The Doll House

by Phoebe Morgan

  Ashley sighs, trying to focus on the café. The weather is a little warmer than it has been and everyone has come outside, breathing in the crisp February air, admiring the lake in the middle of the common, the sprigs of blossom that have started to appear on the trees.

  She serves cup after cup of coffee, focusing on the process: the hiss and steam of the machine, the powdery chocolate heart shapes they shake onto the top of the drinks, the quick exchange of coins from hand to hand. Megan keeps glancing at her oddly. She is being quiet, she knows.

  At three o’clock, they wipe down the surfaces, turn away the last of the tourists. Ashley can see her reflection as she shines the coffee machine. Her face is pale and drawn.

  ‘Out with it, Ash.’ Megan leans on the counter, takes the J-cloth out of Ashley’s hand. ‘Come on, I think that thing is clean already. You all right? You don’t seem yourself.’

  Ashley hesitates.

  ‘Come on,’ says Megan. ‘Why don’t we go have lunch? Just a quick bite, there’s that pop up street food place that’s just opened. We could even have a sneaky glass of wine; you look like you could use one. It’s Friday, after all. Weekend rules apply!’

  Ashley gives a half-smile. Megan bats her eyelashes at her.

  ‘How can you resist my winning stare?’

  Ashley relents, rolls her eyes at her friend. ‘OK. Just a quick one then. Let me just stop at a cashpoint. That place is too trendy for debit cards.’

  She pulls on her scarf. Megan links her arm as they cross the road to the bank. At the cashpoint, Ashley inserts her card, drums her fingers on the little counter as she waits for the screen to load. Is June right? Should she be prepared for the worst? She once read a book about a woman whose husband was having affairs all over the village – everybody knew but her. The thought makes her feel sick. She thinks of Corinne, Megan, the mums at school. What if they all know? What if nobody wants to be the one to tell her?

  ‘Busy today,’ Megan says, interrupting Ashley’s spiralling thoughts. ‘Did you see that blond guy who ordered the latte from me just now? I thought he was a bit of a fox.’

  Ashley laughs a little, in spite of her mood. ‘You always think everyone’s a bit of a fox.’

  ‘Do not!’

  The machine is beeping. Ashley frowns, takes her card back as the machine spits the plastic out. She squints at the screen. There’s a message flashing up: insufficient funds.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Well, OK, maybe I do a bit then. But he was a fox! Seriously, he was gorgeous. Did you see his eyes?’ Megan’s giggling now.

  ‘No, it’s not that. This ATM’s broken is all. Hang on, let me try the next one.’

  Ashley tries a total of four ATMs. By the fifth try, Megan is looking a bit uncomfortable.

  ‘Hey, Ash, I can treat you, no worries. Let’s go.’

  Ashley swallows. She feels a bit sick. She’s tried Lloyds, Santander, HSBC. They cannot all be wrong.

  ‘Actually, Megs, I’m just going to go inside,’ she says, gesturing at the double doors of HSBC. ‘Just want to find out what’s going on. Sorry about this. You get on, don’t worry. We can have lunch next week.’

  In the line for the counter, Ashley tries not to panic. There is something wrong with the card, that’s all! It is their joint account, she uses it all the time. Of course there is money in there, lots of it. Besides, she’d only been trying to get out a twenty. She turns the little piece of plastic over and over in her hands, trying to ignore the niggling thoughts building up in the back of her mind.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Thomas.’ The man speaking to her from behind the glass pane is softly spoken, she has to lean forward to hear what he says.

  ‘But it appears this account has been emptied. You’ve got – let’s see . . . ten pounds and forty-nine pence left. Did you want to retrieve that now?’ He taps at the keyboard, glances up at her expectantly.

  Ashley rests her forehead on the little window, not caring that the man is now looking at her strangely.

  ‘It’s . . . I didn’t take that money out,’ she whispers. ‘There must be some mistake.’

  The cashier nods. ‘No, that’s right, it was removed by the other account holder. A Mr James B. Thomas? I’m guessing he’s your husband?’

