The Doll's House

by Tania Carver

  Her colleagues. Maybe one of them could shed some light on what had happened.

  She took her phone from her bag, scrolled through the contacts until she found the right one. Joy Henry. The departmental administrator. She had been sitting on Marina’s other side for most of the evening. She would be able to help. Marina dialled the number. It was picked up.

  ‘Joy? Hi. Marina.’

  She was answered by a groan. ‘Oh God… what time is it?’

  ‘It’s… afternoon, I don’t know. Are you OK?’

  ‘Didn’t make it in to work today. Feel rotten.’

  ‘Right.’ Marina paused, unsure of how to continue. Joy took the choice away from her.

  ‘You enjoyed yourself last night.’

  The words caused Marina’s stomach to turn over once more. ‘Did… did I?’

  ‘Can’t you remember? No, neither can I much. Except…’

  Marina steeled herself, fearing the worst. Joy’s voice dropped low.

  ‘You know that PhD student? Guy, the cute one?’

  Marina knew him. And of Joy’s attraction to him.

  ‘Well,’ Joy said, her voice now a whisper, ‘he’s still here. Didn’t go home last night.’

  ‘Oh. Good.’

  ‘Promise not to tell?’

  ‘What? Yeah. Promise. Course.’

  ‘Good. Knew I could rely on you. What happens at the Christmas party stays at the Christmas party, doesn’t it?’

  Another shiver ran through Marina. ‘What, what d’you mean?’

  ‘Just what I said. I can keep a secret if you can.’

  ‘Do you… do you have a secret to keep about me?’

  Joy laughed. ‘Well, you seemed to be getting very friendly with Hugo…’

  Marina’s stomach flipped once more. She felt like she was going to be sick again. ‘We were just… talking. Arguing, mainly.’

  ‘That’s how it starts, isn’t it? Insults. Means you really like each other. But don’t worry. I won’t tell.’

  Marina wished she hadn’t made the call. ‘Joy, when I left, did I seem… I don’t know, exceptionally drunk to you?’

  ‘No idea. When did you leave?’

  I can’t remember. She wanted to say that but, realising how bad it sounded, stopped herself. ‘I… didn’t check the time.’

  ‘Well I didn’t see you go. I might have left before you. I was a bit drunk and a bit preoccupied with…’ her voice dropped again, ‘you know who.’

  ‘Right.’ Marina sighed. It felt like a dying breath. There was a pause.

  ‘Have you got some gossip, then?’ asked Joy. ‘You and Hugo?’

  Marina didn’t know what to say, how to answer. ‘Let’s… let’s speak soon,’ she said. ‘Enjoy… enjoy yourself.’ She hung up.

  She threw the phone on the bed, flung herself down next to it.

  She felt like she knew less than before she had made the phone call. She couldn’t call anyone else without her actions seeming suspicious. And Joy had had no idea. Though she probably did now.

  Marina felt she had made the situation worse.

  Tears began to well behind her eyes. Of anger, of frustration, of self-pity.

  She thought once again of the previous night. Came up with a blank.

  Had she willingly had sex with another man? Really? The recent trauma that she and Phil had been through had necessitated a move away. Could it have also triggered something in her subconscious? Led to behaviour like that, behaviour she couldn’t remember?

  She had to find out what had happened, what she had done. What had been done to her. Had to. Even if the answer wasn’t the one she wanted to hear.

  She lay on the bed, curled into a foetal ball, riding out the waves of tears, wondering what to do next.

  Feeling so alone. So horribly, guiltily, achingly alone.

  26

  M

  addy should have been feeling better. She had met him, confronted him, talked to him. But the feeling of joy, or at least euphoric release, she had expected from hearing him say the right thing, tell her that everything was going to be OK hadn’t happened. She didn’t feel any different. If anything, she felt even more anxious.

  They had left the café, walked up to the Bullring, where his car was parked. She had wanted to come back to her room, bring him with her, talk in private, but he hadn’t allowed it.

  ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea,’ he had said, driving away from the city centre, his hand on her thigh. ‘Not straight away. You might feel a little… depressed there.’

