Obsession: A shocking psychological thriller where love affairs turn deadly

by Amanda Robson

  Now as I slurp the end of my Weetabix, her toffee eyes dart towards mine.

  ‘Craig, would you mind picking up Dad’s repeat prescription from the surgery? You’ll be walking past on the way to the fire station, won’t you?’

  My father-in-law is living with us at the moment. Or rather co-existing. He is so bereft without Jenni’s mother that to say he is living would be an exaggeration. He is sitting in the living room area of our open plan room in front of the TV, nibbling a piece of toast. I turn my head to look across at him. I don’t think he’s watching the news. His eyes are hollow and empty. I guess the news is just moving across the screen in front of him.

  I stand up and smile at Jenni. ‘Of course I’ll pop to the surgery. That’s fine.’

  Ten minutes later, I arrive at the surgery, head down, hoping to avoid Carly. The situation between us is becoming dangerous. I sidle in and mumble to the first receptionist who is free, a mousy woman with thick glasses and iron grey shoulder-length woolly hair. For a second she makes me think about sheep.

  ‘I’ve come to collect a repeat prescription for my father-in-law.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Stuart Tunnicliffe.’

  She flicks through the pile of prescriptions in the box in front of her, and soon hands me Jenni’s father’s.

  ‘The doctor’s given him three months’ supply. Then he needs to come in and have his blood pressure checked again.’

  She hands me the prescription and gives me a half smile in dismissal. Before I can turn around and slip out quickly, Carly is standing in front of me looking Carly Burton Bright, Carly Burton Delicious. Her short blonde hair shines in the autumn sunshine that pushes towards us through the window. Her blue nurse’s uniform looks as if it has been painted onto her perfect figure.

  ‘Craig Rossiter, isn’t it?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was about to telephone you. Please come to my consulting room. We need to discuss your blood test result.’

  She leads the way. Despite my best intentions, I follow her. Through the waiting room, into her domain. Once we are inside she closes the door, turns a key, and locks it. She closes the venetian blinds.

  ‘I need to give you an urgent check-up,’ she says as she slides her hand down my trousers.

  I push my tongue into her mouth and tell myself once again, this has to stop.

  ~ Jenni ~

  Craig is out at the fire station and I am checking the bank statements. Our balance isn’t adding up and I need to double-check it. Debits to the local Travelodge? And then I get it, sudden, sharp, and clear as daylight. Slicing through my mind like a knife. Random facts, facts I hardly noticed, snap together like a jigsaw. Changes in his hours. Copious showers. The phone calls. And I am numb inside like the day my mother died. As if this isn’t happening to me. As if I am floating above myself watching someone else.

  A key in the lock. Footsteps across the hallway into the living room. Craig is here, standing in front of me; lovable and familiar, bending to kiss me. We kiss and he steps back to look at me.

  ‘What’s the occasion?’ he asks. ‘Is everything all right? You don’t usually wait up when I’m on a late shift.’

  I flop down onto the sofa. He sits next to me and takes my hand.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ he asks gently.

  ‘I hope so,’ I say, and then I start to cry.

  He puts his arm around me and I wince inside.

  ‘Tell me, Craig,’ I hear myself say. ‘Are you having an affair?’

  ‘Of course not. Whatever makes you think that?’

  I push back my tears, pull away from him and grab the bank statements from the dining table, holding them so tightly that they’re crushed between my fingers.

  ‘These,’ I say, waving them in his face. ‘What have you been doing at Stansfield Travelodge? Why would you need to stay there?’

  ‘I can explain,’ he says calmly, standing up and attempting to take them from me. But I will not let them go. I clasp my fingers more tightly around them, crumpling them in my palm.

  ‘Jenni, I can explain,’ he repeats.

  ‘Can you, Judas?’ I hiss.

  I sit at the dining table, still clutching the bank statements, and he sits opposite me, face like a waxwork from Tussaud’s.

  ‘Go on then. Explain.’

  ‘I got behind at work – I’ve been going to the Travelodge to write up my notes.’

  ‘Oh please.’

  A silence that stifles. A waxwork face, melting and crumbling.

