The Housewife: A completely addictive and gripping psychological thriller

by Valerie Keogh

  She took another look at the house when she passed it again but there was nothing to see and no car parked in the driveway to the side. A handsome, late Victorian house. Expensive. She checked out the neighbours as she walked past. The cars in some of the driveways were newish BMWs, top-of-the-range Toyotas and Fords.

  Pleased with how things had turned out, she walked briskly back to her car. It was two thirty. She had almost two hours free before she needed to pick up Emma. With the address burning a hole in her pocket, she headed for home.

  Her laptop was usually under the sofa in the lounge, but she’d taken it upstairs when she’d checked out the nursery and left it under her bed. She took the stairs in twos and, flopping onto the bed, reached underneath to pull it out.

  It took a while to power up. It was old; she’d suggested buying a new one but Paul had laughed, saying it was good enough for the internet shopping she used it for. It was also good enough, it turned out, for investigative work. Within five minutes, and the outlay of a few pounds to the Land Registry, she knew the woman’s name.

  Sophie Redmond.

  Eleven

  Sophie Redmond. It was such an ordinary name. Too ordinary, she realised, doing an internet search and finding hundreds. Taking the laptop downstairs, she made some coffee and sat scrolling through a few, but none of the ones she opened were likely candidates, and there were hundreds more to look through. Tapping her nails on the computer, wondering how she could narrow the search, the time caught her eye.

  ‘Oh no!’ she yelped, jumping up. It was four thirty. She’d fallen into the computer black hole that sucks time away. No matter how fast she drove, she’d never make it to the Metcalf house by four thirty-five. It would have been sensible if she’d taken Rose’s phone number, she could have rung and explained she’d be a little late. But, stupidly, she hadn’t thought of it.

  Dashing out to the car, she started the engine and reversed out onto the road, a car blasting its horn as it swerved out of her way. She sped off up the road, groaning when she saw the flash of a speed camera. How was she going to explain that to Paul? But it didn’t slow her down.

  It was four fifty by the time she pulled into the Metcalf driveway and, as she pulled up outside, the front door opened to a frigid-faced Rose standing with the car seat in one hand, Emma’s bag in the other.

  Diane braced herself for harsh criticism, but Rose merely handed her the seat and bag without saying a word. Turning, she called into the house behind her, ‘Emma, your mother is here, at last.’

  The child skipped toward the doorway, her face a beaming smile.

  Diane looked at the woman gratefully. ‘Some day,’ she said softly, ‘I’ll explain everything to you and I think you’ll understand.’

  Rose closed the door as soon as Emma had crossed the threshold.

  Diane sighed. Maybe she wouldn’t understand, maybe no one would. Taking Emma’s hand, she took one lingering look at the door before turning, getting into the car and driving away.

  At home, she opted to make a cottage pie and, working quickly, she had it in the oven just as she heard the front door open. It would take another ten minutes, at least, to brown.

  Emma, of course, hopped up and ran to greet her father, giving her time to rush over and switch off the TV just as they came into the room, Paul swinging Emma by both arms. ‘Hi,’ she said brightly, plumping up the cushions on the sofa and straightening the throw that was draped over the back before turning to him. ‘Did you have a good day?’

  Paul leaned in to give Diane a kiss on her cheek. ‘I did, but you look a bit frazzled,’ he said, his eyes narrowing as they swept over her. ‘Have you been overdoing it?’

  She ran a hand over her hair and tucked loose strands behind her ears. Pulling the hood of her jacket up and down would have made it a tangled mess, she should have brushed it when she came home. ‘Emma was having such a good time with Tommy that she wanted to stay longer,’ she said, the lie coming easily. ‘I didn’t have the heart to drag her away, so I’ve been rushing. I’m still a bit behind. Dinner will be another fifteen minutes.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ he said, with a shrug, ‘I’ll go and get changed. I’ve some work to do anyway. I’ll come down in fifteen.’

  Emma had run back to the sofa. With the television off, she picked up the doll that Diane had left beside her.