  She had wanted to argue with him, tell him that she felt depressed everywhere, but if there was somewhere she felt even a little bit comfortable and safe it was in her room. She had wanted to explain that if they talked there, she could draw strength from being with her own things, that she wouldn’t feel bullied into saying or doing something she didn’t want to. She tried to say all that but felt too weak, too exhausted to make her points clearly. ‘It’s OK,’ she had said finally, too tired to explain further, ‘the others won’t mind you being there.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ he had replied, voice all warm and solicitous, like he was looking out for her best interests, ‘Really, it isn’t. It’s just you I’m thinking about. What’s best for you. How I can best help you. Do the right thing.’

  He had paused while his words washed over her, and she had drawn what strength she could from them.

  ‘They know then, do they? The rest of your house? They know about us?’ His hand was gone from her thigh. His voice no longer held its previous warmth.

  She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, ‘they don’t. Or if they do, I haven’t told them.’

  ‘And they know about… what’s happened to you? What you’ve done.’

  Her stomach flipped at the words. What I’ve done. What I’ve done…

  Another shake of her head. ‘I didn’t tell anyone. Honestly. You told me not to. You told me I should only talk to you. And I did.’

  This seemed to calm him somewhat. He smiled at her, replaced his hand. Squeezed. ‘Then don’t worry. It’ll all be fine.’

  ‘Who was she?’ asked Maddy.

  He turned to her, his eyes narrow, unpleasant. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘The woman you were with. Who was she?’

  ‘Didn’t you recognise her? She’s another lecturer. A work colleague. Why?’

  ‘Because you were looking at her like you used to look at me.’

  ‘What?’ He laughed. Maddy didn’t. ‘Bollocks. I work with her. That’s all. And besides…’ he squeezed her thigh again, ‘why would I want her when I’ve got you?’

  She saw the look in his eyes and knew she couldn’t argue any more. She tuned out again, thinking about his eyes, his words, trying to order her thoughts, her emotions. They drove the rest of the way in silence. When she looked up again, the car was coming to a halt in front of his house. She had been there before, plenty of times. She had been so impressed the first time she had walked in. An old house but with modern designer furniture. Sofas and chairs and cabinets and lighting all looking like they had come from the best catalogues. Shelves full of books. The kind of place a person the BBC did serious cultural documentaries about would live in. ‘Who lives in a house like this?’ she had said to herself the first time, in that irritating voice belonging to the host of a quiz show that used to be on when she was little. ‘Someone with intelligence and culture and taste and money,’ she had replied. And she had congratulated herself for being there with him.

  But the sheen had gone now. The furniture was out of date by a few years and looked it, the sofas worn and stained, the cabinets chipped, the lighting mottled and dull-looking. Even the books no longer represented the thrilling collection of knowledge she had first thought. Now they just looked old and stuffy, dust-coated and never touched. Just there for show. To impress people like me, Maddy thought. The air was still, both oppressive and depressing. It felt like nothing happened here.

  Or not
hing good, anyway.

  ‘Make yourself at home,’ he said, taking off his jacket and throwing it over the back of a chair. She sat down on the sofa. He came and joined her, passed her a glass. She looked at it. Dark amber liquid swirled. It smelt faintly medicinal.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked.

  ‘Drink it. Do you good.’

  She sniffed it. Grimaced.

  ‘Down in one,’ he said, sitting next to her, eyes on hers, waiting for her next movement.

  She looked from him back to the glass, put it to her lips, sipped.

  ‘Down in one,’ he repeated, voice slightly harder now. ‘You’ll feel the benefit that way. I promise you.’ His voice softer that time.

  She looked to the glass, back to him. Unsure and clearly not wanting to do it, but also unwilling to disappoint him, even after everything that had happened between them. She tipped her head back, put the glass to her lips, closed her eyes. Gulped down as much as she could.

  Immediately she was coughing, gagging. It not only looked medicinal but tasted it too. And it burned, really, really burned. She felt it stripping away her insides. Like she had put the stuff she used on her legs and bikini line inside her body.

