The Other Woman’s House

by Sophie Hannah

  Kit sighs. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I’ll go and look. Evidently I’m as big an idiot as you think I am.’

  ‘I’m not making it up!’ I shout after him. I want to go with him, but my body won’t move. Any second now he’ll see what I saw. I can’t bear the waiting, knowing it’s going to happen.

  ‘Great,’ I hear Kit say to himself. Or maybe he’s talking to me. ‘I’ve always wanted to look at a stranger’s dishwasher in the middle of the night.’

  Dishwasher. The tour must be on a loop. In my absence, it’s started again at the beginning. ‘The obligatory kitchen island,’ Kit mutters. ‘Why do people do it?’

  ‘The lounge is after the kitchen,’ I tell him. I force myself onto the landing; that’s as close as I’m willing to go. I can’t breathe. I hate the thought that Kit’s about to see what I saw – no one should have to see it. It’s too horrible. At the same time, I need him to…

  To what? Confirm that it was real, that you didn’t imagine it?

  I don’t imagine things that aren’t there. I don’t. I sometimes worry about things that maybe don’t need to be worried about, but that’s not the same thing. I know what’s true and what isn’t. My name is Catriona Louise Bowskill. True. I’m thirty-four years old. True. I live at Melrose Cottage in Little Holling, Silsford, with my husband Christian, but he’s always been known as Kit, just as I’ve always been known as Connie. We have our own business – it’s called Nulli Secundus. We’re data management consultants, or rather, Kit is. My official title is Business and Financial Director. Kit works for Nulli full-time. I’m part-time: three days a week. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I work for my mum and dad’s business, Monk & Sons Fine Furnishings, where I have a more old-fashioned job title: book-keeper. My mum and dad are Val and Geoff Monk. They live down the road. I have a sister, Fran, who’s thirty-two. She also works for Monk & Sons; she runs the curtain and blind department. She has a partner, Anton, and they have a five-year-old son, Benji. All these things are true, and it’s also true – true in exactly the same way – that less than ten minutes ago I took a virtual tour of 11 Bentley Grove, Cambridge, and saw a dead woman lying on a blood-soaked carpet.

  ‘Bingo: the lounge,’ I hear Kit say. His tone sends a chill shooting up my spine. How can he sound so flippant, unless…‘Interesting choice of coffee table. Trying a bit too hard, I’d say. No dead woman, no blood.’

  What? What’s he talking about? He’s wrong. I know what I saw.

  I push open the door and make myself walk into the room. No. It’s not possible. 11 Bentley Grove’s lounge turns slowly on the screen, but there’s no body in it – no woman lying face down, no pool of red. The carpet’s beige. Moving closer, I see that there’s a faint mark on it in one corner, but…‘It’s not there,’ I say.

  Kit stands up. ‘I’m going back to bed,’ he says, his voice stiff with fury.

  ‘But…how could it disappear?’

  ‘Don’t.’ He raises his fist, smacks it against the wall. ‘We’re not going to talk about this now. I’ve got a good idea: let’s never talk about it. Let’s pretend it didn’t happen.’

  ‘Kit…’

  ‘I can’t go on like this, Con. We can’t go on like this.’

  He pushes past me. I hear our bedroom door slam. Too shocked to cry, I sit down in the chair that’s still warm from Kit’s body, and stare at the screen. When the lounge disappears, I wait for it to come back, in case the dead woman and the blood also come back. It seems unlikely, but then what’s happened already is also unlikely, and yet it happened.

  I sit through the tour of 11 Bentley Grove four times. Each time the kitchen fades, I hold my breath. Each time the lounge returns spotless, with no dead woman or blood in it. Eventually, because I don’t know what else to do, I click on the ‘x’ in the top right-hand corner of the screen, shut the tour down.

  Not possible.

  One last time, starting from scratch. I click on the internet Explorer icon, go back to Roundthehouses, retrace my steps: find 11 Bentley Grove again, click on the virtual tour button again, sit and watch. There’s no woman. No blood. Kit is still right. I am still wrong.

  I slam my laptop shut. I ought to clear up the broken glass, and the real bloodstains on my own carpet. I stare down at Nulli’s certificate of incorporation, lying on the floor in its shattered frame. In my shock at seeing the dead woman, I must have knocked it off the wall. Kit will be upset about that. As if he hasn’t got enough to be upset about.

