Mother of the Bride: An addictive and jaw-dropping psychological thriller with a mind-blowing twist by Samantha Hayes

Author:Samantha Hayes [Hayes, Samantha]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bookouture
Published: 2024-03-26T00:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-NINE

When I get back to Medvale, the house is empty, which is not what I was expecting. ‘Owen?’ I call, going into the kitchen. Mum doesn’t seem to be home either, which makes me nervous, wondering if they’ve gone out somewhere together. I check my phone, but there are no texts, and, when I ring Owen, it goes straight to voicemail.

‘Hi, love, it’s me. I’m back at the house. Where are you? Is… is Mum with you? Call me back.’

I hang up. My concern is that she’s taken him somewhere, that she’s inflicting her nonsense on him, filling his head with lies or forcing his hand about this wedding – a wedding I don’t want.

Then I freeze, holding my breath. Was that a noise – is someone here?

I listen, straining my ears, but there’s nothing, so I shrug and head upstairs, knocking on Mum’s bedroom door – she might be having a nap, even though it’s not lunchtime yet. When I was a kid, she’d sometimes stay in bed for days on end for no other reason than not to have to partake in family life. Shelley and I took it in turns to bring her up trays of food at Dad’s request. Once, when I came in to collect her empty dish, I saw she’d thrown the bowl at the wall. Tomato soup dribbled down the plaster like someone had been shot in the head. It took me ages to clean it up.

But Mum’s bedroom is empty. The bed is neatly made, the little paned window behind her dressing table open a few inches. The room smells of her – that sweet floral perfume she’s always worn that seems to stay in my nose for days, plus fresh laundry and country air. A gentle breeze ripples the cream-coloured curtains.

My eyes flick around, and I feel guilty for being in here, almost as if Mum is watching me. I’m about to leave, perhaps head outside to check if she or Owen are in the garden, when something on her dressing table catches my eye. It’s a small, framed photograph that I’ve not seen before. I go over and pick it up, smiling when I see a young Shelley and me grinning at the camera, both dressed in our Sunday best and each of us holding a bright-red balloon. Shelley is about twelve and I’m around seven. We look as though we’ve just been to a birthday party, though I don’t recall whose it would have been.

‘Oh, Mum,’ I whisper, staring at it. I shake my head. Is this what she believes our childhood was like? Is this how she remembers those years – captured by one seemingly happy photograph? More like, it’s what she’s forcing herself to recall – a snapshot in time where we both happened to be smiling – recalibrating her memories, conning herself that things were really like this. It wouldn’t surprise me if this picture had been staged for this very reason – say cheese! I

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