The Housewife

by Valerie Keogh

Genres: General Fiction; Family Life; Literary Fiction; Women's Fiction; Noir; Thrillers; Crime Fiction; Medical Thrillers; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

“There’s no place like home” – that’s what I tell myself as I pull another flawless meal from the oven. This perfect house on a quiet street was supposed to be my sanctuary, a place to recover. But everything changed the moment I saw that woman in the charity shop. She triggered something dark, buried deep within my memory…

Now I’ve started forgetting small things, like locking the front door.

And bigger things, like remembering to pick my little girl up from nursery.

I feel terrified every time I pass through a particular spot in our living room.

And sometimes, when I’m alone, I’m sure I can hear a baby crying…

I think the woman in the shop knows what happened to me. But if I can’t trust myself to believe she’s real, who will?

One of the most gripping and heart-pounding psychological thrillers you’ll ever read! If you were totally hooked by, The Wife Between Us, The Girl on the Train or The Woman in the Window you won’t be able to put this jaw-dropping thriller down until it’s finished.

 

Release date: February 27, 2019

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 282

Sample

Diane looked across the dinner table at her husband and knew she wasn’t going to like what he said. It was something about his eyes, they looked at everything except her.

Paul’s puppy-like brown eyes were the first thing she’d noticed about him when they’d met, that and his towering six-foot-two height. She’d been queuing for coffee in a café near where she worked and was trying to find change for the tip bowl. Fumbling in her purse, she’d dropped a pound coin on the floor and, as she’d stooped to pick it up, so did the man behind, both of them reaching for it at the same time. Her blue eyes had met his brown. He’d laughed, so had she. Moments later, he’d stood beside her table and asked if he could join her. ‘All the other seats are taken,’ he’d explained.

Looking around the almost-empty café, she had laughed and waved to a chair.

And that was that. Paul had only planned to be in Bristol for the day, but by the time they’d finished coffee they’d arranged to meet for dinner the following Saturday. After that, they’d spent every weekend together; Paul catching the train to Bristol after work every Friday to spend the weekend with her in her tiny rented apartment. At night, the two of them curled up in her small double bed, sometimes staying inside all weekend until he reluctantly dragged himself away on Sunday evening.

Six weeks after meeting, back in the same café, he’d gone down on one knee and asked her to marry him. It was crazy. Way too fast. But when he’d said he couldn’t live without her for one more day, she’d found herself agreeing with him; she loved him, her friends loved him and, reluctant to ever drop off the wave of romantic euphoria, she had grinned and said yes.

They didn’t wait, marrying as soon as they could arrange it and, a mere two months after meeting, Paul had carried her over the threshold of his London home. ‘Welcome home, my darling wife,’ he’d announced, setting her down in the hall of the beautiful Victorian house he owned in Copse Hill.

‘Wow,’ she’d said, her eyes wide. ‘When you said you had a house, I wasn’t expecting something so grand.’

Visibly pleased with her response, he’d taken her hand and brought her into the family room that stretched across the back of the house. ‘When I bought the place, it was falling apart,’ he’d explained, ‘it was the only reason I could afford it. Back here,’ he’d waved his hands around, ‘there was a small kitchen, a couple of storage rooms and a dark, dingy sitting room. I had them all knocked into one and extended.’

‘It’s amazing,’ Diane said, trying to take it all in, her eyes sparkling. She moved into the kitchen, fingers trailing along the cool granite of the counters, her eyes taking in the top-of-the-range cooker. She stopped in front of the huge American fridge-freezer. ‘I’ve always wanted one of these,’ she said, turning to him with a smile.

He grinned. ‘There’s not much in it apart from beer.’

Opposite the kitchen, the room spread into a living room where a large comfortable-looking L-shaped sofa faced a huge TV screen. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the garden flooded the room with light and French doors opened onto a patio.

‘It’s just lovely,’ Diane said, seeing his face light up with pleasure at her enthusiasm. ‘Maybe we could get a big table for here?’ She sketched a space between the kitchen and living area with her hands. ‘There’s plenty of room.’

‘I usually eat in front of the TV,’ he’d admitted, ‘but I like that idea. We can go shopping at the weekend.’ He’d pulled her close. ‘We’re going to be so happy,’ he’d promised, kissing her lightly on the lips. ‘Now, why don’t I show you the bedroom?’

