The Woman He Loved Before

  Also by Dorothy Koomson

  The Cupid Effect

  The Chocolate Run

  My Best Friend’s Girl

  Marshmallows for Breakfast

  Goodnight, Beautiful

  The Ice Cream Girls

  Copyright

  Published by Hachette Digital

  ISBN: 978-0-748-11547-1

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Dorothy Koomson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  Hachette Digital

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DY

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Copyright

  Also by Dorothy Koomson

  thank you to …

  prologue

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  chapter fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  chapter twenty-one

  About the Book

  Reading Group Material

  Dorothy’s Answers

  My Best Friend’s Girl

  The Ice Cream Girls

  thank you to …

  My wonderful family (including my fabulous in-laws). I love you all – don’t ever change.

  My agents, Ant and James. It’s getting harder and harder to say something different about how amazing you both are. But you are. You know you are.

  My publishers, Sphere. Jo, Jenny, David, Kirsteen, Caroline and everyone else who has been so supportive over the years, another HUGE thank you for all you’ve done.

  My friends. I could get rather over-emotional on this page about how incredible you all are, but I’ll keep it in till I see you in person.

  Sally Windsor, for the additional research, and Dr Sarah Marshall, for the medical expertise (which I duly took creative licence with).

  Matthew. Once again, none of this would have been possible without you. Love you long time.

  You, the reader. As always, thank you for picking up my book – I really hope you enjoy it.

  And, to G & B-B: Thank you for being you.

  For My Little Angels

  prologue

  28th February 2003

  Are you her? Are you the one he’s with now? Is that why you’ve come looking for me?

  If you aren’t reading this letter fifty or sixty years from now then it’s likely that I’m dead. Probably murdered.

  Please don’t be upset by that, it probably won’t have been too much of a surprise to me – not with the life I have lived. But if you have these diaries because you came looking for me, and you were clever enough to think like me and find them, or even if you came across them by accident, please, please can I ask you a favour? Please will you burn them without reading them? Please?

  I do not want anyone else to know these things. I wrote them for me. I know I should probably burn them myself, but it’d feel like suicide, killing a part of myself. And, in everything I’ve done, everything I’ve gone through, I would not kill myself so I can’t destroy these diaries. Maybe you can.

  I say ‘maybe’ because if you’re with him then you’ll want to know about him, you’ll want to know if he really is dangerous and if he was the one to murder me, so, while I don’t want you to, I can’t blame you for reading on.

  There’s not much else I can add, except that I hope you do not feel sorry for me. I have lived a life and even though I knew great pain, I also knew great love. Some people can live a long, long time without ever experiencing that. I am lucky.

  I wish you well, whoever you are.

  Love,

  Eve

  chapter one

  libby

  When I think of Jack, I try to think of walking on wobbly legs after stumbling off the mini roller coaster at the end of Brighton Pier. I try to think of being fed puffs of sticky candyfloss while lying on a threadbare blanket on the pebble beach. I try to think of having handfuls of popcorn stuffed down my shirt in the front row of the cinema. I try to think of laughing and laughing until I’m doubled over and breathless, tears running down my cheeks.

  ‘Libby, Libby, come on, wake up. Don’t fall asleep yet.’ The voice is gentle, nudging and slightly pleading.

  I open my eyes and he’s blurry. The man with the soft, pleading voice is slightly out of focus, and blinking doesn’t seem to clear the view. My face is wet, and I’m dizzy, and I feel so cold. And it hurts everywhere all at once.

  ‘Good girl,’ he says. ‘Try and keep your eyes open, OK? Try and stay awake. Do you know who I am? Do you remember me?’

  ‘Sam,’ I say, even though I don’t think I am making sounds with my words. ‘You’re a fireman so you’re called Sam.’

  He’s a bit more in focus now, the blurriness is ebbing away and I can make out his features so I see his smile split the darkness of his face. ‘Close enough,’ he says.

  ‘Am I going to die?’ I ask him. Again, I’m not sure I am making sounds of my words, but Sam The Fireman seems to understand me.

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ he says, and he smiles again. If he didn’t look so much like my brother, have the smooth contours of his face, his dark brown skin and bright, almost-black eyes, I could probably develop a crush on him. But that’s what you’re meant to do with heroes, isn’t it? You’re supposed to fall in love with them.

  ‘Is the car going to explode?’ I ask, more out of interest than fear.

  ‘No. That only really happens in films.’

  ‘That’s what I told Jack. I don’t think he believed me.’

  ‘Tell me about him.’

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘Yes. You were telling me before.’

  ‘Jack …’

  When I think of Jack, I try not to think about the locked cupboard without a key that sits in the basement of the house that’s meant to be our home. I try not to think of him curled up alone in the dark, crying as he watches old movies. I try not to think of sitting opposite him at dinner and asking myself when he started to feel like a stranger. And I try not to wonder when time is going to stretch its healing arms towards him and make him feel whole so he can truly open his heart to me.

