The Woman At The Door

by Daniel Hurst

  It’s about making sure that nobody knows I was in.

  The door easily unlocks when I turn the key, as it should do, and now I’m in. It’s as easy as that, but it’s not all easy.

  I still have to disable the house alarm.

  Walking quickly towards the beeping white box on the wall in the hallway, I know that I have twenty seconds until the full alarm is activated. That’s the one that all the neighbours will be able to hear if it goes off, so it’s important to me that it doesn’t. But this is a common home security system that I have seen plenty of times before, so I know where the weaknesses are. That’s how I’m able to enter the code that makes it turn off instantly. It’s not the code that Rebecca and Sam use to program it, but it is the code the manufacturers of this alarm used when it was configured, and it still works.

  Nobody is supposed to know about it.

  But I know.

  With the alarm dealt with, the beeping sound ceases, and the house is silent. Just the way I like it. Now I’m free to carry out the rest of my work in peace, and I do just that, heading upstairs and into the master bedroom where I take out the item of clothing in my coat pocket. Then I start opening drawers in the bedroom, looking for a particular one. It doesn’t take me long to find it. I find most women keep their underwear in a top drawer close to the bed, and Rebecca is no different.

  I put the new item of underwear inside, hidden amongst the items that were already there and then close the drawer so that nobody knows it has been tampered with. Then I go to the wardrobe and open it, looking for Sam’s shirts which I expect to be hanging in here somewhere. Sure enough, there they are, several of them, all different colours and all very smart. These are the shirts he wears to work, and I can see that he would look very dashing in all of these. I decide to take out the white one and open up the collar on it before taking out an item of makeup from my pocket and getting artistic for a moment. Then I put the collar back down on the shirt and return it to its rightful place in the wardrobe, so it looks like it was never removed.

  With my work here complete, I make one final check on the bedroom to ensure that my presence here has not been obvious before leaving the room and heading back downstairs. Using the manufacturers’ reset code to secure the house again, I escape out of the back door in the twenty seconds I have before the alarm activates and use my key to lock up behind me. Then all I have to do is go back through the side gate, close that and head away down the street to get on with the rest of my day.

  I love what I do for work, and I love what other people do for work too.

  While they’re out all day doing their job, I get to sneak into their homes and do mine.

  Who said Monday mornings were dull?

  11

  REBECCA

  I hate Mondays. Time seems to be standing still, and that is not something anybody wants to happen when they are at work. As usual, the weekend went far too quickly, and now I’m back here again in a freezing cold cabin in the middle of a field on a building site.

  Some days, I love my job as an engineer and other days, I hate it.

  Today, I hate it.

  I enjoy the mental stimulation that comes with this role, as well as the unpredictability of it and the fact that I’m not always chained to a desk for eight hours a day. At any point, I can get up from here, put on my hard hat and my hi-viz jacket and go out on site to make a few checks and chat to a few of the workers. That’s a luxury when the weather is nice.

  It’s not so great when it’s raining.

  I even enjoy working in such a male-dominated industry as construction. Sure, the conversations in the canteen are a little different to what they would be if I worked with mostly women, but I have always got on well with men. I like how straightforward they are. There’s no bitchiness, gossiping or secrets. Men, or at least the ones I work with, just say it as it is. That is very refreshing, and I like working in an environment like this one.

  I also like the fact that I don’t have to put on a load of makeup or fret over what to wear to the office each day in case I get judged by any female colleagues. Here, muddy boots and scruffy hair are as common a sight in the office as a computer and a coffee machine, and that’s fine by me. I save my beautifying for the weekends. During the week, I’m just Rebecca, a site engineer with mud on her clothes and knots in her hair. At the weekends, I’m a more feminine version of myself because as much as my husband loves me, I’m not sure he gets turned on by dirty boots and bright green jackets with concrete splattered across them.

  I’ve been an engineer for fifteen years, after graduating from university and taking on my first role on a site. The years have flown by since then, although in some ways, they haven’t because there has been plenty of slow mornings just like this one to get through along the way. Checking the time at the bottom of my computer screen, I see that it is only 10:02. God, this day is dragging already. I just want to go home and get into bed. It’s not unusual for me to feel tired after the weekend, but this was not a normal weekend by any stretch of the imagination.

  The woman at the door on Saturday night saw to that.

  I haven’t slept properly since then, my mind ablaze with all sorts of thoughts and worries about my husband, that woman and what it might mean to my previously happy life. Not even a Sunday Roast in a pub yesterday afternoon could take my mind off things. It was sweet of Sam to take me out for a meal, and the food was fantastic, as it always is when we go to that particular venue. It’s just that it’s difficult to truly appreciate beef, potatoes and gravy when all you can think about is some other woman with your man.

  I can’t get the image of that woman out of my mind, and that fact hasn’t been helped by going to our neighbours’ house yesterday and looking at her on his CCTV footage. Having to see that blonde hair, those red lips and that pair of high heels for a second time has only reinforced the image of her that I have in my mind and in turn, it’s only making me feel worse.