  Reframing a certificate is easy. Deciding what to do about a disappearing dead woman that you might have imagined in the first place – not so easy.

  As far as I can see, I have two choices. I can either try to forget about it, talk myself into believing that the horrific scene I saw only ever existed in my mind. Or I can ring Simon Waterhouse.

  POLICE EXHIBIT REF: CB13345/432/19IG

  CAVENDISH LODGE PRIMARY SCHOOL

  BULLETIN NO. 581

  Date: Monday 19th October 2009

  Autumn Thoughts from Mrs Kennedy’s class

  Conkers are…

  Silky smooth,

  Velvety and chocolate brown

  And rusty red on the outside.

  Their shiny shells are crusty

  Creamy and cool to touch.

  I love Autumn because

  Conkers fall off the trees in Autumn.

  I love conkers SO much!

  by Riordan Gilpatrick

  Conkers

  They fall off trees

  Hit you on the head.

  You can tie them on strings

  Have fights with them

  You can collect them

  And put them on your shelf.

  Green-brown-orange-red, that’s the colour of…

  Conkers!

  by Emily Sabine

  Well done to both of you – you have really brought Autumn to life in all our minds!

  Thank you!

  2

  17/07/10

  Betting man that he was, DC Chris Gibbs would have put the odds against Olivia’s persuading the concierge to serve them yet another drink, long after the hotel bar had officially closed, at several thousand to one. Happily, he’d have been wrong.

  ‘Just one more titchy little nightcap,’ she breathed, as if confiding a secret. Where did she get that voice? It couldn’t be natural; nothing about her seemed natural.

  ‘Well, perhaps not quite so titchy,’ Olivia quickly amended, once she’d secured an agreement in principle. ‘A double Laphroaig for Chrissy and a double Baileys for me, since we’re celebrating.’

  Gibbs tensed. No one had ever referred to him as ‘Chrissy’ before. He prayed it wouldn’t happen again, but didn’t want to make an issue of it. Fuck. Did the concierge think he called himself Chrissy? He hoped it was obvious from his appearance that he didn’t and wouldn’t.

  Olivia draped herself across the bar while she waited, revealing even more of her world-class cleavage. Gibbs noticed the concierge looking while pretending not to. All men did it all the time, but none as skilfully as Gibbs, in his own not-so-humble opinion.

  ‘No ice in either,’ Olivia said. ‘Oh, and whatever you’re having, obviously – let’s not forget you! A double of something yummy and hugely alcoholic for you!’

  Gibbs was glad she was as drunk as she was. Sober, earlier, she’d been a bit much for him, but he knew how to deal with drunks; he’d arrested enough of them. Admittedly, most weren’t wearing funny-shaped gold dresses that had cost two thousand pounds, as Olivia had told him hers had. He’d done a double-take, expressed disbelief, and she’d laughed at him.

  ‘Kind of you, madam, but I’m fine, thank you,’ said the concierge.

  ‘Did I say no ice? I can’t remember if I said it or only thought it. That’s always happening to me. Neither of us likes ice, do we?’ Olivia turned to Gibbs, then, before he had a chance to respond, back to the concierge. ‘We didn’t know we had anything in common – I mean, look at us! We’re so different! – but th
en it turned out that we both hate ice.’

  ‘A lot of people do,’ said the concierge, smiling. Perhaps there was nothing he liked more than to stay up all night, dressed like a butler from the 1920s, serving drinks to a loud posh woman and an unfriendly copper who’d had way too many already. ‘Then again, a lot of people don’t.’

  Give us the drinks and spare us the tedious observations. Gibbs had grabbed his Laphroaig and was on his way back to their table when he heard Olivia say, ‘Aren’t you going to ask what we’re celebrating?’ He didn’t know whether it’d be rude to leave her to it, whether he ought to go back and join her; it took him less than a second to decide he didn’t care. If she and the Jeeves lookalike wanted to bore each other to death, that was their lookout. Gibbs had his drink, the extra one that he hadn’t thought he was going to get; that was all he wanted.

  ‘We’ve been to a wedding today, and guess what?’ Olivia’s voice blared out behind him. ‘There was no one else there! Apart from the bride and groom, I mean. My sister Charlie was the bride. Chris and I were the two witnesses and the only guests.’

  No more ‘Chrissy’, then. Thank God for that.

