‘Some of this stuff is just junk,’ Diane said, opening, and then immediately shutting the box she’d just opened. ‘Do people just use us as an easy way of getting rid of their rubbish?’
Anne grinned. ‘See, you’ve only been here a couple of hours and you have it sussed.’ She pulled Diane’s box over, opening it again and rummaging through. ‘Sometimes, there’s something decent under the rubbish.’ Then she started to laugh. ‘Look!’ she said, holding up a black leather basque with one hand and a riding crop with the other. Diane looked at Anne with wide eyes and then she started to giggle. Before long, they were holding onto each other as tears of laughter ran down their cheeks.
It had been a long time since she’d laughed with such abandonment. It felt so good and washed away the last of the tension, leaving her more relaxed than she’d been since…she couldn’t remember when. She was still chuckling when she relieved Beth, who was manning the cash register. ‘Time for coffee,’ she said with a smile, stepping aside to let her pass.
She settled onto the stool behind the counter and let her eyes sweep around the small shop. A harried-looking woman in the children’s section was picking up and putting down game after game with a look of frustration on her face. Just as Diane began to wonder if she should go and offer her some assistance, the woman turned on her heel and left. The only other customer was a well-dressed woman of about her height with a sleek bob that made her automatically smooth a hand over her own hair. She was looking at the books with the air of someone who wasn’t in a hurry, so Diane rested herself back on the high stool in the small cluttered space behind the counter and waited. She let her mind wander, as it so often did, to Emma. What was she was doing right now? How was she settling in? Was she happy? For those three long weeks at the clinic, thoughts of her precious daughter were all that kept her sane. She shook her head slowly. How often people used the words crazy and sane without thinking about what they really meant.
Forcing her brain to concentrate on more mundane things, she made a mental list of things she needed to pick up in the supermarket that afternoon. When the door jingled, she looked up just in time to see that a customer she hadn’t even noticed enter, was now leaving. She shook herself for being so absent-minded, calling a quick goodbye, thank you for calling, as she’d been advised to do by Beth, the door closing before she’d finished the words.
Laughter drifted though from the office. She looked over, wondering if Anne was showing Beth the bondage stuff, smiling as she imagined Beth’s look of horror. Distracted, she didn’t notice the woman with the bob until she was almost at the counter.
‘I’ll take these,’ she said, putting three paperbacks on the counter and reaching into her bag for her purse.
Diane stood to take the books, checked the price on the easy-peel sticker on the front cover and pressed the relevant keys on the register. ‘That’s one pound fifty, please. Would you like a bag?’ she asked with a smile, reaching down to the plastic bin under the counter.
When she didn’t get an answer, she looked up to ask the question again, stopping in surprise when she saw the woman had frozen, staring at her with a look of shocked recognition on her face.
Diane tilted her head, slightly taken aback. ‘Do I know you?’ The woman was her age, maybe a year or two younger. She was almost sure she’d never met her before. But then again, these days, she never seemed very sure of anything.
The woman’s cold grey eyes swept over her, her well-shaped lips turned down in a sneer. She looked as if she wanted to say something but, without a word, she turned and left the shop, leaving Diane stunned and staring after her until she vanished from sight. Perhaps she thought she was someone else? Unsure of what had just happened, and feeling completely on edge, she looked down at the three books still clasped in her hand, and then at the register in bemusement. She’d not been shown how to void a transaction.
In a panic, she fumbled with a few keys, which only served to produce an error message on the screen and a strange sound she’d never heard in her brief training. Frustrated, she pressed another – she had a degree in information technology, for goodness sake, how difficult could it be? But this time, the register emitted a low-pitched whine.
She knew she ought to leave it and explain to Beth when she came back, but would she perhaps quiz her about why the woman had changed her mind? Maybe she’d think it was Diane’s fault, that she wasn’t approachable enough, that she wasn’t right for the job. She knew it was an overreaction, but she couldn’t ignore the sudden cold quiver of failure.