  It’s not untrue to say that the woman is more attractive than me. And it’s not untrue to say that I could see how my husband would like her if indeed what she told me was true about them sleeping together. Maybe I took my eye off the ball. Maybe coming home every night from site dirty and dishevelled has slowly turned Sam onto another woman.

  What man prefers his woman to opt for mud over makeup?

  Damn these paranoid thoughts. Will they ever leave me alone now? If only I hadn’t answered that door. If only I had stayed on the sofa with Sam eating Indian food and watching that film. Things were so perfect then, or at least I thought they were. But now, things feel like they are falling apart.

  I broke down in front of my husband yesterday. I’d locked myself in the bathroom for as long as I could and hoped that I’d gotten all the tears out in private but no sooner had I gone downstairs and seen him again then the floodgates reopened, and I ended up blubbing into his shoulder. I thought I was strong enough to keep it together and not let what that woman said affect me. I thought I was okay in trusting my husband and believing his word over hers. But I guess not, and now I fear that things are never going to be the same again.

  Peace of mind is taken for granted until you no longer have it. I think back to all the days I used to sit here in this site office looking out of the window at the excavators and the men in their hard hats, and while I was a little bored, I was never worried. But now I’m worried. I’m worried all the time. I’m worried because of what that woman told me.

  I’m worried that I can’t trust the man I call my husband.

  Whenever I feel like time isn’t moving, I grab my jacket and my hat and get up out of my seat, leaving the stuffy office behind for a walk in the fresh air around the site. So that is what I will do now, even if it is raining out there and I don’t technically need to go outside for anything. I’m hoping that by distracting my mind then time will speed up, and more importantly, I’ll stop thinking about Sam being with that woman.

  Leaving the site cabin, I trudg
e across the muddy car park in the direction of the building site across the dirt track. Passing all the expensive company cars that the managers have driven here today before going inside to the warm site office, I make my way over to where the real workers around here are toiling away in the wind and rain. I nod at a couple of guys as they pass me, our expressions indicating how wild this weather is and how unlucky we are to be out in it. But I don’t actually feel unlucky. I’m glad of the distraction. It’s hard to worry about anything, even potential infidelity in a marriage, when there are huge machines moving around nearby and large holes that could easily be fallen into. It’s imperative to stay focused when in a dangerous environment like this one, and that is what I will do.

  I will not think about that woman at the door while I am out here.

  I will not think about Sam or how upset I got yesterday.

  I will just think about doing my job. That’s all I can control.

  My home life is personal. This is work, and I should keep the two separate.

  Walking around an excavated pit with several exposed pipes running through it, I make my way towards the cabin on the other side of this building site. That is where I will find Frank, the friendly old chap who sits in there and hands out personal protective equipment to the site workers, as well as keeping a log of all the tools that go in and out. While it might not look like it, almost everything on this site is extremely expensive, so it’s the job of Frank to make sure that it’s all monitored and doesn’t go missing. Last year, we had to fire a couple of guys after we found out they had been stealing tools and selling them off privately.

  It’s crazy what people will do for money.

  It's also crazy what people will do for love.

  Despite my best intentions, I am thinking about Sam and that woman again. Am I being blind to the truth that is staring me right in the face? Did he cheat on me? Was that woman just a genuine person who felt I deserved to know the truth?

  Am I making a mistake in trying to carry on as if everything is okay?

  I’m not sure, but one thing is clear. I am making a mistake by daydreaming while walking through the middle of a busy construction site. That’s how I ended up missing the call from the foreman when he tried to warn me that I was stepping into the blind spot of a small excavator nearby. The machine was moving but so was I, and it was only at the last second when I saw it reversing towards me.

  If it hadn’t been for the quick thinking of a site worker who pulled me out of the way at the last second then I could have been crushed by that machine. Thankfully, I just ended up on the floor covered in mud and feeling a little shaken up.

  But I could have been killed.

  That was a warning.

  It’s a warning that I can’t carry on like this.

  I have to know the truth about that woman.

  12

  SAM

  The first day of the working week is over, and I am grateful for that. Just four more days to go until Rebecca and I are sitting on our sofa again on Saturday night eating delicious food and watching the latest film release. I guess they call it “living for the weekend”, but I’m not that bad. I do enjoy my job, and it’s good to have a structure and routine that involves more than eating and watching TV. But there’s no denying that the weekends are better than the weekdays.

  So roll on Saturday.

  That’s not the only thing I need to roll on. The traffic sitting in front of me on this busy road needs to get rolling too, but so far, very little is moving. A traffic jam is the last thing that I need after a busy day in the office. It’s also the last thing I need for my empty stomach, which is rumbling away and will continue to do so until I get home and put some food into it. I wonder if Rebecca has finished work before me tonight. Maybe she is home and already has something cooking in the oven. That would be lovely, but I’m not banking on it. Unlike Steve, my sexist neighbour, I don’t believe that a woman’s place is in the kitchen. It’s wherever that woman wants to be, and I know Rebecca wants to be on a building site full of men, which is a little amusing but each to their own.