Diane had laughed and kissed him hard. ‘How about,’ she’d said, huskily, ‘we start down here?’

An hour or so later, smiling as Paul snored softly beside her on the sofa, she’d squeezed out from under his arm, grabbed her clothes and headed off in search of the bathroom, dressing as she walked.

Turning the knob on the only other door in the hall, she found a small sitting room that looked over a pretty front garden. Decorated in dated floral wallpaper and with a clashing carpet, Diane guessed Paul had not got around to redecorating. It would, she’d thought, make a lovely room to sit in to read. She’d stood on the stairway and smiled. The house gave her a good feeling. She was going to be happy here, she thought, hugging herself with the sheer pleasure of life. They were going to be happy here.

She’d found a job almost immediately in what was grandly called the IT department of a haulage company, but was disappointed on her first day to discover it was a new department and, for the moment, she’d be working alone. Her office was located down a quiet corridor and, apart from the odd person who rang with queries, she rarely got a chance to speak with anyone.

‘I’m not going to make new friends there,’ she’d said to Paul after her first day.

He’d smiled at her and pulled her into his arms, whispering. ‘You’ve got me, darling.’

She’d snuggled into him. He was right. She had everything she needed.

When her girlfriends visited from Bristol for a weekend, they oohed and aahed over the house, her happy life and the pubs she took them to where they flirted with the locals and drank too much wine. They’d promised to return, she’d promised to visit them but then she discovered she was pregnant and everything changed.

For a moment, just for an infinitesimal fraction of time, she’d felt terrified of the unstoppable roller coaster her life had become. But Paul’s love was an anchor; she’d clung to it and the moment had passed. She’d looked around their great big house and, imagining the sound of children’s laughter filling it, rested her hand on her flat belly and knew, despite the timing, that she wanted their baby.

So, it turned out, did Paul, a grin splitting his face almost from ear to ear when she’d told him.

‘Seriously?’ he’d said. ‘I thought you were on the pill.’

She’d held her hands up. ‘I am. I mean, I was. But so much has happened in the last few months with the wedding and moving to a new house, maybe I forgot? I’ve done the test. It’s really happening. I—’

‘That’s fantastic news,’ he’d interrupted her when he saw the look of concern on her face. He’d folded her into his arms. ‘So, it’s a bit sooner than we’d planned. It will be perfect. Don’t worry.’

She hadn’t worried but, sometimes, she’d felt overwhelmed.

Everything was different now, including, she realised with a quiver of sadness, Paul’s eyes. They used to be warm, now they had the cold sheen of amber. Guilt whipped her. It was her fault; she’d put him through so much in the last few months, he’d been so supportive, so understanding no matter how many times she’d whispered, I don’t remember. There had to be a way to make it up to him, to get them back on track.

She rested her elbows on the dining table they had bought together that first weekend, almost four years ago. Putting her fork down, she laid her hand on it, fingers splaying on the warm oak, trying to connect with times when they’d been happier. It seemed such a long time ago.

‘Are you listening to me?’

She heard the touch of impatience in his voice and lifted her eyes to look at him. ‘Sorry,’ she said with a smile before picking up her fork again. ‘What were you saying?’

‘That I’ve read some research,’ he said, cutting into his chicken.

She sighed and wished he’d get to the point. He was obviously afraid to upset her; she appreciated his concern, his gentle approach, but sometimes it had the opposite effect to what he’d intended. Like now. She could feel anxiety uncurling.

Oblivious, Paul took another mouthful, chewing and swallowing before he continued. ‘It appears that children who mix with others from an early age are more advanced than their peers.’

‘Really?’ she said carefully, as she tried to read his face. He’d changed his workday smart suit for casual chinos and a T-shirt that emphasised his broad shoulders and athletic build. He seemed relaxed, but he still wasn’t looking directly at her.

He pushed a lock of his mousy-brown hair from his face. ‘According to the article, they learn better,’ he said, ‘and find it easier to interact with others. They cited a number of studies. There seems to be no doubt.’ He looked across the table at her, finally meeting her eyes. ‘I contacted a local nursery, Diane, they invited me to come and look around, so I did. The manager, Susan Power, is a great believer in starting young.’ He dropped his gaze to concentrate once more on his dinner. ‘We’re in luck,’ he said, ‘they have a place available in one of the classes. I met the teacher, a Miss Rogers. Emma will love her.’