Picking up the books again, she realised with relief that she hadn’t read any of them. The easiest thing to do would be to simply buy them for herself. Reaching down, she pulled her handbag from under the counter and rummaged around inside it for her purse, paid the one pound fifty into the register and put the purse and books into her bag. Job done, no explanations necessary.
Swinging her bag back under the counter, she stared back at the door wondering about the woman’s unsettling behaviour. Perhaps she looked like someone the woman knew? But what had this doppelgänger done to deserve such a reaction? The thought sent a shiver down her spine and suddenly, without warning, the room started to spin around her. She tried to find the stool to sit down, stepping back and turning to reach for it, missing and knocking it over instead. As the edges of her vision faded to black, she knew was going to faint. Her hands flailed as she turned again, reaching for the counter, her hands finding the register, holding on to it, steadying herself before her vison faded completely and her legs gave way. She collapsed, pulling the register with her as she fell, grunting with pain as it landed on her before it rolled onto the floor with a loud crash.
The noise brought the other staff running. Beth and Anne crowded around her, squeezing into the small space to loom over her with anxious faces. Red, the last to arrive, took one look, sized up the situation and moved them back. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked, bending down beside her. ‘What on earth happened?’
Diane took a deep breath. It hurt. She held her arm tightly to her side and struggled to sit up. ‘I’m okay,’ she said, rushing to put their minds at rest. She looked at the register in pieces on the floor beside her. ‘I tripped and fell against it,’ she lied, hearing the catch in her throat. What had come over her? ‘I’m so sorry, it’s destroyed.’
‘Don’t worry about that, for goodness sake,’ Red said, ‘it’s time we got a new one anyway. I’m only concerned about you, you look white as a sheet. Perhaps you should go to hospital?’
Dizzy, confused and mortified, all Diane wanted to do was get out of there. ‘No, I’m fine,’ she said, feeling another pinch of pain in her ribs as she tried to move. If she’d broken a rib there was no point going to hospital, they’d only suggest painkillers. With Red’s help, she managed to get to her feet and leaned against the counter. She still felt uneasy and weak. ‘I think I’ll go home, if that’s okay?’
‘Of course, but are you sure you’ll be okay to drive? Why don’t you wait a bit?’ Red said, continuing to be concerned at her pallor.
Diane shook her head and pushed away from the counter. ‘Honestly, I’m fine. I’ll just get my bag and go.’
‘Don’t bend down, I’ll get it,’ Anne said, squeezing past and ducking down to pull the bag from under the counter. The group fell silent as she lifted it up and held it out for Diane. She hadn’t closed it properly and the books she’d carelessly tossed in were sticking up, the red easy-peel stickers they used to price them, glaringly obvious.
‘I paid for them,’ she said, too quickly. Looking around at their wary faces, she felt her face flush with colour. She could have explained about the woman and her strange behaviour, but it was too late, whatever she said now wouldn’t matter. Grabbing her bag from Anne, she fled the shop as fast as she could without looking back.
By the time she reached her car, her eyes were brimming with unshed tears. She was good at that, at keeping them in until she was somewhere private. Safely
inside the car, she rested her forehead on the steering wheel and let them fall. She cried for a long time, tears of frustration, sadness and disappointment peppering her jeans until each knee was soaked through with her misery. Finally, she sat back and checked the time, swearing softly under her breath when she saw it was almost time to go and collect Emma.
Drying her face with her sleeve, she looked in the rear-view mirror, tears gathering again when she saw the state of her face. Blotchy from crying, streaked with black from the mascara she’d so carefully applied that morning, she was a mess. There wasn’t time to go home first; in desperation, she pulled a tissue from her pocket, spat on it and tried to clean up. She’d pass, she guessed looking in the mirror, as long as nobody looked too closely. The story of my life, she thought with a sigh as she started the engine and headed from the car park, joining the heavy traffic until she could turn off for the nursery, her heart still thumping in her chest.