  I’m proud of my wife and what she does for a living. I also think it’s a little badass that she goes to work in boots and a helmet. Some of my friends tease me and ask if I would prefer it if she wore dresses and short skirts like some of their partners when they go to work, but I just laugh and tell them that I don’t care. I love my wife no matter how she looks. All I care about is that she is happy, and I know she is much happier on a building site getting covered in mud than she would be sitting behind a desk looking prim and proper and trying not to break a nail on her keyboard.

  It’s the thought of Rebecca’s happiness that makes me feel that knot of anxiety in my stomach again as I sit here in this heavy traffic and wait for something to move. Seeing my wife crying in front of me yesterday was devastating, and I know that she was still distracted when we went to the pub and had our meal. I wonder how she has got on today at work. I really hope she hasn’t been thinking about that bloody woman who came to our door and told a vicious lie. I also hope she hasn’t got too wet out on site today.

  I always think of my wife when it rains because I know that she hates it in her line of work. But it has been drizzling all day, and the raindrops are coming down harder now, bouncing off my windscreen and forcing me to increase the speed of the wipers as they try to fend the water off so I can see where I am going. Not that it matters where I am going because this road is still gridlocked, and I’m no nearer to getting back to my warm house where a fully-stocked fridge is just waiting to be raided.

  I’m just about to turn on the radio and see if I can find some good music to help pass the time when I hear the ringing alert that is built into my car that lets me know that somebody is calling me. I press the button on my steering wheel that activates the hands-free system, and it automatically answers the call for me, allowing me to talk without picking up my device and keeping me on the right side of British law, which decrees that drivers of cars are not allowed to touch their phones when at the wheel.

  ‘Hello?’ I say as I watch the raindrops bouncing off my windscreen.

  ‘Hey, Sam. It’s Maria. You okay to talk?’

  ‘Yeah, go for it.’

  I’ve not exactly got anything else to do while I’m sitting here in traffic, have I? So why not take a call from my colleague who I have just spent the last three hours sitting in a meeting with as we tried to figure out the payment terms on a new deal that our business is brokering with a client.

  ‘I was just looking at the figures again, and I’m not sure we’re going to be able to make clause seventeen work. I can put it all on an email, but I just thought I’d give you a heads up before you see it and start to cry.’

  I laugh at Maria’s joke. I definitely won’t be crying, but she’s not far off. From what she is saying, she has just found another problem in the initial problem that we have spent all afternoon trying to solve.

  ‘Great. Send it over to me, and I’ll grab a box of tissues before I start reading,’ I reply, and I hear the sound of Maria’s laughter at the other end of the line.

  She is from Spain, and while she speaks good English, her accent can mean it can be difficult to understand her sometimes. It’s usually worst whenever she is presenting, probably because she gets nervous and talks really fast, meaning it’s even harder to decipher what she is saying. At least that’s the polite explanation for not hearing her sometimes. The more impolite version that many guys in the office claim to be true is that she is so attractive that it’s not her words they are paying attention to.

  As a married man, I’m not going to speak too much on the beauty of any woman who isn’t my wife, but there are plenty of guys in my office who are happy to do so, and the general consensus is that she is smoking hot. But that doesn’t matter, at least not in the workplace anyway. What matters is that she is a damn good consultant and does a great job for our company. She must be because how else could she h
ave risen to such a good position by her mid-thirties? She knows her stuff, and she actually knows more than me, although I try not to make that too obvious in our meetings.

  ‘I’ve just sent it,’ Maria says in her Spanish lilt. ‘Let me know what you think. Have a good evening.’

  ‘Thanks. You too.’

  I push the button on my steering wheel to end the call, and now the only sound in my vehicle is the rain hitting the windscreen again. I guess I’ve got an email to read over when I get home. Great. And there I was looking forward to a quiet evening in front of the TV with Rebecca. At least the traffic has started to move again. I should be home soon, and then I can do something about my growling stomach. I can also do something to set my nerves at ease a little. I can see if Rebecca is really okay after the events of the weekend. I really hope she is. I’ve got enough on my plate with work, and by the sounds of Maria’s call, even more has been added to it. I could do without my personal life being a problem too. That’s why I hope that Rebecca is okay and that she’s had a good day. Or just a boring day. As long as it’s been normal.

  No drama. No incident. No bloody woman at the front door.

  Just a plain old boring Monday.

  Fingers crossed.

  13

  REBECCA

  I’ve been home since lunchtime, not long after I was dragged away from behind the heavy wheels of a ten-tonne machine that could easily have ended my life. I was shaken up after the incident, just like anyone else would be, so I was allowed to go home after I’d been seen by the Health and Safety Officer on site.