THE UNWELCOME GUEST
Amanda Robson
Copyright
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021
Copyright © Amanda Robson 2021
Cover design by Andrew Davis © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021
Cover photographs © Natasza Fiedotjew / Trevillion Images (woman); Shutterstock.com (window and plants)
Amanda Robson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008430597
Ebook Edition © August 2020 ISBN: 9780008430603
Version: 2021-07-09
Dedication
To mother-in-laws everywhere.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Praise for Amanda Robson
Chapter 1: Saffron
Chapter 2: Caprice
Chapter 3: Hayley
Chapter 4: Saffron
Chapter 5: Aiden
Chapter 6: Caprice
Chapter 7: Hayley
Chapter 8: Saffron
Chapter 9: Miles
Chapter 10: Caprice
Chapter 11: Hayley
Chapter 12: Caprice
Chapter 13: Miles
Chapter 14: Saffron
Chapter 15: Caprice
Chapter 16: Saffron
Chapter 17: Hayley
Chapter 18: Saffron
Chapter 19: Aiden
Chapter 20: Saffron
Chapter 21: Hayley
Chapter 22: Saffron
Chapter 23: Miles
Chapter 24: Hayley
Chapter 25: Saffron
Chapter 26: Aiden
Chapter 27: Saffron
Chapter 28: Miles
Chapter 29: Saffron
Chapter 30: Miles
Chapter 31: Aiden
Chapter 32: Saffron
Chapter 33: Caprice
Chapter 34: Miles
Chapter 35: Saffron
Chapter 36: Miles
Chapter 37: Saffron
Chapter 38: Caprice
Chapter 39: Saffron
Chapter 40: Aiden
Chapter 41: Saffron
Chapter 42: Aiden
Chapter 43: Miles
Chapter 44: Caprice
Chapter 45: Saffron
Chapter 46: Hayley
Chapter 47: Caprice
Chapter 48: Saffron
Chapter 49: Miles
Chapter 50: Caprice
Chapter 51: Hayley
Chapter 52: Caprice
Chapter 53: Hayley
Chapter 54: Saffron
Chapter 55: Aiden
Chapter 56: Miles
Chapter 57: Hayley
Chapter 58: Saffron
Chapter 59: Caprice
Chapter 60: Miles
Chapter 61: Caprice
Chapter 62: Hayley
Chapter 63: Hayley
Chapter 64: Saffron
Chapter 65: Miles
Chapter 66: Hayley
Chapter 67: Miles
Chapter 68: Hayley
Chapter 69: Saffron
Chapter 70: Hayley
Chapter 71: Caprice
Chapter 72: Miles
Chapter 73: Saffron
Chapter 74: Miles
Chapter 75: Caprice
Chapter 76: Hayley
Chapter 77: Saffron
Chapter 78: Caprice
Chapter 79: Hayley
Chapter 80: Miles
Chapter 81: Saffron
Chapter 82: Hayley
Chapter 83: Caprice
Chapter 84: Saffron
Chapter 85: Caprice
Chapter 86: Saffron
Chapter 87: Caprice
Chapter 88: Saffron
Chapter 89: Hayley
Chapter 90: Caprice
Chapter 91: Hayley
Chapter 92: Caprice
Chapter 93: Saffron
Chapter 94: Caprice
Chapter 95: Hayley
Chapter 96: Caprice
Chapter 97: Saffron
Chapter 98: Hayley
Chapter 99: Saffron
Chapter 100: Hayley
Chapter 101: Caprice
Chapter 102: Miles
Chapter 103: Saffron
Chapter 104: Caprice
Chapter 105: Saffron
Chapter 106: Caprice
Chapter 107: Saffron
Chapter 108: Hayley
Chapter 109: Saffron
Chapter 110: Caprice
Chapter 111: Miles
Chapter 112: Saffron
Chapter 113: Saffron
Chapter 114: Caprice
Chapter 115: Hayley
Chapter 116: Caprice
Chapter 117: Hayley
Chapter 118: Saffron
Chapter 119: Caprice
Chapter 120: Hayley
Chapter 121: Miles
Chapter 122: Hayley
Chapter 123: Aiden
Chapter 124: Saffron
Chapter 125: Aiden
Chapter 126: Saffron
Chapter 127: Aiden
Chapter 128: Miles
Chapter 129: Saffron
Chapter 130: Miles
Chapter 131: Caprice
Chapter 132: Hayley
Chapter 133: Miles
Chapter 134: Saffron
Chapter 135: Caprice
Chapter 136: Saffron
Chapter 137: Hayley
Chapter 138: Caprice
Chapter 139: Hayley
Chapter 140: Miles
Chapter 141: Saffron
Chapter 142: Miles
Chapter 143: Saffron
Chapter 144: Miles
Chapter 145: Saffron
Chapter 146: Miles
Chapter 147: Saffron
Chapter 148: Miles
Chapter 149: Saffron
Chapter 150: Miles
Chapter 151: Hayley
Chapter 152: Miles
Chapter 153: Saffron
Chapter 154: Hayley
Chapter 155: Miles
Chapter 156: Hayley
Chapter 157: Aiden
Chapter 158: Saffron
Chapter 159: Miles
Chapter 160: Saffron
Chapter 161: Hayley
Chapter 162: Saffron
Chapter 163: Hayley
Chapter 164: Saffron
Chapter 165: Hayley
Chapter 166: Saffron
Chapter 167: Aiden
Chapter 168: Miles
Chapter 169: Aiden
Chapter 170: Miles
Chapter 171: Saffron
Chapter 172: Aiden
Chapter 173: Saffron
Chapter 174: Miles
Chapter 175: Hayley
Chapter 176: Saffron
Chapter 177: Miles
Chapter 178: Hayley
Chapter 179: Hayley
Chapter 180: Saffron
Chapter 181: Hayley
Chapter 182: Miles
Chapter 183: Hayley
Chapter 184: Saffron
Chapter 185: Hayley
