\nto an enigmatic stranger sparks a dangerous cat and mouse game in this riveting
\ndomestic thriller about divorce, manipulation, and revenge, perfect for fans of
\nSally Hepworth and Jeneva Rose.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
Title: <\/span>The Younger Woman<\/span> BLURB<\/span><\/b> One night at a bar, Gabby meets an enigmatic younger woman named Ellis, and in a haze of drunkenness, she confesses that she wishes Fred dead. Surely she didn’t expect anything to come of it, but when she tries to track Ellis down again, she realizes that Ellis might not have been who she said she was. <\/p>\n As Gabby begins to unravel the truth about Ellis, and what Fred might be hiding, she is thrown into a whirlwind of lies and manipulation. How much is she willing to risk to expose the truth? And how will she get even?<\/p>\n Cate Ray is the author of Good Husbands One<\/b><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n How did we get here\u2014when did things become Alongside our She\u2019s at the My seat belt I\u2019m already I don\u2019t want her And then I stop She\u2019s looking at \u201cThanks,\u201d she \u201cAnd I love you I think I\u2019m Gazing at the Inside the car, As we slowly I\u2019m Finally, as we Our youngest has \u201cOf course.\u201d He I don\u2019t know I hiccup, gazing He\u2019s good for I don\u2019t think of \u201cShe\u2019ll be okay, He looks at me. We don\u2019t say What if she I hiccup again, I\u2019ve been At home, I don\u2019t Inside the \u201cWill you be \u201cGo ahead. I\u2019m He smiles. But I wanted it That\u2019s what I \u201cI\u2019ll give you a \u201cNo, thanks,\u201d he The kitchen Sometimes it I put my I take a long Upstairs, the Her bed looks I lie down, My babies. Both \u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n I\u2019m somewhere up I wrestle to I writhe in I fight as hard Sitting up, I In my en suite I put on some It smells of He looks up, I nod. \u201cThere\u2019s \u201cThanks, my \u201cYou all right? \u201cI dozed off. \u201cIt\u2019s okay. He\u2019s perfectly \u201cSee you later,\u201d As I go down the It\u2019s a Excerpted from THE YOUNGER WOMAN by Cate
Author: <\/span>Cate Ray<\/span>
Publisher: <\/span>Park Row<\/span>
Release Date: <\/span>25th February 2025<\/span><\/b><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
Gabby and Fred have just begun to adapt to their new life as empty nesters when Gabby makes a stunning realization: She can’t stand her husband. <\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\n(2022, Park Row) and four previous novels of suspense published in the UK under
\nthe name Cath Weeks. She was named an Author to Watch by ELLE. She lives in
\nBath with her family.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nso bad? There are so many triggers and alarm bells, I\u2019m overheating with the
\neffort of trying to pick just one. And now Alice is leaving and if I don\u2019t get
\nahold of myself I\u2019m going to miss it. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\ncar, a student is saying goodbye to her parents, tucking in her camisole. Fred
\nis watching her, instead of Alice. And I\u2019m watching Fred, instead of Alice. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\ndoor of her accommodation block, about to disappear inside. And then, suddenly,
\nshe falters, looking back at us, twisting her fingers together. She may as well
\nbe in pigtails and a gingham dress on her first day of school. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nsnaps off. \u201cGabby\u2026\u201d Fred says. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nhalfway up the path, pulling her into my arms, inhaling her hair. Alice, sweet
\nAlice. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nto leave me. That\u2019s the truth. I don\u2019t want her to leave me with her father. I
\ncan\u2019t bear it. Everything is heating, melting, as my entire system gives way to
\nemotion. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nmyself. I can\u2019t do this to her. I pull back, grasp her shoulders, my arms rigid
\nlike tent poles holding us together. \u201cYou\u2019re going to have a wonderful time,
\nsweetheart. This is an exciting new adventure.\u201d <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nme skeptically, but I don\u2019t so much as breathe. I can be a tower for her. It\u2019s
\nonly university; she\u2019ll be home again in ten weeks. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nsays, her blue eyes filling, becoming sealike. I see my mother in her then and
\nremove my hands from her shoulders in case I\u2019m gripping too hard. \u201cI love you,
\nMom.\u201d <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\ntoo\u2026 Now go.\u201d I give her a little pat, then watch as she keeps walking and this
\ntime she doesn\u2019t look back. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\ngoing to die as the door closes behind her, and then it\u2019s me standing there,
\nfaltering, looking behind me, twisting my fingers together. Except that\u2019s it
\nnot my parents I\u2019m in turmoil about, but my husband. There\u2019s a huge distance
\nbetween us, much further than the twenty steps it would take me to reach him.
