The shout of Mummy brought her attention back to the reception area and Emma’s smiling face and she rushed over to greet her with a hug.
Monday. She’d have her answers then.
Thirteen
Paul usually looked after Emma on Saturday mornings. He’d take her to breakfast and then to the park or to London zoo, where annual membership allowed them to visit as often as they wanted. He liked to feel they got value for their money, so they went at least twice a month.
Diane, who wasn’t keen on the concept of keeping wild animals behind bars, was quite happy to be excluded and waved them off with a sigh of relief. She loved spending time with Emma, but it was so much easier to get housework and shopping done when she wasn’t with her, especially times like this morning when she had to visit a number of different shops. She’d struggled to stay on top of things since the clinic; today she was determined to catch up.
The one job she wanted to get over with first, the one she’d been putting off, was a visit to the dry-cleaner. There was only one in the area and it was in the same shopping centre as the charity shop. In fact, it was in the same row of shops, separated from it by the local branch of a bank that was destined to be closed.
The dry-cleaner opened at nine thirty, at which time she hoped Red would be busy inside the charity shop which opened on the dot of nine. Diane parked her car and approached from the opposite direction, two of Paul’s suits draped over her arm. She hadn’t realised she was holding her breath until she got inside.
The man behind the counter unfolded the two suits and looked them over with a practised eye, searching for stains, damage or missing buttons. Satisfied, he picked them up and folded the jackets and trousers separately.
‘Do you want to pay now or when you collect?’ he asked, writing out a docket.
‘On collection,’ Diane said, wanting to get away as quickly as possible. She took the docket and turned to leave, checking it automatically as she moved, her hand reaching for the door handle to open it before realising it was already being opened by someone on the other side.
There was a moment when neither she nor the red-headed woman on the other side of the door moved, their hands both on the door handle, eyes locked on each other, neither blinking. Finally, Red removed her hand and stood back.
Diane didn’t have any choice. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open and faced Red, who stood outside with several garments hanging awkwardly over one arm. ‘Hi,’ she said, hoping to brush by without another word.
‘Please,’ Red said, extending her free hand towards her, ‘wait a minute till I get rid of these so we can talk.’
Diane met her eyes and nodded, watching through the window while she handed over the clothes to be cleaned and tucked the docket into the back pocket of her jeans. Her lips were moving; she wondered if she were rehearsing what to say.
As soon as she was through the door, Red blurted out, ‘I am so sorry, Diane, for the way I treated you.’
She saw the genuine remorse on her face. ‘Anne told me,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we should just forget about it.’
One side of Red’s glossy red lips crooked in a smile. ‘I don’t suppose you’d consider coming back?’
Diane had been happy for the short time she’d been in the shop, but knew she couldn’t go back. She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so.’
Red sighed, as if this was the answer she expected. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call around and apologise in person,’ she said, ‘but when Anne said she knew where you lived and was going to call on you, I thought it was best to leave it to her.’
A group of teenagers drifted toward them. Self-absorbed and very vocal, they walked around and between the two women as if they didn’t exist, drowning them, just for a moment, in their conversation.
Diane needed to get away, to think about what Red had just said. ‘I have to go,’ she said abruptly, turning and walking away, raising a hand in acknowledgement as she heard a goodbye drift over her shoulder. Something was very wrong; lies blinded her, words were smudging the truth, confusing her. She wasn’t sure what was real any more, what and whom to believe.
She felt tears burn as she made her way across the car park to her car, opening the door and almost falling into the seat. Leaning her head on the steering wheel for a moment, she swallowed and took deep breaths, then sat back and rubbed the corners of her eyes, careful not to smudge the mascara she had applied just hours before. Trembling, she rested a hand on her forehead to think.
According to Red, Anne had known where she lived.
But Anne had said she’d got her address from Red.
One of them was lying.
Neither had a reason to. Did they? Frowning, she couldn’t think of one. And, anyway, did it matter?
Yes, she decided, biting her lower lip. It did. People didn’t lie for no reason.
Her meeting with Red had been purely accidental; she couldn’t have known that Diane would choose that morning to visit the dry-cleaner. But Anne had called to her home, had met her for coffee. She groaned and shut her eyes. She’d been so pleased to have a female friend to meet up with, she’d been overly chatty, answering any question she’d been asked. Thinking back, she couldn’t recollect all of them. What exactly had she given away? And what had she learned in exchange? That Anne lived alone and wrote novels. That was it.
She felt the first stirrings of anger, something uncoiling deep inside. It was time to put an end to this. Being stalked and lied to, she’d had just about enough.
Fourteen
She stopped at the supermarket on her way home, relieved that Paul and Emma were still out when she returned. Unpacking the boot, she brought the bags inside and left them on the kitchen floor; she took out the frozen items, put them away and left the rest. She needed a cup of tea before she finished.
The kettle on, she sat to wait for it to boil, enjoying a rare moment of quiet in an empty house. Then she heard something, a cry so soft she almost missed it, lost as it was in the hiss and gurgle of the kettle. Getting up, she switched the power off, tilted her head and listened. There it was again; the unmistakable sound of a baby crying.
