She’d settled into being a wife and mother quickly, surprising herself at how content she was. Emma had brought her and Paul closer than ever, but then, just after Emma’s first birthday, he was promoted to partner in the accountancy firm he worked for and things changed. It meant more money, but more responsibility. Even when he was home, at evenings and weekends, he spent hours in the office working.
Proud of her successful husband, she tried not complain, but found herself feeling increasingly lonely. Her Bristol friends had drifted away into their own busy lives and, without a job, she didn’t really get a chance to socialise. Then, almost two months ago now, things really fell apart for her and, so far, despite what Paul said, she’d not managed to put them back together again.
She ran her fingers through blonde hair that was just a few shades darker than Emma’s. Sometimes she had highlights done but, lately, she hadn’t bothered. She thought about tying it up, but instead brushed it and left it loose.
With a final glance in the mirror, she headed downstairs and found Paul in the kitchen dabbing the crust of his toast with a little extra marmalade. He looked at her carefully and nodded. ‘You look very smart,’ he said, ‘but I’d lose the scarf, it’s not really you.’ Diane blushed, her hand going to the silk scarf around her neck and pulling it away. ‘Better?’ she asked.
‘Much.’ He checked his watch. ‘I’d better go,’ he said, and reached to give her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Don’t be nervous. It is the best thing for her, Diane.’
‘Yes, of course, I know,’ she said, trying to sound like she believed it.
At ten to nine, she bundled an excited, babbling Emma into the car, strapped her into her child seat and gave her the backpack to hold.
As soon as the car started to move, Emma began to sing a song Diane had taught her, forgetting most of the words and making them up. Diane smiled, her eyes flicking to the rear-view mirror to admire how much her beautiful daughter had grown over the last few months. There was so much she couldn’t remember, so much she’d missed. She could hardly bear to let Emma out of her sight for a minute, how was she going to manage a few hours?
It was tempting to keep driving, to pass the nursery and go somewhere exciting for the day. Maybe to the coast? But as Emma bobbed her head to her own song, curls bouncing, she knew her little girl needed this, as did she.
Pulling into a generous car park at the front of the nursery, she parked beside another car where a heavily pregnant woman was shutting her car door, a small boy hanging from her other hand. Lifting Emma out, she helped her on with the back-pack. ‘You look so grown up,’ she said, wanting to pull her into her arms and never let her go. Instead, she took her daughter’s hand and walked the short distance to the front door, following in the pregnant woman’s footsteps, feeling that first-day awkwardness of not knowing where to go or what to do.
Inside the double front doors, there was a large reception area where several adults stood, children close by, collective voices raised in chatter and laughter. Everyone seemed to know one another. It was incredibly noisy and Diane, used to the quiet of home, felt overwhelmed. Tension knotted her stomach. It wasn’t too late to change her mind; she could tell Paul she got a bad feeling from the place. She squeezed Emma’s hand and looked down at her, searching for a sign of the same anxiety, only to find a look of pure excitement in her eyes as she took in her surroundings. Diane swallowed the lump in her throat, and tried to relax.
On the dot of nine fifteen, a door opened into the reception from a corridor behind and three staff members entered and began huddling their charges together with a nod and a word of reassurance to each parent, before leading them away.
A thin woman in a dark-green shift dress entered and made her way through the group, smiling and chatting to various adults and children before purposefully making her way over to Diane.
‘You must be Mrs Andrews,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘I’m Susan Power, the manager here.’
She was tall, maybe three inches taller than Diane’s five-seven, her hair cut in a tight pixie style that seemed to exaggerate her height. But her eyes were warm and twinkling and Diane liked her immediately. She held out her free hand. It was the wrong one, but Susan took it with a reassuring smile, holding onto it as she turned her attention to Emma. ‘And you must be Emma,’ she said, stooping down. ‘You’re very welcome here and I know you’re going to be very happy.’
If Diane was worried about any separation issues her daughter might have, they were quickly laid to rest as Emma, with a beaming smile, released her hand to reach for Susan’s.
