Obsession: A shocking psychological thriller where love affairs turn deadly

by Amanda Robson

  I cannot sleep. I sit up, stretch and yawn in a final attempt not to waste the day, but the mess of our bedroom overwhelms me. His sweaty jogging clothes in the corner where he’s dropped them. My make-up and costume jewellery cluttering my dressing table. Empty mugs, books and unopened post bury our bedside tables. Shoes carpet the floor. A pile of unread newspapers climbs the wall by the door.

  Such a mess, so overwhelming. I can’t deal with it. So I close my eyes and play with myself. Gently to begin with. Round and round with the bud of my clitoris, pushing hard and fast. I come slowly, tumultuously. And then I feel a little better. Climaxing is the only thing that helps clear the darkness. I miss all the extras I had with Craig. Masturbating helps, but it is so predictable. On your own, the orgasm is never quite the same.

  Still heavy, mind operating through a fug, I pull myself out of bed. At least I don’t need to get dressed as I’m already wearing an old tracksuit. Acceptable daywear. I look at my watch. Time for a glass of wine before my mother and the children are home. Alcohol will soften me, lighten the fug, make cooking fish fingers for tea more tolerable.

  ~ Rob ~

  I ring the doorbell and hear footsteps rushing to answer it, thundering down the bare staircase at the side of the shop. A blur of colour through frosted glass and Jenni is here, opening the door and smiling. She has begged me to come, and even though the situation with Carly is worryingly precarious, to appease Jenni I decided to make an exception. One last visit on my own. Jenni needs my support, my friendship. For one last time.

  The air around her is scented with jasmine. She wears a red silk dress that clings to her and silver earrings in the shape of the Christian fish symbol. They catch in the light as she moves her head.

  ‘What’s the occasion?’ I ask.

  ‘Celebrating my life in my new home.’

  Her new home, a flat above a shop. So claustrophobic after her modern mock-Georgian townhouse. But she’s lived in a flat off the high street before, apparently, and so this is what she wanted. Carly and I tried everything to encourage her to stick at it, to try a little harder with Craig. But she pleaded with her eyes and told us that she could not. I walk behind her, every footfall on the stairs exploding into the air like a drumbeat as the stairs are bare wood. Carpet-less. We stand together on the top step while Jenni pushes the door to her flat open.

  We enter a different world; a world that pushes the rest of existence away. She has painted the hallway magenta, vibrant and bold, to brighten it up. And she has found the money to put in the thickest shag pile carpet I have ever seen, so extravagant a rodent could hide in it. Through the hallway we emerge into the sitting room. At first sight it appears oriental but when I look closely it is pretty makeshift. Low-slung sofas covered in cheap throws, which are bright red and shiny, embossed with blossom trees and women in kimonos. The lighting is very low. I suspect it needs to be to maintain the effect.

  ‘What do you think of what I’ve done to it?’ Jenni asks. ‘Quite different from when you helped me move in.’

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ I reply, politely.

  The boys are snuggled up together, rucking up one of the throws, watching the large TV in the corner. They are engrossed in a cartoon, a show in which a man is being chased across the desert by a camel with exaggerated hooves. They don’t see me at first. I stand close to them, watching them. Jenni stands next to me. Luke is almost four now, the same age as my Matt, and Mark two years older, the same school year as John. The Gospels. Jenni’s lame joke about their names. Or at least Carly says it’s lame. But then Carly thinks everything is lame at the moment – and still she resists my help. Her condition is tearing me in two. What kind of a doctor am I that I can’t help my own wife?

  The cartoon ends and Jenni switches off the TV.

  ‘Uncle Rob,’ Luke says. ‘Have you come to help put us to bed?’

  I look across at Jenni. She looks back as if to say ‘please’.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are Matt and John in bed now?’

  ‘I expect so, yes.’

  Heather is at home looking after them; she hardly ever seems to leave our home these days, Carly is having so many issues.