Chapter 186: Miles
Chapter 187: Hayley
Chapter 188: Miles
Chapter 189: Saffron
One Year Later
Chapter 190: Hayley
Chapter 191: Hayley
Chapter 192: Saffron
Chapter 193: Hayley
Chapter 194: Saffron
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
Also by Amanda Robson
About the Publisher
Praise for Amanda Robson
‘A fabulous rollercoaster of a read – I was obsessed by this book’
B A Paris, author of Behind Closed Doors
‘Fast-moving, compulsive reading’
Jane Corry, author of My Husband’s Wife
‘An addictive, compelling read, full of tension’
Karen Hamilton, author of The Perfect Girlfriend
‘Compelling and thoroughly addictive’
Katerina Diamond, author of The Heatwave
‘Characters you will love to hate and an ending that will make your jaw drop’
Jenny Blackhurst, author of Before I Let You In
‘A taut thriller full of page-turning suspense’
Emma Flint, author of Little Deaths
‘Expertly injects menace into the domestic’
Holly Seddon, author of Try Not to Breathe
‘No one does toxic relationships quite like Amanda Robson’
Sam Carrington, author of The Open House
‘Twisty, taut, vibrant and addictive.
The queen of the page-turner’
Caroline England, author of My Husband’s Lies
‘A compelling page-turner on the dark underbelly of marriage, friendship and lust’
Fiona Cummins, author of Rattle
1
Saffron
I look across the breakfast table at my husband, Miles, and the reasons I married him move towards me with certainty. We are in tune, both physically and mentally. Why do I ever doubt him? It’s not Miles I have problems with, but you, Caprice. His mother. A frail and lonely widow, with kind eyes and a swan-like neck? Or the mother-in-law from hell with a witch’s cackle for a laugh? Whichever, you have infiltrated our lives.
You were living in the self-contained annexe that abuts our house, built especially for you. But you have decided it no longer suits. It’s suddenly become too poky, so you’ve moved in with us. And you’re here, at breakfast time, sitting next to me, cracking the top of your boiled egg with sledgehammer ferocity.
As my husband frequently points out, you are still a beautiful woman. I like to reply for your age, just to remind us both that I am young and you are old. Youth is more powerful than age, I hope, for our relationship has become a battle.
Over the years I have tried so hard to make you like me. But it was difficult from the start. You made it quite clear I wasn’t your sort of person the first time we met, when Miles invited me to your family home for Sunday lunch. A painful affair in your large, medieval hall of a dining room, which looked out onto a garden that never ended. It blended into the horizon, dripping with thousands of pounds’ worth of showcase flowers. Rupert, Miles’ father, was still alive then, presiding at the head of the table carving a succulent joint of beef.
Miles sat opposite me. A low-slung crystal chandelier dangled between us. His eyes glistened into mine, trying to encourage me to relax. Aiden, Miles’ younger brother, was sitting next to me. The silence in the room was suffocating.
After a while, you leant towards me. ‘Well, Julie,’ you said.
Julie. Miles’ ex-girlfriend, and now Aiden’s current squeeze.
‘It’s Saffron,’ I replied, with what I hoped was a wide friendly smile.
‘Well,’ you coughed. ‘Sa … a … a … ffron. Tell me how you two met.’ Too much emphasis on the a. Long and slow. As if my name was difficult to pronounce.
I couldn’t tell you the truth. No mother wants to hear her son was seduced at a party when he was drunk and then didn’t leave his new girlfriend’s room for over a week because they were smoking dope and having experimental sex. So I just smiled and explained that we met at college.
‘Oh. Are you at the poly?’ you asked.
Aiden and Miles both laughed.
‘Polys don’t exist anymore. Haven’t for almost twenty years. You know that, Mum. They’re new universities now. Cambridge poly is Anglia Ruskin University,’ Aiden said through a mouthful of homemade Yorkshire pudding.
‘Is that where you’re studying, Anglia Ruskin, dear?’ you asked, with a strong false emphasis on the word dear that made me squirm inside.
‘No. Actually I’m at the old university; Trinity College with Miles.’
