What She Left Behind

by Emily Freud

Genres: Thrillers; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

'Tense, creepy and utterly chilling' Charlotte Duckworth

Lauren can't believe she's escaped her old life in London for a new start with her partner, Paul, and his two young children. Haunted by her past, Lauren knows how lucky she is: a dream home, a ready-made family. And she also knows how much she could lose.

But as Lauren struggles to adjust to motherhood, her fears grow. She'll never live up to the ghost of Paul's perfect wife, or help him forget his grief over her tragic death. And as village rumours begin to swirl about their house in the woods, Lauren feels ever more isolated - despite Paul's reassurances. She wants to trust Paul - she owes him everything - but how can she, when she can barely trust herself?

PRAISE FOR EMILY FREUD

'An emotional page-turner' WOMAN'S WEEKLY

'Insightful, nuanced, authentic' IRISH INDEPENDENT

'Moving and compelling' CHARLOTTE PHILBY

'A stunning debut' CATHERINE COOPER

Release date: May 12, 2022

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 368

Sample

Chapter 1

‘Here she is, telling us what to do again.’ Paul’s eyes shine as they leave the road for a moment to enjoy my reaction. Grinning, he calls over to the back seats, ‘I mean, imagine if we didn’t have Lauren here to enlighten us, guys? We might actually make the right turning occasionally.’

A giggle runs through me like a train. I hit his shoulder playfully, and he grabs the spot feigning pain. ‘Paul. Come on. Don’t be such a shi . . .’ Smacking my hand across my mouth, I whisper, ‘Sorry,’ before checking his features for signs of annoyance. His jovial demeanour doesn’t waver and I’m relieved. At least I caught it in time. I keep accidentally letting them drop. Like little red flags waving, giving me away.

I hear a soft rumbling snore from behind and twist myself to peer through the letter-box gap in the headrest. They weren’t paying attention anyway. Margo, who is still partial to the occasional afternoon nap, is fast asleep. And Jesse is staring out the window looking at the scenery thinking God knows what. For a four-year-old he sure is pensive. Satisfied, I rest back in my seat. We are shuttling through the countryside at speed, and I watch as fluctuating tones of green blur past. I’ve not seen another car since we left the motorway, and the contrast to the city is jarring, where the natural state of our four wheels was far more likely to be stationary than in motion. We overtake a petrol station and I turn to catch it. It must have the smallest forecourt I’ve ever seen with only two rusty pumps. For a moment I think it must be abandoned, but then I see the silhouette of a man behind the grungy glass.

For the millionth time I wonder if moving to the countryside was the right thing to do. This is such a big step for us. We’ve barely known each other a year, and for half of that we weren’t exactly official. My aunt described the decision as a huge leap of faith. But then, she conceded that her very happy marriage was conducted after knowing my uncle for a mere three months, so really, I think she understands.

Paul reaches across and cocoons my hand in his. I glance at him with a knowing smile. That potent feeling I’ve grown to know well over the last twelve months washes over me. It was the right thing. I’m right where I’m meant to be – here with my new family. They are the centre of my universe now. I can’t help looking at the kids again. My eyes rest on my happy place: Margo. The cutest darling in the whole world. Dark bobbed hair, green eyes, chunky arms and big rosy cheeks. I could blow raspberries on her rotund tummy all day. Tightly welded under her elbow is her grey toy cat which is never far out of reach. A mini explosion of happiness within, like one of those effervescent tablets you plop into a glass of water. Since joining Paul’s family, I’ve felt as though I’m leaking bubbles of joy wherever I go. I suppose when what happened to me happens, it’s difficult to take anything for granted again. You must grab what you want with both hands and run as fast as you can. Paul taught me that.

I turn back to face the front with a bounce and lean forward, adjusting the air conditioning, pointing the filter directly in my face. I look at the heat shimmying off the bonnet. It’s late May, barely summer; it feels wrong somehow that it’s so hot. As if we are enjoying something we’ll have to pay for later. Like binge drinking on a Sunday night.

‘Do you think the house will be unbearably stuffy with all that glass?’ I ask.

