The Perfect Father

by Charlotte Duckworth

Genres: Marriage & Divorce; Female Sleuths; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

From the author of Unfollow Me comes a dark, surprising suspense of toxic relationships and family secrets . . . The perfect husband... After a difficult pregnancy, Esther is grateful that her forward-thinking husband Robin offers to put his career on hold so that she can return to the job she loves. The perfect father... Robin flourishes in his new role of stay-at-home parent, but Esther finds leaving her daughter behind to go to work more challenging than she'd thought, and soon the imbalance in their relationship brings old tensions to the surface. A perfect lie? Then one day Esther arrives home from work to find Robin and Riley are missing. As the police investigate their disappearance, it becomes clear that nothing about this modern-day family is what it seems... Was Robin the perfect father everyone thought he was? Or was it all a perfect lie? ********** PRAISE FOR UNFOLLOW ME 'A timely, page-turner of a novel' Araminta Hall 'Taut, chilling, with a killer twist' Sun 'An intriguing slow burner that reveals the dark side of social media' Heat 'Brilliantly dark, twisty thriller' Vikki Patis

Release date: December 1, 2020

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 384

Sample

 

 

Praise for Charlotte Duckworth

‘Brilliant and insidious’ – Lucy Clarke, author of Last Seen

‘This is a taut, chilling read with a killer twist at the end’ – Sun

‘Charlotte Duckworth ticks all the boxes with her debut psychological thriller . . . gripping’ – Irish Examiner

‘Absolutely terrific, a beautifully written debut from an exciting new voice in psychological fiction’ – Cass Green, bestselling author of In a Cottage in a Wood

‘A fantastic debut of how female relationships can turn toxic with devastating consequences’ – Sue Fortin, author of Sister, Sister

‘A compelling, addictive read . . . I absolutely loved it’ – Karen Hamilton, author of The Perfect Girlfriend

‘A chilling and compelling debut’ – Lucy Dawson, author of The Daughter

‘A gripping psychological suspense that delves deep into the complex relationship of two women’ – Elisabeth Carpenter, author of 99 Red Balloons

‘A gripping, unpredictable read with two compelling female characters who I both loved and hated in equal measure’ – Tracy Buchanan, author of The Lost Sister

‘Dark, thought-provoking and compelling . . . a brilliant study of female tensions that builds to a shocking and unexpected climax’ – Rebecca Fleet, author of The House Swap

‘Sharply observant, smartly plotted and beautifully written’ – Phoebe Locke, author of The Tall Man

‘A compelling, original read about ambition, motherhood and how far people will go to get what they want. Chilling, complex and unnerving, I loved it’ – Phoebe Morgan, author of The Doll House

‘A novel that charts how the toxicity of the modern workplace pits women against each other in a battle no one can win. I loved this original, unnerving psychological suspense story!’ – Holly Cave, author of The Memory Chamber

‘A distinctive new direction in psychological suspense . . . as compelling as it is unpredictable, building tension cleverly right up to the satisfying conclusion. An excellent, fresh and absorbing read’ – Caroline Hulse, author of The Adults

Esther

Sorry.

That’s all Robin’s text message said. What does that mean? By the time I turn the corner on to our street, my hands are shaking so violently I’m not sure I’ll be able to turn the key. Please God, please God, just let me find them at home as usual. Let him have sent that message to me by mistake. A stupid, thoughtless mistake. Or a joke. Yet another joke I don’t understand.

We’ll be laughing about it in a few minutes. Please, please.

I spent the entire journey here talking myself down from the edge, like the rational woman I am, reading over Amanda’s reply to my message, telling me that she dropped Riley off with Robin just before 3pm. That he seemed a bit preoccupied, but no more so than usual. Nothing that gave her any cause for concern.

But . . . a bit preoccupied?

I phoned, said I was worried I hadn’t heard from him and asked her to pop round to ours, to see if he was there, but she was at the swimming pool with Madeline and wouldn’t be back for ages.

No matter how my mind torments me, there is one thing I know for sure: he would never hurt her. He adores her. He’s looked after her since she was born, so that I could go back to work as soon as possible. Back to the career I love. Their bond is undeniable.