  27

  London

  Corinne

  I can’t breathe. I ran all the way from the cemetery to Dominic’s office, feeling as though there was someone at my back the entire way. I am covered in sweat and my hair is falling over my eyes, blocking my vision as I dart in and out of the traffic that piles up around Finchley Road. A taxi beeps its horn at me and I see the driver gesticulating angrily but I don’t care; I’ve got to get to Dom.

  Gasping in the reception, I tell the woman on the front desk that I need to see Dominic Stones at the Herald.

  ‘Is it for a story?’ she says in a bored voice, tapping her red-painted nails on the desktop.

  ‘No!’ I say. ‘Tell him it’s Corinne, tell him it’s important. I really need to talk to him right now.’

  She looks unmoved by my flustered state, but picks up the phone and dials. I wait, doubled over. Spots dance before my eyes. Fear grips my stomach as I realise I could be putting the baby at risk; stupid, stupid, stupid.

  ‘Ah, I see,’ the receptionist is saying, ‘OK, OK. Thank you, that would be great.’ She replaces the receiver and smiles at me with pink plasticky lips, gestures to the big leather chairs against the wall.

  ‘Have a seat, someone’s coming down for you.’

  ‘Someone?’ I say. ‘I don’t want someone, I want Dominic! He’s my boyfriend.’

  She’s about to reply when the door to the stairs opens and a young girl comes out, clutching a notepad. She’s got a look of sympathy as she comes towards me; I feel her taking in the stains on my kneecaps, the red blotches on my face.

  ‘Corinne?’ she says cautiously. ‘Corinne, are you OK?’

  ‘Where’s Dominic?’ I ask her. ‘He’s a reporter here, he works on the fifth floor.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Corinne, Dominic’s actually out on a story at the moment, I thought I’d come down to get you instead so you’re not left on your own. Oh dear.’ She pauses as tears fill my eyes. ‘Poor you, what’s happened? Here, sit down.’

  She gives the woman on reception a little nod, a not-to-worry gesture, and eases me down onto the chair, puts a sympathetic hand on my arm.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘I’m so sorry. God, how embarrassing.’ I try to wipe my face with my sleeve and she wordlessly hands me a tissue, perfectly white. I take a deep breath, blow my nose. The sound is ugly. She doesn’t seem to mind, she just smiles at me and touches my hand. The gesture is comforting, her skin is soft and warm.

  ‘Why don’t you come upstairs to the cafeteria on the roof?’ she asks me. ‘Come on, we can get you a cup of tea and wait for Dom to come back. I’m sure he won’t be long. He’s just gone out to do an interview near King’s Cross this afternoon. He had to step in for someone at the last minute I’m afraid. People drop like flies this time of year! We call it the February flu.’

  My hands are shaking badly; I press them to my thighs. My jeans are stained with mud from the graveyard. I picture the gravestone. LIAR. Who would do that to Dad? And why? How long has it been there for?

  Thinking about it brings a fresh round of tears to my eyes and I turn away, hideously embarrassed in front of this lovely girl. She must think I am totally insane.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say again, ‘I’ve just had some . . . I’ve just had some bad news and it’s . . . it’s shocked me a bit. I wanted to see my boyfriend, I had something to tell him. Sorry, I’m sorry to be like this.’

  ‘Hey, hey,’ she says. ‘Come on, we all have our moments! Especially us girls! I hope it’s not anything that a cuppa won’t fix. Or they do a wicked hot chocolate too, it might help for you to have some sugar. If you’ve had a bit of a shock.’

  I look up at her.

  ‘OK,�
�� I say. ‘If you could point me in the direction of the café I’ll wait there for Dom, if that’s all right.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she says, and she gives my shoulder a little nudge as I stand up. ‘I’ll have a hot choc with you. Give me an excuse to get away from my desk! You’re a blessing in disguise! The news is dire today. Here, I’ll take that.’

  She takes the soggy tissue out of my hand and throws it into the bin in the corner of the room. I feel humiliated, in spite of how sweet she’s being.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I say, and I follow her up the stairs, feeling the eyes of the receptionist on my back. My breathing starts to slow slightly; I’ll sit down, wait for Dominic. He’ll be here soon.