Paul shakes his head. ‘It’s in the middle of a forest. The trees protect it.’ His hand lands on my thigh and squeezes. ‘Stop worrying. It’s a big change, I know. But as Heraclitus says . . .’ I roll my eyes and join him in saying, ‘the only constant is change.’ He looks at me with a grin. ‘Those Greek philosophers really know what they’re talking about.’

I rest back in my seat. He’s right, of course. I worry too much. Paul always says that worrying is like riding a stationary bike: it’s never going to get me anywhere. He’s skilled at flipping me back into the present again – where everything is perfect. I am so lucky I found them. My heart sings. Before, my hands and arms were empty, desperate for something to hold on to.

I can’t have children. And I lost my parents at a young age. Destined for nothing above or below. How sad is that? Until Paul. My friends tell me relationships were never my strong point. But I can’t have ever really been in love before. I’m sure I would remember something as intense and all-consuming as this.

Paul clicks the indicator, and we take a sharp turn. ‘Finally. We made it,’ he says, relieved. The smooth tarmac makes way for a bumpy grit surface. The corner has brought us in direct line with the sun, and I raise my hand to shade my face before pulling the visor down, then I squint to find the house.

My ‘friends’ are all shocked that I’ve left London with him. They never liked the idea of Paul and felt because of how we met that he took advantage. But they don’t understand. Sometimes you must break the rules to fight for the one you love. In the end they ganged up against me and left me with an ultimatum. They’re sort of still talking to me. Just. Paul thinks they’re all incredibly immature. He’s right, of course: they were totally useless when I really needed them. To be honest, I’m finding it hard to care about their antics – my new family is all I need and I’m sure they’ll come round once a fun weekend in our incredible new home is up for grabs.

We slowly creep up the mile-long drive. Weeds poke through the coarse surface and the bushes that surround it are scraggly and unkempt, giving the whole preamble a dilapidated energy. But this does not erode the impressiveness of the building.

I’ve been here before. About a month ago we visited before making the final decision to move. The sight of the house has the same effect it had on me then. The grandeur spanks me right in the face. Built in the 1950s by a noteworthy architect, it looks more like something found in the Catskills, New York, rather than rural England. Black planks of wood clad the frame of the house which is otherwise composed of clear plate glass. The glistening surface boldly stretches across the whole of the downstairs, and then repeats between planks for the upper floor. There, one side holds the master suite, while the other is just a void, which cases the epic high ceilings of the living quarters downstairs. At night, it is like a spaceship soaring through stars. It takes my breath away. Can I really live in a house like this? Can I live up to it?

In a short amount of time, I’ve progressed from a lonely, broken girl to a mother of two with a detached house in the countryside. One that readers of design magazines and modernist aficionados would drool over. How did I get so lucky? I ask myself again as I tingle with excitement for this next chapter. It just shows: life can hit you with a curve ball when you least expect it. I swallow against the enormity of responsibility which has grabbed me by the throat.

As we swoop to a stop the sun jolts off the glass frontage right into my eyes, leaving a harsh sunspot. I blink it away. It hangs on for dear life before melting back into my veiny recesses. I wonder for a moment if it will bring on a headache – or worse. But to my relief, nothing surfaces.

Paul turns the engine off, and we sit there in silence for a moment. The air between us convulses with anticipation. As if we are nervous to begin. ‘Are we really home?’ I whisper, reaching out my hand which he takes.

‘Yes. For a while anyway.’

Opening the car door, the cool air rushes outside, colliding with the balmy heat. I begin to get out, but Paul calls, ‘Wait!’ and dashes around the front of the car and catches the door, pulling it back the whole way. He then leans forward and offers a hand. The gesture is sweet. Romantic. I can’t help thinking as he stands there waiting for me how attractive he is. He looks rugged with the new beard he’s been growing – his ‘lumberjack look’, I’ve been affectionately calling it. It’s quite jarring against his usual preppy style, but it suits him. His kind eyes and thick dark hair make him seem far less jaded and worn-down than his circumstances should allow. He’d be forgiven for letting himself go, having raised two small children practically single-handed for the last few years.

