The Missing Wife

Chapter 1

Hannah

1933

‘You look beautiful.’ Aunt Beatrice took me by the shoulders and turned me so I could see my reflection. ‘A beautiful bride.’

I stared at myself in the mirror. I was wearing the Snow family veil and a headdress that was too big for my small face. I looked like a little girl playing dressing-up. Which, in a way, I was.

‘I don’t look like me.’

‘Nonsense,’ she said briskly. ‘Lawrie will be thrilled when he sees you walk down the aisle.’

I doubted that very much, but I didn’t say so. I simply bit my lip and nodded, feeling nerves churning in my stomach.

Sensing my reluctance, Aunt Beatrice met my gaze in the mirror.

‘Hannah,’ she began.

I stared steadily into her eyes and she looked away.

‘Hannah, this is a good thing you’re doing, for the family.’

I nodded again.

‘And Lawrie, of course, will benefit too. The terms of his inheritance …’

‘I know,’ I said quickly. ‘Don’t make it sound like this is a business agreement.’

Aunt Beatrice looked like she was about to say something and I had a horrible feeling she might point out that a business agreement was what this was, more or less. I didn’t want to think that way. I didn’t love Lawrie, because I really didn’t know him that well. But he was kind and handsome and he listened when I talked and I couldn’t help but hope that perhaps one day our business agreement of a marriage would turn into something more like the romances I liked to read or watch at the pictures. I looked away from my aunt and smoothed down the front of my gown.

‘Everyone wins,’ I said, trying to sound cheerful.

With a sigh, Aunt Beatrice shook her head. ‘Hannah, I understand this isn’t what you planned for your life. But we’ve been through this. There is no money left. What other option do we have?’

‘I could get a job. I could work for a living instead of marrying a man I hardly know, for money. Plenty of women have jobs.’ I turned back towards Aunt Beatrice and looked at her in defiance while she pulled her shoulders back and stood up a little straighter.

‘That may be the case,’ she said, as she did every time I brought up the subject of getting a job. ‘But not Snow women.’

‘Well, I won’t be a Snow woman much longer, will I? I’ll be Hannah Wetherby.’

‘You’ll be Mrs Lawrence Wetherby,’ Aunt Beatrice said. ‘And Lawrie will get his inheritance, and secure his position in the government, and your future will be safe.’

‘Lawrie says he’ll help me find a job.’

Aunt Beatrice raised one neat eyebrow. ‘Help you find a job?’

‘He said I could become a journalist.’

‘Oh, Hannah, really?’

‘Women can do anything nowadays,’ I said. ‘We can be journalists if we want.’

Aunt Beatrice looked amused, which was unusual for her. ‘Right.’

‘Lawrie knows everyone. He said he’ll put a word in for me.’

This time Aunt Beatrice actually laughed. It was an unfamiliar sound and I wasn’t sure I liked it.

‘Then I look forward to reading your articles in The Times,’ she said, making it perfectly clear that she didn’t think that would ever happen. She tapped my arm. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

I took a deep breath. More than anything I wanted to rip the veil from my head and run down the stairs, out of the front door and never return. But instead, I looked at my reflection again. ‘Goodbye, Hannah Snow,’ I said.

The wedding was brief and business-like. I had no bridesmaids and we had few guests. Aunt Beatrice sat on my side of the church, straight-backed and unsmiling. On Lawrie’s side, his brother Simon sat in the front pew looking disgruntled. But as Simon always looked disgruntled I didn’t give him much thought.

The rest of our guests were people I didn’t know. A handful of Lawrie’s fellow MPs, staff from his constituency office, perhaps. I wasn’t sure. I didn’t care.

When the vicar pronounced us man and wife, Lawrie kissed me on the forehead like a friendly uncle and threaded his arm through mine. Relief shone from his face, like the sun breaking through a cloud. Aunt Beatrice’s expression was the same. I was off her hands. No longer a problem for her to deal with.

Afterwards we had a wedding breakfast in the Royal Hotel in Westminster and to my surprise, I found myself beginning to enjoy the afternoon. Lawrie was full of bonhomie, introducing me to his friends and colleagues and buying drinks. Simon, who was unpredictable and unpleasant when alcohol was involved, seemed to be behaving. Even Aunt Beatrice seemed to relax a little. I saw her smile as she chatted to an MP’s wife and accept a glass of sherry from a waitress. Wonders would never cease.

‘Hannah?’ I turned to see Lawrie next to me. He was older than me – in his mid-thirties while I was only 19 – but he was handsome and charming. And very clever. He was already making a name for himself in the government as a junior minister in the Treasury, and he was tipped for great things.

