The Perfect Couple: The most gripping psychological thriller of 2020 from bestselling author of books like The Party and Have You Seen Her

by Lisa Hall

  ‘Yes?’ The man in front of me is tall, over six feet, with floppy dark hair in a style that reminds me of old Hugh Grant movies. Even though it is Saturday morning, he is wearing jeans with a smart shirt, as if he is about to go to work. That is, if he’d actually tucked it in and he had shoes on his feet. My stomach gives a tiny flip.

  ‘Hi,’ I smile, holding out a hand. ‘I’m Emily Belrose. I’m here for an interview?’

  ‘Oh. Of course.’ He runs his hand through his hair before standing to one side and ushering me in. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m running a bit behind this morning. You can see why I need a housekeeper.’ His mouth tugs up into a small smile and I let out a laugh.

  ‘It happens to the best of us.’ I follow him along a light, airy hallway into the kitchen, and have to resist the urge to let my mouth hang open. It is huge. It’s also untidy, with mugs and dishes in the sink, a dying houseplant on top of the fridge and an overflowing bin.

  ‘Sorry about the mess.’ Rupert looks a bit sheepish, and I smother another smile.

  ‘Well, isn’t that what I’m here for?’ I discreetly run my eyes over the kitchen, over the thin layer of dust that sits on the counter top, the pile of post that has been shoved to one side.

  ‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’ Rupert is already rummaging in the cupboard above the kettle for mugs. ‘Milk? Sugar?’ I say yes to both, and wait as he fills the kettle, water splashing over his shirt as he turns the tap on too high.

  ‘Can I get the milk?’ I ask, as he swipes ineffectually at the damp patches with a tea towel, but when I open the fridge, the shelf is bare. ‘Black is fine,’ I say with a smile, my nerves dissipating as I see that Rupert is possibly just as nervous as I am. ‘Here, shall I finish this off while you get dry?’ I reach for the now boiling kettle as Rupert scrubs at the fabric of his shirt.

  ‘So, Emily, I suppose I should actually interview you, not just let you make me tea.’ Rupert smiles as I pass him a mug. ‘Why did you apply for this job? You’re not really what I was expecting.’

  ‘Really?’ I turn to him. ‘What were you expecting?’

  ‘Well, someone more… Mrs Danvers, I suppose. Or Mrs Doubtfire.’

  My heart skips in my chest. Not only is Rupert easy on the eye, but he reads too. I choose to ignore the reference to Mrs Doubtfire. ‘I’m definitely not Mrs Danvers. I suppose I’m just looking for something different. I’ve had a bit of… bad luck, I guess you could say, so I’m trying to turn things around.’ I wrap my cold fingers around the warm mug, staring at the dark tannin patches left on the china by the black tea, buying myself a few seconds. ‘This seemed like the perfect job for me, right now.’

  ‘You’re certainly making a good impression,’ Rupert says, with a quirk of his eyebrows. ‘Can I show you the rest of the house?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ I dry my hands and he leads me through double doors from the kitchen towards a large orangery, where sunshine streams in through big windows, onto the stylish Italian-tiled floor. I pause in the doorway. Two huge sofas fill the space, and bi-fold glass doors open out onto what must have been an immaculate garden at some point, although now the lawn needs mowing, and the shrubs are looking a little wild. Despite the cosy, comfortable vibe this space gives off, there is something slightly dead about it – a thin layer of dust sits atop the small glass table next to one of the sofas, and the air is thick and stale, as though the doors haven’t been opened for a long time.

  ‘Wow. This space is incredible.’ I venture closer to the window to peer out into the garden. What I’d do for a garden this size – you don’t get a lot of outside space with a flat over a takeaway in the centre of Swindon.

  ‘I, er… I don’t really use this room much,’ Rupert says stiffly, appearing beside me and taking my arm to walk me through the rest of the house. ‘Let me show you upstairs.’

  We go upstairs via the living room, another huge space, occupied by a large open fireplace. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line one wall, and a piano is strategically placed, giving that whole part of the room a calm, quiet feel, like a library. ‘Do you play?’ I ask Rupert, but he shakes his head.