  ‘Libby, Libby, come on now. Tell me about your husband.’

  ‘Can you hear me?’ I ask Sam The Fireman, because I’m fascinated that he seems to be able to when I can’t hear myself.

  ‘I can lip-read.’

  ‘So you drew the short straw, did you? Got stuck with me.’

  ‘It’s not a chore.’

  ‘Short straw. I said, short straw. You can’t really lip-read, can you? You’re just putting it on so you get to stay with the car. Avoid any heavy lifting.’

  He smiles again. ‘Busted. Didn’t realise I was so obvious.’

  ‘Obvious is nice sometimes.’

  ‘So: Jack?’

  ‘Do you fancy him? Is that why you’re going on about him?’ I ask. ‘I can put in a good word for you, if you want
?’

  Sam The Fireman laughs. A deep, throaty laugh. ‘I’m pretty sure I’m not his type. And I’m a one hundred per cent sure he’s not my type.’

  ‘Ahhh, go on. You shouldn’t be so closed off. He wasn’t my type when I first met him. But look at us now: him with one dead wife and another on the way.’

  ‘You’re not going to die, Libby,’ he says sternly. He is cross with me all of a sudden. And I’m tired all of a sudden. I hurt all over, but especially one side of my head, and my nose. Actually, all that side of my body hurts and I can’t move it properly. And I’m cold. I really want to sleep so that this pain and coldness goes away. You can’t hurt in your sleep, can you?

  ‘Libby, Libby, Libby!’ he says again. ‘Stay awake, please. Jack’s waiting for you. He’s refusing to go to the hospital until he knows you’re safe. It’s all going to be OK.’

  ‘You’re a nice man,’ I say to him. He’s so nice I don’t want to upset him by telling him how much it hurts. He doesn’t want to listen to me whining on. I just want to sleep. I just want to close my eyes and go to sleep—

  ‘The lads are going to start cutting soon, Libby. After that, you’ll go straight to the hospital where they’ll look after you. OK? But I need you to stay awake while they’re cutting. Do you hear me, Libby? Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘I understand everything,’ I say. ‘I’m the most understanding person on Earth – just ask Jack.’

  ‘There’s going to be a lot of noise in a few seconds. I need you to stay awake while it’s happening. OK?’

  ‘Stay awake.’

  The world is screeching, the car is screaming at me. It is being sliced apart, torn from around me and it is screaming out in agony. It wants the pain to stop, and I want the noise to stop. I want to sleep. I just want to sleep. I close my eyes and rest my head.

  When I think of Jack, I try to remember the way we used to sleep together: our bodies like two pieces of a living jigsaw, slotted so perfectly together the gaps looked like tricks of the imagination. I try not to think when I started to wonder, as we climbed into bed at night, if he wished for even a moment I was someone else.

  When I think of Jack—

  July, 2008

  ‘I think you and this car are going to be very happy together,’ Gareth told me. Gareth was one of those men who was your best friend when you were sitting in front of him, being convinced to part with your cash, but if you saw him in a pub or a club he’d not only ignore you, he and his mates – all of them old enough to know better – would take the piss out of you. Would judge your looks, your weight, your sense of dress, because you did not live up to the porn-star ideal he held in his head.

  It was safe to say, having been in his company for forty minutes or so, I did not like Gareth.

  I curled my lips into my mouth and managed a smile. I wanted this bit to be over. I wanted to pay the deposit, to give him my details and then to leave here – hopefully never to return, as I could get the car delivered after I’d made the rest of the payment by credit card over the phone.

  My eyes strayed to the showroom window and to the Pacific-blue Polo sitting on the forecourt. She seemed to shine, to stand out among all the other grey, black, red and silver monsters out there. She seemed almost regal but demure with it.

  Gareth was talking again so I turned back to him and forced myself to listen. I’d sort of lost interest in most things after slipping into the soft cream leather interior and taking her for a ride. My first car. I’d passed my test two weeks ago, and this was the first car I could see myself driving and that I could afford. I’d had to push for a good bargain because I had no other vehicle to trade in, but she was worth all that haggling.

  ‘Now, Libby, do you want the interior and exterior treatment that will protect the car? It would be helpful with kids. Stops drinks and things spoiling that fantastic leather. And with living in Brighton, with the salty air—’

  ‘Gaz, my man!’ someone interrupted. I looked up at the interloper, standing inches from me. He was wearing large, black-lensed Aviator sunglasses inside. That was pretty much all I needed to get the full measure of him. The rest of him – his height, his wavy blond-brown hair, his well-groomed face, the thick gold band on the third finger of his right hand, and his body clothed in a Ralph Lauren shirt, Calvin Klein jeans, and Tag Heuer watch – were all inconsequential to the fact he wore sunglasses indoors.

