The Makeover
Virginia loves her new life in Montana. That’s about to change.
James Devery has fallen in love with his boss’s wife, the glamorous Mrs. Eastman. He dreams about her. He writes about her. He wants to be with her forever.
But that won’t be easy. Because James is just a young builder’s apprentice, hired to work on the Eastmans’ enormous mansion.
On the surface, it seems James doesn’t stand a chance. And yet… he suspects Mrs. Eastman isn’t entirely happy with her handsome, successful husband. The cracks in their marriage are starting to show, and James is determined to make the most of them.
Because he has a dark secret. A secret that means he can’t give Mrs. Eastman up, he absolutely must have her. And he’ll do anything – anything at all - to be with her.
What he doesn’t realise is his single-minded obsession will fuel a spiral of lust and treachery, taking all three to a hell beyond their wildest imaginings.
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PROLOGUE
The police are here much faster than I expected.
I’m standing at the edge of the forest above that ridiculous house, watching their lights flashing in the dark. There’s an army of them—not just the locals, but state police and several unmarked cars.
Dozens of cops and detectives, all trying to piece together how it happened. They’ll come up with a story soon enough. It will be the story I want them to believe.
An ambulance arrives, not that it will be of any use. I made sure to finish the job.
I’m almost shocked to see what I’ve done. So many lives have been completely shattered, all because of me.
I pull my bag from behind the rotten log and change my clothes. Then I take out the small trowel and dig through the snow.
After a minute, the trowel falls to the ground, and I find that I’m weeping. What’s wrong with me? Everything went perfectly. Once the police have finished their investigation, I’ll have the money I need. I can take care of my mother, give her the life she always wanted—and then be free.
Grieve not. Find strength in what remains behind.
I wipe my eyes, then dig until I reach the frozen ground. I stuff in the bloodied clothes and pack the snow in tight. I’ll come back later and burn everything, but there’s no time to do it now. I need to leave the state as quickly as I can.
As I’m packing down the hole, I think I hear a voice behind me.
I turn, but there’s no one there. My heart is racing. I could have sworn it was him—the man I killed.
I suppose this will be my fate: To always mistake the rustle of leaves for the whispers of ghosts.
But who cares? I’m free, and that’s all I ever wanted.
Now, I can finally live.
CHAPTER 1 - Virginia
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
Richard ignores me. We’re 500 feet in the air, following the threads of a braided river deeper into the mountains.
I know it’s beautiful—but at that moment, I don’t care. I’m gripping my seat so hard I worry my nails will snap off.
The helicopter suddenly lifts and swings back along the face of the mountain. I let out an involuntary squeal and wonder, not for the first time, how my seatbelt will help when we explode into the rocks below.
“That’s our cabin.”
I smile at the way he says it. Our cabin. Though we’ve been married for two years, I still don’t really believe I have a share in everything he owns. In New York, we’d been living in his Upper West Side apartment, driving his BMW, living off his salary.
I didn’t even have to work—not that I had much of a career before we met. I’m a 30-year-old communications assistant with a BA from a state school. Sometimes, I feel less like his wife than a charity case, some unfortunate urchin he’s adopted off the streets.
I crane my neck and see a small house set against the mountain. Though it’s only October, there’s already a dusting of snow around the property.
“You never told me about this.”
“I’m a man of mystery,” he says with a grin.
I laugh. Richard is anything but a man of mystery; more like a creature of habit.
For the years I’ve known him, he’s followed the same routine.
The gym at five, followed by eggs at a cafe.
At his desk at seven-thirty. Chicken salad for lunch.
Salmon or steak for dinner. Home by seven, asleep by ten.
Until recently, sex once a week—always on Friday nights. No alcohol. And most definitely no drugs.
“I wonder what other surprises you have in store.”
He swings the helicopter around and begins our descent. I squeal again, and he laughs. In my headphones, it sounds harsh, like he’s mocking me. I tell myself I’m just being sensitive, something Mom told me a million times growing up.
But the truth is, for the last few months, all of our conversations have had this same simmering hostility.
“No more surprises,” he says. “Just a fresh start.”
It’s no one’s fault, but I’m determined to make it right.
When he suggested we move to his family ranch in Montana, I thought this could be my lifeline.
Maybe once we were away from the routines of Manhattan, the long work days, and the dinner parties, we’d be able to resuscitate our dying marriage.
He loves me—I’m sure of that. I catch his astonished glances sometimes. When we were first married, he would whisper beautiful phrases in my ear during sex, snatches of my favorite poems. I wonder if he’ll ever do that again.
“That’s our place.”
I look down at a vast property nestled against the hills.
On the eastern side, I can see herds of cattle grazing.
Horses, too, and a small house near the road.
That’s where we will be living. A few hundred feet away, close to the pine forest at the edge of the property, is a mansion built in the style of an old English country house, plopped absurdly onto the Montana landscape.
Richard tells me that it hasn’t been lived in for over twenty years. The builders are currently modernizing everything, but when the renovations are finished, it will be our home.
A dozen bedrooms, multiple living rooms and bathrooms.
Ours.
“I love it,” I say, and I mean it. Growing up in Queens, I didn’t spend much time in nature. Maybe out here, I can become a different person. Perhaps we can become a different couple, too.
He’s not the problem. He’s everything I need in a husband. He’s sober, stable, and kind. He’s barely ever raised his voice at me. And he’s a great provider. As an early employee at a now-massive engineering firm, he’s a millionaire many times over.
I’m the problem, I sing in my head. I need to change.
I must make this marriage work, as if my life depends on it.
Because, in some ways, it does.
CHAPTER 2 - Virginia
“You didn’t need to do that,” I say as we walk across the tarmac of the small private airport near the town of Frostwood. “We could have just driven from Kalispell.”
