The Family at Number 12

by Kathryn Whitfield

Genres: Thrillers; Crime Fiction; Domestic Thrillers; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

The perfect neighbours. Or your worst nightmare?

Penny and Jake live in a beautiful home in a beautiful neighbourhood with their beautiful baby boy. It's the perfect life. Except that Penny is desperately lonely and can't shake the feeling that she isn't bonding with her baby like she should be.

So when Celia moves in across the street with her husband, Pete, and their gorgeous children, Penny is delighted to have a friend.

But things aren't quite what they seem behind closed doors. Because Celia and Pete have a secret. And the truth threatens to devastate everyone around them.

A completely gripping psychological suspense that will have you listening long into the night. Perfect for fans of The Family Across the Street, The Woman Next Door and Shari Lapena.

(P) 2023 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: February 16, 2023

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

1

The crunch of gravel underneath tyres startles me from my almost-­sleep and I sit up straight. As I do, the baby stops sucking and begins to fuss. Before his whimpers can intensify, I gently readjust him so that he can latch on again – frantic little bites until he finds his rhythm, allowing me to uncurl my toes.

Careful to keep him pinned to me, I shuffle to the edge of the nursing chair and crane my neck over the window ledge to see a large car drawing into the drive on the other side of the street. Its metallic grey paintwork glistens in the sunshine.

Mrs Stevens will be beside herself. It’s all she’s talked about for weeks. ‘Be nice to finally have that house lived in,’ she had called to me, dashing out of her front door at the exact moment I’d pulled up from work a month ago. I had forced myself to smile and nod along, my legs throbbing and my lower back ready to disintegrate.

I had placed a hand under my bump, hoping she might take the hint and stop talking. No such luck. I’m convinced she would have continued her monologue had I gone into labour there and then.

The sound of a door slamming pulls my attention back to the man and woman emerging from the expensive-­looking car. He’s film-­star handsome, tanned and immaculately dressed in jeans and a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing a chunky silver watch on his right wrist. He flashes a smile in the direction of the woman who is beautiful, her blonde hair pulled back in an updo that I wouldn’t even manage for a wedding. Her maxi dress is a crisp white, with fine blue stripes and not a crease in sight.

I look down at the faded yoga pants and ancient hoodie I managed to dress myself in this morning. The hoodie is unzipped, revealing the huge maternity bra bandaging half my torso. Shrinking back into the room, my grip loosens on the baby causing him to unlatch again. As his eyes open slowly, his pursed lips still working away, confusion clouds his scrunched-­up features. I quickly swap him onto the other side, where he happily settles. He’ll probably be sick afterwards, but it buys me some precious minutes sitting here with him, so I don’t care.

I rest my head against the back of the chair, closing my eyes and almost immediately feel on the edge of sleep. These days, I have no doubt I could sleep on a cold, concrete floor for twelve hours straight. Mum has offered to come over and stay again, but I’m determined to do this myself now that we’re past the initial few days. I can still hear her voice on the phone, when I insisted that we were doing just fine.

As my mind starts to drift, tiredness washing over me, I feel the baby finally unlatch, a soft grunting noise quickly following. I’m surprised by how well I know his little sounds, his habits, even after just two weeks. Cradling his soft head, I pull him up onto my shoulder and stand. With his hard tummy pressed against my loose breast, I start to sway from side to side as he tries to lift his head – a little dance that proves to me that I am finally a mother; that rhythmic lulling that binds mothers together.

I turn my gaze back to the window, where the woman is now opening the back passenger door on the driver’s side. The front door is ajar, and there’s no sign of the man.

I inch closer to the window, still rubbing the baby’s back, waiting for the reward of a milky burp, as his little head repeatedly strains upwards and then sags onto my shoulder.

