The Other Woman: A Gripping Romantic Psychological Suspense

By Patricia Dixon

The man she trusted has been keeping a secret . . . A novel of psychological suspense spanning from England to coastal France by the author of Blame.
 
Rowan’s days of being the other woman and waiting patiently for Alex are almost over. He’s left his wife, and Rowan is finally within touching distance of her happy ever after.
 
When Alex is involved in a terrible accident, she rushes to him, fearing the worst. But as facts begin to emerge that cast doubt on the accident and the true nature of Alex’s first marriage, Rowan is left devastated. And little does she know that a bigger shock is yet to come. Members of the criminal underworld are conspiring, and Rowan’s family is in grave danger . . .
 
The Other Woman will take you on an emotional and turbulent voyage from the French seaside town of Boulogne-sur-Mer to the metropolis of Manchester, England, through the murky depths of a marriage that is steeped in secrets, riddled with lies, and laced with danger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Aug 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781504072656

Patricia Dixon

Patricia Dixon lives in Manchester and is an international best-selling author of eighteen novels. She writes across genres including women’s fiction, historical fiction and psychological literary fiction. Her stories are often set in her home city and the Loire. Both places are close to her heart and from where she gathers inspiration for her characters and tales. In May 2017 she signed with Bloodhound Books, leading fiction publishers.

Book preview

Prologue

Boulogne-sur-Mer, France, 2013

Baggage. That’s what he had when she met him. A lot of it. He was honest about it from the start, though, his life, his situation, everything really. She could have walked away, told herself she’d had a lucky escape because, after all, nobody needed that kind of hassle in their lives. There were plenty of men out there to choose from, single, unencumbered types. To resist his charms would have been the sensible option, conscionable, the path of least destruction. In her defence she did take time to weigh up the pros and cons, but only for a moment or two.

The thing was, his good attributes were many – especially those of a physical nature – because he was a fine specimen, in her eyes quite beautiful and, once lust was added to the potent mix, she could see why most women would fall under his spell. She certainly had.

Perhaps that was her mistake: taking into consideration his allure and the notion that should she turn him away then some other woman would snap him up and she would miss out. This thought surprised her, it also spurred her on.

And what if their meeting was meant to be? She believed in all that malarkey and had her mother to thank for this, and for her inability to turn away anyone or anything in need. So what if his laying bare of the facts was actually a cry for help? That being the case, he’d definitely gone to the right place. If he was looking for someone well equipped to love a man with all her heart, in the way he deserved, she was the woman for the job.

It came down to a simple question, and the scales were already tipping in his favour. Should she take the chance, pick up his baggage, remove the contents one by one, then smooth out his life? Would it be worth it? Or would it end in tears and a broken heart? After all, somewhere along the line someone was going to get hurt. They always did.

Their desire for one another was tangible. Such sweet temptation was hard to deny and they’d tried valiantly to resist and until this moment, the notion that they could take the next step had remained unspoken.

She took in the scene. His left hand was on the table where he’d been decent enough to lay out invisible cards. It rested by a glass of white wine and on his third finger he wore a wedding ring. At first, she had seen the platinum band as a sobering warning, like cold water on a flame, a sizzle in the dying moments of hope. Then the more she got to know him, little bits here and there, she fell under his spell and the flame flickered once more. Looking upwards she took in his face, honest. His gentle smile warmed her heart, and the creases at the corner of his eyes, always kind, soulful, were telling her something. Did she want to hear? Oh yes.

Soon the band, third finger, left hand, began to emit another message. She felt it. Acknowledging the astral power of platinum which stimulates the spirit, she became emboldened. The precious metal that formed a circle around his wedding finger didn’t really bind his heart, the look in his eyes told her that. The silver of the many rings that adorned her own fingers carried the energy of the moon, reflecting negativity, bringing patience and perseverance. She had plenty of that. Platinum and silver was a potent mix. Did she believe in such things? Of course she did.