  ‘No, not me.’ He doesn’t elaborate and I wonder who does play – his wife, maybe? He hasn’t mentioned anyone else living here yet, and I have to squash down the question on the tip of my tongue. I follow him up to the first floor, where he quickly shows me the bathroom (huge, freestanding claw-footed tub, dusty Jo Malone bottles of bath oil on the window sill), first one small spare room, the master bedroom and en suite and then into another, larger spare room, where his phone starts ringing. Rupert sighs as he glances at the screen.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I need to take this… Will you excuse me for just a second?’

  There is no time to answer before he steps out of the room, pulling the door gently closed behind him. I wait a moment, his voice a low mumble along the corridor, feeling the slight sink of the lush, thick-piled carpet under my feet. There are a couple of prints on the walls, arty-looking pictures that give me the feeling I should probably know who they are by, but I don’t. A heavy French oak wardrobe sits in the corner, a slip of peacock blue fabric peeping out from between a small gap in the doors. I step forward, the rumble of Rupert’s voice in the background, letting my fingers brush over the silky fabric, and before I know what I am doing, the wardrobe door is open, just enough for me to see it is filled with clothes – a woman’s clothes, dresses, jackets, trousers, all hanging neatly on wooden hangers – the expensive ones that I can never afford. Some are covered in plastic, as if just back from the dry cleaners, others – expensive-looking gowns, something sparkly with sequins – hang uncovered, so many of them that the hangers are rammed tightly together. The slip of fabric belongs to the sleeve of a silk jacket in a vibrant blue, and I stroke it gently, the feel of it like cold water under my fingers, wondering who the clothes belong to and more importantly why are they in here, instead of the master bedroom. Before I get a chance to let my imagination run riot, Rupert’s voice gets louder as he approaches the bedroom, saying his goodbyes to whoever was on the other end of the phone. The buzz of curiosity dies away, and I close the wardrobe door, moving to the middle of the room, as if I have done nothing but wait patiently for him to return.

  ‘Sorry about that.’ He stands by the door, waiting for me to slip past him. ‘I think that’s just about it for the grand tour.’

  ‘Very impressive,’ I say, before wincing on the inside, hoping I haven’t come across as a bit crass. ‘It’s a lovely house, Rupert. A lovely home.’

  A look I can’t quite read crosses his face. ‘Yes, well. You can see that it needs a bit of sprucing up here and there. That’s why I’m on the lookout for a housekeeper. It’s a big house for me to take care of, especially with the hours that I work.’

  I take that as an opportunity to learn a bit more about him. ‘What is it that you do?’

  ‘I’m the Contracts Director for a construction company. It’s quite intense – the hours are long, especially if I have to go out and visit sites, and it’s quite stressful. I’m mostly based at the Swindon office, but I commute into Paddington several times a month. That’s why I need a bit of help here.’

  I follow him down the stairs, back into the vast sitting room. ‘Is it…’ I pause for a moment, not wanting to appear rude. ‘Is it just you living here? I mean… will I just be looking after you, or is there anyone else who might need me to do things?’

  ‘No, er… it’s just me.’ Rupert swallows, and rocks back on his heels a little. ‘I lost my wife just over a year ago.’ The words creak out, as though they are too big for his throat and he gives a tiny cough. ‘Hence the reason why things have gone to pot a bit.’

  That explains why there aren’t any perfumes or fancy shampoo in the en suite. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, looking down. I hope I haven’t offended him – the more I’ve seen of this place, the more convinced I am that this could be just what I’m looking for. The perfect escape route from Mags’s weed-ridd
en flat, and back to standing on my own two feet again.

  ‘Look, Emily, I’m not going to beat about the bush.’ Rupert’s cheeks colour slightly, and my heart does another little flip. ‘If you want the job, I’d love for you to come and work for me, if the state of the place hasn’t put you off. We can even just do a trial period for a month or so, if that would work better for you?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ I exclaim, before putting my hand over my mouth, ‘I mean, yes, please. But don’t worry about a trial period… unless you want one, I mean. I’m quite happy to come and work for you.’ I stop talking before I make a complete idiot of myself. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Brilliant.’ The stress melts away from Rupert’s face, his shoulders lowering, and I realize that he really was more nervous than me about the whole job interview scenario. ‘When could you start?’