  ‘It meant nothing, Jenni. I’ll end it immediately.’

  ‘If it meant nothing,’ I ask, my voice breaking, ‘then why?’

  He reaches for my hands across the table but I pull away.

  ‘Jenni,’ he says, ‘I love you more than anything. This woman,’ he pauses for emphasis, ‘she means nothing to me.’

  ‘But who is she, Craig? Tell me, please.’

  ~ Carly ~

  My mobile rings. I pick up.

  ‘It’s over. She found out.’

  Shock ricochets through me.

  ‘How does she know? We were so careful.’

  ‘Careful?’ Craig hisses. ‘Always ringing me. Suggesting weekends away. A shag in the surgery! Do you call that careful?’

  ‘You make it sound as if I forced you.’

  ‘Carly. I need to be brief. I’m not ringing for a chat.’ There is a pause. ‘She found out from debits to the Travelodge on our bank statements.’

  ‘Why did you pay like that? That was stupid. Was your relationship with me a cry for her attention?’

  ‘Cut the psycho-babble,’ he hisses. ‘I just didn’t think, that’s all. I’m paying for it now.’

  ‘Does she know it’s me?’

  ‘Thankfully no. And Carly, she must never find out.’

  TWO

  ~ Jenni ~

  I have waded through the day, feeling as if I am pushing through mercury or lead. Every movement has been difficult; my limbs have become metallic, the air laced with dread. There were brief, tiny moments when I forgot what had happened. As I held Luke and Mark’s hands and we ambled to the play park. As we queued by the ice-cream van, an autumn breeze moving from the river to caress our faces. For a few seconds I forgot.

  When the children were at school I went to church – the church where we married, by the river in Stansfield. Wren architecture. Ancient yew trees. My mind rushed back to our wedding day. I was back walking down the aisle arm in arm with my father, the organ deep throated and resonant, pumping from the balcony, the tremble of my bouquet of lilies magnifying the trembling in my fingers. What haunted me most was the memory of the vicar wrapping a cloth around our hands and saying,

  ‘Those who God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.’

  Do you remember, Craig?

  Home from your shift at the fire station, you stand too close to me as I lay the table. You start to help me. The air around you has an aura. I don’t want to be near you. You smell of sex with someone else. Your behaviour has sullied you. The stench of your betrayal will never leave me. You lay the cutlery, I lay the place mats, and when we come close I lean my head away.

  We sit around the kitchen table together to eat lasagne; the children’s favourite. I push it around my plate with my fork, watching the fat from the cheese coagulate on my plate. No one is talking. I cannot watch you lift your fork to your mouth and swallow without thinking about where your mouth has been.

  When the meal is over I snuggle Luke and Mark in front of a film and start to clear the table. As I am loading the dishwasher you come up behind me, kissing me softly on the side of my neck.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Jenni,’ you whisper.

  Somehow we steer through the evening. We put the children to bed. We sit next to each other on the sofa with a glass of wine each. You are too close to me again, your leg against mine, burning into me. Making me feel hot. Making me feel sick.

  ‘Please fo
rgive me,’ you beg.

  Is forgiveness to be the crux of our relationship now?

  You take my right hand in yours. I allow it to rest limply in your sweaty palm and we sit listening to the sounds of the evening. Next door’s television reverberating through the party wall. An aeroplane. A police siren. People laughing on their way to the pub. I place my wine glass on the coffee table and stand up.

  ‘I’m going to bed. You’ll have to sleep in the spare room for a bit.’

  By morning Rob’s receptionist has to allocate his late morning emergency appointment to me because I have told her I’m in meltdown; I can’t cope. I lay awake all night in our marital bed, the faint scent of your hair still on the pillow next to me, unable to sleep without you, missing the warmth of your body and the soothing resonance of your breath. I had no sleep all night, and the groundless feeling of panic that I have been trying to suppress since the loss of my mother has risen to a perpetual internal scream that I can’t pull away from.

  So I am Rob’s priority patient, his cheery voice announcing my name over the internal speaker system as I walk towards his consulting room, trying not to trip over Lego from the children’s box in the corner of the waiting room. I knock on his door and receive the cursory, ‘Come in.’