Finding some sunglasses in the glovebox, she managed to keep her head down as she collected Emma and if anybody noticed anything amiss, they were too polite to say. Emma was her usual bubbly self, chatting away as she drove the short journey home. Listening to her helped put the morning into perspective. It was a volunteer job; she’d ring them tomorrow and say she wasn’t going back. Maybe, in a few months, she’d try something else. Remembering Paul’s remark, she shook her head; she was a long way from getting a proper job.
Back at home, she rummaged in a cupboard for painkillers and took two with a mouthful of water. Making a sandwich for Emma, she sat with her while, between mouthfuls, she chatted about her morning and the other children she played with. What Miss Rogers said about this and that played a large part in her anecdotes. Perhaps Paul was right, she thought, watching her animated face; it was good for her to mix with other children rather than being stuck at home with her.
After lunch, she settled Emma down for a nap, pulling a blanket from the back of the sofa and tucking it around her, looking down on the sleeping child and thanking her lucky stars for her. She felt a lump in her throat. Without her, without her and Paul, she wasn’t sure what she’d do.
She turned away. Emma would sleep solidly for at least an hour, giving her a chance to relax and get some perspective on her day. She made coffee, making it stronger than usual, feeling the need for the extra boost. With a final glance towards the sofa, she opened the door into the hallway, and, leaving it open behind her, went into the lounge.
The brightly coloured family room that stretched across the back of the house was Paul’s favourite space in the house. But the small lounge was hers. She’d loved it from the first day she’d seen it and asked Paul to decorate it in soft pastel shades. ‘You never use it anyway,’ she’d said when he’d argued for brighter colours. ‘I’d like it to be a room where I can come to read.’ He’d conceded, and for a brief moment she’d felt empowered and the room became her place of comfort, somewhere she could relax and be herself.
She stood at the bay window, the coffee mug cupped between her hands, and looked out across the front garden, wondering what she’d plant in the flower beds this year. Last year, she’d gone with pink and white. Maybe yellow this year, she thought before movement on the pathway across the road caught her attention and she looked over, expecting to see a neighbour or a passer-by. But it was neither.
She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. This wasn’t possible. Opening them, she looked across the road, squinting to make out the details. It was her, the woman from the shop, staring directly at her; the same navy coat, the same sleek bob she had admired. It was definitely her.
Disbelief and a sudden choking fear made her jerk back, the mug falling from her hands, hot coffee spilling as it fell. Ignoring it, and swallowing the lump in her throat, she reached for the blind cord with shaking fingers and closed them with a snap. But she didn’t move away. She was imagining it, she had to be. Holding her breath, she lifted one slat and peered through. She was still there.
Backing away, one slow step after another, her foot landed on the handle of the fallen mug and she stumbled, falling back onto the sofa and collapsing into it with a grunt of pain from the jolt to her ribs.
Who on earth was she? What did she want? She felt her stomach lurch and knew she was going to be sick. Stumbling out the open door, she made it to the downstairs toilet just in time, sending all the coffee she’d managed to drink splashing into the toilet bowl.
She stayed a few minutes and then stood and wiped her face with the hand towel, taking it with her as she went back and dropping it onto the puddle of coffee on the floor. The slat she’d raised to look out still sat askew. Stepping closer, she took a steadying breath and squinted through the gap. The woman had gone. She reached out, raised the slat fully and looked up and down the road. Definitely gone. She turned away, heaving a sigh of relief that became a gulp of despair. Everything had gone wrong. Her wonderful new start ruined before it had really begun. And now this. She peered out across the street again. There was nobody there, had there ever been? Fear curled inside. Was this what happened last time? Failure overwhelmed her. She wanted to roll up on the sofa and cry, but a sound from next door told her Emma was awake, she must have disturbed her. ‘I’m coming,’ she called, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her T-shirt, taking deep breaths to try and find some sense of calm. With a final look at the mess on the floor, she shut the door and went to see to her daughter, pasting a smile on her face as she moved.
Emma was still curled up on the sofa.