I push open our small gate – newly painted – and I run up our front path. The house is pitch-dark, but the front door is ajar. The panic sets in again, followed closely by anger. What the hell is he playing at? Why is the front door open?

I swallow the vomit that rises to my throat, as salty and disgusting as seawater, then I push the door open fully, fumble for the light switch and squint as the spotlights blind me.

‘Rob!’ I call out in the silent house. ‘Rob! Where are you?’

My voice soon becomes a scream. I race from room to room, but there’s no one here.

There’s no one here.

I grab my phone from my bag and ring his number again, but it goes to voicemail, as it has done ever since he sent that text message. There’s nothing too unusual about that – he often has his phone switched off.

I try to think. Where could they have gone? It’s nearly 4.15pm. They might be at the park. They’re probably at the park.

But it’s freezing outside.

And why was the front door open?

I check the coat rack in the narrow hallway. Riley’s coat is not there. Neither are her little boots. His shoes are missing. He has taken her somewhere. But where?

Why is he sorry?

I look around our shiny new house, remembering a time when I thought the extension project wouldn’t end. It was meant to be a fresh start. It’s not a big house, but it’s big enough for the three of us.

But now. Now that it’s just me, standing here alone, it feels too big.

Of course it’s too big. Riley isn’t here. Her absence is the biggest space of all.

I go through to the kitchen, wondering who to call. The police? Would that be an overreaction? What if that just made everything worse? And then my phone pings.

A message from my friend Vivienne, telling me that she’ll have Robin ‘disappeared’ as a birthday present for me if I like? Her humour has always been the blackest, yet the timing of her message is unnerving.

I stare around at our shiny new kitchen, the immaculate white stone worktops gleaming at me. The space is cavernous, and it echoes. It’s too empty. It’s empty of everything: warmth, trust, passion. Just like our marriage of late.

I turn again and then I notice that the biggest kitchen drawer is open wide. The drawer in which we fling all the stuff that has no other home: batteries, key rings, paracetamol, old Calpol syringes, pens that have nearly run dry . . .

The doorbell chimes, catching me unexpectedly. Please let it be them. Please let it be him bringing her home.

I rush through the hall to the front door. But when I open it, I don’t find my husband. Or my daughter. My tiny, vulnerable two-year-old girl.

Instead, there are two police officers: one male, one female, their breath misting in the cold.

Sorry, his text message said.

What has he done?

Esther

Pregnant.

This is what we both wanted, so why do I feel so shocked? Perhaps it’s the fact that I had resigned myself to it never happening. To this never happening – this moment of staring down at the pregnancy test, and not just seeing the usual single line, staring sadly up at me.

Two lines. Two pink lines!

My eyes fall on the huge pile of paperwork we took home from the IVF clinic last week, sitting right opposite me on the coffee table. The complicated array of different options, and pricing plans and decisions that needed to be made: would I like my tubes flushed first as a precaution?

Suddenly, none of it is relevant any longer. We can burn it all: all the paper and the jargon and the decisions and the appointments.

‘How?’ I say. ‘How is this . . . possible? After what they told us, after what they said . . . nearly two years! Two years of trying . . . why . . . how?’

I’m so bewildered by it all, so terrified that it’s a mistake, that the test is faulty.

‘I’ll do another test,’ I say. ‘Just to be sure.’

But I am sure. I know it, I feel different. So different from all those months when I had held my hopes up as high as I possibly could, only to have them punctured by that single pink line again.

The second test confirms the first. I am pregnant.

All my dreams come true.

I sit back down on the sofa in the living room of our tiny flat, our pride and joy, the shared creation that we are both so passionate about. I pull the check blanket over my legs, a souvenir from our latest minibreak in the Highlands, turning the situation over in my mind. Robin sits beside me, still. So very still. It’s unlike him; he’s usually a ball of energy.

He hasn’t said anything yet.

‘Rob . . .’