  ‘It’s good that she’s mixing with other kids,’ Paul said, looking at her. ‘Maybe these play dates will become a regular occurrence.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said with a forced smile, turning away before he saw the truth in her eyes. She opened the oven door and peered inside, using the oven mitts to turn the dish around. It wasn’t necessary, but it kept her busy until she heard his footsteps recede. Throwing the mitts on the counter she leaned on it and took a deep breath. Tangled webs, she thought before pushing away and busying herself with setting the table for dinner.

  It was almost twenty-five minutes before the potato was brown and crispy on top. Taking it out, she left it to cool slightly while she called Paul down and settled Emma into her chair.

  Over dinner, Paul quizzed Emma about her afternoon in the Metcalf house but she was tired so, apart from saying that Tommy let her play with his toys, she’d little information to offer. Diane tensed, waiting for his interest to switch to her. How stupid to say she’d had to wait? She hadn’t thought it through because, of course, she’d have had to wait inside.

  ‘So, what’s the house like?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said slowly, gaining seconds to put together an acceptable description of a house whose interior she’d only glimpsed. But she knew what he wanted. To know it wasn’t as nice as theirs. ‘We sat in the kitchen. It has small windows and low ceilings so it’s a bit dark and gloomy. It made me realise how lucky we are with this room and all the light we get.’

  It was the perfect answer; she could see him visibly relax. ‘They should do what I did here,’ he said, waving towards the windows. Talking about the changes he’d made to the run-down house he’d bought was one of his favourite topics of conversation. It required little input from Diane apart from a look of rapt attention and the odd murmur of agreement. She had little appetite and left more than half the small amount she’d served up for herself. This time, unfortunately, Paul noticed.

  ‘You’re not eating properly,’ he said, using his knife to indicate her unfinished dinner.

  She laughed. ‘Well, I was naughty this afternoon,’ she said, wondering at how inventive she’d become. ‘Rose had the most delicious lemon drizzle cake and I pigged out and had two slices.’

  The frown that had appeared between Paul’s eyes faded. ‘Two slices, that was piggery.’

  ‘Well, it is my favourite,’ she said, taking her plate to the kitchen.

  The usual routine followed and, finally, with a sigh she barely kept hidden, she watched as Paul picked Emma up and headed upstairs.

  He wouldn’t be back. Although she half waited, half expected him to, she couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent the evening with her. Not since her return from the clinic, certainly. The first few nights, she’d been so tired she’d gone to bed at the same time as Emma and after that he’d excused himself, saying he had work to do. Now, he didn’t even make an excuse. Was it the same before the clinic? She had no idea. Memories of them sitting together on the sofa, her curled up in his arms, were sepia-tinged in her mind.

  Heaving a weary sigh, she wondered if she should suggest again that he move back into their bedroom. Suddenly, Paul’s face appeared in her mind, a look of derision in his eyes, his mouth a thin line. She blinked, startled. Was that a memory? Her forehead creased as she tried to bring it into focus but, if it were a memory, it faded like warm breath on a cold day. Memory or not, it was enough to make her decide to leave things as they were for the moment.

  His not returning had one major advantage. She could have a glass of wine without fear of censure. A large glass in hand, she curled up on the sofa t
o consider what she’d do about Sophie Redmond. With the limited information she had, she couldn’t think of any way to narrow down an internet search. It left her with the only alternative; to knock on her door and demand an explanation. Sipping her wine, she nodded. It seemed the simplest thing to do. Monday, she’d do it on Monday.

  Tomorrow she was meeting Anne. The thought brought a smile to her face. It would be nice just to sit and chat with another woman. There was something about Anne that reminded her of her mother. They’d been close, and when she’d died, suddenly, fifteen years ago, Diane had been bereft. An only child, she’d moved into Bristol and used money her mother had left her to study information technology which had always fascinated her. Maybe, it was time to get back to it and meet new people? She’d thought she’d make new friends when she came to London, but she hadn’t. Then, when Emma came along, she thought she’d make friends with other parents. She gave a rueful chuckle. That wasn’t exactly turning out so well. Perhaps if she’d been honest with Rose from the beginning? Hindsight, she thought draining her wine, was a wonderful curse.