Reaching across she placed her hand over his, the entwining of fingers, the touch of skin on skin for the first time was a thrill unrivalled, ever. In that moment the symbolism of the band was lost forever. Absorbing the frequency, taking its power for herself, protecting her heart that was big and brave enough to vanquish the enemy, her lust rose supreme.

Rowan had made her decision. She wanted him for herself, however that may be, in whatever way they could make it work. It was her life, and she only had one, on earth anyway. That’s why for this man whom she was drawn to like a magnet so strong, that clung to a precious metal, or a jewel one craved and coveted, she was prepared to take a risk. For him she would make that leap of faith, abandon her morals and accept him as he was. In that moment Rowan swore a silent oath, vowing to trust him always she took him on his word.

1

Boulogne-sur-Mer, France, present day

Rowan made her way through the market square, weaving around the dawdlers yet mindful of their right to browse because on any other day she’d be doing the same. No matter what the weather she loved markets, the hubbub, the banter, the camaraderie of the stallholders. Markets were in tune with the seasons, they sang nature’s song, in harmony with the sellers who worked side by side, week in week out.

On summer days, when the sun baked the cobbles and it was so hot you sought the shade of the canopies overhead, she would take her time, pausing to taste the cooked meats, buy some artisan bread and cheese, or fresh fruit and vegetables from local farmers.

Today was a hottie. Late flaming June, and Rowan’s temperature was further raised because she was in a hurry and needed to get to the post office, then on to L’école maternelle to pick up Celeste who would be in a total state of giddiness the second she bounded into the playground. Her three-year-old had been full of it that morning, twenty questions on the same subject.

When would Papa be home, could they meet him at the station and wait in Starbucks, would they have the muffins she loved, was her unicorn T-shirt dry, could she stay up late because it was Friday?

Rowan had been SO glad when she’d deposited Celeste at the classroom door that morning and headed into another fray, teaching English to middle school kids who compared to her daughter were actually a walk in the park. She always finished earlier on Friday which allowed her to pick up a few treats from the supermarket so they could all enjoy an end-of-the-week dinner together. Tonight, though, more than ever, Rowan would be relieved when she saw Alex walk through the Eurostar terminal doors and could drive him back to the apartment, home, where he truly belonged.

She’d been on pins ever since they’d said goodbye on Monday morning. She always hated it when he went back to Manchester and this time Rowan knew he’d be walking into a storm. His task there wasn’t going to be pleasant but he’d made up his mind and was determined to make a stand, call a board meeting and tell everyone concerned that he wanted out.

Sucking in air to calm herself, Rowan focused on the future and what life would be like once Alex had extracted himself from his complicated life in the north of England. He was about to leave his very successful haulage business in the hands of trusted employees, and focus on growing the smaller and much simpler operation based in France.

There was a way to go yet, she knew that, but he’d done the hardest part and now the confrontations and recriminations were done with, the legal wheels had been set in motion. Finally, he was free to run his office from the port of Calais and settle permanently in Boulogne-sur-Mer.

She’d wanted to go with him, for moral support but he’d insisted she stayed at home with Celeste and that he could handle it himself. Part of her was relieved. She hated aggravation and conflict. Not only that, her being there could have inflamed the whole situation so it was best she remained in France.

Reaching the post office, Rowan was glad to see there wasn’t the usual queue. Once she’d sent her parcel she could collect Princess Celeste of the Chatterbox Kingdom and head on up to Calais to meet Alex off the Eurostar. She couldn’t wait to see him, she couldn’t wait to relax more, and then start the next chapter of their lives. No more separations, no more lies, no more worries. She’d waited long enough and now it was her time to have it all.

Rowan was pulling the dress over her head and trying to ignore the tapping foot of her daughter who stood at the door, arms crossed, fingers drumming, impatience plastered across her face.

‘Celeste, please quit the tapping, we have more than enough time and Papa’s train doesn’t get in until five so for goodness’ sake, stop harassing me.’ As Rowan’s head emerged from the inside of her new dress, she caught the raised eyebrow expression that Celeste had down to a tee.

‘I can’t wait to go to Starbucks, Mama. I’m really starving, you know! And I want to sit on the high stools and watch everyone go by.’