\nHe\u2019s not even looking at me. His head is turned toward two attractive girls
\nsitting underneath a tree. I could be setting off a distress flare and he
\nwouldn\u2019t notice. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\ndoor that swallowed Alice, I consider following her, hiding inside the laundry
\nroom for a few weeks. And then Fred honks the car horn and reluctantly I take
\nthose steps back to him. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nI sit with my bag on my lap, staring straight ahead. He knows not to say
\nanything, starts the engine. I\u2019m glad he\u2019s driving, leaving me free to sob
\nuntil I\u2019m as dry as a raisin. He\u2019s a steady driver, I\u2019ll give him that. We\u2019re
\nat that stage after twenty-one years of marriage where I\u2019m grateful for his
\npractical skills. I\u2019m sure he feels the same about me and my lasagna. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\npull away, everything becomes a blur through my tears. I don\u2019t know if it\u2019s my
\nhormones, but I\u2019m overwhelmed: missing Alice, worrying about aging, wishing
\nFred wouldn\u2019t look at this collage of youth as though I\u2019m the crusty glue
\nunderneath that no one sees. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nuncomfortably hot, even with the air-conditioning on. It\u2019s very warm for
\nSeptember\u2014shorts, strappy tops; a parade of gorgeousness. And just like me and
\nmy jumbled thoughts, Fred doesn\u2019t know which way to look. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\npass through the entrance gates, he glances at me, patting my knee as though
\nI\u2019m man\u2019s best friend. \u201cShe\u2019ll be fine.\u201d <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nleft home and that\u2019s all he can say. \u201cAren\u2019t you upset?\u201d I stop crying for a
\nmoment, curious about his response. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\ndoesn\u2019t take his eyes off the road. \u201cBut this is what you encouraged her to do,
\nwasn\u2019t it? And she worked hard enough to get there. What\u2019s the point in being
\nupset? We can\u2019t keep her tied up at home.\u201d <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nabout that. If there were a sane way to do it, I\u2019d probably give it a go. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nout the window, adding emotional detachment to the list of differences between
\nus. Here I am, breaking my heart. And he\u2019s tapping the wheel to \u201csummer breeze,
\nmakes me feel fine,\u201d the salmon tint of his shirt making him seem pinker than he
\nis. I bought that for him. And he needs a haircut. The ancient scar on his knee
\nis shimmering where he\u2019s caught a tan from all the golf he\u2019s played this
\nsummer. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nfifty-two\u2014doesn\u2019t have to work as hard as I do to stay in shape, even though
\nwe\u2019re the same age, our birthdays only a week apart; both Taurus. I always
\nthought this was nice, but someone once said two bulls in one house? Brave!<\/i>
\nAnd it was one of those things that went around my head for longer than it
\nshould have. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nmyself as a bull; sometimes I find it difficult to ask for what I need. And
\nFred is too tall for a bull. He\u2019s less goofy and cheeky now he\u2019s middle-aged,
\nbut every so often I see the old him\u2014the way he was, with curls, John Lennon
\nglasses. I start crying again. And this time, it\u2019s for us. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nwon\u2019t she?\u201d <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\n\u201cYes.\u201d <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nanything after that. I cry behind my shades all the way home, sucking my lip.
\nIt\u2019s seventy-nine miles from Exeter to Shelby. It will be longer for Alice by
\ntrain\u2014nearly four hours. I\u2019ll send her money so she can come home whenever she
\nneeds to. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nnever needs to? <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nbut Fred doesn\u2019t notice. I told him I was going to be okay today and he\u2019s taken
\nme at my word. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\ndreading it. It was bad enough when Will left for Edinburgh. And now he has a
\ngirlfriend, Zara, who wears cutoff shorts with the pockets hanging out. She\u2019s
\nlovely, very polite; but she\u2019s twenty and in love with my son and there\u2019s a
\ntiny part of me that wishes she weren\u2019t. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\ngo straight inside but linger on the step, gazing at the baby oaks the children
\nplanted eight years ago when we moved in. The thing with trees is they stay
\nwhere you put them. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nhouse, it smells of Alice\u2019s perfume, which nearly sets me off again. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nokay if I do an hour\u2019s work?\u201d Fred says, opening the door to the basement. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nseeing Jam later.\u201d <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\n\u201cWell, if she can\u2019t sort you out, then no one can.\u201d <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nto be you. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nwant to say. Yet it wouldn\u2019t sound right, not anymore. Too much has changed
\nbetween us. There have been too many little betrayals, and some not so little
\nones. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nshout before I go,\u201d I say. \u201cWould you like a coffee?\u201d <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\ncalls out, already halfway down the stairs. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nseems bigger than it was this morning, the breakfast bar stools painfully
\nempty, Alice\u2019s cereal bowl in the sink; I might keep it there for a few days.
