She carried her back into the family room, put her down on the sofa and sat beside her. ‘I’ll read you a story, shall I?’ she asked, reaching out for the remote and switching off the TV.
‘Ooh yes, please,’ Emma said, sliding from the sofa and toddling over to the bookshelf where she pulled out a book and brought it back. Diane grinned when she took it from her. A story of princesses and magical creatures, it was Emma’s favourite and she invariably chose it. There was time and plenty to explore the wider literary world, she thought, as Emma snuggled beside her to hear it read for what must be the one hundredth time. She opened the book and read the first four magical words, Once upon a time…
She dreaded Paul’s return, but when he did there was no mention of the early afternoon’s drama. She was pleased, but not really surprised. Since her return from the clinic, she noticed he didn’t challenge her about anything. Truth be told, they didn’t talk much at all. Once more, she debated telling him everything, but she saw a weariness on his face that was new, her heart breaking as she realised she was the cause.
It made her all the more determined not to tell him her worries. She’d give herself this week to sort things out; it hadn’t been a good start, but there were a few days left.
She waited until he’d gone upstairs with Emma almost asleep in his arms and stood listening in the hallway as he moved around. Then she heard the quiet click as the door to his office was opened and closed. With a sigh of relief, she opened the fridge, took the bottle of wine and brought it and a glass back to the sofa with her.
Switching off the TV, she poured the wine and sat back. What a goddamn awful day, she thought, taking a mouthful of wine.
The first glass was followed by a second.
The day had been an unmitigated disaster. She sipped her wine, trying to relax but there were too many thoughts chasing their tails in her head. One in particular, more terrifying than them all, was that this was all in her mind and she was heading for a breakdown. How long would she need to spend in the clinic this time? Weeks? Months?
Then she thought of Anne’s lie. If she was imagining some things, she wasn’t imagining that. Why had she lied? Perhaps she should concentrate on that, on the one thing she knew was real. Friday’s arrangement seemed a long time away. She supposed she could ring and ask her to meet earlier. Considering the idea for a moment, she shook her head. What was that phrase they used in the military? Ah yes, she needed to regroup. She needed a period of calm where everything went as it should, the way it used to. Days where she could concentrate on being the perfect wife and mother, stock the cupboards, get the laundry finished, do some ironing. By Friday, if no other disasters occurred, if nothing else happened to unsettle her, she’d have regained some equilibrium.
Swirling the wine in her glass, she thought about the strange sensation in the lounge. If she were imagining the woman and the cry, was she also imagining that? Taking her glass with her, she opened the door into the hall, holding her breath as she took the few steps to the lounge. Her heart beat a loud tattoo as she laid a hand flat against the door and let her breath out slowly. With the fingers of her other hand almost crushingly tight on the stem of the wine glass, she lifted it to her mouth and took a sip.
There was nothing wrong here.
Sliding her hand across to the door knob, she gripped it tightly, turned it, and then, very slowly, eyes wide, heart still beating out its rhythmic drumbeat, she opened the door and stepped inside.
There was nothing here to frighten her, she thought, reaching for the light switch but, then it came, a feeling of intense fear that erupted from her core to send her staggering. The glass fell from her hand, shattering as it struck the doorknob on its way to the floor, sending glass and wine flying. She turned to hang onto the door frame, legs barely holding her up, and bit her lower lip to stop the sob escaping.
Oh God, please don’t let Paul have heard.
She stood there without moving for several minutes, praying he wouldn’t come down to investigate. When he didn’t, when she knew it was safe, she pushed away from the door and made her way on unsteady feet back into the family room and shut the door.
In the kitchen, she took out another glass and brought it back to the sofa. Without sitting, she picked up the bottle, filled the glass and drained it in two long gulps before collapsing onto the sofa, the glass dropping from her hand to land with a soft clunk on the rug.
It was a long time before she moved and when she did it was to bury her face in her cupped hands. She tried to think but the wine had fuzzed her head. There was something at the edge of her mind…something. The more she clutched at it, the further away it bounced and even when she managed to catch it, it didn’t really make sense. Everything began after she’d seen the woman in the charity shop. So, the woman, the cry, her fear of the lounge, were they linked in some strange way? Or was it the alcohol blurring her mind, making the impossible vaguely probable?
She thought of the days and weeks where there were huge gaps in her memory and squeezed her eyes shut tightly. Were they linked in some bizarre way to something that had happened during one of those gaps? If only she could remember, maybe everything would make sense. A shiver ran through her. Perhaps, whatever it was, it was so bad that her mind preferred to have a relapse rather than having to deal with it.
She picked the glass up from the floor, put it on the table and grabbed the bottle. It was empty. She consoled herself by thinking it hadn’t been full to start with, she’d had a glass from it the night before. Carefully, she stood, took the glass to the kitchen, rinsed it, dried it and put it away. The bottle went into a cupboard with the rest of the empties gathered over months. She’d get rid of them tomorrow.
