Yes, if she’d come in ten minutes before instead of sitting in her car doing nothing, she thought, annoyed with herself. ‘No thanks,’ she said, taking her change from the slot and putting it in her purse. The three bunches dripped water as she rushed from the shop.
Back in the car, she shoved them into the canvas bag. When she mentioned flowers to Paul that morning, she’d planned to buy a proper bouquet of flowers, arrive early, find Mrs Power and present them to her with another apology. Now, however, she’d only minutes to spare before Emma would be out. She’d just hand the lot to the receptionist and ask her to hand them to the manager with her apologies.
Not nearly as good, but it would have to do.
She should have put a plastic bag around the bottom of the flowers, of course, because the canvas bag had simply soaked up the water. It wasn’t precisely dripping, but the large dark circle proclaiming it was wet shrieked that she’d not really made much effort.
She looked at it in dismay and then took it and headed into the school just as the main doors opened. Waving to Emma’s teacher, she pointed toward the reception desk, squeezing her way past and stopping in front of the desk, the disreputable bag in one hand.
Debbie looked up, her default forbidding expression softening when she saw Diane. ‘Good morning, Mrs Andrews,’ she said, an unusually sympathetic look in her eyes.
Wondering how much she knew about what had happened the previous day, Diane pasted on a smile. ‘Could you give these to Mrs Power for me, please,’ she said, handing the bag over the desk. Unfortunately, the canvas bag chose that moment to reach its maximum soakage and a large drop fell from it onto the pile of papers on the desk.
Diane watched in horror as another gathered. She moved the bag away but wasn’t quick enough and the drop fell onto the computer keyboard.
There was a moment’s melee with both reaching to brush off the drop, hands clashing, sounds of dismay from Diane, of annoyed disbelief from the receptionist who dabbed at it with a wad of tissues she pulled from a box. ‘For goodness sake,’ she muttered, turning her attention to the paperwork where the drop had formed a wet patch out of all proportion to its size.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Diane said, her face a picture of consternation.
The wet canvas bag still hung from one hand. She hovered for a moment, but at a sharp glance from the receptionist who was peeling the wet pages apart, she shrugged and backed away a step. She turned to see where Emma was, her vision blurring as tears gathered.
Unfortunately, it was Rose Metcalf who first caught her eye, a look of disapproval on her face. She’d obviously seen the whole ridiculous episode. Gripping the bag tighter, Diane moved to where Emma was chatting to children whose names she didn’t know, just grateful that Rose’s Tommy wasn’t one of them.
‘Hi, sweetie,’ she said, taking her hand. Looking neither right nor left, she left the area, Emma’s hand in one of hers, the other still clutching the dripping canvas bag.
Once Emma was strapped into her seat, she threw the bag into the boot. She’d throw the lot into a rubbish bin somewhere. At least, she thought, when Paul asks, she could say, hand on heart, that she did buy the woman some blasted flowers.
Starting the engine, she fastened her seatbelt, and only then did she look across the road. She was there, standing across the street, staring.
It was hard to make out her expression, and it was probably Diane’s imagination, but she was sure she was laughing.
Nineteen
Determined to be ready for Monday, on Thursday she wrote out a notification for the nursery and delivered it in person to the receptionist when she went to pick up Emma. ‘I’m sorry about the mess I made, Debbie,’ she said first with an apologetic smile.
‘It was just one of those things,’ the receptionist said. ‘I’m sorry too that I was so uptight about it. I’d had a tough day and it was the proverbial straw.’ She never mentioned the flowers, neither did Diane. Paul had asked, of course, and she had told him she’d bought her three bunches and delivered them with profuse apologies.
It wasn’t a complete lie. She was getting good at fudging the truth.
‘On Monday Emma will be picked up by a lady called Milly Anderson,’ Diane said, handing over the slip. ‘Just on Monday, the other days it will be me as usual.’
The sheet of paper was taken and checked before she received a smile of acknowledgment. ‘That’s fine,’ Debbie said. ‘I’ll let Miss Rogers know.’