  She wouldn’t discuss her past or her recent worries with Anne though; she’d learned a valuable lesson from what happened with Rose, new friendships were fragile. She didn’t want to see Anne’s smiling friendly face become worried and cautious. For the moment, she’d keep her problems to herself.

  Twelve

  Diane had passed The Birdcage Café a number of times but had never been inside. It was situated between a bookshop and a delicatessen, the frontage of all three decorated with the same sage green and cream trim.

  Inside, the green and cream theme continued in tartan-covered sofas, soft green blinds on the windows and green floral seat pads on chairs. It was all very pleasing, and Diane felt cosy and relaxed as soon as she walked through the door.

  There was a table free in the square bay window; she took off her coat, sat and perused the menu written on a board above the counter, her eyes boggling when she saw the prices. It had been a while, certainly, since she’d gone out for coffee, but it looked as if prices had doubled since then.

  She checked her watch. Five past eleven. She straightened the sleeve of the burgundy-coloured silk shirt she wore. She wanted to make a good impression on this first social outing. Paul had raised an eyebrow when he saw her. ‘Very nice,’ he’d said simply, making her smile.

  Her eyes flitted toward the door. Maybe Anne had forgotten? At ten past eleven, she began to worry. She had asked her to meet, hadn’t she? She’d not imagined it? She pinched the top of her nose with her thumb and middle finger as tears prickled.

  At eleven twenty, she was just about to leave when Anne appeared, an apologetic look on her face, her mass of hair tied up with a vibrant orange scarf. Tendrils fell down to curl around her face in a way that looked artful but Diane guessed was purely accidental.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ Anne said, pulling out the chair opposite and collapsing into it, dropping a well-worn leather bag on the floor beside her. ‘It was one of those mornings where just everything took longer than I expected.’

  Diane couldn’t help but smile. Honestly, she was just relieved the woman had turned up, that she hadn’t imagined they’d agreed to meet. ‘Sit and relax,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and order. What would you like?’

  ‘Just a black coffee,’ Anne said, taking off her jacket and looking at her gratefully.

  There were a couple of people before her in the queue giving Diane time to wonder about Anne. She’d no idea what she did for a living, if she did anything at all. Perhaps today, over coffee, she could ask.

  The queue was slow-moving, the people in front ordering multiple items that the young woman behind the counter collected one at a time from the room behind. Nobody seemed to be in a hurry, the atmosphere pleasant and relaxed. Eventually, it was her turn and she smiled at the cheerful assistant and said, ‘A large black coffee and a large skinny cappuccino, please.’

  A few minutes later, she returned to the table in the window. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘service is a tad slow.’

  Anne removed both coffees from the tray and reached behind her to put it on an empty table. Turning back, she grinned, added sugar to her coffee, picked it up and took a sip before sitting back with a sigh. ‘Gosh, I needed that,’ she said, looking across the table. ‘You okay?’

  Diane shrugged and picked up her own coffee. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said, between sips, wishing it were true. ‘I’ve applied for a few jobs.’ It was a lie she couldn’t resist; she wanted to sound strong and dynamic. But the lie wouldn’t hold up to further questions so she turned the conversation around and asked, ‘What do you do when you’re not volunteering or meeting people like me for coffee?’

  ‘I write crime novels,’ Anne said. ‘Pretty successfully, actually,’ she added without embarrassment. She sipped her coffee again. ‘That’s why I volunteer. I need to get out of the house and mix with other people. It keeps my ideas fresh.’

  ‘A writer,’ Diane said, impressed but not surprised; she looked the part. ‘Do you write under your own name?’

  ‘Yes, Anne Manners. I’ve written eight novels. After self-publishing the first, I was lucky to get picked up by Red Ribbon Publishers and was able to give up teaching and write full time.’