The smashed glass in the lounge could stay there until the next day but, even with her brain befuddled, she was concerned that the smell of spilt wine might drift into the hallway and draw Paul’s attention in the morning. Reluctantly, with a roll of kitchen towel in her hand, she went back to mop it up. At the doorway, she took a deep breath and went in but, despite alcohol- induced courage, her eyes darted around anxiously and she chewed her lip. She focused on the spill, using reams of paper to wipe it up as quickly as she could. Finally, she sprayed some neutraliser spray into the room and closed the door. Switching off lights, she headed upstairs, holding on tightly to the banisters. Overcompensating for her unsteadiness, she placed each foot carefully, swaying dangerously when she was almost on the top step.
In her bedroom, she stripped, dropped the clothes where she stood, climbed into bed and pulled the duvet up, then pulled it higher as a flicker of fear uncurled. What if, this time, it was much worse? What if, this time, she never got out of the clinic? Pulling the duvet over her head, shutting the world out, she shivered.
Eighteen
She felt wretched when she woke; head thumping, stomach nauseous. She swallowed two painkillers, gulped down some water and hoped they’d make a difference.
Downstairs, she fixed Emma’s breakfast, putting a bowl of cornflakes and a glass of milk in front of her, forcing herself to sound bright and cheerful. She wasn’t sure she was fooling Paul.
‘What are you doing today?’ he asked, slipping on the jacket he’d left on the back of the chair.
‘Just the usual,’ she said, ‘the charity shop and picking up Emma. Nothing else planned.’ She held a hand toward him, waiting until he caught it before continuing. ‘Don’t worry, I slept really well last night and won’t be coming home for a rest. There’ll be no problems. I promise.’
As he dropped her hand and turned to go, she added, ‘I thought I’d take Susan Power some flowers as an apology, what do you think?’
‘That would be nice,’ he said, giving her a kiss on her cheek before picking Emma up and giving her one on the top of her head. ‘Goodbye, princess,’ he said, putting her back into her seat.
When he’d gone, Diane left Emma to finish her breakfast and went to sweep up the broken glass in the lounge.
&nbs
p; With a dustpan and brush in her hand, she stood at the door without opening it for several minutes. It would be nice to get this done but she was conscious of the time constraints. It definitely wouldn’t do to be late to nursery today.
Taking a steadying breath, she opened the door, looking around the room before stepping slowly over the threshold. Almost immediately, she felt her heart rate increase and beads of sweat forming on her forehead as her body was consumed by absolute and inexplicable dread.
She thought it would only take a few seconds but, looking around, she groaned. The glass had smashed into smithereens and there were pieces everywhere. Backing up, she shut the door. It was, definitely, a job for later.
There was no sign of the manager when she arrived at the nursery but that wasn’t out of the ordinary. She greeted the teacher, kissed Emma goodbye and returned to her car, exhausted already by the effort of appearing normal. The thought worried her. Was that what she was doing? Trying to appear normal?
She dropped her head back against the headrest for a few seconds, conscious of the other parent’s mulling around the car park. She didn’t need someone coming over to ask if she was all right. Didn’t need to give them more ammunition than she’d already done.
Starting the engine, she left the car park and headed home.
There was no point in delaying the inevitable so, with reluctance, she picked up the dustpan and brush and headed back to deal with the glass. Apart from the glass, the room looked the same as it always had. It was her response to it that had changed, her heart already thumping, perspiration trickling down her back.
It took a few minutes to sweep up the glass. The feeling of terror had settled into an old friend by the time she’d finished. It didn’t get worse, or go away, it was just there, a sinking sensation that made her feel nauseous. From being her sanctuary, a room where she could chill, it had become a place of conflict, and she’d no idea why.
With the glass swept up, she closed the door behind her, emptied it into the utility room bin and then sat, wearily. She’d had too much to drink the night before, but one thought stood out. She’d decided that everything that was happening was connected in some way. This morning, her head clearer, she wondered if she’d been right.
She still believed the woman was the key to it all. She just had to find her.
On Friday she’d sort out the lie Anne had told. At least, she hoped she could; that there was a simple explanation she could believe. If there were, if they continued their budding friendship, maybe she could enlist her help. Perhaps she’d even take Emma for a few hours so she could follow the woman again.
If she followed her to the same house, it would be proof that Sophie Redmond had lied. That she was in on it all.
As that thought crossed her mind, her eyes opened in disbelief. Did she really believe there was a big conspiracy against her? Why, for goodness sake?
But she gave it some thought. Because of something she had done during those days and hours she’d forgotten? She groaned. Perhaps she was drifting down the avenues of paranoia because, even to her, her reasoning sounded crazy. What could she possibly have done?
It made more sense if she could believe she’d made a mistake and had followed the wrong woman. Or that her stalker was visiting the older woman.
She frowned. Was that it?
What was it the policeman had said to her? That Mrs Redmond had recently spent a long time in hospital? Yes, that was it. So maybe, just maybe, she had someone going in to care for her; a district nurse or social worker. Any one of a number of people could be calling on a vulnerable older woman just out of hospital.
Diane’s face brightened. It would also explain why the woman was able to appear at all times of the day. Because she was out and about, not chained to an office desk. It made sense. But it also made it very difficult to find out where she lived; she could be calling to several houses during the course of her working day. If she’d ever any hope of solving this mystery, she needed to be free to follow her, and that meant finding someone to take Emma for the afternoon.