‘She’s going to be just fine, Mrs Andrews,’ she said, looking back to Diane with a wealth of reassurance in her voice. ‘We’ll see you back here at one,’ she added, before concentrating on Emma. Diane didn’t know whether to be relieved or heartbroken.
Back in her car, she sat with the window open, listening intently for the merest whisper of a scream, knowing she’d instantly recognise Emma’s voice above them all; that deep-seated, motherly instinct that would send her running to the rescue.
She’d heard nothing by the time her mobile rang almost an hour later. It wasn’t necessary to look at it to know it was Paul. He rang at around the same time every morning to ask how her day was going. She shut the window before answering, unwilling to explain why she needed to stay outside the nursery; he didn’t need to know how much she still worried. ‘Everything is okay,’ she said as cheerfully as she could. ‘No,’ she answered when he asked if Emma had been upset, ‘she was completely fine.’
Hanging up, she opened the window to listen again. A light breeze had picked up, drifting through the copper beech hedge that surrounded the school, causing the dried old leaves to rustle and whisper. It was a pleasant sound and for a moment she relaxed, her eyes drifting shut. It was seconds before she realised the whisper had changed; now it wasn’t quite so pleasant. A shiver ran down her spine and her eyes flew open as it came again, a cry, a child’s sad cry. She pushed open the car door and ran towards the school, reaching for the doorbell as her head tilted to listen again. But now, all she could hear was the faint sound of childish laughter. Dropping her hand, she stood a moment before, with a shake of her head, she went back to the car and sat staring at the front door until it opened at twelve forty-five.
Driving home, with Emma happily babbling away in the back, she promised herself that the next day she would go straight home after dropping her off; she’d drink coffee, watch daytime TV, tidy the house – anything to fill the hours until it was pick-up time, anything to stop her going crazy.
Again. She looked at her reflection in the rear-view mirror.
She shook her head, brushing the thought away. Perhaps now she should go back to work? It was what she’d always planned to do once Emma was old enough but now, remembering her last job and the small, isolated office she had worked in, the idea filled her with dread. What if she ended up working somewhere like that again? No, she needed something different, something safe and sociable.
At home, when Emma had settled for her nap, she made herself some coffee, switched on her laptop and spent a couple of hours looking for options, her face gradually losing its tense, worried expression as they opened before her. That evening, over dinner, she mentioned to Paul she was thinking of doing some kind of voluntary work. ‘Now that Emma is in nursery,’ she said, almost nervously, worried he’d think that it was still too soon.
‘What a good idea,’ he said, reaching across and squeezing her hand. ‘It will be good for you to get out of the house and take more interest in things again.’
She rested her hand on his, grateful he hadn’t asked why she didn’t consider going back to work. ‘I emailed a couple of places today to see if they had anything,’ she said. ‘I’ll send you the links, see what you think.’
By late morning the next day, only one place had replied. A charity shop in a nearby shopping centre was looking for volunteer staff. They’d be delighted if she could do
a few hours a week and asked her to drop in and see them.
‘I’m going to call in after I drop Emma off tomorrow,’ she told Paul that evening. She shrugged. ‘I hope they like me.’
Paul laughed. ‘You’re willing to work for nothing,’ he said, ‘of course they’ll like you!’
She felt energised, better than she had in a while. Perhaps Paul was right, and she was doing fine. Okay, it wasn’t a high-powered career move, but even a part-time position as a volunteer was a huge step forward for her.
Choosing her clothes with care the next morning, she eventually settled on jeans, a white shirt and a navy jacket. She thought a scarf might look good, but she remembered Paul’s comment the last time and decided against it. The shopping centre was only a short drive past the nursery, so she dropped Emma off, took a deep breath and headed off, feeling apprehensive but excited. It felt so good to be doing something normal.
The charity shop was tucked away in a quiet corner of a shopping centre, the small display window crammed with too much stuff, the door almost invisible under layers of posters, stickers and adverts. One large central poster, battling to stand out, indicated that the shop supported a local hospice. A good cause, Diane thought, pushing open the door.