  ‘They chose one each,’ Olivia went on. ‘Charlie chose me and Simon chose…Sorry, did I mention Simon? He’s my sister’s husband – as of today! Simon Waterhouse. The groom.’ She said it as if the concierge ought to have heard of him.

  Gibbs felt a bit irked, probably only because he was hammered, that she hadn’t finished her sentence: and Simon chose Chris. It was clear enough, even though she hadn’t spelled it out. If they’d chosen one witness each and Charlie had chosen Olivia, then Waterhouse must have chosen Gibbs. Not that the hotel concierge needed to know that. It was true whether he knew it or not.

  Yesterday, before setting off to Torquay, Gibbs had asked his wife Debbie why she thought Waterhouse had picked him. ‘Why not you?’ she’d said without lifting her eyes from the shirt she was ironing, clearly not interested in discussing it. There was no room in her head for anything but her IVF at the moment. She’d gone in for the embryo transfer on Tuesday – two had been implanted, the two healthiest specimens. Gibbs hoped to God he didn’t end up with twins. One would be…

  Bad enough? No, not bad, exactly. Hard, though. And if the embryos didn’t take, if Debbie still wasn’t pregnant after all the hassle they’d had and all the cash they’d handed over, that would be even harder. The worst thing was having to talk about the lack of a baby endlessly, when it bored Gibbs so much and he wasn’t allowed to say that it did. He didn’t care any more. He’d agreed that a baby was a nice idea when he’d thought it would be straightforward, but if it wasn’t straightforward, if it was a never-ending nightmare, as it was proving to be, then why bother? What was so special about his or Debbie’s genes that they needed to be passed on?

  Olivia plonked herself down next to him. ‘He’s left the bottles on the bar in case we want a top-up, said we can settle up in the morning. What a lovely man!’

  Earlier, Gibbs had wished she would stop gushing and lower her voice. Now that they were the only people left, it didn’t matter. The music had stopped more than an hour ago. The wall-candles had been put out at the same time, and the bright overhead lights switched on. There was a morning-after feel to the hotel bar, even though, as far as Gibbs was concerned, it was still the night before.

  ‘So, are you going to tell me, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘Where they are. Waterhouse and Charlie.’ If Olivia knew, Gibbs figured, then he had a right to know too. As the two witnesses, they ought to have equal access to all relevant information.

  ‘If I wouldn’t tell you at ten o’clock, or eleven, or midnight, or one, why would I tell you now?’

  ‘You’ve had more to drink. Your defences are down.’

  Olivia raised an eyebrow and laughed. ‘My defences are never down. The downer they seem, the upper they are. If that makes sense.’ She leaned forward. Cleavage alert. ‘Why do you call him Waterhouse?’

  ‘It’s his name.’

  ‘Why don’t you call him Simon?’

  ‘Dunno. We call each other by our surnames: Gibbs, Waterhouse. Sellers. We all do.’

  ‘Sam Kombothekra doesn’t,’ said Olivia. ‘He calls you Chris – I’ve heard him. He calls Simon Simon. And Simon calls him Sam, but you don’t – you still call him Stepford. That was your original nickname for him and you’re sticking with it.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘You fear change.’

  Gibbs wondered what had happened to the inebriated airhead he’d been drinking with a few minutes ago. Obviously she wasn’t as far gone as he’d thought. ‘It’s a good nickname,’ he told her. ‘He’ll always be Stepford to me.’ He’d go to bed after this drink, bottle on the bar or no bottle on the bar. A woman like Olivia Zailer couldn’t possibly be interested in anything he had to say. Knowing that made it hard to talk to her.

  ‘Aren’t you surprised that I know who calls who what, and I don’t even work with you?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Hm.’ She sounded dissatisfied. ‘Why do you think Simon chose you and not Sam? To be a witness.’

  Gibbs was careful not to give himself away by looking as if it mattered to him. ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ he said.

  ‘It’s obvious why he didn’t choose Colin Sellers, a dedicated adulterer,’ said Olivia. ‘Simon’d think it was a jinx on his and Charlie’s marriage to have a lowly fornicator involved in the proceedings.’

  ‘That’s stupid,’ said Gibbs. ‘It’s up to Sellers what he does.’ The Fornicator, starring DC Colin Sellers. DC Colin Sellers is back in Fornicator II. Gibbs smiled. A whole new world of piss-taking possibilities had just opened up. He wished he’d thought of it himself.