  I have to resist the urge to squeal as I hop on my pushbike and ride down the driveway, before turning onto the main road. I got the job! And yes, it does seem a little daunting, putting that huge house back to its rightful state, but I am in no doubt that I can do it. Plus, I’m pretty sure I didn’t imagine that fiery spark that shot through my skin when Rupert shook my hand to say goodbye – and I’m ninety-nine per cent sure he felt it too. Now, all I need to do is tell Mags. My raised spirits dampen slightly at the thought of breaking the news to her. I know she’s going to make some snippy comments about being a glorified wife, that the village is too far for me to go there and back every day, and she’ll try to make me feel guilty about leaving her in the flat on her own all day, but we can’t all live off our father’s money. I don’t even know where my dad is, and I doubt my mum does either. I let myself turn back at the end of the road, to glance towards the house, a shiver of excitement running through me. Yes, this is definitely the start of something big.

  Chapter Four

  Humming under my breath I breathe in the scent of laundry detergent and softener as I fold Rupert’s pyjamas and tuck them carefully under his pillow, pushing away the thought of him lying in bed wearing them, his hair tousled and rumpled from sleep. Not that I’ve seen him like that, of course. Pressing my lips together, I neatly fold his socks into a ball, praising myself for thinking about him wearing the pyjamas, instead of lying in bed not wearing the pyjamas. I feel my cheeks flush and I shake my head, picturing instead the dishes that wait to be stacked in the dishwasher downstairs.

  I’ve been working at Fox House (the house not only has a beautiful sweeping drive, but a name too!) for a little over a month and I can’t lie, it’s not just the incredible house that has me skipping into work every day. Rupert is… well, Rupert is just about the perfect man from what I’ve seen of him so far, which to be fair isn’t a huge amount, but enough to make me not mind the commute into work every day. He’s good-looking, that goes without saying, but he’s also a nice guy. He doesn’t leave too much of a mess (no more than a typical guy, and nothing like the scale of untidiness that I saw when I first came), he’s polite (he leaves me notes with lots of ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ dotted through them when he wants me to do certain things), and judging by the letters he leaves lying on the kitchen worktop he donates to charity a lot, especially to a children’s charity, which made my heart skip a beat in a good way. The only tiny, little thing that makes me feel a bit awkward is the idea of his wife.

  He hasn’t mentioned her again since the day I came for my job interview, and I don’t feel as if I can ask about her. There are no photos of Caro anywhere in the house, something that strikes me as odd. I could understand that perhaps Rupert doesn’t want her photos on display downstairs, that maybe it is too painful, but I thought that he might have one in his bedroom, but there’s nothing. All he keeps on the bedside table is a small lamp, a water glass and a battered copy of Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code. On the other side of the bed – Caro’s side – the nightstand is bare, apart from a matching lamp.

  Stealthily, even though I know I am the only one in the house, I perch on the side of the bed and give in to the hum of curiosity that buzzes through me when I think about her, taking care not to rumple the pristine white duvet as I slide open the drawer on Caro’s side. It is crammed full of things, and I hold my breath as I dip in and pull out a slim date diary. I gingerly open the cover, flicking through the expensive cream pages but they are all blank. I put it on the bed next to me and turn back to the drawer. Pens, hair clips and the plug from an iPhone charger lie jumbled among tiny perfume sample bottles and I lift one out and raise it to my nose. It smells of nectarines and sunshine and has ‘Jo Malone’ written down the side of the bottle. Pushing it back into the mess of the drawer I see a half-empty packet of contraceptive pills, and something low in my stomach flips, the idea of Rupert and Caro tumbling around together, naked, right here in this bed makes me feel hot and uncomfortable. I stand, fumbling with the handle of the drawer, when a sharp ring pierces the air, making me slam the drawer closed with a bang.

  ‘Shit,’ I whisper under my breath, raising a trembling hand to my hot cheek. Taking a deep breath, I glance round the room, satisfied that I haven’t left anything out of place. ‘Coming!’ I call, as the shrill doorbell rents the air again, and I hurry down the stairs to the ornate, oak front door.