I think about his reaction when I showed him the pregnancy test, trying to work out what the facial expressions meant. I’m nearly thirty-eight. We’ve been together for five years. The most unlikely of couples. Me, Mrs Sensible, with my first-class English degree and reluctance to drink more than one glass of wine at any occasion. Him, Mr Reckless, smarter than me but not academic, quick-witted and sociable, the non-stop talker, the life and soul of a party who can never have ‘just one’.

Opposites attract, I always say to people. We bring out the best in each other.

We got married two years ago. Just woke up one freezing Saturday morning in February and marched down to the registry office and did it. Dragged two witnesses in their fifties off the street – they were less enthusiastic about it than we’d hoped, and we laughed about them afterwards, how unromantic their souls must be. Swore never to end up like them. Came home and interspersed making love with eating Ben & Jerry’s straight from the tub for the rest of the day. The high I felt afterwards lasted weeks.

It remains the most unlikely and the most spontaneous thing I’ve ever done. But at the same time, I had never felt surer of a decision in my life.

We started trying for a baby straight away. I have wanted this for so long, but now I feel terrified.

It’s almost too much, isn’t it? To get everything you ever wanted? No one gets everything they ever wanted.

‘Rob, say something!’

Why is he so quiet?

At best, he is stunned. At worst, he is devastated. Did he secretly hope it would never happen?

‘I need to work out the dates,’ I say, pulling my phone towards me. ‘It’s December now, so that means . . .’

‘August,’ Robin replies. ‘I think. Shit. The festival. An Edinburgh baby!’

He beams.

‘That’s nice,’ I say, stupidly. The festival. Typical that he should think of that straight away. ‘A summer baby. I always wished I had a summer birthday.’

In a moment, my life has changed completely and forever. Like a train suddenly switching track. No way back. Whatever the outcome, this will define me, my life, my story.

A baby.

My face breaks into a smile; a strange gurgle of childish glee escapes.

I’m pregnant!

But then I think of Vivienne. I can picture it now: the way her lip will twist in surprise, followed by an abrupt shake of her head and look of disbelief. She will be shocked. She thought it would never happen for us.

Deep down, perhaps, she hoped it never would.

‘I don’t know what to say.’ My voice wavers. ‘I don’t know how to feel. I’m just . . . I was so sure it would never . . .’

Suddenly, I am sobbing.

‘Hey, Tot, it’s OK,’ Robin says, in a surprisingly steady voice. ‘It’s overwhelming, that’s all. You clever girl. You did it. You did it!’ He grips my hand in his, the wide smile still stretched across his face.

That’s when I finally exhale. This is how our relationship works, how it has always worked. I feel guilty for my momentary lack of faith. We take it in turns. When he is feeling weak, I give him his strength. When I am feeling weak, he gives me mine. We are a team, two sides of a coin; we are perfect, but only if we’re together. It makes sense that I am the one feeling overwhelmed – it’s my body, after all.

‘We did it,’ I say, returning his smile.

‘Yes, we did. And it’s awesome, Tot. Imagine, a tiny boy or girl. Ours. Fuck!’

I nod, the relief all-encompassing. I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him through the mess of curly hair that hangs down almost to his chin. He smells of sleep and warmth; he feels like home.

‘It’s Christmas next week,’ I say, my cheek pressed tightly against his. ‘Are we going to tell people? What about the alcohol?’

Robin turns to me and takes my face in his hands. I can smell coffee on his breath. It would never normally bother me, but this time I feel my stomach lurch in protest.

‘Don’t worry about a thing,’ he says, staring straight into my eyes. And then finally he leaps to his feet, his arms wide as he beams down at me and does a little dance on the spot as I sit there, staring up at him and laughing, thinking, as always, how lucky, lucky, lucky I am.

‘It’s going to be brilliant,’ Robin says.

He will be the perfect father.

Robin

So this is it, she’s pregnant.

After she told me, I took myself off to the bathroom and sobbed. Proper sobbed, like a baby. If she heard me, she didn’t say anything. She’s good like that. Understands that sometimes you need your privacy, that there are certain things you don’t want to share.

Finally, it’s happened.

I can hardly believe it.