Rowan tutted and looked at her inquisitive and demanding beanpole child with the skinniest legs that went on forever and knots for knees, and wondered where inside those pink shorts she managed to hide all the food she ate, especially since they got home from pre-school. Celeste’s grandmother would say something gross about tapeworms, whereas Rowan put her daughter’s appearance down to never bloody sitting still and a fast metabolism. The blonde hair that was currently scraped into high bunches came from the female gene pool, Rowan’s mum to be precise. Alex had passed on olive skin and brown eyes to his gently tanned daughter. She’d also inherited his impatience.

Ignoring the unsubtle hint, Rowan resisted the temptation to trade fruit, or anything, for silence and instead checked out her appearance. She wanted to look extra special for Alex and had treated herself to a dress from one of the classier boutiques in town. Usually she wore home-made clothes, it was one of her hobbies, that and collecting vintage dress patterns, mostly from the seventies.

Her maxi dress was made from Indian cotton, sheer and cool, rose pink printed with paler flowers and along the hem a shimmering ribbon dotted with tiny gems. The spaghetti straps showed off her sun-kissed skin and lean arms, toned by years of yoga and swimming. Checking that the soft brown coils she’d styled that morning still looked fine, Rowan grabbed the bottle of Diorissimo and after a generous squirt of scented mist, she turned to Celeste. ‘Ta-da. Will I do, do you think Papa will like my new dress?’

At this Celeste broke into an appreciative smile and nodded. ‘Yes, Mama, you look beautiful. Now pleaaaase, can we go?’

Admitting defeat Rowan threw up her hands. ‘Okay, okay, you win even though we’ll be an hour early, so do not dare start complaining that you’re bored once we get there. I mean it, young lady!’

Celeste grabbed her mother’s hand and began to drag her towards the door. ‘Je promis, je promis.’

‘Let me get my bag and lock up, and you need to turn off your television. I can hear it from here, and do you need a wee?’ Rowan watched Celeste think for a second, then scurry off.

She could understand her daughter’s excitement because there was something about meeting people off a trip, that giddy tummy-tickling expectation amongst the hubbub of the Victor Hugo terminal. Celeste always looked immensely pleased when her papa chose to travel on Le Shuttle because it meant a visit to Leon or La Gare bistro while they waited for him to arrive. Today’s choice was Starbucks. Celeste liked to rotate her eateries.

Rowan also preferred it when Alex took the train rather than his car because it was so much easier, connecting from St Pancras to Euston and a first-class journey up to Manchester. She hated it when he drove the six hours north. Her pestering sent him mad because she insisted he checked in regularly so she knew he was okay.

He’d offered to put a tracker in his car, like those fitted on to some of his fleet of lorries, so she could watch his progress live on a map. Anything to stop her from stressing. His face had been a picture when she double-bluffed him and said it was a great idea because then she’d know exactly how many snack breaks he’d had along the way. Alex was a sucker for Burger King.

Earlier, he’d rung from the haulage yard in Trafford Park just before his appointment with the solicitor in the centre of Manchester. After that he was walking to Piccadilly Station, saying he would catch up on paperwork during the train journey and would ring from St Pancras. That was code for leave me in peace so Rowan took the hint and waited patiently for his pre-shuttle call. After that the thirty-five-minute journey whizzed by. The thought of him speeding through the tunnel on his way back to them always made her smile.

While Rowan waited for Celeste, she cast her eyes around the apartment, checking it was tidy and then pulled shut the doors to their balcony. Even though it was becoming a bit cramped, Rowan loved their home in one of the grander, older buildings in Boulogne. In her head she described the interior and exterior as shabby chic. Outside, the neo-classic structure with columns and arches was embellished with iron enclosed balconies, and inside the stone block staircase wound through the centre, the intricate banister snaking upwards to each floor.