Rose Metcalf? If she went around and explained that she was desperate? She pictured the woman’s face, the derision. No, that wasn’t an option. Anne? No, until she sorted out that lie, she couldn’t trust her.
There was another possibility, of course. A babysitting service. She’d never used one, Paul didn’t approve of leaving their child with strangers. Well, it was all right for him, she sniffed, he had her.
Returning to the family room, she pulled out her laptop and switched it on. There must be dozens of babysitting services in the area. After doing a search, she sat back. Not dozens, no, but there were three. She looked into each, finally deciding on one that looked to be the best, Unicorn Care Services. It was, of course, also the most expensive. She’d have to find a way of paying for it without Paul knowing.
Wanting to sort out the situation with Anne first, she decided to wait until the following week. She sent Unicorn Care Services an email telling them what she needed. Someone to pick up Emma from school on Monday, take her home and stay with her until she arrived back. Frowning, she realised it meant getting a spare front door key cut. She knew Paul had one, but she had no idea where he kept it and couldn’t come up with a good enough reason for asking for it.
There was a shop that cut keys in the shopping centre near the charity shop. Reluctant as she was to go near it, she couldn’t think of anywhere else. A quick online search showed the next was several miles away.
She had time to go and get that done now; it would be one thing sorted. There was a bottle bank in the car park too, so she could take the empties that were accumulating in the kitchen cupboard.
Fetching a strong canvas bag, she opened the cupboard and began to load the bag. Far more empty wine bottles than she’d anticipated, counting ten as she squeezed the last bottle in. A distant memory of her mother saying, it’s rude to count, came to her down memory alley, making her smile. Her mother, dead now fifteen years, had lived by maxims like it. As she closed the cupboard and lifted the bag to take it to the car, she acknowledged that her mother hadn’t been referring to empty wine bottles.
The bag was heavy, rattling as she walked to the car. She needed to put it down to open the boot, the bottles shifting and rattling as the bag sagged on the ground and then again when she picked them up and put them in the boot. It was as if they were warning her that she was drinking too much. She sighed and closed the door; they were right, she was.
At the shopping centre she kept her head down as she walked to the shop to get the key cut.
‘It’ll be ready in twenty minutes,’ the man behind the desk said, taking it with a nod. He made out a numbered docket, attached half to the key and handed the other half to her.
Diane hadn’t expected to have to wait that long. She checked her watch. There was plenty of time, but she didn’t really want to hang around there. ‘You couldn’t do them straight away, could you?’ she asked, thinking nothing ventured, nothing gained. It was an expression her mother used often. She wondered why she was coming into her head so much the last couple of days. She’d been the salt-of-the earth type, widowed when Diane was only five, bringing her only child up with lots of love and lashings of common sense. She could have done with her now, she thought with a pang.
‘Afraid not,’ the key cutter said, without any semblance of apology. ‘It’ll be twenty minutes, at the earliest.’
‘Okay,’ she said, with a quick smile. ‘I’ll be back then.’
Returning to her car, she lifted the bag from the boot and carried it to the bottle bank, separating the green, brown and white bottles and dropping them into their respective holes. She remembered Beth, in the charity shop, telling her that when the lorry came to pick them up, they were all emptied into the same place and smiled sadly. She’d enjoyed her stories.
Her eyes drifted across to the centre. You couldn’t see the charity shop from where she stood but she imagined it; Beth chatting, Red si
tting in her office, maybe Anne going through donations, laughing at something she’d found. Her lips curved into a smile as she thought of the box of bondage stuff before she shook her head and looked away.
She went back to her car, throwing the empty canvas bag into the footwell of the passenger seat. There was another twelve minutes to wait. She could go and have coffee but was afraid of meeting Red or any of the other volunteers. Perhaps she could get a takeaway coffee and a magazine to pass the time, but there was still a risk of bumping into one or other of them. Instead, she switched on the radio and resigned herself to waiting where she was.
With one minute to go, she climbed out and headed back to the shop, hoping they’d be ready.
She was in luck, the man looked up as the door opened and gave her a nod and a smile. ‘Just done,’ he said, polishing a key and putting it on the counter. ‘There you go.’ He placed the original key beside it. ‘I’d advise you to try it when you get home,’ he said. ‘It should be okay but if it catches at all, just bring it back and I’ll give it another rub.’
Diane picked the new key up and looked at it. It looked perfect. ‘Thanks,’ she said, handing over the money.
Putting the original key back on her key ring, she put the new one in her pocket and headed back to the car. It was time she headed for the nursery. She’d sat back into the car when she remembered she’d told Paul she’d bring flowers for Susan. Damn it, she could have got them while she was waiting. With only a few minutes to spare now, she considered forgetting about it. But she knew he would ask, and she’d told enough lies lately.
Dashing back to the supermarket, she picked up three bunches of flowers willy-nilly and took them to the self-scan checkout to pay.
‘Would you like those gift-wrapped?’ a hovering assistant asked with a smile.
The Housewife: A completely addictive and gripping psychological thriller Page 11