  ‘Good girl,’ he said, and took the glass from her. Immediately it was replenished. ‘Here, have another one.’

  She shook her head, hand still at her throat. ‘No…’

  ‘Go on,’ he said, filling it even higher this time. ‘It’ll help. With the pain. Make you feel better. It will. Trust me.’

  He handed it to her. She took it. Again she didn’t want to drink it; again she felt that she had to. She closed her eyes once more, tipped her head back, poured it down.

  She coughed, but not as much. It burned, but a little less.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said, ‘you’re getting used to it. See? It’s good for you. It helps. Sometimes things that seem unpleasant at first, well, you just have to persevere, don’t you?’ He put his hand on her thigh. ‘We’ll get there in the end.’

  She lay back against the sofa. The room was spinning now, pitching rapidly and swirling. She felt the same way she had when she had smoked a joint. Hot and nauseous. She had hated that feeling, never touched it again. This was the same.

  ‘Not used to drinking?’ he asked.

  ‘Not… not like this,’ she said. ‘Just wine, usually.’ She frowned. ‘What… what is it?’

  ‘Just a little cocktail of my own invention,’ he said. ‘You’ll get used to it.’

  She nodded. Or at least she thought she had nodded.

  ‘Now,’ he said, voice once again warm and solicitous, hand still on her thigh, ‘how are you feeling?’

  The conflicting emotions seemed to be dropping away inside her mind. Things seemed to be easier. ‘Good,’ she said.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ he replied, and moved in close to her.

  She put her head limply on his shoulder, snuggled into him. All the things she had wanted to say to him were dropping away. She smelt his cologne. She loved the smell of his cologne. She felt his arm around her. She loved his arm around her.

  ‘You’re still bleeding?’ she heard him say.

  She nodded. It seemed like the right answer.

  ‘That’s only to be expected,’ he said. ‘It’ll soon pass. And then…’ he pulled her even closer, ‘you’ll be good as new.’

  She nodded. Yes. That made sense. Good as new. She closed her eyes.

  She felt – or thought she felt – his arm tighten its grip on her. She felt – or thought she felt – his hand moving up her thigh. Part of her wanted to tell him to stop, that she had come to talk to him, that she had important things that needed to be said. That she had to get up, go. But the other part of her, the part that was affected by what he had given her to drink, just wanted to relax. To feel the comfort of his embrace.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he was telling her. It sounded like his voice was coming from the end of a long, dark tunnel. ‘You did the right thing. And everything’s going to be OK…’

  She felt his hands on her again. Her lips curled. She didn’t know if it was a smile or a grimace.

  And then she felt nothing.

  27

  K

  eith Burkiss was alone in the house. He couldn’t describe – even to himself – how he was feeling.

  This was the end. He knew it. And he drew strength from that, power, to a certain extent. Or as much power as he could muster under the circumstances. He might not be able to live, he thought, feeling the pain in his chest and looking down at where his legs used to be, but he could certainly control how to die.

  Money doesn’t matter, his old man used to say, as long as you’ve got your health. Keith had always thought his old man was soft in the head to choose that as his personal mantra, a snivelling excuse for not working harder and being more successful. And his old man had died young when that other car had smashed into his. So what did he know?

  After he died, his mother started saying it too, as if chanting the words could bring him back to life. It didn’t. He stayed dead. But it gave Keith something to think about. Something to modify into his own mantra: Money buys you everything.

  He looked down at his legs once more. Felt a tide of bitterness rising within him. Hoped it wouldn’t trigger another coughing fit. It didn’t. He just about managed to stave it off.

  Cancer and diabetes. A hell of a double whammy. And his doctor, the expensive fucker who was supposed to stop this kind of thing from happening, said it was his own fault. Smoking to excess. Drinking heavily. Eating a horrendously self-indulgent diet and taking no exercise whatsoever. Keith had complained. Said he didn’t do anything different to other men, friends of his that he did business with and went drinking with. The doctor had shrugged. Genetics still played a large part. And ignoring the advice of all his regular health check-ups over the years. That just made Keith angry. But since he couldn’t blame himself, he took it out on the doctor. And the doctor just struck him off his books, private patient or no private patient. Keith’s first thought had been to try and find another one. But he didn’t get round to it. He came to a decision instead. If this was the way he was, then this was the way he was. There was no point in changing things; just bring it on.

