The Younger Wife
Sally Hepworth
About The Younger Wife
From the New York Times bestselling author of The Good Sister and The Mother-in-Law comes a new novel of family drama and long-buried secrets.
The moment she laid eyes on Heather Wisher, Tully knew this woman was going to destroy their lives.
Tully and Rachel are murderous when they discover their father has a new girlfriend. The fact that Heather is half his age isn’t even the most shocking part. Stephen is still married to their mother, who is in a care facility with end-stage Alzheimer’s disease.
Heather knows she has an uphill battle to win Tully and Rachel over - particularly while carrying the shameful secrets of her past. But, as it turns out, her soon-to-be stepdaughters have secrets of their own.
The announcement of Stephen and Heather’s engagement threatens to set off a family implosion, with old wounds and dark secrets finally being forced to the surface.
A garage full of stolen goods. An old hot-water bottle, stuffed with cash. A blood-soaked wedding. And that’s only the beginning . . .
For my beloved Great Aunty Gwen,
whose secret hot-water bottle inspired this story.
PROLOGUE
I always cry at weddings. Nothing original there, I know – except, perhaps, the reason. Most people cry out of joy, apparently, or because they’ve been catapulted back to their own wedding day and are overwhelmed by the emotion of it all. I cry because I am sad. Sad for me, sad for the bride, sad for the institution of marriage. Sad enough that it makes me cry. I’m especially sad at this wedding.
When I arrived, half an hour early, the surrounding streets were already jam-packed with shiny black Range Rovers, Mercedes and Porsches. I suppose Stephen Aston’s wedding was always going to be a fancy affair. It’s a warm day and I’m sandwiched into a pew in the non-denominational chapel, surrounded by bunches of freesias, hyacinth and snapdragons. The venue is entirely too small for the number of guests. The altar barely has space for the groom and celebrant! Lord knows where the bride will stand when she decides to show up.
I am seated towards the back and no one pays me any mind. Why would they? I’m a woman of a certain age; for years I’ve been bland and forgettable. People around me – the young, primarily – are always happy to take centre stage. My friend Miriam often laments how we have disappeared now that we are older. No one sees me anymore, Miriam says. （Hello! she shouts aggressively at the deli server who has chosen to serve the pretty young woman in the yoga pants, even though Miriam has been there longer. I suspect Miriam is not as invisible as she believes.）
Stephen is at the front, and it has to be said that, even now, he takes my breath away. He is flanked by two tiny boys in dinner suits – his grandsons, I expect. It’s ridiculous, of course; the little one isn’t much more than a toddler and the other is five, tops. They should be at home napping or playing in the mud, not standing in a chapel! Still, it doesn’t surprise me that Stephen wants this. And the guests, judging by their cooing, think it’s adorable. Stephen’s adult daughters, Rachel and Tully, are bridesmaids, no doubt at their father’s insistence. Their dresses are navy and flatter them both – no mean feat given Tully is as slim as a whippet while Rachel is what my mother used to describe as porcine. Their smiles are painted on, unconvincing, but then who would be pleased to see their father marry a woman young enough to be their sister? And while their mother looks on to boot.
I was shocked to see Pamela here. Guests had exchanged worried looks as she entered on her daughter’s arm, smiling and waving as if arriving at a red-carpet event. I’d wonder why she was invited, if I didn’t know Stephen. Despite what happened, Pamela is family, and to Stephen, family is everything.
The music changes and everyone turns to face the back of the room. The bride is fresh-faced, fake-tanned and strapped into a dress that likely cost more than the deposit for my first home. She is very attractive – slim and brunette and thirty-something. I sneak a look at Stephen. He looks proud as punch, and why wouldn’t he? Stephen may be a handsome man, but if you’re marrying a woman in her thirties when you’re in your early sixties, it has to be said you’re batting above your average.
The bride arrives at the front to find Stephen and his ex-wife standing there, but Stephen, being Stephen, manages to return her to her seat without anything being awkward – a feat that perhaps only Stephen Aston could pull off. With Pamela out of the way, the bride squeezes into the tiny space beside the groom, and the celebrant – a pigeon-shaped woman in a crisp, white pantsuit – invites everyone to be seated. The room is charged with aggressive goodwill – big unnatural smiles, wide eyes, comments about the bride’s dress （which is exquisite）。 Miriam recently observed that the vast majority of brides resemble the Barbie on a child’s birthday cake in their strapless gowns with skirts large enough to smuggle half-a-dozen leprechauns down the aisle. （Leprechauns, she whispered pointedly at the wedding of her niece last year. At least a dozen.） But not this bride. Heather looks positively elegant in her A-line gown.