\nOpening the fridge, I remove a Pinot Grigio, pour a glass, taking it outside
\nwith a jar of olives. A breeze is rustling the palm trees on the patio,
\nfluttering the surface of the pool. I take a seat, a cardigan draped over my
\nshoulders like some Hollywood star. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nhelps if I glamorize the situation, imagining myself delivering lines, acting
\nout the pain on screen. Sometimes it doesn\u2019t. To be honest, I feel a bit silly.
\n<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\ncardigan on properly, unscrewing the jar lid, chewing an olive, my eye drawn
\nagain to the oaks lining the border. They\u2019ll be beautiful this autumn. It seems
\ncruel that children fly the nest to university as the leaves begin to fall. Why
\ncouldn\u2019t it be spring\u2014give parents half a chance? <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\ndrink of wine, twisting to look up at Alice\u2019s turret. She wanted a sea view
\nwhen we moved in. Ten years old and she knew a premium room when she saw it.
\nSuddenly, I want to be up there, to lie on her bed among her abandoned clothes
\nand stuffed toys. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nroom is surprisingly cool. I set the wine bottle on her dressing table, pouring
\nmyself another glass. \u201cWell, cheers, baby girl.\u201d <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\ninviting, despite the pile of ratty tracksuit bottoms. Don\u2019t take those,
\nAlice.<\/i> <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\ndrawing my knees to my chest, hugging Big Bear, who smells of Alice\u2019s coconut
\nshampoo. She still uses her bear as a pillow. I cry again, gazing at the photo
\nstuck haphazardly on the wardrobe door: her and Will last year, by our pool,
\nhands draped around each other. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\ngone. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nhigh, on a clifftop, the sea crashing beneath me. It takes me a moment and then
\nI remember that I\u2019ve been here before, locked inside this ghastly dream, and
\nthen dread begins to drain through me because I know what\u2019s about to happen. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nwake up, but can\u2019t. The rough gorse is grasping my ankles, locking me in place.
\nI don\u2019t want to watch but have to, can\u2019t escape. He\u2019s there now, standing too
\nclose to the edge. Fred? Or Will? Don\u2019t let it be Will.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\npanic, ripping my legs on the gorse. I call out, my voice lost against the
\nroaring sea. Get away from the edge! Get away from there! I can\u2019t move or even
\nturn my head away. I know someone else is coming, can sense them drawing
\ncloser. I struggle again, screaming, as they shunt the man forward over the
\ntreacherous edge. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nas I can, my face wet with tears. And then I\u2019m free. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nstare around me, the back of my hair wet with perspiration. Letting go of Big
\nBear, I gather the wine bottle and glass, tiptoeing from Alice\u2019s room. The
\nhouse feels as empty and fragile as a greenhouse. Outside, the whisper of the
\nsea sounds like passing traffic. I check the time on my phone: thirty minutes
\nuntil I meet Jamillah. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nbathroom, I feel sick with fatigue. My tongue feels bulbous and there\u2019s a sleep
\nline running all the way from my cheek to my chest, as though I\u2019m a cardboard
\ncutout that\u2019s been folded in two, ready to lie flat for the night. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nmakeup, fix up my hair, but that seems to accentuate my eyes\u2014the fact that
\nthey\u2019re puffy, swollen\u2014so I let it down again, telling myself that this is as
\ngood as it\u2019s going to get. I choose a T-shirt, jeans, and then head downstairs,
\nknocking on Fred\u2019s cave door. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\ncomputer\u2014that hot wire smell. \u201cI\u2019m off.\u201d <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nremoves his glasses, rubs the bridge of his nose. \u201cIs it that time already?\u201d <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\npasta salad in the fridge.\u201d\u00a0 <\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nlove.\u201d He frowns at me. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nYou look a bit\u2026\u201d <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nAnd I had that nightmare again.\u201d <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nEverything\u2019s fine. I\u2019m here. You\u2019ll always have me.\u201d He smiles, puts his
\nglasses back on, focusing on the screen again. He works a lot of hours these
\ndays, more than he used to, but then so do I. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nright though. The kids fly in and out like swallows, but good old Fred will
\nalways be here. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nI say. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\ndriveway to the side gate, I check my phone to see if Alice has messaged. She
\nhasn\u2019t. I wonder what she\u2019s doing. I think about texting her, but don\u2019t. It\u2019s
\nnot going to help her to let go, move on. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nten-minute walk to the seafront. I don\u2019t see anyone as I go. My thoughts swirl,
\nfroth about and by the time I enter the bar, I know I\u2019m going to have to tell
\nJam what I finally admitted to myself today about Fred: I absolutely hate him.
<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nRay. Copyright \u00a9 2025 by Cate Ray. Published by Park Row Books, an imprint of
\nHarperCollins.<\/span><\/i><\/span><\/b><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
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