  Gareth jumped to his feet, his face overtaken by a grin, his eyes lighting up. ‘Jack! Good to see you.’ He eagerly held out his hand for ‘Jack’ to shake, excited by the chance to be touched by him. I’d seen some man-on-man crushes in my time, but this was so fervent it was embarrassing. I could imagine Gareth sitting home alone late at night, his phone by his side, waiting and waiting for that phone call where Jack invites him out to drink champagne and grope good-looking women.

  ‘I need your help, buddy,’ Jack said, warmly. If you didn’t know better, you’d think ‘Jack’ genuinely liked Gareth when, in reality, Jack probably treated most people with disdain and mild contempt – it sat there plainly on his forehead and in the way he stood.

  ‘One minute,’ Gareth barely managed to throw in my direction as Jack slung his arm around Gareth’s shoulders and started to walk him away from his desk.

  ‘Gareth, I’ve messed up, again. I was wondering if you could get one of the lads to take the dents out of the Z4 – today, if possible. The regular dealer said next week, but I knew you were the go-to man to get it done today or tomorrow.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ were the last words I heard from Gareth as the pair of them wandered off across the shiny white and chrome showroom.

  I spun in my seat and watched them standing by the large curved reception desk: Jack a full head taller than Gareth, his feet planted wide apart, his sunglasses in place while he made crude gestures in his chest area, obviously making reference to a woman’s breasts. Gareth was lapping it up, his eyes agog, listening. I had taken the day off work to come here and buy this car. And Jack, who probably didn’t even know what work was, had just wandered in and was getting his problem seen to straight away.

  I looked out at my car again. My little beauty. I loved her, but not enough to be treated like this. There were plenty of other places much nearer to home where I could sit and be ignored before handing over a large sum of cash. Unfortunately for Gareth, while I’d got my debit card out of my purse and into his possession, he hadn’t got around to swiping it through the machine. Which meant I could still walk away without losing anything but a little time. I stood up, plucked my driving licence and debit card from among the papers on Gareth’s desk, shoved them into my bag, then hooked my bag decisively over my shoulder. Gareth could keep some other mug waiting; this one had waited long enough and she was off.

  Shooting them both a look of pure contempt, I stalked to the door and pushed it open.

  ‘Libby?’ Gareth called after me. ‘Erm, wait, I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  As my hand connected with the door I turned to him, and over my shoulder I shot him another contempt-soaked look and carried on.

  Outside was hot but the air, laden with the promise of rain, weighed heavily on my shoulders. I inhaled and braved a last, longing look at my car before I walked slowly down the wide drive of the showroom and out onto the busy main road. I turned right, towards the bus stop. I was somewhere between indignant and sad: indignant at the way Jack had waltzed in and interrupted our chat without a second thought, and sad because my impulsiveness had stopped me getting the car I really loved. Agh! I’d have to start my search again – after I’d run the gauntlet of bus, train and bus to get home. So much for my day off.

  ‘Libby, Libby!’ A man’s voice called.

  I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. Seconds later, he appeared in my path, which stopped me from walking. His sunglasses were still in place.

  ‘I’m really sorry about that,’ he said. ‘I just—’

  ‘Didn’t feel the
need to wait your turn because an insignificant woman was sitting there and you’re so incredibly important your needs come first?’ I asked.

  He was shocked enough to strip his face of his sunglasses and stare at me. ‘Not sure how to respond to that, really,’ he admitted.

  ‘Maybe there is no response, Jack,’ I replied.

  His face did a double-take: obviously people rarely answered him in this manner. ‘Maybe an apology would be the appropriate response,’ he offered.

  I shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I’m sorry. What I did was rude. I should not have interrupted your meeting, and I can only apologise for that.’

  There was an unpleasant nuance to his apology: he had pitched it so that the words were technically correct, his tone of voice was contrite, but everything was smeared with ridicule. He was taking the piss out of me. He probably took the piss out of everything and got away with it because most people were left unsure of whether he was being sincere or whether they were being hypersensitive.

  ‘Was that it? The best you can do? Wow, I hope you never have to apologise in your day job because you are rubbish at it,’ I said. ‘And if that was your idea of subtly taking the piss out of me then I feel even more sorry for you than I did a few seconds ago because you’re even more rubbish at that.’ I stepped around him and continued my journey towards the bus stop.

  When I’d seen the beautiful little car on the forecourt, I’d been able to picture myself cruising along, the radio on loud, the windows wide open, my voice mingling with the singers on the radio. Even being stuck in traffic wouldn’t have been so bad because I’d be safe in my own little cocooned world. Now, thanks to his arrogance and my pride, I’d have to start looking from scratch.

  And there he was again: Jack. Standing in front of me, blocking me from going any further.