She moved into the hallway and waited for it to come again, hoping to pinpoint it to a place. Maybe it came from outside? A neighbour, or a mother passing with a loud, noisy baby? Opening the front door, she looked out. But the road was empty.
When the heartbreaking wail came again, she shut the door and leaned against it, clamping her hands tightly over her ears but unable to shut the gut-wrenching sound out. It seemed to weaken her to her core. Unable to move away, held frozen by the sound, she slid down the door to the floor, her eyes tightly shut. That’s when she knew, without a doubt, something was happening to her. Something terrifying and completely out of her control. She must be going slowly, quietly mad.
She was still there over an hour later when she heard the sound of a car pulling up outside. Scrambling to her feet, she ran trembling hands over her face and shot into the family room to take a quick glance in the mirror that hung behind the sofa. ‘Normal,’ she whispered to herself; a word that had suddenly lost all meaning.
She headed into the kitchen when she heard the front door open and busied herself with unpacking the remaining groceries. Emma came flying in, her voice high-pitched with excitement, Paul following a few steps behind.
‘Hi!’ she called out, from behind the open door of a cupboard. ‘Did you have a nice day?’
‘Yes, we did,’ Paul said, picking up the kettle and shaking it before switching it on. ‘The zoo was packed though. You just in?’
She looked around the cupboard door at him. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘just in.’ She bent to take a packet of cereal from the bag at her feet and buried herself back in the cupboard. By the time she’d finished, he’d made his coffee and taken it back to the sofa to work his way through the newspaper, one section at a time, never skipping a page or reading them out of order. When he finished, she knew, th
e newspaper would be as crisp and tidy as when he’d started.
In the short time before they married, they’d been amused by their differences, attracted to traits that were so alien, so opposite to their own. He’d laughed at the coffee stains she left on the newspapers and the clothes she’d left lying about, she’d mocked his ordered and tidy habits, his insistence on a place for everything and everything in its place. Now, she sighed, they were just differences they’d learned to deal with.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the back garden, she could see that the breeze had picked up. Feeling guilty, she thought of the dirty laundry spilling out of the laundry baskets upstairs. She should have done a wash and hung it on the line before she went out. If she had, it would be almost dry by now.
Without a word to Paul, she left the room, closing the door softly after her. In the hallway, she hesitated at the staircase and moved back to the door of the lounge. Almost hesitantly, she laid one hand flat on it, the white painted surface cool under her hand, and there it was, the same flicker of fear. She backed away.
Her step was heavy as she headed upstairs. In the bathroom, she sat on the edge of the bath and swallowed the self-pity that was choking her. There were possibly tablets that would help without making her so withdrawn. It was worth asking. But not yet. Everything had started with Sophie Redmond; maybe meeting her would bring it to an end. She had to try before giving in.
She blinked. Why had she come upstairs? It took a few seconds to remember, and with a sigh she grabbed the heavy laundry bag and took it downstairs. Separating the laundry automatically into whites and coloured, she filled the machine, added powder and switched it on. She’d do the rest later, or tomorrow. Sometime.
A glance at the clock told her it was time to start dinner. Fish pie. She’d bought all the ingredients, hadn’t she? She looked in the fridge and breathed a sigh of relief. Thirty minutes later, it was in the oven. ‘It’ll be ready in twenty minutes,’ she said, laying the table. A baby’s cry startled her. It was higher pitched and louder than before. ‘Did you hear that?’ she said, the words out before she could stop herself.
Paul looked up from the newspaper, irritated. ‘What?’
Diane swung around. ‘It sounded like a baby crying.’
‘Cats,’ Paul said dismissively, returning to the paper.
She blinked, feeling incredibly stupid. Of course. Cats, or kittens maybe, their mewling could sound just like a baby crying. It made sense; she’d chased stray cats from the garden several times over the years. Why hadn’t she thought of it? Sometimes, the answers to problems were simple. She had to keep that in mind.
Fifteen
On Monday she woke early after a restless night where her stalker materialised as a zombie, with body parts falling off as Diane chased her down the street. She was too anxious and too tense to see the funny side, her nerves jangling as she woke Emma, helped her wash and dress and sent her downstairs. Paul was already rattling around in the kitchen; if she didn’t appear after a little while he’d begrudgingly give Emma her breakfast.
She applied make-up a little heavier than usual and left her hair loose, fluffing it around her face hoping to disguise a noticeable gauntness in her cheeks. Wanting to feel mature and professional, she took navy trousers and a pale blue shirt from her wardrobe.
Dressed, she looked at her reflection. Boring, she thought, fluffing her hair some more and thinking of Anne’s bohemian style with a tinge of envy. It wasn’t something she could carry off, she told herself as she finished buttoning her shirt, and besides, she might be conservative, but at least she was honest. Anne’s lie still cut her deeply.
Emma had almost finished her cornflakes by the time she went downstairs.
Paul looked up in concern. ‘Are you feeling all right? You’re looking very pale.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, keeping her voice low and soft. ‘I woke with a splitting headache and getting Emma ready was as much as I could manage. I knew you wouldn’t mind giving her breakfast.’