I haven’t known much for sure in my life, but I’ve always wanted to be a dad. Forget my comedy career, this is my destiny. Me and my little son, building the kind of relationship I could only have dreamt of with my old man.

It had always been vague talk, before. Esther knew I’d make a great dad. But when I brought it up she always used to smile at me and say, ‘Yes, one day, definitely,’ or ‘Maybe next year?’ and change the subject. She was traditional, she wanted to get married first.

So we did.

I didn’t put any pressure on her, because I’m not an arsehole. And then there was the issue of her career. Head of PR at the UK’s biggest diabetes charity. That was the problem with a real career. That never-ending ladder to climb. She’d worked her way up from the bottom, starting as an assistant straight out of university. When she got to the next level, she was too scared to step off, in case she couldn’t get back on again.

I got it. I’d been pushed off the career ladder myself when I was right at the top, and starting again from the bottom has been a painful experience.

It was OK though. I had patience – procrastination would be top of the skills listed on my CV, if I had one. I knew she’d come round in time. And lo and behold, when her oldest friend from school, Maddie, announced she was pregnant, a switch flicked in Esther’s wiring. And suddenly, it was everything she wanted too.

That was how we rolled. Whatever happened, however divergent our lives seemed, somehow they always clicked back into the same groove.

The night she told me she was ready to have a baby, we met for dinner at a steakhouse in Soho. I was about to go on as the support act for a friend at a club nearby. Esther said she’d come and meet me first. ‘Save you from the inevitable kebab you’d have otherwise.’ She’s always been sweet like that. It didn’t bother me that it was patronising, or emasculating or whatever the hell other people would think. The other comics on my circuit thought Esther was a control freak but they were idiots, thought that masculinity meant never asking for help.

Our lives back then were hectic, free-flowing and, mostly, fun, and we’d often come back to our flat to find the fridge bare and order a takeaway or head out to a restaurant. There was enough money to burn on things like that, even though we should have been more responsible. London had so much to offer; we didn’t want to miss out.

It was my first gig for a while and I was experiencing that same stupid feeling of hope. The feeling that kept me going; the antidepressant of the job. Perhaps this would be the night: there’d be a booker in the audience who would love me, or maybe a decent manager. Mike had proved himself a waste of space time and time again, but he was all I could get after it all went wrong. I dreamt of telling him he was dumped. Upgrading. Who knew? It only takes one lucky break, one person to spot you, and your whole life can change. Gotta keep on keeping on.

We queued outside the restaurant, our arms entangled as always. I was waffling away about the gig, my way of taking the edge off the nerves. Talking them out. We were led to a shared table, high-level. Uncomfortable stools designed to ensure you ate quickly and moved on. Fast food with a slow price tag. I paused as I hauled myself on to the seat – was that something to work into a routine one day?

The waitress was pregnant. Esther noticed; our eyes met briefly, but I didn’t say anything. She ordered a milkshake and sat there, her lips grinning as they sucked on the striped straw. We were married. We were happy. We had everything, nearly. I stroked her leg under the table. She was wearing tights and a black dress, having come straight from work.

Her work was all-consuming; I missed her. I had a vision of her, heavily pregnant, knocking off at 4pm because she was exhausted. Coming home to me. I loved the idea of us spending more time together. And maternity leave – a whole year off for us to be together as a family.

‘So,’ she said, as she stared down at the steak in front of her. ‘I’ve been thinking about the B-word again . . .’

‘Burgers?’ I said, because it wouldn’t be good to look too keen. I felt like I was walking a tightrope: one false move and we would both tumble off.

My leg was restless under the table. I’d wanted this for so long, but Esther had to be ready for it. It had to be her decision.

‘We’re out for swanky steak and all you want is a bloody burger.’

‘You know what I’m talking about, Bird,’ she said, rolling her eyes at me. She has always called me that. There’s some guy called Robert on my birth certificate. I got rid of him when I first started performing, changed my name officially to Robin. Everyone in my adult life has always called me Bird. ‘I’m ready. Let’s start trying for a baby.’

‘Blimey,’ I said, leaning across to squeeze her hand. ‘I guess I better order something stronger then.’

She laughed. I motioned to the waitress.