Your lips tightened. ‘A bluestocking, then?’
‘She doesn’t exactly look like a bluestocking, does she?’ Rupert trumpeted from the end of the table.
Annoyed by this attempt at a compliment, you thwarted your husband with your eyes. The room fell silent again, interrupted only by the scraping of knives and forks across fine china. After a while you leant towards me again. ‘Now, Cinnamon …’ you said.
After a heavy Sunday lunch of roast beef with all the trimmings, followed by apple pie, which settled like lead on my stomach – I was already well on the way to being a vegetarian and subsequently a vegan – you asked me to help clear the table and wash up, while Miles’ father invited his sons to admire the new dahlia border in the garden. A sexist division of duties. A throwback to the 1950s. But, on my best behaviour with the family of the man I was besotted with, I didn’t comment or complain.
As we were loading the dishwasher I saw the men walking along the path at the side of the house, past the kitchen window.
Rupert’s voice crashed towards us. ‘Your girlfriend’s a pretty filly. Taut and muscular like a fine racehorse.’
Sexist again. My stomach tightened. So he thought I was pretty. Despite the sexism of the comment, that pleased me. But I sensed your body stiffen with envious displeasure. I guessed that, as far as you were concerned, it was unnecessarily flattering.
We continued our chores. You washed the pans and I dried, racking my brains for something to say, wanting to fill the airwaves with friendship and conversation.
‘It’s a lovely area. How long have you lived here?’ I tried.
‘All my life.’
‘So you were brought up around here?’
‘That’s what “all my life” means, yes.’
The silence expanded. Ask open, not closed questions, I told myself. ‘Where do you work? Tell me about your job,’ I persisted.
You stopped washing up, pulled off your rubber gloves and stepped towards me, pouring your angry eyes into mine. ‘I’m a wife and mother. It isn’t a job. It’s a privilege and a pleasure. I would have thought a girl like you with brains sprouting out of your ears would have realised that.’
2
Caprice
‘Have a good day at work, dear,’ I shout as you leave. ‘I’ll tidy up, and then I’ll take the children to school.
‘You’re welcome,’ I mutter beneath my breath as the front door bangs shut.
You never really thank me for all I do with the children. Difficult to work with, getting through nannies like cannon fodder, you are coming home from work early tonight to interview yet another one. In the meantime, I take the flak and help you out. And recently your ingratitude has ramped up a notch. Since I could no longer bear being cooped up in the
poky annexe at the back of the house like a factory-farmed chicken, and insisted on moving into the guest suite of the house I paid for in the first place, you have been even more sparing with your thanks.
Saffron, why, when he had a homemaker for a mother, did my son choose to marry you? A selfish career-obsessed woman?
I sigh inside and begin to clear the breakfast table. I wouldn’t mind so much, but you are such an intellectual snob, looking down your nose at me because I went to secretarial college. You may have a double first in philosophy from Cambridge University, and have set up your own boutique law firm, but you live in an intellectual bubble; no empathy with real people. You talk to Miles endlessly about politics and legal issues but you never ask my opinion about anything. I am irrelevant. Invisible.
It’s not as if you have any redeeming features. I can’t understand why Miles finds you physically attractive. Your clothes are too masculine. Sharply tailored trouser suits for work. Jeans, Doc Martens and T-shirts riddled with designer holes for home life. I have to admit, you have long bleached blonde hair, which is nicely conditioned, and pretty cheekbones. But why do you spoil your face with thick horn-rimmed glasses? Haven’t you heard of varifocal contacts?
Table cleared, dishwasher loaded and rumbling, I take off my apron and walk towards the playroom. Even though you have washed and dressed the children, and given them breakfast when you got up at 6 a.m., I expect you have left them watching a boring educational programme again.
Upper middle-class children can be as underprivileged as those on benefits. ‘Quality time’ is a fallacy that deprives in its own way.
3
Hayley
I want this job. It pays well. It’s in a good neighbourhood. The agency I’m with informed me that the nannies who’ve worked here have enjoyed the experience, and have felt cherished and respected by their employers.
When I commented, ‘But there’s been a high turnover,’ the agency boss replied, ‘It’s just been one of those things. The last two nannies had trouble renewing their work permits. Our government has been tightening up on immigration.’
I ring the doorbell, feeling nervous. A young woman with razor-blade cheekbones and sharp glasses opens the door. She looks a bit like Margot Robbie. I would so like to look edgy and sexy like that. Super-skinny. A real clothes horse. The sort of woman who would look good in anything, even a bin bag.
‘Welcome. Do come in,’ she says.
I step into this modern mansion. The hallway is laced with thick-pile carpet. A designer dresser built of metal and mirrors stands to the right of me, displaying a crystal vase bristling with flowers: lilies, roses, agapanthus and delphiniums. They fill the air with scent. A spiral marble staircase with a curved mahogany handrail coils upwards from the back of the hallway. Impressionist paintings adorn golden rag-rolled walls. I drink it all in to write about in my diary later. The diary I’m keeping to show my mother when I get home.