‘Come and meet some people,’ he said now.

Obediently, I let him lead me over to where three men in suits stood. I recognised them all from the newspapers. One was Lawrie’s boss at the Treasury, Neville Chamberlain. I could see Lawrie was brimming with pride that he’d come along today, and it made me smile. The other chap was from the Foreign Office I thought.

‘Gentlemen, may I introduce my wife, Hannah Wetherby,’ Lawrie said.

Mr Chamberlain took my outstretched hand. ‘Delighted,’ he said. He had a twinkle in his eye that I rather liked. The other man looked less pleased to meet me.

‘I’m sorry, are we interrupting some important government business?’ I said. I held my hand out to the man from the Foreign Office and he gave my fingers the briefest shake without bothering to introduce himself.

‘Wetherby, I was just filling in Chamberlain on the latest from Germany,’ he said, speaking to Lawrie over the top of my head as though I wasn’t there.

‘Tsk, Mr Bishop,’ Mr Chamberlain said in a warning tone. ‘Mrs Wetherby doesn’t want to hear such boring dispatches on her wedding day. Tell me, have you read the latest Agatha Christie novel? I hear it’s marvellous …’

‘I’m not much of a one for books,’ I lied, because I did enjoy detective novels but I didn’t want to talk about that right now. ‘I actually prefer newspapers. In fact, I’m desperate to hear everything you’ve got to say. Is it true that the prime minister is keen to continue with disarmament in Europe despite the German election? Is that wise?’

Mr Chamberlain looked slightly taken aback. ‘Well, erm, I …’ he stammered. I didn’t let his lack of response slow me down. I had so many questions.

‘And what of the prime minister’s health?’ I went on. ‘Is he well enough to travel? I’ve heard he’s not up to the task. Will his doctor be accompanying him to Geneva?’

Mr Bishop frowned. ‘Wetherby?’

Lawrie glanced at me and then at Mr Bishop.

I carried on: ‘I really think that if Germany is intent on rearmament, then the prime minister needs to stand firm …’

‘Wetherby,’ Mr Bishop said, spitting Lawrie’s name out. I stopped talking and looked at him in surprise, while Lawrie put a hand on my arm.

‘Wetherby, this simply will not do,’ Mr Bishop said. His face had gone quite red. ‘Please control your wife, and may I remind you that affairs of state are not to be discussed in the bedroom.’ He looked at me in disgust.

I turned to Lawrie, expecting him to tell Mr Bishop that I was well versed in politics. That I read the newspapers every day. That sometimes, if I was at a loose end, I would take myself off to the Commons and watch debates. That Lawrie enjoyed – or at least he said he enjoyed – hearing my opinion on his work.

But instead, he squeezed my arm slightly in what was obviously a warning. He looked round at the other men with an indulgent smile. ‘I’m so sorry, gentlemen. My wife has a keen interest in politics and occasionally jokes that she would like to be a member of the press.’ He let out a hearty laugh as I stared at him, furious.

‘She’d keep us on our toes and no mistake, wouldn’t she?’ he went on. He was speaking in an odd way. Louder and more self-consciously jovial than usual. ‘Lucky for us, she’s chosen married life instead, eh?’

Mr Chamberlain chuckled and clucked at me, and for a horrifying moment I thought he might pinch my cheek like a proud grandfather. But then Mr Bishop tutted – I wasn’t sure if he was showing his displeasure at Mr Chamberlain, or Lawrie, or me, or all three of us.

‘Keep her in check, Wetherby,’ he said.

Lawrie turned to me. ‘Run along and speak to your aunt, darling,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there shortly.’

I shook Lawrie’s hand off my arm in fury.

‘Tell me, what do you think of Mr Roosevelt?’ I asked Bishop, drawing myself up so I was almost at his eye level. ‘Do you think his plan for economic recovery has legs?’

Lawrie took my elbow, gripping more tightly than was comfortable. ‘Let me help you find Beatrice,’ he said. ‘Would you excuse me for a moment please, gentlemen?’

He steered me through the few guests to the edge of the room, ruffled and annoyed that I’d talked about politics instead of detective stories. Though he wasn’t nearly as cross as I was.

‘Stop it,’ I said sulkily, pulling my arm away from his hand. ‘Don’t push me around.’

‘You can’t fire questions at those men in that way,’ Lawrie hissed. ‘It’s not …’

‘What?’ I stared at him in defiance.

‘It’s not seemly.’

‘Seemly?’

‘You’re not a journalist, Hannah.’