‘Of course not,’ he said immediately. ‘Poor you. Would you like me to take Emma to nursery?’
It was the second time he’d offered recently. It was kind, but she worried that he thought she wasn’t coping. ‘No, but thanks,’ she said, ‘I’ve taken some pills, it’s already easing. A cup of tea and I’ll be fine.’
She felt a little guilty as he insisted she sit while he boiled the kettle and made her tea and toast, putting it in front of her with an assessing look. ‘You do look pretty ghastly,’ he said, ‘are you sure you’ll be okay? Why don’t you ring the shop, say you’re not feeling well?’
Lies and their ramifications, she thought, giving him a smile of reassurance. She never used to lie so much. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said, picking up a piece of toast and hoping that was the truth.
Moments later, he pressed his lips to her cheek, gave Emma a hug and left. Diane threw the barely nibbled toast onto the plate and pushed it away. She picked up her tea and sipped it, restlessly glancing at the clock. It was too soon to leave.
‘Finish your milk, darling,’ she told Emma, who was playing with her spoon, tapping it on the bottom of the empty bowl. ‘Would you like some more cereal?’
Blond curls danced as Emma shook her head. Putting down the spoon, she picked up the glass of milk in both hands and drank deeply before placing it carefully on the counter. She grinned at Diane, a moustache of milk above her top lip.
Smiling back at her, Diane left her to finish it while she tidied up and organised everything for the day, putting a snack and a drink into her small bag, fetching their coats, grabbing her bag and keys.
Opening the front door, she automatically glanced up and down the road. It was, as usual, drearily quiet. Apart from Mrs Prescott, she couldn’t remember when she’d last seen someone on the street. When she’d moved here, she’d hoped there’d be some community spirit, but the neighbours tended to keep to themselves and, as far as she knew, there were none with young children. When she mentioned it to Paul, he told her she’d get used to it, that she was in London now, not Bristol.
He was wrong, of course. Reading online London magazines, it didn’t take her long to discover that there were many parts of the city with a strong community feeling. Just not here. She guessed it wouldn’t have been high on Paul’s list of priorities when he’d bought the house. A suggestion that they move to a more family friendly area after Emma was born was met with reluctance. He liked the area, and loved the house. ‘We won’t get anywhere better,’ he’d said, ‘you’ll soon get used to it.’
She hadn’t but she didn’t mention moving again.
She pulled out of their drive into the line of traffic, Emma babbling away happily in the back. Outside the nursery, there was the usual chaos of cars pulling in and out. She waited and pulled in in turn, parking in the first space she spotted.
‘Okay,’ she said, undoing Emma’s seatbelt. ‘I’ll see you later.’ Bending, she hugged her daughter to her for a moment. ‘Love you, my darling,’ she said, pressing her lips to her head.
‘Love you too, Mummy,’ Emma beamed before scampering down from the seat.
Diane walked over with her and stayed waving as she and her classmates filed inside. From the corner of her eye, she could see Rose Metcalf looking over at her but when she turned, the woman quickly looked away.
With a shrug, she returned to her car and sat inside. It was just after nine fifteen. Would Sophie Redmond be at home? If she worked, she’d possibly have left by now, but Diane didn’t think she did. What kind of job could she have that would enable her to pop up at all times of the day?
She’d be at home, Diane was sure of it. In an hour, she’d have this business sorted out, once and for all. Optimism. It was time she had some of that.
With traffic being heavy, it took her longer than she expected to drive to the house. She passed it by, darting a quick look to see if there was any sign of life. There was, of course, nothing to s
ee. There was also, she realised to her annoyance, nowhere to park and she tutted with annoyance as she was forced to go further and further away, finally finding a space and pulling in.
It took ten minutes to walk back to the house. A long street of identical houses, Sophie Redmond’s was almost the last before a T-junction. As she got nearer, Diane could feel her heart thumping. She wiped clammy hands on her trousers and swallowed, her mouth uncomfortably dry, her tongue feeling overlarge. She hadn’t rehearsed what to say. There wasn’t much to say until she got the answer to the question: Why?
Her pace slowed as she approached the house, hands now curling into fists so tight that her nails were close to piercing skin. She felt the pain, almost relishing it as proof that she wasn’t dreaming all of this.
The houses were fronted by small gardens surrounded by iron railings. At one time, she guessed, they’d have had iron gates too, but many of these were now either missing or had been replaced. She couldn’t stall any longer and, stopping outside Sophie Redmond’s house, she unlatched the original iron gate and pushed it open. She left it open; she had absolutely no idea what the next few minutes were going to bring; a quick exit might very well be required.
The garden was a neat and tidy rectangle of grass. There were no flowers but no weeds either. The dark green front door was imposingly dressed with a brass letterbox dead centre and a brass doorbell set to one side. On one side of the doorstep, looking oddly lopsided, a terracotta pot held a sad-looking bay tree.
Diane lifted her hand to ring the bell. It was trembling, she noticed, as if it were someone else’s hand. She dropped it, took a deep breath and raised it again, extending her index finger to press the bell before she had a chance to change her mind.
The Housewife: A completely addictive and gripping psychological thriller Page 9