Emma looked up from her plate when she heard her name and grinned. ‘Finish your dinner, sweetie,’ Diane said, turning her plate around and watching her for a few minutes, smiling at the determination on her little face as she concentrated on getting peas onto her spoon. She wished she could stay looking at her but, from the corner of her eye, she saw Paul wasn’t finished. His face still wore a pinched expression.

‘She can start on Monday.’

It was a statement, not a suggestion inviting comment.

She let the breath she’d been holding out in a sigh, her fork falling from suddenly limp fingers to clatter noisily onto her plate. ‘Monday. That’s so soon. Isn’t she too young?’ Her knuckles whitened on the handle of the knife she still held. ‘I feel like I’ve already missed so much.’

He heaved a sigh, reached across the table and caught her hand. ‘It’s a month since you came home from the clinic, Diane,’ he said gently. ‘You’re doing fine.’ He nodded toward where Emma was still chasing peas with her spoon. ‘Mrs Power says she’s the perfect age to start.’

‘But Monday?’ Diane said, looking at her daughter, her face angelic despite the rim of tomato sauce that circled her mouth. ‘It’s so soon.’

‘She’s three,’ he said quietly. ‘You don’t remember, but we did discuss this at length before, months ago. You agreed then it was a good idea.’

‘I did?’ She had no recollection, but she knew that didn’t mean anything. It was, after all, just one of hundreds of things she couldn’t remember.

He sighed. ‘Yes,’ he said, squeezing her hand. ‘It’s even more important that she goes now, Diane, you’ve become quite clingy. It’s not good for her. Or you.’

Too clingy? She let out a tremulous sigh. ‘Couldn’t we wait a few months?’ she tried again, hating the note of desperation that had crept into her voice.

Taking his hand back, he concentrated on his dinner.

She pushed her plate away, waiting for him to say something, to agree to wait, just for a few months, even a few weeks. But she knew when she saw his set face that his mind was made up.

Finally, he put his cutlery down and pushed his plate away. ‘These places are like gold dust, Diane,’ he said. ‘You have to grab them when you can.’ He reached for her hand again, moving his thumb over the back of it in a soothing caress. ‘It’s best for Emma, you know it is.’

There was nothing more to be said.

The next day, Saturday, Paul was up before her and making Emma breakfast when she arrived down. ‘Hello, poppet,’ she said, bending to give her daughter a kiss on her cheek and running a hand over her blonde curls.

‘Hello, Mummy. I’m going to school,’ she said, dipping her spoon into her cornflakes.

‘I’ve been telling Emma about the fun she’s going to have on Monday,’ Paul said, catching her eye. ‘She’s very excited about meeting other children and making friends.’ Diane forced her mouth into a smile. If she’d had the slightest hope that he would change his mind, it faded in the face of his words. Reluctantly, she conceded defeat.

‘You’ll need a school bag,’ she said, when Emma had finished her breakfast. ‘Let’s go shopping and buy you one.’ She lifted her out of her seat and held her tightly for a moment, until she wiggled free.

‘You’re squashing me, Mummy,’ she said.

‘Sorry, darling,’ Diane said, putting her down and running a hand through her hair. ‘I just love you so much.’ She looked at Paul and pinned a smile on her face. ‘Why don’t you come with us? It’ll be fun buying stuff.’

He put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close in a quick hug. ‘Impossible, I’m afraid. I know I usually take Emma on Saturdays, but I have so much work to do, sorry.’

Disappointed, she shrugged and reached for Emma’s hand. ‘Just you and me then, kiddo.’

Her local supermarket was a short ten-minute drive away. As usual, bustling with Saturday shoppers, it was chaotic and noisy. For safety, she’d have preferred to carry Emma, but she had insisted that she wanted to walk. Holding her hand tightly, Diane grabbed a trolley and headed toward the children’s section where she picked up a tiny, brightly coloured back-pack. ‘See,’ she showed her, ‘you can carry a drink and a snack in it.’