  Then

  The day she tells me, I go sit by myself down by the canal. I stare at the water, the green algae that coats the glassy surface of it like a trap. She tells me that I’m old enough to know now, that I deserve to know the truth. But I wish she hadn’t told me. It makes everything hurt. It’s like everything has changed. I can feel the hurt rising up in my stomach, like bile, and it’s coming up in my throat and then I lean forward over the dark water and vomit. Strands of it dangle down towards the blackness. I stay like that for a bit, pitched over the side of the canal, thinking about it all, about him, and just for a minute I think about what it would be like to just keep leaning forward, further and further, until my body slips away from the cold concrete of the bank and into the darkness, underneath the algae. Would she care? Would anyone?

  *

  I didn’t lean forward into the water. I leaned back, I went home, carried on. Like a good girl. But now that I know, everything feels different, and every time I walk past the canal my thoughts are the same. Mum says she always wanted to tell me, was always going to tell me, she says she was waiting for the right time. I’m in high school now, she thinks I’m old enough to understand.

  ‘It’s for the best,’ she said. ‘Now you know how I feel.’

  Secretly, I think she only told me so that she wouldn’t have to be the only one who knew. Like it is a gift she has given me that I don’t really want. Sometimes, I forget for a bit, like today at school when we got put into our new form groups for year seven, I was thinking about that and who I wanted to be in form with and I wasn’t thinking about what Mum told me at all. But then I remembered, and it felt as though I was finding out all over again.

  That happens in the mornings too. I wake up at home, and the windows are all misted and frosty and the air is seeping through the sides, and I re-remember everything and then I don’t want to get out of bed because my stomach feels sick and twisty. I think about them and I wonder if the air is coming through their windows and making them cold, but somehow I know that it isn’t. Then Mum comes in and says I need to go to school, and I feel like I hate her then because this is all her fault.

  I dream about them almost every time I close my eyes. I wake up in the night, covered in cold sweat, the bedclothes twisted around my legs. I picture their faces, the curves of their lips, the strong swoop of their noses. Then I picture their living room, imagine if I got to play with what’s inside. It’s all I can think about.

  We drew portraits in art class yesterday. Miss Brown showed us how to draw lines across an oval shape to mark out where the eyes and nose go. She says I’m quite good at art, she says I might have a talent for it. I don’t really know what that means but she smiled at me so I smiled back and showed her my drawing. We had to look at our own faces in the mirror; the eyes are much further down than you think they ought to be. Last night when we went to the house I screwed up my eyes really hard and stared at his face, noticing how far down his eyes are, trying to remember his features exactly so that I can draw them later. There was a baby in the house today, I could see its pram and when they opened the windows in the living room I could hear it crying. I think it’s a girl.

  When we eventually got home, Mum didn’t want to talk to me, so I went and stared in the bathroom mirror for ages, looking at my own eyes, listening to the drip of the tap and the shouts of the neighbours upstairs. The walls of our flat are so thin. You can hear every argument, every cross word. If I listen carefully I can sometimes hear crying from upstairs, but I don’t know who it is.

  28

  London

  Dominic

  The newsroom is busy today but Dominic doesn’t care. He’s almost bouncing as he walks. He hopes Corinne is feeling just as excited; she’ll be in Hampstead now, telling her dad the good news. He knows it helps her to talk aloud to the headstone, pretend her dad can hear. Lots of people do that, don’t they? In nine months’ time they’ll be able to take the baby up there. The baby! He is grinning to himself as he threads his way through the desks to Alison’s office.

  He isn’t sure what to do about the Carlington House piece. It is due today so he’s typed it up as sparingly as possible, leaving out the de Bonnier woman’s strange additions. He has thought about her a lot, the sadness on her face as she stared at the ruins, the way her features twisted in pain as she walked. Part of him wants to investigate, the journalist in him wanting to push and pull until the story unearths itself, falls out of her like vomit, but somehow he can’t bring himself to put her sadness to the page. Andy would say he has gone soft, and perhaps he has; he can no longer stomach the secret horrors of the world, the dark underneath full of corruption and fraud, murder and neglect. He just wants to write features. Nice and easy. Nothing to shock. Besides, the woman is elderly, the last thing they need is to be seen as taking advantage. Dominic shudders; there had been letters, two years ago now, drip-fed through the mail to the newspaper – poor handling of an inquest, inappropriate conduct by reporters leading to the untimely suicide of another member of the deceased’s family. The Warrington case. They don’t want that again. The press upset people, they make people do funny things. Poor woman was found floating in the canal, unable to deal with the reports in the papers about her mother.