Inside, the shop was cramped and jammed with the usual charity shop offerings; racks of clothes, shelves stacked with books and more packed with china and ornaments. A chest-high counter stood in one corner towards the back. From behind it, a plump woman with a mop of tight, old-lady curls raised her hand in greeting. ‘You must be Diane,’ she said, and then, almost before her nod had finished, she turned and yelled out, ‘She’s here!’
‘Excellent,’ replied another woman, entering the shop through a door at the back and approaching Diane with both hands extended and a welcoming smile on her face. Heavy eye make-up accentuated sloe-shaped eyes and her lips were bright glossy red. ‘I’m the manager,’ she said, taking her hand in both of hers and holding it for a long moment, assessing her without embarrassment.
A rush of anxiety flooded Diane, her breath catching, but she let it out slowly when the manager smiled and dropped her hand. She felt as if she’d passed her first test.
‘Call me Red,’ the manager said with a smile that seeped into the laughter lines that fanned her eyes as she lifted a lock of her rich red hair. ‘I doubt if I’d know how to answer to my real name any more.’
Leading her through the shop into an office at the back, she gestured for Diane to sit on a well-worn chair on one side of a grey metal desk before taking an even more decrepit one on the other side. As she sat, the chair creaked alarmingly. Seeing Diane’s eyes widen, she chuckled. ‘Don’t worry, it always does that.’
The office was small, over-stuffed plastic bin-bags filling what little available space was left. Red didn’t make excuses or explain, she sat back, looked at her and said, ‘Tell me about yourself.’
If it was an interview, it was the most casual one Diane had ever done. She twisted her hands in her lap and spoke quietly. ‘I’ve worked in a variety of IT roles over the years,’ she explained. ‘When my daughter was born three years ago, I– I stopped working to look after her.’ She waited for a comment and when none came, she continued, ‘She’s just started in nursery, every morning nine fifteen to one.’ Annoyed to hear a quiver of nervousness in her voice, she cleared her throat and finished, ‘I’m feeling at a bit of a loose end so thought maybe it would be good to spend my time helping out somewhere.’
‘You didn’t want to go back to work after your maternity leave was over?’ Red asked. Her face was kind, her question was more curious than judgemental, so Diane decided on the truth.
‘I wanted to stay at home with Emma for the first couple of years. And then,’ she tried to relax her shoulders and took a deep breath. ‘I had a bit of a breakdown.’ When there was no reaction on the other woman’s face, she continued, her voice a little stronger. ‘I’m much better now, obviously, but working in IT can be quite stressful and I don’t feel able to go back to it just yet.’ There was only so much truth she was going to offer for a voluntary position.
‘It’s more common than people might think,’ Red said, tapping her pen on her desk. ‘I can do a Disclosure and Barring Service check online now, if you’re interested. And if you can give me the name of two referees, I’ll follow them up and you can start as soon as they’re through.’
Diane stared in surprise. ‘I’ve got it?’ The tight knot of tension eased slightly.
Red smiled. ‘Once the DBS comes back, yes. How many mornings would you like to come in?’
How many? The knot eased a little more. ‘I think I’d like to do three,’ she said, pleased when she saw a look of satisfaction on Red’s face.
‘Great, okay, I just need a few details for the DBS. Current and previous address and your national insurance number.’ She scribbled the information down. ‘And, finally, two referees?’ she said, looking up from the pad she’d been writing on.
Diane hadn’t thought this far ahead, surprised it was all happening so quickly. Was this too much, too soon?
Red seemed to sense a change in mood. She sat back in her chair and said nothing for a few minutes. But her calm, unthreatening manner had the required effect and Diane felt herself relax.
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘it’s been a while. Yes, of course, I can provide two referees. Geoff Summerton, he was the CEO of the company I worked for, here in London; and Ralph Barton, he was my manager in the last job I had in Bristol.’ She watched as Red wrote down the names and contact details.