She added a few coloured markers and a pink jotter and Emma sat in the trolley playing with them while Diane finished the grocery shopping, piling stuff around her.

Back at home, with Emma asleep on the sofa and the groceries unpacked, she made herself a cup of tea and settled down at the table with her laptop to check out the nursery’s website. They gave clear directions to it, and she was pleased to see it was only about a fifteen-minute drive away from Copse Hill. Her eyes scanned the rules and regulations. Nothing out of the ordinary, although they appeared quite rigid, especially about time-keeping. That didn’t worry her, she was always on time; it’s not like she had anywhere else to be these days.

Shutting the laptop, she turned to watch Emma sleep. Paul was right, she was being selfish wanting to keep her home for longer. Pressing her knuckles to her eyes, she swallowed. He seemed to think she was doing fine. She wasn’t too sure, but there was really no point in crying.

She’d done too much of that already.

Monday came around too quickly. The nursery didn’t start until nine-fifteen, but Diane was up and dressed before eight, determined to have everything just right. She wanted to look the part amongst the other parents; efficient, together, in control. She took her time choosing the right clothes, eventually pulling on tailored navy trousers and a pale blue cashmere jumper she rarely wore. She applied a little more make-up than usual and finished with a scarf.

It was all armour, she knew; a thin façade to hide behind so they wouldn’t see how nervous she really was. She’d been home a month and Paul said she was doing fine; she just wished she could believe him.

It was stupid to be nervous about meeting the other mothers, but deep down she was desperate to make a good impression and maybe even make some friends. She hadn’t made new friends since she’d moved to London, and her plans to return to work after Emma was born had fallen by the wayside when she just couldn’t face leaving her with a childminder. ‘I’ll go back to work when she’s older,’ she’d said to Paul. ‘I don’t want to give up permanently.’

She’d settled into being a wife and mother quickly, surprising herself at how content she was. Emma had brought her and Paul closer than ever, but then, just after Emma’s first birthday, he was promoted to partner in the accountancy firm he worked for and things changed. It meant more money, but more responsibility. Even when he was home, at evenings and weekends, he spent hours in the office working.

Proud of her successful husband, she tried not to complain, but found herself feeling increasingly lonely. Her Bristol friends had drifted away into their own busy lives and, without a job, she didn’t really get a chance to socialise. Then, almost two months ago now, things really fell apart for her and, so far, despite what Paul said, she’d not managed to put them back together again.

She ran her fingers through blonde hair that was just a few shades darker than Emma’s. Sometimes she had highlights done but, lately, she hadn’t bothered. She thought about tying it up, but instead brushed it and left it loose.

With a final glance in the mirror, she headed downstairs and found Paul in the kitchen dabbing the crust of his toast with a little extra marmalade. He looked at her carefully and nodded. ‘You look very smart,’ he said, ‘but I’d lose the scarf, it’s not really you.’ Diane blushed, her hand going to the silk scarf around her neck and pulling it away. ‘Better?’ she asked.

‘Much.’ He checked his watch. ‘I’d better go,’ he said, and reached to give her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Don’t be nervous. It is the best thing for her, Diane.’

‘Yes, of course, I know,’ she said, trying to sound like she believed it.

At ten to nine, she bundled an excited, babbling Emma into the car, strapped her into her child seat and gave her the backpack to hold.

As soon as the car started to move, Emma began to sing a song Diane had taught her, forgetting most of the words and making them up. Diane smiled, her eyes flicking to the rear-view mirror to admire how much her beautiful daughter had grown over the last few months. There was so much she couldn’t remember, so much she’d missed. She could hardly bear to let Emma out of her sight for a minute, how was she going to manage a few hours?

It was tempting to keep driving, to pass the nursery and go somewhere exciting for the day. Maybe to the coast? But as Emma bobbed her head to her own song, curls bouncing, she knew her little girl needed this, as did she.

Pulling into a generous car park at the front of the nursery, she parked beside another car where a heavily pregnant woman was shutting her car door, a small boy hanging from her other hand. Lifting Emma out, she helped her on with the back-pack. ‘You look so grown up,’ she said, wanting to pull her into her arms and never let her go. Instead, she took her daughter’s hand and walked the short distance to the front door, following in the pregnant woman’s footsteps, feeling that first-day awkwardness of not knowing where to go or what to do.