  His small room looks as if it has seen better days, complete with its chipped desk and obligatory couch with a paper towel spread across it. When invited I sit on a small leather chair opposite his desk and find myself distracted by a photograph of him with Carly, Pippa and John, presumably before Matt was born. They must have been walking in the Lake District or Wales; they’re standing in front of a rocky peak, dressed in waterproof jackets. Carly is wearing no make-up and looks very relaxed and happy. Far more relaxed than I have seen her for a while.

  ‘How are you?’ Rob asks.

  My mouth opens and no words appear; tears stream down my face, their salt biting into my skin.

  ‘What’s happened, Jenni?’ he asks gently.

  ‘It’s Craig. He’s been having an affair.’

  He exhales. ‘Stupid bastard.’

  Rob’s words resonate inside me, and for the first time since I found out, I laugh. A nervous laugh, not a real laugh.

  ‘Exactly,’ I say, pretending to be confident.

  ‘Jenni, keep calm. There’s so much that can be done to help with relationship difficulties.’

  ‘That’s just it,’ I say, fighting for breath between sobs. ‘Until yesterday evening I didn’t think we had any relationship difficulties.’

  I sit wrapped in his eyes. Something about his green-grey irises flecked with peppery dots suffocates my tears. But the scream inside my head continues. The scream inside my head that I think will never stop.

  ~ Carly ~

  Saturday lunchtime. Jenni, you are sitting opposite me in the wine bar, your large cowpat eyes trying to drown me. We have ordered a bottle of Pinot Grigio and a plate of tapas. But you’re not drinking. You’re not eating. You’re sitting still, hands clasped together on your lap as if you are praying.

  Jenni Rossiter. Praying mantis.

  ‘You’ve got too much to lose if you break up this relationship,’ I tell you, finishing my third glass of wine and helping myself to some more tapas. ‘It can’t be much fun for children being shunted between different homes at weekends – particularly when they get older. And what about the finances? One home is far less expensive to maintain.’

  You don’t reply; you sit in front of me, bereft and sanctimonious. Eventually, you speak.

  ‘You talk of practicalities. Don’t trust and faith mean anything these days?’ you ask.

  ‘Surely it shows trust in the strength of a relationship to let someone go and then welcome them back?’

  ‘I didn’t let him go. He just went.’ There is a pause. ‘The thing is, I can’t imagine what this woman must be like. She picked him up at the Travelodge apparently. Asked him if he would help her park her car and then invited him to bed. I can’t understand why he went.’

  ‘Is that really what happened?’ I ask, surprised at the contortion Craig has given you.

  I try to top up your glass, but you put your hand firmly across the top of it.

  ‘What sort of woman would do this?’ you ask, eyes spitting towards me.

  How can I explain that I was trying to chase away the shadow that is burying me? The shadow that, however hard I try, I cannot push away.

  ~ Jenni ~

  ‘What sort of a woman would do this?’ I ask as we sit opposite each other in the dimly lit wine bar, surrounded by Saturday lunchtime chatter.

  You pour yourself another glass of wine. Your fourth glass, Carly, and it is only 12:30 p.m. I don’t know how your liver and your skin cope. I’m worried about your drinking. I think I need to talk to Rob about it. You lean back in your chair, a half smile on your face, as if you are about to relish answering me. I don’t really want an answer, Carly. I just want you to listen like you used to. I want you to empathise. Remember, I haven’t got my husband. I haven’t got my mother. Carly, push back time a little. Give me your friendship.

  ‘To some people sex is as basic and necessary as going to the toilet,’ you say.

  Louder and more bombastic than you have ever been.

  ‘I hope the woman who did this drowns in her own excrement,’ I reply too quickly, realising almost immediately how childish this sounds. How feral and unpleasant.

  You respond, stiffening, as if I have electrocuted you.

  Carly.

  That is when I first smelt you on him, and him on you.