Richard waves at a disheveled old man with a white beard and a cowboy hat. “Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?”
“I never knew you were such an adrenaline junkie. When did you even learn how to pilot a helicopter?”
“Air Force,” he grunts. “I did a tour in Iraq, remember?”
“Sorry,” I say. Over the two years of our marriage, he has only mentioned his time in Iraq a handful of times and never in any detail. “Didn’t know you flew helicopters.”
“I was a different person back then,” he says quietly.
“Well… thanks.”
There’s an awkward silence. I’ve become used to them over the last few months, but I’m glad when he yells out, “PJ!” and grips the disheveled man’s hand like he’s an old friend. “This is my wife, Virginia. Virginia, PJ is our ranch manager. He’s been looking after the property for decades.”
“Property manager and chauffeur, apparently,” PJ grunts before pointing to a beat-up pickup truck. “There’s the chariot.”
“And our belongings?” Richard asks.
“All arrived this morning. Got a couple of guys to unpack everything. Should feel right at home.”
I get in the back seat with Richard, trying not to visibly wrinkle my nose at the smell of grass and cow shit.
We drive north, through the resort town of Frostwood, towards the mountains.
There are glaciers only a few miles away, but down here, the weather is still mild.
That would all change by Christmas. When the heavy snow came in the new year, the place would be even more packed with tourists visiting the ski fields nearby.
“It’s pretty,” I say to break the silence. “Must have been a nice place to grow up.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Richard replies, and I kick myself.
I had forgotten that Richard didn’t grow up here.
Richard’s father got his mother pregnant at college.
She dropped out while he transferred to a college in another state, abandoning them both.
Richard grew up in poverty, and under the pressure of raising a kid on her own, his mom became addicted to heroin.
It was only when his dad died, at eighteen, that Richard found himself inheriting the entire estate.
“Good for kids, bad for teens,” PJ chimes in from the front. “We’ve got our fair share of delinquents around here.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I check the message, then immediately click the screen off.
“Who was that?”
“Mom,” I lie, as PJ turns off the main road into a driveway. “Eastman Estate? That’s pretty fancy.”
“Yeah. My grandfather always thought this place was special. More than just a ranch, anyway.”
I hold my tongue, though the sign—along with the mansion his grandfather has built—is about the most pretentious thing I’ve ever seen. Who were these people, deciding to act like English aristocrats in the foothills of the Rockies?
We park by a small wooden house surrounded by freshly mown grass. As soon as we get out, a border collie bounds across the field and jumps up at me.
“Hey, girl,” I laugh as the dog licks my face. I’ve always loved dogs. As a kid, my best friend was a French bulldog that we called Manny, but he died when I was thirteen. Back then, I had dreams of becoming a vet, though my hippy, artsy Mom quickly quashed any interest I had in the sciences.
I scratch her ears, and she leaps up at me again, placing her paws on my chest. “What’s your name?”
“Casper! Come here!” PJ says, with more aggression than I care for. “Down!”
“It’s okay—” I begin, but Casper is already trotting to PJ’s side.
“She shouldn’t be doing that. She’s a working dog, but I give her too much leeway.”
“Is she ours?” I ask, wondering if I can rescue Casper. I have a brief fantasy of roaming the hills with the collie at my side, but it’s immediately punctured by Richard.
“It’s PJ’s. He runs sheep,” Richard explains. “PJ has his own ranch on the eastern border of the estate.”
“No money in it,” PJ says, spitting into the grass.
“So why do you do it?”
PJ looks at me like I’m an idiot, then gets back in the truck and whistles. Casper jumps into the bed.
As PJ drives off, I turn to Richard, bewildered. “What did I say?”
Richard shakes his head and begins walking to the house.
“He’s just sentimental. His family used to own this whole place, but his father lost it gambling with commodity futures in the early 1980s.
My grandad bought it and turned it into a working cattle ranch.
But PJ keeps running sheep like the old days. ”
I ignore the vibration of my phone coming from my pocket. “Poor guy.”
“Don’t feel too bad for him. He’s sitting on a multi-million-dollar property. He lives like a pauper out of choice. But some people are like that, I guess.” He suddenly turns and pulls me into a hug. “By the way, thank you for coming here with me.”
It’s Richard’s first real sign of affection in over a month, and I make the most of it.
I quickly wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him, trying my best to feel the spark of affection or desire or something.
It’s not there, but I’m a better actress than I think because I can feel his body responding. Maybe tonight we can end our dry spell.
Around the edges of the house are a few empty flowerbeds and some outdoor furniture, but it all looks cheap and temporary compared to the mansion on the hill above us. A hundred feet away, near the gates, there’s an elaborate garden set out in rows, just like an English country estate.
I look across to the mansion and see scaffolding around the entire structure. From the top level, a lean young man in jeans and work boots is staring back at us.
“They won’t be here long,” Richard says. “Two months, max. They want to be finished before the snow gets too heavy.”
“I can’t wait,” I say, and I mean it. I’m seriously ready to build a new life with my husband in this place.
I glance at the open garage and see a brand-new pickup truck next to a line of boxes from our Manhattan apartment. This is real, I think. We’ve moved our entire lives to Montana.
“Where’s my car?”
“Hasn’t arrived yet—it’s on order.” He unlocks the door and then freezes. “Damn it.”
As I walk past him, I immediately start to cough. The air is thick with the stench of marijuana, just about the last smell I’d expect in a house owned by Richard.
I hear a television playing. I follow the sound to the living room, where I find a blonde teenager in black sweatpants stretched out on the couch. While I search for words, she glares at me through bloodshot eyes.
“Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my house?”
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