‘Thank you,’ she said and then went to collect Emma, holding her hand tightly as they headed across the car park.
She ran a weary hand over her face and sat in the driver’s seat. She looked across the street expecting to see her standing there but, this time, the road was empty.
‘There’s a funny smell,’ Emma said, crinkling up her nose
Diane started the engine. There was a funny smell, and she knew what it was. She’d left the flowers in the boot and the weather had been warm for the last couple of days.
Back at home, she settled Emma with a glass of milk and a sandwich and went back to the car with a black rubbish bag in her hand. Opening the boot, she reached in and took out the canvas bag. The flowers had wilted, their stems enclosed in plastic and, still damp, had turned into a gloopy mess. She bundled it all into the black bag, tied the top tightly and dropped it into the rubbish bin, pushing it down as far as she could.
The erratic nature of the woman’s appearances and the sound of the cry were beginning to take its toll. She was restless the rest of the afternoon, almost expecting something to happen. Hugging Emma, she derived pleasure and comfort from her warmth. With her curled up in the crook of her arm, she read book after book and when Emma became bored with being read to, she switched on the TV, happy to watch children’s programmes with her…anything as long as she didn’t move away. Finally, though, it was Diane who had to move to make dinner. She didn’t have the heart to turn the TV off and Emma was still glued to it when Paul came home.
‘I thought we’d agreed not to allow her to watch television during the afternoon,’ he said, picking up the remote and switching it off.
Normally, she’d have made up some explanation. Today, she ignored him and concentrated on stirring the casserole she’d just taken from the oven, the steam rising from it to dampen her face.
Surprised not to get an answer, he stepped into the kitchen and stood looking at her. ‘Everything okay?’ he asked.
‘Fine,’ she said, making it clear that everything most certainly wasn’t.
‘The TV?’ he said, ignoring the warning signs.
She put the lid back on the casserole with a loud bang and returned it to the oven before turning to him abruptly. ‘Give it a rest, will you? It won’t do her any harm, now and then.’ Seeing that he was going to argue the point, she held a hand out, ‘Please, Paul, just leave it.’
‘Are you feeling okay?’ he asked again, a frown between his eyes.
‘Just tired,’ she said with an attempt at a smile.
‘Maybe you’re doing too much,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ve not been yourself since you started that job. Perhaps it was too soon, after all.’
It was a perfect opportunity. She could agree, say it was too soon, talk about leaving. Admit to being a failure, admit she wasn’t coping; that, in fact, she didn’t know what the hell she was doing any more.
‘I didn’t work today, Paul, I’m just tired,’ she said, her voice thick, ‘dinner will be ready in five minutes.’
He took the hint and left to change. Over dinner, he asked pointed questions about what she did in the charity shop on the days she did work, forcing Diane to become more inventive.
‘Over the weekend a lot of stuff had been donated so I spend most of my mornings going through it. Some of it was just rubbish but there was some good stuff that will sell,’ she said, her eyes on her dinner.
‘Such as?’
Such as, such as? For a few seconds she couldn’t think of a single thing. ‘Ha
ndbags,’ she said eventually, making a big deal of chewing and swallowing to explain her hesitation. ‘Some very nice, designer handbags.’
‘Really? So, what will they bring in?’
Diane had no idea if they’d ever received designer handbags and what they’d sell for if they did. But she guessed he didn’t either. ‘Forty pounds each, easily.’
It looked as if he were going to ask more awkward questions, but just then Emma dropped her spoon and started to cry. The rest of the meal was spent chatting with her.
Unusually, after dinner, Paul said he had an important phone call to make. ‘I’ll be tied up for a couple of hours,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you to put Emma to bed, if that’s okay?’
Without waiting for an answer, he kissed the top of Emma’s head and left the room. She watched him go with a slight frown between her eyes. He often worked in the evenings, and at the weekends if he was particularly busy. But he’d never missed the opportunity of putting Emma to bed for the sake of a phone call. Whoever he was ringing must be very important.