All of their rooms were decorated to Rowan’s bohemian tastes in rich vibrant colours and furnished with brocante finds, apart from the expensive sofas and rugs that suited Alex’s taste. The modern galley kitchen with all mod cons was also down to him – but Rowan had insisted it blended with the rest of their home, picking out the duck egg blue units before leaving the rest to him. It was her way of making Alex feel at home, turning her apartment over and letting him bring it up to date. It was a message – you belong, here, with us.

They were perfect together, her and Alex, everyone said so, even her mother who was guided by many things, the moon, the tides, runes, her instinct, absolutely nothing of sense or substance. Yet despite that, Rowan would seek her mother’s opinion over many so when she took to Alex from the start, regardless of his situation, Rowan took it as a sign.

It comforted her, as did the fact that even though some aspects of their personalities were miles apart, they blended where it mattered. Yes, he had a penchant for the finer things in life whereas she didn’t care a jot if something was second-, third- or fourth-hand, in fact to Rowan fourth would be seen as treasure. He aspired to a cliff-top mansion by the sea, she quite fancied a mobile home and summers on the road. Alex liked to dine out, in the best places in town. Rowan wanted to weep at the prices on the menu and preferred their local pizzeria or tapas bar.

Things of the material sense aside, deep down, Alex was a good soul, kind and generous and supported her causes and accepted her beliefs. He made her laugh so much. That’s how she pictured them the most, heads together with tears streaming down their faces. They shared the same taste in music. He was a fantastic cook and when she managed to get him to relax, they loved nothing more than barefoot walks along the beach and a barbeque, embracing the simple things in life.

Work was more complicated, intense, heading up the international side of his haulage business and keeping an eye on the Manchester operation from afar. Everest Haulage was his life, inherited from his father and grandfather before him, expanded by Alex and against the odds, after Brexit and through a pandemic, it still thrived. He was a workaholic who juggled his commitments as best he could but since the birth of Celeste, had focused more of his attention on family and the office in Calais.

Even though the foundations of their relationship were formed from the debris of another, they had made it work. It had taken understanding on Rowan’s part, and an immense amount of patience too, and no matter what her friends said, especially her closest confidantes Florence and Margot, Rowan believed in him. She had invested totally in the vision that one day he would make the break and be hers completely. It kept her going, smothering the flames of jealousy and throwing cold water on her fears. She simply had to trust him because cast in the role of the other woman, without proper rights and forced to live a life in the shadows, it was really all she could do.

Celeste reappeared, wiping her hands on her shorts, in too much of a hurry to dry them properly on the towel and they had almost reached the door when Rowan’s phone began to ring from inside her bag. Ignoring the stern look on Celeste’s face, expecting it to be Alex telling her he was getting on Le Shuttle, she rummaged inside, surprised to see the name that appeared on the screen.

Frowning, she swiped quickly, wondering why Alex’s right-hand man in Manchester would be calling her. His number was for emergencies only and thankfully she’d never had to use it. This fact sent a spike of fear shooting through her heart, which beat a little faster as she said hello. She was silenced immediately by the sombre voice at the other end. His accent reminded her instantly of Alex’s northern twang but the similarity brought her no comfort.

‘Rowan, it’s Jon, I’m at the hospital. I’m sorry to ring you, love, but there’s been an accident.’

Swallowing down panic, her mouth bone dry, Rowan managed to speak. ‘Alex?’

When Jon answered it was quickly but in a hushed tone, the kind used in tricky situations or crowded rooms. ‘Yes. I’m really sorry I didn’t phone sooner but my head’s all over the place and my priority was to get him here. He’s going down to theatre soon.’

Clinging on to the word ‘theatre’ which meant he could be fixed, Rowan forced her lips to move and her face to remain impassive under the silent scrutiny of Celeste. ‘What happened?’

‘It was a freak accident, it happened so quickly and I don’t even know how… he was hit by a stacker truck. The driver was going far too fast. I just don’t know why he was driving like that. In all my years I’ve never seen anything like it.’

Rowan could hear the shock in Jon’s voice and even though she could tell he was struggling with emotion and circumstance, she needed to know more. Nausea swirled in her stomach as she imagined the heavy steel forks of a stacker truck and the damage they could do to flesh and bone.

