‘Pam?’ Stephen called.
‘Coming!’ she said, shoving the hot-water bottle into the back of the closet. She’d come back to this later, when she remembered.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A couple of years ago I received a phone call from my beloved Great Aunty Gwen. She’d had a fall and been taken to the hospital, but that was, as far as she was concerned, unimportant. What was important, she told me, was that I drop everything and drive directly to her home to retrieve her hot-water bottle.
Odd request, I thought, but who was I to argue? The heart wants what it wants.
Alas, Gwen’s house was not on my route to the hospital, and in my eagerness to get to her, I offered to bring my own hot-water bottle instead. When my offer was swiftly declined, I offered to purchase her a new one. But none of my suggestions would do.
Finally, I agreed to collect the hot-water bottle. It could be located, Gwen said, behind the set of drawers in the sliding cupboard of the spare room, under a pile of old newspapers.
And just like that, the hot-water bottle became a lot more interesting.
As I drove to Gwen’s house, I theorised as to what could be in the bottle. Body parts were the most likely option, obviously. Bones, or organs – perhaps a human heart? It made sense. After all, Gwen is a strong, savvy 93-year-old single woman – surely there had been a scorned lover or two in her lifetime? And how wonderfully perverse it would be if she yearned to keep a piece of that lover close in what might have been her final moments!
Regrettably, it wasn’t body parts. Rather, it was tens of thousands of dollars, wrapped in plastic bands. Not as good as a human heart, but on balance, not completely uninteresting. Inside the hospital I accosted Gwen’s wheelie-bed as she cruised towards her X-ray scans.
‘What’s going on, Gwen?’ I demanded. ‘Have you robbed a bank? Stolen money from an ex-lover? Become a granny drug-dealer?’
The explanation was considerably less interesting. A pension payment and a healthy distrust of banks. By that point though, a book idea had started to form in my mind. It became The Younger Wife.
And this brings me to the thank yous.
I’ll start with my publisher. You’ll have to bear with me here, because it’s going to get weird.
St. Martin’s Press published my first book, The Secrets of Midwives, and they’ve published every book since. On our first phone call, Jen Enderlin told me that she was excited not just about that book, but about all my future books. A nice thing to say, but in a world where we’re constantly told that editors don’t take chances on new authors, or that they don’t give authors the time they need to find their stride, I didn’t know if I could trust it. Fast forward six books – and let’s be real, some of my books have been what we might generously call ‘a disappointment’ – Jen has remained excited about my future books, and backed it up by continuing to offer me contracts. Is she the exception to the rule? I don’t know. But Jen Enderlin is the reason I’ll never be cynical about publishing. As for the rest of the gang – Lisa Senz, Brant Janeway, Erica Martirano, Katie Bassel, Jessica Zimmerman – what an amazing, talented bunch of humans. I am obsessed with you all.
This brings me to my beloved Pan Macmillan Australia team, who have also continued to hang around since book one. There must have been times you wanted to jump ship. Thanks for staying aboard. I’d like to extend particular thanks to Alex Lloyd who, despite his youthful looks （and, it must be said, excellent hair） has two of the best editorial eyes in the business. Also to Cate Paterson for her continued （unfounded） belief in me, to Sammy Manson, the most innovative of marketing people, to Ali Lavau for her exceptional copyediting and to Christa Moffitt for the gorgeous covers. I am a lucky lady.
To Rob Weisbach, who has to wear so many hats in his role as my literary agent. Next I’m going to make you wear a beret. You will look fabulous in a beret. （Read: I can’t find the words for how great you are, so I’m talking about hats instead. You get that, right?）
To Andrew Bailey and Patrick Lyttleton, for always giving me legal advice for my characters. The fact that you never bat an eye when I ask how one would divorce someone with dementia or get away with murder speaks volumes about all of us.
To Mia Freedman and Kena Roach, my early readers and advice givers.
To Mum, for always gleefully pointing out when I’m （confidently） using a word incorrectly – there will never be enough time to absorb your English language pedantry, but our heated discussions about whether the proof is, in fact, in the pudding will always remain among my fondest memories of us.