The woman leans into the car and lifts out a blond toddler, who is rubbing his eyes. At the same time, the man appears from the house and removes a baby seat from the other side of the car, stopping briefly to adjust his grip on the handle. I edge a little closer still but can’t see the baby inside. The woman follows him into the house, the boy’s head resting sleepily on her shoulder, and I feel a small pang of affinity, a sort of pull towards this woman, in our mirrored poses. Underneath that is a dart of envy though. How do some mothers, especially new mothers, manage to look so stylish? My hair is currently fifty per cent dry shampoo, and I smell of stale milk.

They disappear into the house as I feel a familiar vibration under my hand, signalling the thin trickle of warm milk that is now dribbling onto my skin. I hold the baby close as his body relaxes. This is one of my favourite moments of the day – the nap that is promised allows me a quick shower, five minutes of alone time, and my body to myself. As I gently place the baby down on his mattress, his small fists slowly relax and loosen as I look down, my hands gripping the edges of the cot, praying he is settled.

In the shower, I turn the temperature up high, the room quickly filling with steam as I allow the jets to pummel my shoulders and loosen my neck. I tilt my head back and let the water wash over my face. Squirting shampoo into my hand, I lather and then quickly rub a soapy sponge across my body. When my fingers brush against my breast, I grit my teeth as a jolt of pain vibrates through me, reminding me that this is no longer my body. The baby owns all of it now. He has done since the early days of pregnancy, something I had hoped for for so long. As my belly expanded, I had shrunk.

I loosely pull a towel around my body as I step back into the bedroom, steam escaping behind me. I pause and listen for the whimpering cry that could end my respite. Silence. It’s so deep, it takes me a moment to register Jake, who is sitting on the bed with his feet up, book in hand. I quickly tighten the towel as he looks up and smiles, placing the book face down on his knee.

‘Hey. I brought you up a brew,’ he says, pointing to the bedside table behind him.

In response, silent tears fall swiftly down my cheeks. Where have they come from?

Jake shifts over and pats the space next to him. Tucking myself in under his arm, I feel protected, as my wet hair darkens his grey t-­shirt and my nose fills with the smell of garlic, telling me he’s been cooking. He passes me the mug of tea and I take a sip.

After a few minutes, I open my mouth to tell him how desperate I am for sleep, but he speaks first. ‘You should get dressed, come downstairs. You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten.’ It’s a mystery how men, especially one who happens to be a doctor, think that food can cure anything. But I do as he suggests, placing the tea on the closest surface and grabbing a clean outfit, before following him downstairs, an uncomfortable tugging sensation down below with every cautious step I take.

The kitchen is warm, sunlight dappling the worktop where my leaden arms rest as I perch on the bar stool. Jake flits from the cupboard to the fridge, his movements efficient as he puts the finishing touches to his pasta bake. The nausea that’s taken up permanent residence in my belly is still there, but I know I’ve got to eat. I stare at my hands, only realising that Jake is saying something when he places his elbows on the kitchen island and ducks his face down to mine, a deep crease between his eyes.

‘Penny, are you listening? Darling, why won’t you let me help? I could take him for a walk; let you get a proper sleep.’

I don’t look up. I can’t make eye contact because I know he’s right. I should let him help. I am so desperate to sleep, but the idea of Jake wheeling the pram down the road makes my heart race and my saliva turn to glue. As I try to find the words to tell him this, I hear the baby cry and instinctively jump off the stool. I sneak a glance at Jake whose mouth tightens and know he is about to say something, no doubt criticise. I know he thinks I react too quickly, that I should give the baby a moment to settle himself, but I can’t do it.

 

Each time I walk into the nursery, it seems more beautiful than the last, with its bright yellow walls adorned with pictures of animals, and soft, twinkling stars projected from the machine that sits on the changing table. His cries reduce in volume as soon as I lift him from the cot, a loud burp escaping his tiny body the moment it touches mine.

‘Oh, baby. Was that hurting you?’ His eyes flicker and I’m about to put him back in the cot when I change my mind and return to the nursing chair I’ve spent most of my time in since he arrived. He grows heavy in my arms as my brain whirrs. I’m constantly restless, both desperate to be here, where I’m needed, and desperate to be alone – all at the same time. It never stops. My mind is filled with thoughts that I struggle to banish: Why do I avoid my husband? Why won’t I let him help with the baby?