She reached to take Emma from her chair, a slight twinge in her side reminding her to be careful. Cuddling her, she sat on the sofa, keeping her on her lap, and pressed the remote to switch the TV back on. She flicked channels until she found a documentary about animals and they watched it snuggled together, Emma’s eyes round with delight, laughter pealing as monkeys cavorted across the screen.
They didn’t move until it was over, about fifteen minutes past Emma’s usual bedtime. Switching off the TV, Diane stood with her in her arms, her daughter’s chubby hands wrapped around her neck. Upstairs, she watched as she brushed her teeth and washed her hands, her little face so serious and intent. It was a nightly ritual she loved but she hadn’t actually put her to bed in a long time, that pleasure having fallen to Paul. Cosy in pink pyjamas, Emma climbed under the duvet and reached her hands up. Diane bent and allowed the little fingers to clasp her face. ‘Love you, Mummy,’ Emma said, her long eyelashes fluttering and drooping closed as she bent to place a gentle kiss on her cheek.
‘Love you too, my little angel,’ she whispered, staying on her knees beside the bed to watch innocence sleep.
Emma’s eyes fluttered open. ‘I’m not an angel, angels are in Heaven, like Jane,’ she mumbled before her breathing became heavy.
What? Diane blinked. Angels are in Heaven, like Jane. She wanted to wake Emma, ask her what she meant, but then shook her head. It was probably something Miss Rogers had told her. Maybe some children’s story she’d never heard before. Putting it out of her head, she took a final look at her sleeping daughter, stood and left the room. Switching off the bedroom light, she left the door ajar and turned on the light in the hallway.
The door to Paul’s office was shut. She wondered about the important phone call and stepped closer to the door, resting her ear against it before she realised what she was doing. She couldn’t hear his words clearly, but she could make out the tone of his conversation and the timbre of his voice. It sent her spinning back to when she still lived in Bristol; the hours they had spent on the phone in the evenings desperately missing each other, the longing in their voices, the words of love they’d used.
She pressed her ear to the door, harder, but it was an old, solid door and she couldn’t make out any words. But the timbre of his voice, she remembered that. Shaking the quiet voice of suspicion from her mind, she headed back downstairs, thought about having a glass of wine, and then switched on the kettle instead. She needed a clear head in the morning. Anyway, those rattling bottles had told her she was drinking far too much.
With a mug of tea in her hand, she switched off the lights and sat on the sofa, putting her feet up on the coffee table. She sipped the hot tea and slipped down in the seat until her head was resting on the back of it and closed her eyes. Immediately, she heard the distinct sound of a child’s cry.
Instead of jumping up, as she usually did, she sat and listened, her eyes now squeezed shut as if she were afraid to open them. It was unmistakeably a child’s cry. There was a plaintive note to it, the slight hiccup of an infant who has cried for too long, or in vain. It was a sound that made her heart ache, the soft hiccup of a child crying out for succour. Any mother would run to pick her up and offer comfort, ease the child’s pain and distress, feed her, keep her warm. Any mother. But Diane didn’t stand. She knew there was no point; if she did, the sound would stop. And wanting it to stop, contrarily, she found she wanted it to continue and became lost in this loop.
So, she stayed in her seat and listened as it came again and again until, she realised, she was crying too, silent tears that ran down her cheeks, dripped off her chin and fell into the now-cold tea she still clasped in her hands.
Eventually, it stopped. But the ensuing silence gave her no comfort. Instead she was filled with an overpowering feeling of intense sadness and bottomless regret that she couldn’t begin to explain. She put the mug down, swung her feet to the floor and went to the fridge, sitting moments later, a large glass of wine in her hand.
Twenty
It was bright, so it must be morning. She was in her bed but, the problem was, she’d no recollection of getting there. Closing her eyes, she dragged her mind back to the night before. The baby’s cry. The sadness. And hadn’t she gone to get a glass of wine? Had she drunk more? Had she drunk the whole bottle? Was that why she couldn’t remember coming to bed? She sat up in alarm.