  ‘With Colin out of the picture, Simon’s options were you or Sam,’ said Olivia. ‘At first I wondered whether he didn’t want Sam because Sam’s chatty. He knew he and Charlie would be jetting off mid-evening and leaving us alone together – me and the other witness. Simon would hate the thought of Sam and me gossiping about him.’

  ‘Stepford doesn’t gossip,’ said Gibbs.

  ‘Maybe not normally, but he would with me, especially after a few drinks. And he’d tell himself he wasn’t gossiping, just discussing, you know how people do.’

  ‘You reckon I was chosen because I don’t gossip?’

  ‘Gossip?’ Olivia chuckled. ‘You barely speak. You make a point of saying as little as possible. Anyway, no, that was only my first theory.’ She sipped her drink. ‘My second was that Simon ruled Sam out on the grounds of his superior rank – asking his skipper to be a witness at his wedding might have looked like sucking up, even though it wouldn’t have been – Simon’s the least suck-up-y person I’ve ever known, and he’d hate for anyone to think otherwise.’

  So Sellers was a non-starter and Stepford was a non-starter. Which had left only Gibbs.

  ‘Then I decided – my third theory – that Simon chose you because he has more respect for you than he has for Sam, even if he thinks Sam’s nicer. He thinks you’re more intelligent. Or more like him, maybe. You’re a puzzle, whereas Sam’s an open book.’

  Gibbs couldn’t understand why she cared. She seemed to have given it as much thought as he had, and made more progress: three answers to his none.

  ‘I couldn’t bear the suspense, so I made Charlie ask him,’ she said.

  Gibbs’ hand tightened around his glass. ‘And?’

  ‘Simon told her he feels closer to you than to Colin or Sam.’ Olivia laughed. ‘Which I thought was just hilarious, given that I bet the two of you have never had a single conversation about anything other than work.’

  ‘We haven’t,’ Gibbs confirmed. He downed the rest of his drink and went to pour himself another one, unwilling to notice or reflect on the sudden improvement in his mood. ‘If you’re so keen on talking, why don’t you tell me where the happy couple are?’ he said. ‘I’m not going to give the game away to Waterhouse’s mum.�
�

  Gibbs had met Kathleen Waterhouse only once, at the engagement party. She’d seemed timid, unassuming – a fade-into-the-background sort of person. Gibbs couldn’t understand why she hadn’t been allowed to attend her son’s wedding, why it was so crucial that she shouldn’t find out where he was going on his honeymoon.

  ‘I’ll answer any question but that one.’ Olivia sounded apologetic. ‘Sorry, but Charlie made me swear.’

  ‘I’m not asking any other questions. That’s the question I’m asking, and I’m going to keep asking. Though I reckon I know where they are. It doesn’t take a genius.’

  ‘You can’t possibly know, unless you’re psychic.’ Olivia looked worried.

  ‘You mentioned them ‘jetting off’ before, to put me off the scent. They haven’t jetted off anywhere, have they? They’re still here.’ Gibbs grinned, pleased with his theory.

  ‘Here? In Torquay, you mean?’

  ‘Here: the Blue Horizon Hotel – the last place I’d expect them to be, after they made a big show of leaving a few hours ago.’

  Olivia rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. Or maybe it was the real thing. ‘They’re not here, and this isn’t the Blue Horizon Hotel,’ she said. ‘It’s Blue Horizon.’

  Was she taking the piss? ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘No, you called it the Blue Horizon Hotel.’

  ‘It’s called Blue Horizon, it’s a hotel,’ said Gibbs impatiently. ‘That makes it the Blue Horizon Hotel.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t.’ Olivia was inspecting him as if he was from another planet. ‘Blue Horizon is the name of a top-notch establishment, which is what this is. Call it the Blue Horizon Hotel and it morphs into a shabby seaside B&B.’

  ‘Right. I guess I’m too shabby to know the difference.’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean…Oh, God, I’m such an idiot! Now I’ve offended you and you’ll clam up again, just when I’d got you warmed up.’

  ‘I’m going to have to go bed,’ said Gibbs. ‘I can’t listen to you any more. You’re like a Sunday colour supplement – full of all kinds of shit.’

  Olivia’s eyes widened. She stared at him in silence.