‘No.’ I met his gaze. ‘More’s the pity. But I thought now we’re married, you could perhaps—’

‘Hannah,’ he interrupted with a sigh. ‘My job is very important to me. To us. I need to be respectable.’

‘You need to be respectable,’ I pointed out. ‘But do I?’

Lawrie lifted his chin. ‘You know I enjoy your interest in my work. I am more than happy to discuss current affairs at the breakfast table or over pre-dinner drinks.’ He looked round. ‘But you are my wife,’ he continued in a low, urgent voice. ‘You stand at my side and you laugh at my jokes and you nod at my suggestions. And when you are among my colleagues, you do not talk about politics or speculate about the health of the prime minister, for heaven’s sake.’ He sounded slightly incredulous.

‘Why not?’ I felt as though I was being scolded by a strict schoolmaster. ‘I wanted to know.’

Lawrie looked up at the ceiling in despair. ‘Because you’re my wife now,’ he said. He threw his hands out, at a loss for words. ‘You are part of something bigger than you or me.’

We looked at each other for a moment, and then feeling a flash of sympathy for him, much to my annoyance, I backed down, dropping my gaze from his. ‘Sorry,’ I muttered.

He put his hand on the back of my head and pulled me towards him so he could give me that fatherly kiss on the forehead again. ‘It’s been a long day,’ he said. ‘We’re both tired. I know I’m almost ready for bed.’

I wondered if he was suggesting what I thought. He’d never seemed overly interested in me that way before, but perhaps he had been waiting until we were married? A little flutter of nerves and – I admitted – excitement swirled in my stomach. Lawrie and I may have been thrown together by a determined Aunt Beatrice, but there was no denying he was handsome. Perhaps tonight I would discover what all the fuss was about …

‘Get a drink,’ Lawrie said. ‘I need to talk to Neville.’

Perhaps not. I forced a smile. ‘And then perhaps we could go to our room?’

Lawrie nodded vigorously in a way that suggested his enthusiasm was entirely false.

‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘Abso-blooming-lutely.’

Confused and still a little annoyed at the way he’d spoken to me, I stood for a moment watching him walk back to his colleagues, and then I turned on my heel and headed to the bar.

‘What can I get you, madam?’ the barman asked.

With some difficulty, thanks to the skirt on my wedding dress, I hoisted myself up on to a stool. ‘What’s the strongest drink you’ve got?’

‘Old-Fashioned?’

I glanced over at my new husband. ‘Perfect.’

While I watched the barman pour whisky into my glass, someone sat down beside me.

‘Congratulations.’

I turned to see a young man – closer to my own age than Lawrie’s. He was languid and long-legged and very good-looking. He draped himself over the bar.

‘Scotch,’ he said. ‘No ice.’ He looked up at me through dark eyes. ‘So you married Lawrie.’

‘I did.’ I wondered who he was. He was too young to be an MP and he wasn’t a relative. ‘I married Lawrie.’

‘He’s a shit.’

Startled, I let out a little bark of laughter. I looked at him but he didn’t look annoyed despite his harsh words. He looked sad.

‘Lawrie can be a little pompous,’ I said as the barman put my drink in front of me. I took a swig, feeling the whisky burn my throat. ‘But he is marvellous company.’

‘He was annoyed with you. I could tell.’

I felt my cheeks flush. ‘I went too far with his friends.’ I sighed. ‘I talk a lot.’

‘He upset you?’

‘A bit,’ I admitted. ‘It’s been a long day.’

‘He will always put his career first.’ He picked up his drink and took a huge gulp. ‘His reputation,’ he said in a way that made it sound like a dirty word.

Across the room, Lawrie guffawed with laughter at something one of the other men had said. I shifted on the bar stool, feeling uncomfortable. ‘I’m not sure that’s true,’ I said, uncertainly.

The young man swallowed the rest of his drink in one mouthful. ‘He expects things to go his way,’ he said.

I looked at him carefully, impressed at his insight. Because that was exactly what Lawrie did. It wasn’t his fault. He’d been brought up that way and he had enough charm that he got away with it. I thought that underneath it all he meant well, but he often just expected things to work out in a way that I – who’d lost both my parents when I was still at school and been thrown into a frightening cold life of funerals and Aunt Beatrice – did not.

As I glanced over at Lawrie, movement by the door of the function room caught my eye. My new brother-in-law Simon was standing, watching Lawrie with contempt, as he chatted to the other MPs.

Simon was furious that Lawrie and I had got married. Their father had died just a couple of months before I had met Lawrie and left a clause in his will saying Lawrie would only inherit his estate if he married before he was 35. If Lawrie had remained a bachelor, Simon would have been treated as the older son and heir. Lawrie always said his father had cared little for either of his sons. I didn’t know if that was true but I did think dangling an inheritance in front of a younger brother, knowing it could be taken away at any time, was rather cruel.

