out of my head.
‘Come on,’ he says, jerking his head towards the door, ‘let’s watch the lottery. Did you get the ticket?’
‘Yep, it’s in my bag.’ I retrieve the ticket from my handbag on the kitchen chair and follow him into the living room.
Adam and I have been married just a year – today is our first anniversary actually. We exchanged presents over dinner. One year is paper – I know this because I Googled it a few days ago – so I bought him a book called Keeping the Magic Alive: How to Get and Give Satisfying Lifelong Sex by someone called Dr Cristina Markowitz