  Luke and Mark extricate themselves from the sofa, hug Jenni and pad across the living room towards their shared bedroom. I follow them. Their bedroom is no longer a bedroom but a land of adventure, twin beds side by side framed by sheets pinned to the floor and ceiling, hung in the shape of a tent. They snuggle beneath rainbow-coloured duvets and ask me to choose a story from the bookshelf by the door. Because of the makeshift tent, once I have chosen I have to crawl onto the bed and lie down between them to read. Luke is sucking his thumb, already almost asleep. I read Aladdin, and when I have finished he has gone. Soft limbed. Open mouthed. Clinging to a baby lamb. But Mark is wide awake, wriggling beneath the duvet. He sits up, face bursting with excitement.

  ‘I want to tell you a secret.’ There is a pause. ‘Mummy doesn’t know I know.’

  Fingers across pursed lips. A loud expulsion of ‘Sssshhhh’ followed by a giggle.

  ‘Mummy is getting us a puppy. For Luke’s birthday next week. For both of us, really.’

  ‘That’s fantastic. Really fantastic. How exciting.’

  ‘I can’t wait. I heard her on the phone talking to Granddad. That’s how I know.’

  ‘What sort are you getting?’

  ‘I don’t know that.’

  ‘So it’ll still be a surprise, then.’

  He nods his head, grin so wide, his teeth splitting his face in two like a pearly zip.

  ‘With all this news, young man, how am I supposed to settle you for sleep?’

  ‘I’ll just lay back and count puppies.’

  ‘That’s very clever. How far can you count?’

  ‘I can count to fifty – I’m trying for one hundred but I get a bit mixed up after fifty.’

  ‘Well, best drop off quickly then.’

  ‘If I can’t count the puppies, I’ll just watch them in my head.’

  He giggles again as he lies down, burrowing into his bed, pulling his duvet around him.

  I smooth his sheets and kiss him on the forehead.

  ‘Good night. Thank you for telling me,’ I whisper.

  When I amble back into the sitting room, Jenni is struggling to open a bottle of Prosecco.

  ‘What’s the occasion?’ I ask as I move across the sitting room to help her.

  ‘To celebrate my move.’

  I take the bottle from her.

  ‘Let me.’

  The cork pops out with a vigorous thud and I pour us a generous glass for each of us; Jenni’s solid wine glasses from Ikea take a lot of filling. We sit on opposing throw-strewn sofas and raise them.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I say, smiling at her uncertainly, not sure whether living here like this, away from Craig, is really something that merits celebrating. But then sometimes even if things are not better, pretending to celebrate them marks their passage, the transition. Reminds us that, however much we might not want it to, life continually moves on.

  Jenni is sitting across from me, trying her best to be cheerful. Sweet but depleted. As if part of her is missing. I want to put my arms around her and protect her, but I know that I cannot.

  ‘I know I shouldn’t keep you, I’m sorry. I just wanted some company,’ she says as she sips her wine. ‘Selfish of me.’

  ‘It’s good to be here,’ I tell her. ‘I wanted to know you were OK.’

  We sit in silence, sipping our wine, the sounds of Stansfield moving past outside. The hiss of traffic. A police siren. Raised voices of a group of youths. On the way to the station? On the way to the pub?

  ‘Rob, I’m fine. I’m doing my best. The best I can do for the time being.’ She stirs on her sofa, awkwardly. ‘But I have to warn you about something.’

  ‘Warn me?’

  ‘Yes. The receptionist’s job that you mentioned, I’m thinking of applying for it. I know I’m a nurse but I haven�
�t worked since the children were born. Working as a receptionist in your surgery would help get me back in the flow of things – help boost my confidence.’

  Her brown eyes flow into mine.

  ‘I just wanted to know what you think? Whether you’d consider my application?’

  ‘Jenni, you’d be perfect. You know how much we need someone good.’

  I stand up and walk towards her. I kiss her on both cheeks. Then my lips become distracted. One little platonic pucker hovers briefly and almost touches her mouth.

  ~ Carly ~

  Eyes on fire, I stand in front of him naked, my voluptuous body creamy and delicious, large brown nipples sticking out like toffee treasure, begging him to suck them.

  ‘Please get dressed, Carly. You know we arranged to meet because I want to talk,’ Craig says with as much authority as he can muster because I can see through his trousers that his erection is so out of control it must be painful.