  And he had done.

  He wheeled himself over to the window, looked out. The house was huge, Edgbaston opulent. Set well back from the road in its own grounds. He had been proud of that when he first moved in, pleased he had made something of himself, his life. Now it just felt like a huge private prison. Luxurious, but still a prison.

  He listened. Nothing. Good. Kelly was out. He had told her to go. She had looked at him suspiciously, narrowing her eyes when he told her he didn’t mind if she went into town to meet friends. They both knew what they were really talking about. What kind of friends she was going off to meet. She made some attempt at pretending to care for him, not wanting to leave him on his own, but he just waved her off. He couldn’t bear to hear any more of her lies. Eventually, not believing her luck, she thanked him and got ready. Left the house.

  Left him alone once more.

  She was his second wife and he used to love her. Totally, unconditionally. Like life itself. Now he couldn’t believe how stupid he had been, how naïve. She was just his trophy, his midlife crisis made real. A nightclub pick-up elevated to mistress to wife. Nothing more. Not the love of his life. Just something he was supposed to have when he reached a certain age and a certain status, like the Bentley and the house. Something to show off with. Something that said he had made it. She knew that. Had known it straight away. Unfortunately, Keith had only recently realised.

  The first time he met her she had looked stunning. Half his age at least, but he didn’t care. He wanted her, had to have her. She was in the club with friends, all dressed to the nines, all in sex-predator mode. And she latched on to him. He had thought at first that she actually liked him. His looks, his jokes. He was even stupid enough to think he aroused her. But ther
e was only one thing he had that did that. If he had been a long-distance lorry driver she wouldn’t have given him a second glance. However, if he had been a long-distance lorry driver he wouldn’t have been able to afford a private booth in the VIP section of the club for himself and his friends, and he wouldn’t have been drinking champagne at three hundred pounds a bottle. There was the aphrodisiac.

  She told him her backstory. A poor, underprivileged kid from Druid’s Heath, using whatever talents she had to better herself. It struck a chord within him. He wanted to take her under his wing, protect her, love her, give this beautiful woman an equally beautiful life.

  After that the story had been pretty straightforward. The old wife was divorced, given a fair amount of money to cover her bitterness, and the new wife moved in. She was a terrible cook and never cleaned the house, but he forgave her that. It wasn’t why he had married her. She made him feel like a sex god in the bedroom, an enthusiasm he now knew was faked but which made him feel good about himself. And when he took her out, he knew all his friends were staring and wishing they had her. Keith got a huge kick out of that.

  Then the health problems started. And Kelly wasn’t quite so supportive any more. She began going out without him, seeing friends he’d never heard of. Spending more and more time away from him but still expecting him to pay for it. Eventually she left him, said she couldn’t cope. And that was when he saw her for what she really was, and what an idiot he had been for her. The hurt curdled, the bitterness increased. She asked for a divorce. He gave her one. But made sure her settlement was next to nothing.

  And when she realised she had got nothing, back she came, contrite and apologetic and ready to play happy families again. He had pretended to welcome her back. But he was wise to her now. He knew what she was doing. Help the crippled ex-husband, remarry him even, get the lot when he goes.

  She did nothing to help him. She regarded him with barely disguised revulsion. He had watched her from his wheelchair, losing first one foot then the other, then his shins, then his knees as the diabetes took control of his body, then his lungs and liver as the cancer stepped up to stage four. He had seen how she behaved. The secret phone calls that she abruptly cut off if he was around. The unguarded looks she gave him when she thought he wasn’t watching her. The trips out with ‘the girls’. He knew what she was doing. He knew how much she hated him. How she was just waiting for him to die so she could take his money, his house and his cars, and install whoever she liked to replace him. And all the things Keith had spent his life toiling for, the life he had built for himself, would be given to someone else.