‘Cider, please,’ I said, then looked over at my wife.

‘Are you OK with it?’ she said, eyes widening. ‘Seriously?’

‘No, I’m just going to down this cider and do a runner,’ I said, and she rolled her eyes at me.

‘Seriously?’

‘We’ve just got married. Tot, it’s the best news ever. My mum will be over the moon.’

She pulled a face at that, and I realised then that bringing up my parents was a poor move. She didn’t want to be reminded that there would be other people involved with our baby. Her dad. My parents. My perfect brother and his perfect wife, and their perfect twins. In that moment, she wanted it to just be us.

‘Let’s not tell anyone yet though,’ she said, her hazel eyes narrowing a little. ‘I want to keep it secret. You never know, it might not happen quickly anyway. It took Maddie and Tom nearly eight months. I don’t want everyone knowing we’re trying and then going on about it every time we see them.’

I nodded. She’s so sensible, and my heart felt swollen with love for her. Inside, a firework had been lit in my chest. I wanted to run outside and spin with uncontrollable joy, like a Catherine wheel let off by accident.

I tried to imagine my son. What would he look like? Would he have Esther’s greeny-brown eyes, and my gingery hair?

We ate the rest of our steaks in an awestruck silence at the Big Decision we’d made. She kissed me goodbye outside the venue for the gig. I’ve never liked her watching me perform. Stand-up is a headfuck at the best of times, but having to do it in front of those who know you best, who can see through your carefully constructed artifice to the true inspiration for your comedy, is almost impossible.

At least, that’s how I find it.

Maybe I’ve been overthinking it too much. I probably just don’t like her seeing me mess up.

The gig was pretty shit, as it turned out. Que sera. Suddenly, it didn’t matter anymore. I only stayed for one pint after, and my mood didn’t drop as much as usual. At home, I found her asleep in bed, but when I climbed in beside her, she reached for me. We made love and I wondered whether this would be it, whether this one time would be all it would take.

Two years later . . .

Esther is clutching the test in her fist, staring down at the two pink lines.

‘Let me work it out,’ Esther says, as though she’s reading my mind. She often does that. ‘The night it happened.’

She picks up her phone, starts counting on her fingers.

‘Shit!’

‘What?’

‘Remember Duncan’s book launch? Oh, no, you probably don’t,’ she says, as she stares at her phone. ‘You were paralytic . . . how . . .’

She has always put up with my drunkenness quite well, considering. It helps that I’m a lovable drunk, of course.

‘Oh,’ I say, remembering exactly why I got so drunk that evening. Duncan was likely the most competitive male in our group of mates – hard to say for sure though, there were a few contenders. Celebrating his success in a creative field was not something I could quite bring myself to do, even if it had taken him eight years to get published and, happily, the book wasn’t great. I read it in one sitting the next day – derivative, uneven in pace. Forgettable. So I drowned it in beer instead. ‘Are you sure it was that night?’

‘Yep,’ she says, curling herself into my lap and putting her arms around me. ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘Let’s not tell the baby that,’ I say. ‘Don’t think they need to know their dad was pissed the night they were conceived.’

‘No, they don’t! Poor baby,’ she says, smiling.

I pull her towards me for a kiss, but her lips twist and she turns away.

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘It’s just . . . you . . . you smell of coffee.’

‘Right,’ I say, blinking at her. ‘Sorry. I’ll go and brush my teeth.’

In the bathroom, I feel strangely off-balance. I tried to kiss my wife, but she turned away from me. It shouldn’t matter, but somehow it does. A tiny sliver of insight into what’s to come.

Our beautiful life is about to change beyond all recognition.

Esther

I’m working my way through the updated visuals for next year’s campaign, trying to ignore the fact I feel hungover, even though I haven’t drunk anything since the day I found out I was pregnant, when Vivienne texts me.

Hey, just had a shit casting round the corner. Free for lunch? I need wine. X

I look at my clock. Hardly any of the others are in today, but I decided to work in between Christmas and New Year to catch up. I have a pile of things to get through, but I feel rotten and light-headed. Perhaps some f. . .