  I dress like a stripper in reverse, tantalising him as I raise my black lace panties across my hairless crotch. Leaning forwards to cup my generous breasts in fingers of leather. And finally the pièce de résistance – my new black fishnet catsuit.

  ‘You can’t go home looking like that. Where are your proper clothes?’

  I walk to my bag in the corner and pull out a bottle of red wine, fill the water glass provided by the Travelodge and take a huge slug.

  ‘I thought we came here because you wanted me.’

  ‘I came here to tell you how much I love Jenni.’ There is a pause. ‘I’m devastated about my relationship ending, and I will do anything to try and get her back. Anything. I want you to know that I regret what happened between us.’

  He stands in front of me, near the door, panda rings beneath his eyes and I know he hasn’t been sleeping.

  ‘Please, Carly. It’s over. Please stop ringing me,’ he begs.

  ~ Craig ~

  It’s a nippy May day, nippy and overwhelmingly wet, rain falling in a sheet so dense that I can hardly see through it. Not very good for one of my special days with the children. I sigh inside as I ring the bell of the flat where my family now live. The door opens, Jenni hovering behind it, to reveal my sons trussed up to protect them from the weather, in cheap waterproofs so baggy they make them look fat, so baggy they may have difficulty even walking to McDonalds.

  I hold gloved hands and we walk in silence, or rather I walk and they wobble, past estate agents and charity shops, past Iceland and Natwest Bank until we reach McDonalds. We leave a trail of puddles as we leak across the floor towards the counter. Neon lights and plastic padded walls surround us and warm us up a little. McDonalds. McDonalds. I am so sick of McDonalds. So bored of quarter pounders with cheese, and chips that taste of cardboard. But when you are separated from your wife in Stansfield, and you need to entertain your children, there aren’t many places to go. I cannot take them to my parents’ house. At the moment my mother has a flu-like illness, as Jenni calls them, and she doesn’t want the children to catch it. But even when she is well she doesn’t find having them in her home easy. She has poor eyesight and they fiddle with everything. The settings on the TV, the DVD player, they make things difficult for her when they leave. What about the library? I could try going there but how would I sell that to them? Sometimes I think that Stansfield is a constraining dump. Children are not welcome in the pub. Children are not encouraged in any of the fancy restaurants on Church Street. So it’s McDonalds. McDonalds. McDonalds. The plastic palace forming the centre point of our high street, and of my family life.

  We eat burgers, and chips laced with ketchup. We gulp drinks laden with additives, as we slowly dry off. During the course of our quality time together, Luke laughs once, and smiles half a smile twice. The worst is that when I ask Mark what school is like, he says: ‘The head teacher pisses me off.’

  I am shocked.

  ‘Why?’ I ask.

  He doesn’t reply.

  Another sentence would be too much information. Where has he learnt language like that? Certainly not from Jenni. Carly uses language like that. Maybe he’s spending too much time with her boys. I look at my watch. Time’s up. I need to take my sons back. I wrap them up as carefully as I can in their drenched clothing and hold their hands as we retrace our steps.

  For the second time today I ring the doorbell of my family’s new home, the claustrophobic place that Jenni has insisted on owning. This time she opens the door without hiding behind it. She looks like an angel. Sleek hair. Soulful eyes. Eyes to take me to heaven. The boys run away from me, past their mother, straight towards the stairs without saying thank you. I don’t really blame them. It wasn’t much fun. I look up. Struggling down the stairs towards the boys is a loose-limbed powder white puppy with floppy paws and floppy ears. Luke picks the puppy up and cradles it in his arms like a baby.

  ‘You didn’t tell me you’d got a dog.’

  My voice sounds critical, accusatory. Hurt and exclusion hang in the air around us. I always wanted a dog and Jenni refused to have one. Luke turns around with the puppy, who lies perfectly relaxed in his arms. He walks towards me.

  ‘Here, Dad,’ he says. ‘Give him a cuddle.’

  The puppy is wriggling now as I take him in my arms. I bend and kiss his head, his fur soft against my lips. He smells of Jenni’s perfume. She must have been cuddling him while we were out. I nuzzle my face against his and bite my lip so hard that I almost draw blood.