  Dominic plans to run his write-up past his boss, see what she thinks he ought to do. Always cover your back. The new rule of conduct for a modern-day journalist. Alison’s office is much nicer than the rest of the newsroom; she has a pine table and an old-fashioned desk lamp, a stark contrast to the rest of their cheap MDF desks and harsh white bulbs. The door is partially open; Dominic hesitates. She can get a bit funny if people don’t knock, a few junior reporters have got on her bad side by barging in uninvited. Still, he’s not a junior now, is he? Alison likes him as much as she likes anyone.

  He taps lightly on the door with his knuckles, is about to push it open, his eyes on the piece of paper in his hand. Suddenly he hears Alison’s voice: low, almost a whisper. He pauses, one hand on the doorknob. Why is she talking so quietly? She sounds pissed off. Dominic is just about to leave it, come back later when he hears his own name.

  ‘I sent Dominic, didn’t I?’ Alison is almost hissing the words. He strains his ears, cannot hear a response. She must be on the phone. Dominic frowns. He is curious now, piqued by his own name. Has he done something wrong? He mentally runs his mind back over his recent features. Have they been sloppy? Late?

  Alison’s talking again, but her voice has taken on a different tone, sort of pleading.

  ‘We had a deal,’ she is saying, ‘I thought we had a deal.’ There’s a pause. Dominic hovers.

  ‘Well that’s not my fault, that’s yours!’ Alison’s voice is louder now, annoyed. ‘I don’t know why—’ She breaks off. ‘OK. Well, I don’t know why she didn’t go with him then. I don’t know why you care so much, but I did what you asked, so—’

  There is silence. After a second, Dominic hears the sound of the receiver being put down, the squeak of Alison’s leather chair as she leans back in it. What the hell was all that about?

  He is still holding the piece of paper with the Carlington House copy on it. He clears his throat, knocks firmly on the door and goes into the office. Alison doesn’t look up when he comes in, is sitting with her head in her
hands. Her brown hair is usually perfectly coiffed but she’s clearly been running her fingers through it.

  ‘Alison? Hi, sorry to interrupt, I just wanted to check some things on the property feature, I know it was quite urgent,’ Dominic says. He puts the paper on the desk, slides it towards her. He coughs, feeling awkward. She doesn’t say anything.

  ‘So I wanted to just check with you – I’ve had to keep it fairly short as the owner seems a bit . . .’

  Alison finally looks up at him, as though she’s seeing him for the first time.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Dom,’ she says. ‘Thanks though. You can just leave it on my desk. I’ll look at it later.’

  Dominic hovers in front of her desk. Surely if it was something to do with him she would bring it up now? He doesn’t really want to admit he was eavesdropping, that would not go down well.

  He hesitates, glances at his watch. It is late, almost five-thirty. ‘OK, thanks then,’ he says. He turns around, pulls the door to behind him and heads back to his desk. He wonders what that conversation was about. Hearing the editor-in-chief say his name makes him nervous, but he can’t think of anything that he’s done particularly wrong. Perhaps she’s talking about someone else.

  Erin comes up to him as Dominic reaches his desk. He hasn’t seen her all afternoon, has been chained to his desk with the Carlington piece, stopping work only once to grab a Twix from the vending machine in the corner.

  She looks surprised to see him.

  ‘Shit, Dominic! I thought you were out this afternoon!’

  ‘Nope,’ he tells her, ‘right here!’

  ‘Oh, God!’ She puts a hand to her eyes. ‘I’ve just been upstairs with Corinne – she came to see you but I couldn’t see you at your desk so I told her you were out on a job. Andy said he thought you’d gone to cover Paul on the King’s Cross piece?’

  Dominic frowns. Why would Andy have said that? ‘No, I was with Alison earlier but I haven’t been out. Did you say Corinne’s upstairs?’