  ‘Must have been very exciting,’ Diane said, with genuine enthusiasm. ‘I’d love to have something that motivated me that way.’

  Anne tilted her head to one side. ‘You have a daughter, don’t you?’

  With a slight reddening of her cheeks, Diane nodded. ‘She’s wonderful, and watching her grow is the best thing ever.’ She wanted to add that she missed working and mixing with other adults, being intellectually challenged by stimulating conversation, but she didn’t want to sound self-obsessed so, instead, she asked, ‘Do you have children?’

  A toss of tendrils. ‘No children, no husband. And, before you ask, no cats or dogs either.’

  Diane gave a laugh. ‘You never married?’

  Anne shrugged. ‘I’ve had lots of relationships, but nobody special enough to spend the rest of my life with. But,’ she grinned, ‘I haven’t given up hope yet.’ Her grin faded, her face turning serious. ‘How long have you been married?’

  ‘Four years.’

  ‘Have you been together a long time?’

  ‘Four years.’ Diane smiled at the look of surprise on her face. ‘Paul and I got married just two months after meeting. I moved from Bristol to be with him and then I got pregnant almost immediately.’ She remembered feeling as if she were on a roller coaster. Had she fallen off; was that why she’d had her breakdown?

  She could feel Anne’s eyes on her and forced herself to smile.

  ‘And are you okay?’ Anne reached a hand across the table and laid it gently on her arm. ‘Forgive me,’ she said softly, ‘it’s just, sometimes, there is so much sadness in your eyes.’

  Feeling the warmth of her hand through the silk of her blouse, Diane felt suddenly choked with emotion. ‘I’ve had a tough year,’ she said quietly. She hesitated and then added, ‘I’m recovering from…from a sort of breakdown.’

  The hand on her arm tightened. ‘Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.’

  Struggling for composure, Diane nodded before saying quietly, ‘I thought you might know, I told Red.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have shared something private like that.’

  A baby started to wail, startling Diane who immediately looked around, afraid she was imagining it. She was relieved when she saw a young mother frantically jigging a newborn in an effort to calm him. She smiled in sympathy as the mother gave up and took her baby outside to walk up and down outside the shop while her friends continued with their chat. She turned her attention back to Anne. ‘I was in a clinic for a few weeks, but I’m doing fine now.’ Maybe if she told herself this often enough, she’d start to believe it.

  ‘That makes me feel even worse about what happened in the shop.’ Anne frowned, taking her hand away and sitting back. ‘No wonde
r Red was so upset.’

  No wonder I was so upset, Diane wanted to say, but didn’t. ‘Let’s talk about something else,’ she said.

  ‘Of course,’ Anne said quickly. And for the next hour, they chatted about living in London, their favourite restaurants, their favourite movies. Friendship. Diane felt a frisson of pleasure. She’d missed this.

  ‘More coffee?’

  Diane looked at her watch. ‘Gosh, no,’ she said, grabbing her bag and coat. ‘It’s time I was picking up Emma. I’ll have to dash.’

  Anne stood and gathered her belongings. ‘We’ll meet again?’

  ‘Definitely,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’ve really enjoyed this.’

  ‘How about same time next week?’

  Diane’s smile was wide, crinkling up around her eyes. ‘It’s a date.’ She turned and left the café, her feet barely touching the ground as she hurried to her car.

  She was later than usual, pulling into the car park with difficulty as cars were already exiting, holding up traffic on the road until a car flashed her to enter. She gave a wave of thanks and pulled into a parking space.

  The hint of a smile on her lips faded as she got out of the car and looked across the road expecting to see the woman in her usual place. It even crossed her mind to accost her there and then, this Sophie Redmond, whoever she was, but there was no sign of her.

  She turned to look up the road in the direction she’d followed the woman yesterday, expecting to see her walking away. But the path was empty as far as she could see. Unnerved, she looked the other way, still no sign of her. She could feel fear slither down her spine and tried to shake it away. The woman did exist. Her name was Sophie Redmond.