  Pain to prevent tears.

  ~ Rob ~

  Friday evening. When I get home, Carly is lying across our sofa, drinking a large glass of red wine.

  ‘Your turn to settle the children,’ she says. ‘They’re upstairs, playing hide and seek.’

  I plod upstairs to do my duty, hearing the children thumping about in the attic.

  ‘Coming, ready or not,’ I shout to floods of giggles and skidding feet.

  I clump up to the attic, my feet a warning.

  ‘Fee Fi Fo Fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman.’

  More giggles. More scraping feet. The wardrobe door closing. Surprise, surprise – when I open the door to our large attic playroom, it appears to be empty.

  ‘Fee Fi Fo Fum. Where has everybody gone?’

  I open all the cupboards. I open the wardrobe, where I hear breathing and see child-sized lumps sticking out of one of Carly’s evening dresses.

  ‘No one here,’ I announce, closing the door again. As I thud across the bedroom, obviously defeated by their cunning, the wardrobe door bursts open and my offspring run towards me, screeching with laughter. They catch me by the legs and chorus, ‘Silly Daddy.’

  I shouldn’t have got them so worked up, it takes me ages to settle them. I read and read to them, in the end falling asleep whilst Pippa is still awake. My week in the surgery has been long and hard, made worse by my last two home visits to terminal cancer patients, one whom is only a child. I open my eyes to find my daughter watching me.

  ‘Daddy,’ she says, ‘I love you too much.’

  ‘And I love you twice as much as that.’

  Half asleep and very hungry, I finally make it back into the sitting room where I suspect Carly will already be slushy from the quantity of wine she has been drinking as she watches EastEnders, her favourite soap, on catch up.

  ‘You took your time,’ she says.

  ‘I got them too excited by playing hide and seek.’

  ‘If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a million times, the best thing to do with children is ignore them.’

  ‘Thank you for that practical advice.’

  ‘Pleasure.’ There is a pause. ‘And help yourself, there’s some cheese in the fridge.’

  ‘Cheese?’

  ‘What’s wrong with cheese? You like cheese.’ There is a pause. ‘Or you always used to. I’m not so sure what you like any more.’

  I was right about the amount she has been drinking. Her voice has an edge to it; a wine-tainted edge. I pad to the kitchen and fetch myself a
plate of cheese and biscuits, then sit on the armchair by the TV scoffing them down. When I’ve finished I place the plate on the floor and sit back to watch the show with her. On screen, a man with black hair and large eyes is shouting at his family, the tone of his voice exceedingly unpleasant. Before I have remembered who he’s supposed to be, Carly snaps the TV off with the remote. Her face is fixed. Brittle.

  ‘Carly, whatever is the matter?’ I ask.

  ‘I found something out today that you should have told me.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You’ve offered the receptionist’s job to Jenni.’

  My heart sinks. Jenni. Again.

  ‘When were you planning to tell me?’ she spits.

  I shrug, ‘Tonight, I suppose.’

  ‘Tonight’s not good enough. You should have talked to me as soon as she applied.’

  Her voice is raised. Her face red and flushed.

  ‘Wow, Carly. I didn’t mean to upset you. I should have told you but I’ve been so busy at the surgery; I’ve hardly seen you.’

  ‘That’s no excuse. You must have known that if you’d asked my opinion I would have advised against it.’

  I raise my eyebrows, surprised.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s not got the right qualifications. She’s a trained nurse.’

  ‘She hasn’t worked as a nurse for a while; she’s happy to do the receptionist job and she needs the money.’ I pause. ‘You know how badly we need an extra receptionist. Everyone’s been having to work overtime for months.’

  Carly sits on the sofa, shoulders up. A cat with heckles raised, curvy and dangerous.

  ‘You should have run it past me.’

  I sit in silence for a while. When Carly gets like this I’m never quite sure of the best way to cope with her. She’s always been a bit prickly, a bit difficult from time to time. I never used to mind. It was occasional and I used to accept it as interesting; challenging. But her behaviour is so erratic these days that despite my medical training it really throws me.