Inside the double front doors, there was a large reception area where several adults stood, children close by, collective voices raised in chatter and laughter. Everyone seemed to know one another. It was incredibly noisy and Diane, used to the quiet of home, felt overwhelmed. Tension knotted her stomach. It wasn’t too late to change her mind; she could tell Paul she got a bad feeling from the place. She squeezed Emma’s hand and looked down at her, searching for a sign of the same anxiety, only to find a look of pure excitement in her eyes as she took in her surroundings. Diane swallowed the lump in her throat, and tried to relax.

On the dot of nine fifteen, a door opened into the reception from a corridor behind and three staff members entered and began huddling their charges together with a nod and a word of reassurance to each parent, before leading them away.

A thin woman in a dark-green shift dress entered and made her way through the group, smiling and chatting to various adults and children before purposefully making her way over to Diane.

‘You must be Mrs Andrews,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘I’m Susan Power, the manager here.’

She was tall, maybe three inches taller than Diane’s five-seven, her hair cut in a tight pixie style that seemed to exaggerate her height. But her eyes were warm and twinkling and Diane liked her immediately. She held out her free hand. It was the wrong one, but Susan took it with a reassuring smile, holding onto it as she turned her attention to Emma. ‘And you must be Emma,’ she said, stooping down. ‘You’re very welcome here and I know you’re going to be very happy.’

If Diane was worried about any separation issues her daughter might have, they were quickly laid to rest as Emma, with a beaming smile, released her hand to reach for Susan’s.

‘She’s going to be just fine, Mrs Andrews,’ she said, looking back to Diane with a wealth of reassurance in her voice. ‘We’ll see you back here at one,’ she added, before concentrating on Emma. Diane didn’t know whether to be relieved or heartbroken.

Back in her car, she sat with the window open, listening intently for the merest whisper of a scream, knowing she’d instantly recognise Emma’s voice above them all; that deep-seated, motherly instinct that would send her running to the rescue.

She’d heard nothing by the time her mobile rang almost an hour later. It wasn’t necessary to look at it to know it was Paul. He rang at around the same time every morning to ask how her day was going. She shut the window before answering, unwilling to explain why she needed to stay outside the nursery; he didn’t need to know how much she still worried. ‘Everything is okay,’ she said as cheerfully as she could. ‘No,’ she answered when he asked if Emma had been upset, ‘she was completely fine.’

Hanging up, she opened the window to listen again. A light breeze had picked up, drifting through the copper beech hedge that surrounded the school, causing the dried old leaves to rustle and whisper. It was a pleasant sound and for a moment she relaxed, her eyes drifting shut. It was seconds before she realised the whisper had changed; now it wasn’t quite so pleasant. A shiver ran down her spine and her eyes flew open as it came again, a cry, a child’s sad cry. She pushed open the car door and ran towards the school, reaching for the doorbell as her head tilted to listen again. But now, all she could hear was the faint sound of childish laughter. Dropping her hand, she stood a moment before, with a shake of her head, she went back to the car and sat staring at the front door until it opened at twelve forty-five.

Driving home, with Emma happily babbling away in the back, she promised herself that the next day she would go straight home after dropping her off; she’d drink coffee, watch daytime TV, tidy the house – anything to fill the hours until it was pick-up time, anything to stop her going crazy.

Again. She looked at her reflection in the rear-view mirror.

She shook her head, brushing the thought away. Perhaps now she should go back to work? It was what she’d always planned to do once Emma was old enough but now, remembering her last job and the small, isolated office she had worked in, the idea filled her with dread. What if she ended up working somewhere like that again? No, she needed something different, something safe and sociable.

At home, when Emma had settled for her nap, she made herself some coffee, switched on her laptop and spent a couple of hours looking for options, her face gradually losing its tense, worried expression as they opened before her. That evening, over dinner, she mentioned to Paul she was thinking of doing some kind of voluntary work. ‘Now that Emma is in nursery,’ she said, almost nervously, worried he’d think that it was still too soon.

‘What a good idea,’ he said, reaching across and squeezing her hand. ‘It will be good for yo. . .