But above all else, there is one that is growing in volume and urgency; one that I refuse to voice.

What if I’m not meant to be a mother?

2

It’s not even 9 a.m., and already the house is boiling. A trickle of sweat makes its way down my back as I grip the cool cloth in my hand, ready to wipe away the spilled coffee. I’m not supposed to be drinking any caffeine, but the decaf stuff is awful. I rationalise the decision by telling myself that it’s better I’m caffeinated and awake than half asleep.

‘Morning.’ Jake comes up behind me, kissing me on the top of my head, before walking over to the Moses basket where he leans in and touches the baby’s cheek with a gentle finger. I feel a little tug of annoyance that I know is irrational. He used to kiss me properly. He’s not deliberately treating me like a child, I know this. It’s the hormones. Deep down, under the irrational thoughts, I know he is trying his best.

‘Do you want any breakfast? Toast?’ I offer up, extending an olive branch.

‘Nah, I’ll grab something on the way in.’ He stops by the coffee machine and slides a pod in before he turns, resting against the counter.

‘Oh, you’re working today?’ I sound whiny, even to myself. ‘I thought we could go for a walk, spend the day together.’

He shrugs apologetically as the coffee machine spits out black tar. ‘I’m sorry, I would love to, but they’ve asked me to cover. Philip broke his arm last weekend, remember?’

‘Well, it’s the funniest paternity leave I’ve ever heard of,’ I snap, turning my back on him and pretending to scrub at the hob with the cloth I’m still gripping. My teeth are clenched, and I realise I want him to react. To tell me I’m being daft, to shout. Just to show me something.

His voice, as ever, is reasonable. ‘I know it’s not been great. But I’ll be off for another week soon – and, besides, I will be able to do more then, once he’s not attached to you all day. That’s what we both agreed, remember?’ He wraps his arms around me to soften his words, but I carry on scrubbing so he soon lets go, grabbing his coffee and returning to the Moses basket on his way out. I watch him covertly, his face softening around the edges and his lips parting slightly. He half turns towards me, and I instantly know what he’s going to ask, so I jump in before he has a chance.

‘Bye then, see you later,’ I say with a forced smile. There’s a small pause, and then he is gone, closing the door silently behind him.

I walk to the lounge window and watch as the car backs out, turning my gaze briefly towards the house across the street, but it is silent, the curtains drawn tight against the morning sun and the driveway empty.

 

The clock ticks away as I sit waiting. I’m always waiting now. Waiting for Jake to come home. Waiting for the baby to finish feeding, to go to sleep, to let me know what he wants. Even at night, deep sleep eludes me and I doze on a knife edge, hearing a ghostly shadow of the cry I know is coming.

Finally, he wakes, and I dress him methodically, fastening the tabs of his nappy and coaxing his tiny, bendy limbs through the leg holes of a blue romper suit. The motions of motherhood. These bits I can do, the monotonous tasks that need to be completed each day.

With every passing day, I seem to shed some more of the Penny that I was before; the carefree Penny who never worried about anything and was the life and soul. Was I ever really that person? Or was I merely tripping along, crashing from hobby to obsession, when what I really craved was routine?

His little suit matches my top and there is a moment when we look as if we are the same person, an odd baby–­woman hybrid. I pack a small grey changing bag with nappies, wipes and spare clothes, then struggle with the pram, trying to lay the base flat for him. Jake manages it one handed, but it resists me. My finger catches in the hinges and I yell out and the baby starts to cry. Lowering myself to the bottom stair, I cuddle him to me, making a shushing noise. Staring at the front door, I fight a sob at how ridiculous this is. It’s taken me the best part of an hour just to get to the bloody hallway, but I’m determined that I’m going out of that door today.