The clock told her she had time to spare, and when she listened, she could hear the hum of the power shower in the main bathroom. Throwing back the duvet, she swung her legs to the floor and stood, grabbing the robe from the back of the door and pulling it on as she crept downstairs.
She opened the door to the kitchen quietly, shutting it behind her with an agonisingly loud click. Her wine glass was on the coffee table, half full. Picking it up, she took it to the kitchen, threw the contents down the sink, washed the glass, dried it and put it away. Then she ran the tap for a few minutes to get rid of the smell of alcohol.
Opening the fridge, she took out the bottle. It was three-quarters full. Frowning, she held it up to the light to check. It looked as if she’d only poured the one glass and of that she’d only had half. Could she have blacked out again? She put the bottle back in the fridge and went back to her room. Leaving her robe on, she crawled under the duvet, shut her eyes and tried to remember – but there was nothing.
She rolled over in despair; the more she pulled at the strings of the tangle her life had become, the tighter it seemed to get. She needed something to hold onto or she was in danger of losing her grip completely.
Focusing on one thing, she thought about her meeting with Anne later that morning. She would take control of one tiny part of her life and find out why she’d lied.
* * *
She was late arriving at the café, and heard her name called as she pushed the door open.
‘Diane!’
She spotted Anne waving from a table at the back. Lifting a hand in acknowledgement, she negotiated her way past an array of pushchairs and, reaching the table, was pulled into a hug she wasn’t expecting. There was comfort in it, but she pulled away. ‘My turn to apologise for being late,’ she said, ‘I had a rough morning.’
‘It’s no matter,’ Anne said, releasing her and sitting back into her seat. ‘I thought maybe you weren’t coming.’ Her smile was genuine, spreading to her eyes, making them twinkle.
‘No, I’ve been looking forward to it,’ Diane said truthfully because despite the lie she’d caught Anna out in, she had been looking forward to seeing her. She looked at her with admiration. In the black harem pants, fitted military-style jacket and glaring neon-orange scarf wrapped turban-like around her head, she should have looked ridiculous, but she looked amazing.
Taking in her empty, foam-stained coffee cup, Diane asked, ‘Another? My treat to make up for being so late.’
‘Great,’ Anne said with a smile and indicated her cup. ‘I’m on cappuccino this morn
ing.’
The queue to be served was short but it was still several minutes before Diane returned to the table, a large cup and saucer in each hand. ‘Here you go,’ she said, putting one carefully down in front of Anne before pulling out the seat opposite.
There was a moment’s silence as they each lifted their coffee and sipped. Anne put hers down first, rested entwined fingers on the table in front of her, and said, ‘So, how are you doing?’
Diane held her cup a moment longer. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to tell her everything, to offload the whole sorry tale? Maybe, it would help? But maybe Anne would join the obvious dots and think her crazy. Taking another sip, she put the coffee down. ‘Great,’ she replied, injecting more energy into the one word than was necessary and then, ‘I’ve been so busy recently.’
‘Life’s like that sometimes, isn’t it? Periods of mania interspersed with periods of calm. Of course,’ Anne added with a faint smile, ‘writing is always like that. I’m desperately trying to get a book finished and then it’s done and there’s this lull before the editor sends it back to me and then mayhem while I do the edits.’
‘But you love it,’ Diane said, seeing the passion in her face.
Anne grinned. ‘Wouldn’t do anything else. I was born to be a writer.’
They chatted about books and movies for a while. They had similar taste in books but when Anne said she preferred foreign films, Diane shook her head. ‘I just want to relax,’ she said, ‘not to have to read everything.’
‘You don’t even realise you’re reading after a while. Seriously,’ she argued, ‘come with me sometime, I bet you’ll be hooked. There’s more subtlety in their work than you find in US or UK-based movies.’
‘That would be lovely,’ Diane said, checking her watch. ‘Listen, I have to leave soon to pick up Emma, but there’s something I need to ask you.’
Anne looked surprised at the sudden seriousness of her voice. ‘Sounds ominous,’ she said, with a slight tilt of her head.
The Housewife: A completely addictive and gripping psychological thriller Page 12