  ~ Carly ~

  I am back home from my rendezvous with Jenni. I ring the front doorbell to warn my mother I am home, turning my key in the lock at the same time to increase my speed of entry. I meet her rushing towards the door across the hallway, looking tired.

  ‘How’s Jenni?’ she asks, as she slows down.

  ‘Unhinged,’ I reply.

  ‘Wouldn’t you be?’

  I don’t reply.

  I follow my mother through the hallway of our detached thirties house towards our kitchen/breakfast room, past a table on which Rob and I have been incarcerated in a silver frame, smiling benignly on our tenth wedding anniversary. We felt so proud of ourselves, so celebratory, downing a whole bottle of champagne and having sex in our bedroom before dinner. My mother opens the door and my children unfold before me. They are sat eating chicken nuggets and chips, basking in the late October sunshine that rises across our garden towards me, bouncing off a carpet of twisted golden leaves, which need clearing. Another chore for my list. The children, wide-eyed with greed, continue shovelling fried food and too much ketchup down their throats as if they haven’t seen me. They don’t even look up.

  ‘Can I get you anything, dear?’ my mother asks.

  ‘No, thanks. I’ve had tapas.’

  When they have all finished guzzling, my mother clears the children’s plates and presides over the serving of jelly and ice cream.

  ‘Jelly on a plate. Jelly on the table. Wibble wobble. Wibble wobble. Jelly on a plate,’ she says repeatedly, and everyone laughs.

  Hilarious, obviously.

  Food and hilarity over, faces wiped and dishes cleared, the children disappear upstairs to Matt’s bedroom where my mother has helped them set up the Scalextric set this morning. Its buzzing fly drone drills into my temples, threatening to give me a headache.

  ‘Poor Jenny Wren,’ my mother says.

  My headache begins.

  ‘Jenny Wren?’ I ask, not trying very hard to keep the edge out of my voice. Her affectionate nickname for Jenni irritates me.

  ‘She always seems so vulnerable.’

  ‘Not as vulnerable as she is right now.’

  ‘I think I’ll pop and see her this evening – see if there is anything I can do to help.’

  Mother. Always fussing over Jenni. They formed a bond over childcare when I went back to work in the surgery. Visiting play parks together. Taking the children swimming
. Healthy country walks collecting leaves and berries. Today the closeness of their nature-table relationship is really pissing me off.

  ‘You might bump into Rob. He said he might go round too,’ I say. The edge in my voice is definitely not fading.

  ‘He’s only trying to be helpful, Carly. Surely you know that?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. I do. Course I do,’ I reply a little too quickly.

  My mother sits looking at me across the pine dining table.

  ‘You have a perfect relationship,’ she says. ‘Don’t spoil it.’

  ‘No one has a perfect relationship,’ I snap.

  There is a silence between us. I look away from her, then back. ‘Look, Mother, please could you just stay a bit longer and keep an eye on the children? Perhaps I’ll feel better if I have a shower. Freshen myself up.’

  ‘Of course. My pleasure. I promised Matt one last race.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I reach across the table and touch her hand. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  ‘You’d be fine, Carly.’ There is a pause. ‘You’ll always be fine.’

  ‘I don’t feel fine at the moment.’

  ‘Gwandma. Gwandma. Your turn,’ Matt yells down the stairs.

  The sound of his voice is an automatic trigger for my mother to rise and do her duty. With Rob and my mother it is always the same – the children are above everything in their pecking order. I drag myself upstairs, heavy with too much lunchtime alcohol, heavy with the weight of my own insignificance, to douse myself in the power shower. Perhaps the shower will energise me, make me feel ready to cope with the rest of the day. I undress and put on my new shorty bathrobe, pottering around our bedroom, tidying up a little, before I freshen up. I hear car tyres scratch across gravel, a key scraping into the front door lock, and Rob is home, earlier than usual, after his monthly turn at Saturday surgery. I hear a fragment of conversation with my mother. Laughter. Feet padding up the staircase. Then he is here, opening the door to our bedroom, putting his doctor’s bag in its special place in the corner and smiling at me benignly, as benignly as in the photograph in the hallway. A smile without mischief. A smile reserved for difficult patients. And for me.