  There is a woman standing on the doorstep, chic and glamorous, and clearly not expecting to see me answer the door.

  ‘Hi,’ I smile, ‘can I…’

  She pushes past me with barely a glance, calling down the hallway towards the kitchen. ‘Rupert? Darling, are you home?’

  I wait a moment, letting the fizz of irritation in my veins cool a little before I follow her into the kitchen, my bare feet silent on the Italian tiled floor. ‘He’s not home. Can I help you?’

  ‘Oh.’ The woman turns to me, and I catch an expression that I can’t read flit across her face. It’s definitely not friendly though. ‘Where is he? It’s Saturday, I thought he’d be home.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not too sure,’ I say, even though Rupert left me a note yesterday, asking me to make sure his rugby kit was clean, as he was planning on playing this morning. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’ I fix a smile on my face.

  ‘Who are you?’ She flicks her eyes over me in an attempt to look me over without me noticing. I fight the urge to smooth down my blonde hair, to tighten my ponytail and brush the dust from my jeans. Instead I smile at her, showing off my perfect white teeth (they cost my mother’s second husband a fortune), and apologize for not introducing myself.

  ‘I’m so sorry – how rude of me. I’m Emily.’ I hold out a hand, but she ignores it, instead tapping her chin as if thinking.

  ‘Emily? Oh, of course.’ She smiles at me now, and I get the feeling I imagine a tiny gazelle feels when a lion is sizing it up, ready to pounce. ‘You must be Rupert’s new cleaner.’

  ‘Housekeeper,’ I say, keeping my tone neutral, ‘well, Rupert isn’t home, so if you wanted me to pass on a message…’ I trail off, hoping she’ll take the hint.

  ‘Oh, just tell him that Sadie was here. I’ll catch up with him later, it wasn’t anything important.’ She runs a hand over her already immaculate black bob and tucks her Hermès bag under her arm. Everything about her oozes money – from the tight-fitting designer jeans to the expensive scent that follows her. It reminds me of the nectarine perfume I found in Caro’s drawer. ‘How are you getting on here? Are you enjoying the job?’ Her tone is distinctly warmer now she knows I’m just the housekeeper.

  ‘Fine, thank you.’

  ‘Oh, good. Rupert did need someone to take care of him after Caro… died. We were all so worried about him; I’m just so thankful that he took my advice and got you in. He isn’t very good at taking care of himself – he was just devastated after what happened with Caro.’ Sadie throws herself dramatically into a kitchen chair, and I realize that she isn’t planning on leaving anytime soon.

  ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’ I ask. ‘Although if you’re planning on waiting, I’m not too sure
how long Rupert will be.’

  ‘Oh, OK. Peppermint,’ she says and I turn to the kettle, mustering up the courage to mention Caro’s name. ‘This place looks marvellous now you’ve given it a once over. Caro was always very house-proud.’

  There. She’s dropped Caro’s name twice already in the past two minutes. Surely it won’t look odd now if I ask her about Caro? I’m itching to know about the woman who lived here, and I don’t feel I can ask Rupert.

  ‘She’s made a lovely home. Caro, I mean,’ I say, placing a steaming mug in front of Sadie.

  ‘Yes. She had a wonderful eye for interiors, and I always told her she should do something professional with it, but she was more about saving the world than decorating.’ Sadie lets out a little laugh, tinged with pain. ‘Caro was very lucky – she had it all really. Such a waste.’ She looks down at her cup, and I think for a moment she might burst into tears.

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss. It must be very hard on all of you.’

  ‘Yes, it is. Especially Rupert, obviously. They were the perfect couple. I wasn’t at all sure that he’d cope without her, and it was touch and go for a while, but he’s been so brave. I’m not sure he’ll ever move on, though. Caro was the only one for him.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ I get the feeling that Sadie is warning me off, even though I am just the housekeeper. ‘I should get back to work. I’ll let Rupert know that you stopped by.’

  Sadie opens her mouth as if to say something, before thinking better of it and getting to her feet. ‘It was nice to meet you, Emily. I’m sure I’ll see you again.’