 

Outside, it smells like warm tarmac and lavender. Inhaling deeply, I start pushing the pram down the driveway and watch as the baby’s eyes start to close again. It’s incredible, how much he sleeps. As I step out onto the pavement, I hear a voice from behind me call my name. Mrs Stevens. I roll my eyes before turning around to give her my best Little Miss Sunshine smile.

‘Hi, Mrs Stevens, how are you?’ I tap my foot as she catches up with me, and lunges straight into the pram, poking her head under the canopy and making cooing noises.

‘Oh, I could just eat him right up!’ she exclaims, and I bite my tongue. I’m learning that babies bring out the odd in people. ‘Where are you off to? I can walk with you.’

Before I can respond, she falls into step beside me and provides a steady stream of gossipy white noise – boring anecdotes about people from the village, some of whom I barely know. I start plotting how I can ditch her. If I didn’t have the buggy, I’d change direction and cut across the fields, but I know the movement would wake the baby. We did buy a baby carrier, but it’s still in its packaging. I’m lost in thought, my eyes fixed on the baby, and only realise I’ve missed what Mrs Stevens has said when I sense her glaring at me.

‘Sorry, what was that?’

‘I said, that’s our new neighbour up ahead. I saw her earlier with the two little ones. Their dad headed out to work early – even earlier than your Jake. Dads these days . . .’ She gives me a sly look and I’m reminded why I don’t like her. There are too many of them in this village, idle gossips with a mean streak.

Tearing my eyes away from the baby, I spot the woman a couple of minutes ahead of me, and her voice floats back in snatches as she talks to the children. ‘Tom!’ she calls, as the little boy releases her hand and grabs on to the edge of the pushchair she is pushing, walking on tiptoes and peering in at his sibling.

I pick up my pace slightly, despite the discomfort and feel a sliver of satisfaction as I sense Mrs Stevens struggling to keep up, her breathing becoming more laboured and her backless sandals slapping loudly against the pavement.

She can hardly speak as we reach the door of the local coffee shop, where I duck inside under the guise of needing to change the baby’s nappy. Nobody wants to help with one of those. The door closes behind me, leaving Mrs Stevens speechless, and the familiar sounds and smell of coffee hit me, reminding me of my pregnancy when Jake and I used to come here a lot. I haven’t been here since, but it’s the heart of the village. The Harris family have owned this place for ever. Jake grew up in the village and says his parents used to bring him here when he was a child.

Patrick is behind the counter and raises a hand in greeting when he spots me, calling to the kitchen behind him at the same time. I’ve barely sat down at one of the spare tables when his wife, Caroline, rushes over. She leans into the pram as I settle myself. ‘Oh, isn’t he gorgeous! I was hoping you’d pop in soon . . . I’ve got a little something for him. Pat, grab that bag off the side, will you? I saw your parents visiting last week. How long are they staying?’

The pitfalls of a small village. Jake often complains that trying to maintain doctor–­patient confidentiality here is impossible. A newly diagnosed UTI is being discussed in the pub before he’s written up his notes.

Although the gossip can be tiresome, I love this small village. My hometown was big and anonymous. We knew the neighbours in the immediate vicinity and a handful of school friends. This place feels supportive, the loss of privacy a fair trade for people always looking out for you.

‘They’ve gone back home. They were here for a couple of days, but they prefer their own space.’ I smile as Patrick brings over a blue striped gift bag and takes a cursory glance at the baby. ‘Lovely.’

Caroline rolls her eyes at him as he heads back to the counter. ‘A man of few words. He’s been thinking of you though, love.’ She rests a hand on my shoulder, twisting her body towards Patrick. ‘Make yourself useful and get this woman a coffee.’ Her booming voice carries and Patrick nods in response. ‘So, how are you?’

Where do I start?

The words are waiting to spill out of me, but I know it’s not what anyone wants to hear.

‘I’m fine. Tired, but fine.’ The coffee is deposited in front of me, and I reach for the bag hanging over the bars of the pram. Caroline shakes her head.

‘Don’t be so daft. First one after you’ve had a baby is on the house. You must make the most of a hot drink with a new-­born around.’