‘I don’t understand. I need you to explain. How bad is it, Jon?’ Rowan gripped the phone so tight it felt hot and slippy under her skin. Turning away from her daughter, Rowan caught sight of her own face in the hall mirror and was startled by the ashen, wide-eyed ghost that looked back.

A deep sigh from the other end of the line preceded the horrible truth. ‘We’d just left the office and were making our way towards my car. I was going to drop Alex in the city. It’s quite normal for stackers to move about the yard and I didn’t think twice when I saw one approaching so we slowed to let it past. All I could think at the time, seconds after it happened, was that the driver’s foot must have slipped because it just speeded up, went hell for leather and as it reached us, swung around, out of control.’

Before Rowan could ask more or Jon had chance to continue, Celeste interrupted, tugging at the fabric of Rowan’s dress. ‘Mama, what’s wrong?’

To reassure her daughter Rowan placed a finger to her own lips, signalling quiet, before grasping a tiny hand, finding an ounce of comfort in her own actions.

When Celeste obeyed, Rowan imagined Jon at the other end of the phone, so many miles away on a hospital corridor, gathering himself, recalling the scene. She wanted to be kind and patient but it was impossible when panic and terror were overruling her brain. ‘Jon, what happened next?’

‘It hit Alex full on. I managed to leap out of the way, it missed me by inches. God only knows how it didn’t decapit–’ Jon stopped abruptly, perhaps realising the insensitivity of his words. ‘The forks were raised which they shouldn’t have been: stacker drivers are trained to lower them when they’re not loaded. It was a stupid thing to do, totally unprofessional. Anyway, it caught Alex, threw him against the wall. His head took the brunt of it, then he hit the floor. The stacker rammed into the front of the office, knocked the door down, then stopped but at least it didn’t run over Alex. After that all hell broke loose. Sandra in the office was hysterical, there was blood everywhere– Sorry, sorry, that’s too much information.’

Rowan thought she was going to be sick. ‘It’s okay, Jon, I want to know. Go on.’

‘It looked like the driver had collapsed at the wheel. We think he’s had a heart attack or something. He’s here in A&E, but Alex was in a bad way so I focused on him while one of the lads rang for an ambulance.’

A little voice broke through the horrors of Rowan’s mind, dragging her away from a scene of carnage in a grey goods yard in Manchester, back to the rusty red walls of her hallway and the plaintive voice of her child. ‘Mama, why are you crying? Where is Papa?’

Pulling Celeste close, holding her little sparrow tight, Rowan spoke gently in a tone that belied the tremor deep inside her chest. ‘Shush, ma petite, I will explain soon, please don’t be afraid, just let Mama sort it out.’

Then in a firmer voice she addressed Jon. ‘What have they said there, about his condition?’

Responding in a similar matter-of-fact way, Jon told her what he knew. ‘He has severe head injuries so they need to relieve the pressure on his brain, plus he has broken ribs and a punctured lung.’ Jon fell silent while his words sunk in.

Even though most of her body had frozen, her legs felt like mush and didn’t want to stand up. Only for the sake of the little face that was buried in the tear-stained folds of her dress, Rowan somehow remained upright. Staring at the ghost in the mirror, she had to face the fact there was nothing she could do for Alex. He was in the hands of the surgeon, whereas her child was in hers.

Rowan had to get off the phone and soothe Celeste. ‘Okay, thank you, Jon, I’m sure this has been a terrible shock for you too. Are you okay? Have they checked you over?’

‘Don’t worry about me, love. I’m fine.’

He didn’t sound it: ‘exhausted’ was the word that sprang to Rowan’s mind.

‘Okay, just take care of yourself, though, get a hot sweet drink and some food. It’ll help with the shock. I have to see to Celeste now and make some arrangements. Will you keep your phone on, so I can ring you back? And you will stay, won’t you?’

‘Yes of course, I promise I’m not going anywhere.’

Rowan was about to disconnect when an icy gust of panic hit full on. Panic, or was it shame? Whatever it was caused her to gasp because while she’d been caught in a vacuum of shock, she’d forgotten to ask about someone very important.