Twenty minutes after she’d gone in, she was back out on the street with a bounce in her step. This had been such a good idea. It was time, as Paul had pointed out, that she got out of the house more.
And she hadn’t lied. She was almost better. Red had no need to know that she’d spent three weeks in a private clinic, nor did she need to know that there was a large part of the last year, weeks and months, that she couldn’t remember. And if there were times when Diane was distressed and terrified at the huge absences in her memory, well, she didn’t need to know that either.
Four
Everything moved very quickly. Red rang the next day to say her DBS check had come through. ‘You mentioned wanting to do three days,’ she said, ‘would you be happy to do Monday to Wednesday every week?’ she asked.
‘Perfect,’ Diane said and agreed to start the following week. Hanging up, she clasped her hands together in satisfaction. It was a big step in the right direction. And, for the first time in ages, she didn’t need Paul to tell her she was doing well, she actually felt it.
The following Monday, she fussed about what to wear, settling in the end for jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. She tied her shoulder-length hair back in a ponytail and looked in the mirror, pleased with the young, fun woman who looked back.
Paul laughed at her excitement. ‘Maybe, you should have got a proper job,’ he said. ‘It’s a shame to waste all that enthusiasm in a volunteer role.’
She looked at him, hurt, but he’d already turned away. ‘This is already quite a big step for me, Paul,’ she said to his back. ‘Maybe, in a few months, I’ll be able to go back to what I used to do.’
He might have missed the look on her face, but he couldn’t ignore the tone of her voice and he turned to her. ‘I was joking,’ he said with a smile, reaching for her and pulling her into a hug. ‘It’s good to see you so enthusiastic. You’ll be back to your old self before you know it.’
He gave her a kiss on the cheek, released her and picked up his briefcase. ‘Good luck,’ he said, and then, ‘nice ponytail.’
She watched him go with a lump in her throat. Was that another joke, or a compliment? Pulling the ponytail down, she tried desperately to ignore the anxiety she felt creeping up on her.
Dropping Emma at nursery, she made her way to the charity shop where Red was waiting for her, a smile on her lips that did nothing to dispel Diane’s nerves.
The work wasn’
t difficult and, apart from the dodgy cash register, a reject from a shop that was upgrading, there was nothing complicated about it. Beth, the plump woman she’d seen the first morning, took her under her wing. ‘There’s a knack to using the till,’ she explained kindly, ‘once I’ve shown you a few times, you’ll have no problem.’
In fact, Diane had no problem after the first attempt, serving the next few customers under Beth’s supervision. She was a pleasant, chatty woman, full of useful information that she delighted in imparting to anyone who would listen. ‘Do you know,’ she told Diane, with wide eyes, ‘that although we’re asked to separate bottles for the bottle-bank into clear, brown and green, they are picked up by a single truck and all tossed in together, higgledy-piggledy.’
Diane hadn’t known. She shook her head in amazement, and Beth took this as an invitation to continue imparting tit-bits of useful information for the next couple of hours as customers milled in and out of the shop. It had been a long time since Diane had chatted to anyone apart from Paul so she enjoyed the easy conversation, joined in with the occasional comment and began to relax.
After a quick tea break, she was moved over to the task of going through the donated items with one of the other volunteers, Anne, a very thin woman with a mop of curls tied up with a wildly colourful silk scarf. Diane took to her immediately, admiring her exuberance and confidence. Like Beth, she was pleasantly chatty and she felt more tension melt away. She was going to enjoy working here, maybe even make friends.
‘Anything not in a saleable condition is packed into black bin-bags,’ Anne explained, tearing a bag off a roll and shaking it open. ‘Clothes are labelled as material, the rest as junk. The bags are then stored in Red’s office to be picked up at a later date.’
‘What happens to them then?’ Diane asked, tying a knot in the top of one she’d filled.
‘All the material is sold to a firm that recycles it to make paper or card, the other stuff is brought to the recycling centre and it goes into landfill.’
The Housewife: A completely addictive and gripping psychological thriller Page 2