Lawrie said Simon was a typical younger brother – a little wild, more than a little reckless. That was him being generous, in my opinion. Simon was a gambler, and I knew Lawrie was always bailing him out to pay his debts. Simon borrowed money from his friends and when they stopped lending to him, he borrowed from the sort of people who weren’t so forgiving when he didn’t pay them back.

He drank too much. He was lazy … he had few redeeming qualities and he certainly hadn’t inherited the easy charm that Lawrie had. He was surly and sulky and I didn’t like him much, though the feeling was definitely mutual. Lawrie and I saying our vows today had cheated poor Simon out of his fortune and he was furious about it. I couldn’t blame him, really. I’d tried to speak to Lawrie, and suggest we gave something to Simon, just to smooth the waters over. An allowance, perhaps? But he’d laughed.

‘Simon will have enough to live on,’ he’d said. ‘He can’t be trusted with any more than that. My father knew what he was doing. Believe me, there would be little inheritance left if Simon were to get his grubby hands on it.’

And he’d refused to discuss it any further.

Now I watched as Simon looked at his brother through narrowed eyes, and I wondered if I should try to convince him again. Simon, I thought, could be trouble if he was angry.

‘Simon is worse than Lawrie,’ the young man next to me said, following my gaze. ‘Lawrie is careless, but Simon is cruel.’

‘Who are you?’ I said to the young man. ‘How do you know Lawrie?’

He sat up, unfurling himself from his slump across the bar. ‘I’m Freddie,’ he said. ‘I’m …’ He paused. ‘I’m an old friend.’

‘Lawrie’s never mentioned you.’ There was something about this young man that put me on edge.

‘No?’ he gave me a slow smile. ‘Funny.’

‘What did you mean? About Lawrie being careless?’

‘You don’t agree?’

‘No, I do in a way.’ I looked over at Lawrie again as he took a drink from a tray without even turning to acknowledge the waitress who held it. ‘I just wondered what made you say it.’

‘He crashed his car, you know?’

‘I know.’

‘But it doesn’t matter. He’ll just buy another.’

‘He is careless with his belongings,’ I said. ‘He breaks things.’

‘He breaks people,’ Freddie said. He sounded bleak. ‘And hearts.’

I rolled my eyes. I wasn’t stupid. I knew a man of Lawrie’s age and looks would have a past. But whatever liaisons he’d had before we met, well, they were none of my business.

‘Did he have a fling with your sister?’ I asked pointedly. ‘Or steal your girlfriend?’

Freddie leaned close to me and I smelled the whisky on his breath. ‘He breaks things,’ he said again. More barbed this time.

Awkwardly I took a mouthful of my drink. I wasn’t enjoying this conversation anymore. But Freddie hadn’t finished. He leaned closer. ‘Lawrie and his friends were the Bright Young Things, weren’t they?’ he said bitterly. ‘Not caring who they hurt.’

‘They lived through the Great War.’

Freddie shrugged, his face still close. I wanted to move but I didn’t want to seem rude.

‘They didn’t care,’ he said. ‘They were blazing a trail with the parties and the drink and the drugs.’ He put his forehead against mine. ‘And the sex.’

I reared away from him, almost losing my balance on the high stool. ‘Stop it.’

He reached out to steady me and gave me that odd smile again. ‘Do you ever wonder where Lawrie goes when he’s not with you?’

‘No.’

‘When he’s working late at night?’

‘He’s an MP,’ I said. ‘He keeps strange hours.’

‘Right. You just tell yourself that.’

I’d heard enough. I slid off the stool awkwardly and turned to go. Freddie reached out and took my hand in his. He had long, elegant fingers.

‘I’ll be here,’ he said. ‘Here in the bar. If you want to talk.’

‘I don’t.’

‘You might.’

I stared at him for a moment and he stared back, then he spun round on the stool and turned his attention to the barman. Feeling slightly silly and unsettled, I turned to see where Lawrie was. He was alone now, standing to the side of the room and watching Freddie too, his lips pinched together in what seemed to be disapproval.

‘Old friend,’ I muttered. I took a deep breath, forced a smile onto my face, and went to find my husband.

Chapter 2

Scarlett

Present day

‘You look great,’ my best friend Robyn said. ‘Chic. Award-winning.’

‘I look ridiculous.’ I balanced my phone on the sink and adjusted my cleavage. I was wearing a wiggle dress with a tight skirt and deep heart-shaped neckline. It was very 1950s so I’d done my hair in the same style and added thick winged eyeliner. I’d liked how I looked when I left home but lost my nerve when I’d arrived and ducked into the loo to call Robyn instead.