‘Oh my God! Ben! Has someone told Ben?’

The answer came immediately. ‘Yes, yes, don’t worry. I called his school and someone is going to tell him, then drive him here. I’m sure they’ll know what to do in situations like this, so try not to worry. I’ll be here for him when he arrives.’

It was the thought of Alex’s sixteen-year-old son, alone and dealing with this all by himself that broke her resolve and no matter how much she wanted to be brave for Celeste, the thought of Ben’s face when he heard the news about his dad reduced Rowan to tears. It also made Jon’s next question simple to answer.

‘What shall I tell him when he arrives?’

‘Tell him to ring me, and that I’ll be there as soon as I can. I need to sort out arrangements for Celeste. I’ll take her to my mum’s. I’ll text you when I’m on my way. Tell Ben to be strong, and just hold on, okay?’

The shock in Jon’s voice reverberated down the phone. ‘What, you’re coming here, to Manchester?’

Sucking in air, Rowan straightened her shoulders and glanced down at the blonde head of her daughter. Knowing she was listening to every word, Rowan lowered her voice and hoped her tone sent its own message. ‘Yes, of course.’ Then lower still, ‘He needs me and I don’t care if a certain person won’t like it, I’m coming. I’ll be in touch soon, Jon, and thank you, thank you for looking after Alex and letting me know.’

Placing her phone on the bureau below the art deco mirror, Rowan ignored the ghost lady who looked back and focused on her child, gently prising Celeste’s body from her own before kneeling. Stroking Celeste’s arms, Rowan’s voice sounded like a hollow echo as she told her the truth, or as close to it as her very bright three-year-old could cope with.

‘Celeste, you have to be very, very brave because Papa has had an accident. He’s hurt his head and is in hospital but the doctors are fixing it right now.’

Celeste nodded, tears pumping from her eyes, lips wobbling as she spoke. ‘And you are going to see him, and bring him home, yes?’

Such immense pride and love flooded through Rowan that for a second, she was unable to speak. Celeste’s matter-of-fact response taking her by surprise. ‘Yes, I am, so I want you to go and stay with Mémère. I’m going to ring her and she’ll look after you while I’m away. That will be fun, won’t it? You love it at Mémère’s with the dogs.’

More tears welled and there was a tremor in Celeste’s voice. ‘It won’t be fun because I will miss you and be sad about Papa. I want to come. I’ll be good, please, Mama.’

‘You can’t, Celeste. It’s a long way and you have to go to school, and hospital isn’t the place for little ones. You will be fine with Mémère, I promise.’ With Celeste it was always better to be firm and not give an inch.

‘Okay, Mama, I will try to smile and be good for Mémère.’

Rowan swallowed down a sob. ‘Thank you, Celeste. And I will try to be quick, and once I’ve checked that the doctors have done a good job on Papa and he is better, I’ll be able to bring him home.’

‘And Ben too, I want Ben to come home, Mama.’

Unable to speak, Rowan merely nodded and pulled Celeste close and for a second, allowed her own tears to flow, stroking her daughter’s back as a million thoughts zapped through her head. Amongst the jumble of arrangements she had to make, and the long solitary journey ahead, plus the storm she would whip up when she arrived in Manchester, Rowan was clear on one thing. No matter what she was about to face, or more to the point who, come hell or high water she was bringing Alex and Ben home, once and for all. They were going to be a family and nothing and nobody was going to get in her way.

2

Manchester Royal Infirmary, present day

Janey scrabbled in her bag for her cigarettes and lighter as she made her way across the hospital car park, desperate to put distance between her and the supposedly poorly people who, against the

Reviews for The Other Woman

[April Boyer Maimone · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Excellent ending. Even I could not have guessed it. I highly recommend this book.

[Bill Hair · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

3.75 Stars for me (although, at times, I wanted to DNF it :))

This story has a lot of twists and turns and the h starts out looking like a wet noodle. I won't give any spoilers on this one but if you start reading it, it is worth finishing... even though it's ending is a bit crazy.