I’m embarrassed, though not shocked, to find my eyes fill with tears in response to this, a simple kindness. I take a tentative sip and avoid her eyes. The frothy milk is comforting, but the liquid underneath is scalding, making my eyes water more. Caroline either doesn’t notice, or is just busy, as she pats my shoulder, before moving to join Patrick behind the counter.

The knot in my stomach is smaller. I have done it. Apart from my parents and Jake’s mum, and nosy Mrs Stevens, Caroline and Patrick are the first people I know that I’ve spoken to since we were discharged from hospital. Despite the sense of relief, I know the baby might wake soon, and need feeding and the thought of doing that here, with people around, makes my palms clammy. There are only two other customers, but the proximity of the tables feels claustrophobic. I take another large slurp of coffee, the rich smoothness still alien, even though Jake has assured me that it’s fine to have a few a day while I’m feeding.

Caroline looks over at me and smiles. Worried she is going to come over and start asking more questions, I take my phone from my bag.

A message from Jake.

I’m sorry about earlier. I’ll be back by 4 p.m., we could go for a walk then? Or slob on sofa. LY x

I swipe to respond.

Slobbing sounds good x

There is another message too. Bernadette. She is clearly the nominated representative from work, as this is the fifth message I’ve received from her since the birth.

Hey, we’re all thinking of you. Hope you got the flowers OK? Let me know when you are up for a visit – I promise not to stay long and will bring cake/do the dishes. I miss you, it’s not the same here without you.

Her other messages have all come at odd times, and I suddenly realise that I’ve not thanked her for the flowers. I’d meant to and, honestly, thought I remembered typing the message out. Obviously not. I start to tap out a response but delete it. I press call instead, the guilt weighing on me. It has barely started ringing before she answers.

‘Penny! Oh, I’m so glad you called. I’ve been worrying about you. How are you, how’s the baby? Do we have a name yet?’

I smile at the sound of her voice. We’ve worked together for the past four years and have become really close in that time. Organised, friendly, no-­nonsense, just the sort of person I like. But I need to tread carefully, she is still officially my boss. She will want to know that I’m coping. That’s what we do all day at work, cope with a crisis. And there is always a crisis when planning someone else’s wedding.

‘We’re all fine, just majorly sleep deprived. Everyone warned me, but it’s hard to imagine, isn’t it?’ Bernie’s two children are grown up and had left home years before. ‘Jake has split his paternity leave, so he’s only taken a few days so far and is saving the rest, so I’m afraid the admin has been a bit neglected. But thank you so much for the flowers, they are stunning. I’ve managed to keep them and the baby alive!’

I move the phone away from my ear a fraction as her strident, filthy laugh booms into my ear. ‘Well, you’ve got it all sussed then. I was a zombie for weeks with my David. It all gets easier, but I bet you’re bored of people telling you that. If you need me to pop over and take him out for a walk, or run the hoover round, just give me the nod, OK?’

I need to steer her away from baby talk in case she asks her original question again. ‘How did the Foster wedding go?’ This had been the last one I’d worked on and Ellie, the bride to be, had burst into tears when I told her that I would be going on maternity leave before her big day.

I hear her suck in a breath through her teeth. ‘All fine until the best man fell down the stairs. Had to get him taken to hospital, clearly three sheets to the wind. He’s fine, and the rest of the day went perfectly. I’d expect nothing else when you did the work.’

The baby starts to grunt and wriggle, he is starting to wake. ‘That’s great, Bernie. It’s been so great to speak, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to dash. He’s just waking from his nap. I’ll be in touch about a time for you to pop over. Or I could bring him into the office perhaps?’

Once we’ve said our goodbyes, I make a swift exit, the sun momentarily blinding me as I steer the pram out of the shop, waving to Caroline as I go. I stride down the road so fast that my shins ache, determined to get home before he cries. I can deal with it all better from there. But I am buoyed by my first venture outside alone with him.

  . . .