The Other Woman by Sandie Jones
PROLOGUE
She looks beautiful in her wedding dress. It fits her perfectly and is exactly what I’d imagined she’d go for: elegant, understated and unique – just like her. My heart breaks that her day will never come, but she doesn’t need to know that yet.
I think about the guests who won’t attend, the picture frames with no photographs, the first dance that will be silent, the cake that won’t get eaten, and I feel my resolve weakening. I pull myself up. This is not a time for doubt.
There is still so much work to do, so much more pain to inflict, but I will not be deterred. I failed once before, but this time, I’ll get it right.
There’s too much at stake to get it wrong.
1
There weren’t many things that I didn’t like about Adam when I first saw him across the crowded bar at the Grosvenor Hotel in London, aside from his lack of empathy. I’d just come out of an incredibly dull ‘Future of Recruitment’ conference and needed a drink far more than he or the barman realized.
I’d been standing at the bar for what felt like an eternity, theatrically waving a battered ten-pound note in the air, when, just along from me, a dark-haired man muscled his way to the front, holding a credit card. ‘Yep. Over here, mate,’ he said, in a booming voice.
‘Er, excuse me,’ I said, a little louder than I intended. ‘I think you’ll find I was here first.’
He shrugged and smiled. ‘Sorry, but I’ve been waiting ages.’
I stood and watched open-mouthed as he and the barman shared a knowing tip of the head, and without him even saying a word, a bottle of Peroni was put in front of him.
‘Unbelievable,’ I mouthed, as he looked over at me. He smiled that smile again, and turned to the throng of men beside him to take their orders.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ I groaned, before letting my head drop into my arms while I waited. I was sure that it would be an inordinate amount of time until my turn.
‘What can I get you?’ asked the man behind the bar. ‘The guy over there reckons you’re a rosé kind of girl, but I’m going to bet you’re after a gin and tonic.’
I smiled, despite myself. ‘As much as I’d like to prove him wrong, I’m afraid to say a glass of rosé would be perfect, please.’
I went to hand him the tenner as he placed the glass in front of me, but he shook his head. ‘No need,’ he said. ‘Please accept it with the compliments of the gentleman who jumped the queue.’
I didn’t know who I loved more: the bartender who, in my opinion, ought to be elevated to chief sommelier, or the really rather nice fellow smiling down the bar at me. Oh, the power of a chilled pink blush.
My face flushed the same colour, as I held the glass up to him and headed over to where my seminar colleagues were gathered in a corner, each nursing their own alcoholic preference. We’d been strangers up until seven hours ago, so it seemed that the general consensus was to get your own drink and not worry about everybody else.
Mr Peroni obviously doesn’t have the same arrangement with his own acquaintances, I thought, smiling to myself as I looked up and saw that he had continued to order his round.
I took a sip of wine and could hear my taste buds thanking me as the cold liquid teased them before hitting the back of my throat. What is it with that first taste that can never be replicated? I sometimes find myself postponing that initial swig for fear of losing that sensation.
I’m making myself sound like a raging alcoholic, but I only ever drink at weekends, and on mind-numbingly tedious Wednesdays, after being holed up with two hundred HR personnel for the day. We’d been helpfully informed during a lecture entitled ‘Nobody Likes Us. We Don’t Care’ that a recent survey had revealed that recruitment consultants were fast becoming the most disliked professionals, second only to estate agents. I wish I could defy the haters and prove that we’re not all morally lacking, unethical dealmakers. But as I look around at the brash, loud, would-be City boys with their slicked-back hair and insincere expressions, I have to hold my hands up in defeat.
Despite having introduced myself in the ‘forum’ earlier in the day, I felt I had to do it again, as I approached the baying mob.
‘Hi, I’m Emily,’ I said awkwardly to the guy on the outermost circle. He wasn’t someone I was particularly interested in talking to, but talk I had to, if I wanted to finish my glass of wine without looking like a complete Norman no-mates. ‘I’m a consultant at Faulkner’s,’ I went on.
I offered my hand and he took it, shaking it brusquely in a slightly territorial fashion. ‘This is my manor and you’re on my turf’ was the message he conveyed, even though we’d spent the entire day learning how to do the exact opposite.
‘Be open. Be approachable,’ Speaker No. 2 had stated earlier. ‘Employers and employees want to deal with a friendly face. They need to feel that they can trust you. That you are working for them, not the other way around. Deal with your clients on their terms, not on yours, even if it does put a dent in your pride. So, read each situation individually and react accordingly.’
I’d always prided myself on doing exactly that, hence why I’d been the top consultant at Faulkner’s seven months in a row. In person, I was the antithesis of what people expected: honest, considerate, and blasé about target-chasing. As long as I had enough to pay my rent, eat and heat, I was happy. On paper, however, I was smashing it. Clients were requesting to deal exclusively with me, and I’d secured more new business than anyone else across the five-office network. Commission was flooding in. Perhaps I should have been the one standing on that podium, telling them how it’s done.
The man, from an obscure agency in Leigh-on-Sea, made a half-hearted attempt at pulling me into the throng. No one introduced themselves, preferring instead to eye me up and down, as if seeing a woman for the first time. One of them even shook his head from side to side, and let out a slow whistle. I looked at him with disdain, before realizing it was Ivor, the bald, overweight director of a one-office concern in Balham, who I’d had the misfortune of partnering in the role-play exercise just before lunch. His breath had smelt of last night’s curry that I’d imagined he’d scoffed impatiently from a silver-foil container on his lap.
‘Sell me this pen,’ he’d barked, during our ‘How to Sell Snow to an Eskimo’ task. A cloud of stale turmeric permeated the air and I wrinkled my nose in distaste. I’d taken a very normal-looking Bic biro from him and had begun to relay its redeeming qualities: the superior plastic case, the smooth nib, the flow of the ink. I’d wondered, not for the first time, what the point was in all this. My boss, Nathan, insisted that these conferences were good for us: that they kept us on our toes.
If he was hoping that I’d be motivated and captivated by new and exciting ways to do business, he’d booked the wrong day. And I’d certainly been paired with the wrong man.
I’d continued to enthuse about the pen’s attributes, but as I’d looked up, Ivor’s eyes hadn’t even been attempting to look at the tool in my hand, preferring instead to fixate on the hint of cleavage beyond.
‘Ahem,’ I’d coughed, in an attempt to bring his attention back to the task in hand, but he’d merely smiled, as if relishing in his own fantasy. I’d instinctively pulled my blouse together, regretting the decision to wear anything other than a polo neck.
His beady little eyes were still on me now. ‘It’s Emma, isn’t it?’ he said, stepping forward. I looked down at the name badge secured to my left bosom, just to check for myself.
‘Em-i-ly,’ I said, as if speaking to a toddler. ‘It’s Em-i-ly.’
‘Emma, Emily, it’s all the same.’
‘It’s not really, no.’
‘We were paired up this morning,’ he said proudly to the other men in the group. ‘We had a good time, didn’t we, Em?’