‘Everyone here is in suits,’ I said to her little face on my phone screen.

‘Bet they’re not. It’s an event for podcasters, Scarlett. You’re all weirdos.’

‘Thanks.’

Robyn chuckled. ‘Is it Charlie?’ she said softly. ‘Are you worried about seeing him?’

‘I see him all the time.’

‘Not in real life.’

I picked up my phone and went into one of the cubicles, sitting down on the closed loo seat.

‘Are you having a wee?’ Robyn shrieked. ‘Do not keep talking to me while you’re weeing.’

‘I’m not weeing, I’m sitting,’ I said.

She narrowed her eyes at me. ‘If I hear trickling, I’m ending the call.’

I laughed, but my heart wasn’t in it.

‘I just want him to be sorry,’ I said.

‘I know, sweetie.’

‘See what he’s missing.’

‘He will.’

I shook my head. ‘He’s bringing Astrid,’ I said. ‘I saw her name on the table plan.’

‘What?’ Robyn sounded furious. ‘How did he pitch that one? Hey, babe, want to come with me to an awards ceremony celebrating the podcast I do with my ex?’

‘Well, she’s coming.’

‘So what? You don’t want Charlie back anyway.’

‘I definitely don’t want him back,’ I said, more certainly than I felt.

‘And you’re going to win this award, and get loads of attention and listeners, and you can quit your job and do the podcast full-time.’

‘Fingers crossed.’

‘And your dad will be like ohmygod, I can’t believe my daughter is an award-winning podcaster. I’m going to boast about her to all my old man mates and stop trying to get her jobs elsewhere.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing.’ But I laughed because somehow when Robyn took the piss out of my father it unknotted the tightness in my stomach I always felt when I thought about him.

‘And then you can ditch Charlie.’

‘I need Charlie.’

Robyn snorted. ‘Not now you don’t. He might have been useful at the start with getting contacts, but you know everyone now and you do all the work.’

‘The podcast is literally named after him.’

‘So make a new podcast and name it after you. I always thought Cold Cases with Burns was a stupid name anyway.’

I laughed again. ‘Thank you for making me feel better.’

‘Any time.’ She blew me a kiss. ‘I’m going to bed because this blooming baby is exhausting me.’ She pointed downwards towards her tiny pregnancy bump. ‘But tell me when you win.’

‘I will.’ I ended the call, flushed the loo even though I’d not been for a wee, and went out of the cubicle, giving my cleavage a final hoick as I went.

The venue for the podcasting awards was one of those slightly down-at-heel London hotels that always look like they’d been terribly glamorous five years ago. I took a glass of fizz from a tray held by a bored waiter, breathed in deeply and then went into the function room.

It was buzzing with people and conversation. I scanned the room for Charlie but I couldn’t see him – thank goodness. Hovering by the door, I felt a bit like a spare part. I knew lots of other podcasters because I worked at a radio station where just about everyone did a podcast, but for a second I couldn’t spot anyone familiar. I felt a lurch of nerves. Maybe I should just go home?

Then a group of people at one side of the room moved slightly, and there, in the corner just behind them, I saw Charlie. He was tall, so he was easy to spot now I knew where to look. He was laughing and he looked annoyingly good in his open-necked shirt. I knew he’d have worn a tie for about three seconds then taken it off and put it in his pocket. That’s what he always did. Next to him was an actual goddess. A blonde, athletic-looking woman with sculpted shoulders who was as tall as Charlie and seemed to glow with health and vitality. Astrid, I assumed. Great.

I looked down at my wobbly bosom, drained my drink and turned to leave. I couldn’t handle this.

‘Scarlett, you’re on my table, I believe.’

I closed my eyes briefly then opened them to see an older man heading towards me, carrying two drinks.

‘Gervase,’ I said, forcing a smile. ‘We’re sitting together are we? How funny.’

He handed me a drink and gave me a kiss on the cheek, taking the opportunity to have a good look down my top as he did. I moved away deliberately.

‘Professional rivals we may be,’ he said sounding as though he was introducing us to an invisible audience. ‘But we are firm friends away from the microphone.’

‘Aren’t we just.’

‘And of course your father and I go way back. Waaaay back. How is the old sod?’

‘He’s really well, thank you.’ My dad, who was regarded as a bit of a national treasure thanks to his days fronting the ten o’clock news, had very little time for Gervase. It was one of the few things we agreed on.

Gervase Desmond was a retired radio presenter who had