‘How about I read you a story?’ she asked her, coughing to disguise the thickness in her voice.
‘Yes,’ the sleep-groggy voice replied.
‘Yes, what?’
‘Yes, please,’ Emma said with a grin, scrambling out from under the blanket and throwing her arms around Diane’s legs.
Already choked, she tousled the blond curls. ‘Go get your book, darling,’ she said. ‘Mummy’s just going for a wee.’
By the time she came back, a few minutes later, Emma was sitting with her book open beside her. Diane, her face washed, a smile pinned firmly in place, sat beside her and read the tale of Henry the Hedgehog from cover to cover.
When it was finished, she left Emma looking at the pictures while she went to make herself another coffee, her eyes shutting in dismay when she saw the almost empty milk carton. She’d planned to go shopping after the charity shop. Understandably, she’d forgotten. It was the last thing she wanted to do now, but they couldn’t do without milk. For a moment, she debated ringing Paul to ask him to pick some up on the way home. But that would entail explanations she didn’t want to give. No, she took a deep, shaky breath. She had to go out.
‘Let’s go shopping,’ she said to Emma, who had thrown the book to one side and was sitting on the floor of the family room playing with her toys. She smiled as she dropped her toys and stood without complaint. She was such a well-behaved child; she must be doing something right.
With their coats on and the car keys in her hand, they were ready to go but she hesitated at the front door. ‘Just hang on a second,’ she said and went into the lounge. She took a deep breath and peeped through the blinds. The road was empty. Of course, it was. But, outside, she couldn’t resist a quick look up and down the empty road. Her side ached and she realised lifting Emma into the car was beyond her, so she made a game of it, encouraging her to climb into the car and up into her child seat. Emma, always happy to have a new game to play, was begging to try again as she strapped her in.
As soon as the car started moving and the radio came on, Emma started to sing. Usually, Diane would smile and join in, but today she was too distracted, checking out every woman they drove past, the car slowing and accelerating until, finally, a car that had been behind her for a few minutes honked its horn and overtook. As he passed, he gave her a hand gesture that she had no difficulty in interpreting.
She knew she was being ridiculous. The incident this morning had upset her, but there was nothing mo
re to it. There definitely had been a woman outside her house but she was probably lost or looking to buy one of the houses that were for sale on the street and was just having a look around the neighbourhood. Diane was so stressed that a vague similarity made her think she was the woman from the charity shop. A stupid coincidence, nothing more. Emma was singing the chorus of a nursery rhyme, she joined in and, a few minutes later, had cheered herself up a little.
Pulling into a space at the supermarket, she helped Emma climb down by herself, still enjoying this new game, but when Diane insisted on holding her hand as they walked through the car park, Emma’s mood changed. I don’t need this, she thought, rubbing a hand across her forehead where tension was starting to throb. Honestly, she was getting more stubborn every day. Just like her father.
Diane pointed toward the shopping trolleys. ‘Do you want to sit in the seat?’ She took a deep breath and, using the arm on her uninjured side, managed to get Emma into the seat without causing too much discomfort and her child’s face was suddenly cheerful once more.
As she steered the trolley into the supermarket, she tried to busy herself with her list but couldn’t help herself looking for that navy coat, that sleek bob. She knew she was being irrational, but she couldn’t stop. Her hands were slick on the handle of the trolley, her stomach a tight knot. She looked down at the trusting face of her daughter and forced herself to smile. She was being ridiculous. Crazy. She needed to relax. Was this how it started the last time? With paranoia? Was she having another breakdown? If only she could remember.
Suddenly, she felt soft warm hands on hers and, looking down, saw Emma’s two chubby hands, grounding her. Emma. Three weeks in that clinic, missing her every moment, and months before that where she couldn’t remember being with her. She wasn’t missing out on any more. Taking a deep breath, she smiled down at her. ‘How about we get some ice cream to have later, would you like that?’
The Housewife: A completely addictive and gripping psychological thriller Page 3