I take his hand, and get out. ‘I can’t believe they’re letting us stay here.’

Paul laughs. ‘Jack is an old friend. He owed me.’

‘I hope we don’t break anything,’ I say nervously, almost to myself.

He pulls me over and hugs me to his side. ‘It’s not like you to be nervous about something . . .’ he jokes, touching my face affectionately. ‘Anyway, I told you, they’re really laid-back.’

His friends have let us stay here for a year while they’re overseas working. It’s perfect: we get to road test a rural life before we commit, and they get free home security.

He pecks my lips. ‘Don’t ruin this for yourself, darling.’

I smile softly and nod. I’ll try.

A murder of crows call from above and I pivot on the spot, watching them cross over and dive into the canopy of trees behind the house.

‘Lauren!’ Margo shouts and I turn quickly to the car. She is looking at me in that gruff way she does when I’ve forgotten something. Her lower lip stuck out in disdain. Exasperated by my inexperience. I open the passenger door and undo her buckle and help her down. Her grey cat tumbles to the floor and I crouch to pick it up. Jesse has undone his own belt and has joined his father as he sorts through a cluster of keys, looking for the right one. ‘This is our new house,’ Margo states grandly. Lisping in that cute way she does.

‘Yes, for a bit.’ I stand behind her and pull out her hair bobble which has come loose. While her head tilts back her big green eyes watch me. She does this frequently. As though she’s checking I’m still there.

‘I’ve got my own room?’ she checks.

‘Yes, I told you.’ I move some stray strands from her face. She grins gleefully. I love making her happy.

A handful. That’s what I thought when Paul told me he had two kids. She’s on her way to four, and Jesse will be five at his next birthday. Was I crazy? But then he introduced me to them and there was something so instant about my love. When her chunky, soft arms went around my neck for the first time, I couldn’t ever think about letting her go. This was my chance to be a mother. And I wasn’t going to let what people thought of me, or us, get in the way of that. Jesse has been harder to win over. But that’s just his personality. He’s less trusting. That’s fine. It will take time and is completely understandable under the circumstances.

I am, after all, option B.

I hold Margo’s hand and we walk over to join the boys. As the four of us stand there looking at our new home I feel an excited flutter in my chest. What memories will we make here?

Paul throws the correct key up in the air. ‘Hurrah!’ he says, slotting it in and striding inside.

Our new start, and the beginning of my life as a mother. ‘Come on. Let’s do this.’ I squeeze Margo’s hand and we follow Paul in, trying to ignore the thing that is always there loitering in the background. Hovering above me, refusing to leave me alone.

Her.

Always watching. Always judging. I have this instinct deep inside that because I wanted so badly to be a mother, I should feel guilty. Much like the recipient of an organ from a donor. I know the only reason I am here is because she is dead. And I am nowhere near as good a mother as she was. I shake her from my mind, refusing to let her ruin this for me. Letting a smile spread across my lips, I tell myself that the hard banging in my chest isn’t fear, it’s excitement. I’m sure of it.

Chapter 2

Jesse is sitting cross-legged next to my feet on the kitchen floor. He leans into the cardboard box, pulls out a mug and holds it up to me. Crumbled newspaper sloppily hangs off, and I take it from him quickly. I’m unsure the contents of the box will survive Jesse’s clumsy little hands stumbling through it. But I’m negating the risk as he’s enjoying it so much. And it’s rare to find a way to spend quality time in the same space. He’s usually two feet away preparing to take another step back. But he’s enjoying methodically handing pieces of crockery up to me which I then rinse, and place on the stainless-steel worktop with a clink.

Besides, a few broken bits of IKEA tat is a price worth paying if it diminishes the cloud of agitation that’s been hovering over him. The simplicity of the task seems to have taken his mind off the enormity of what we’ve just done.

‘I thought there were four of these,’ I say, holding up a ceramic blue mug. He rustles through the pieces nestling in yesterday’s paper.

‘Here you go, Lauren,’ he replies, holding up the fourth.

‘Thank you. Best helper ever,’ I say, taking it from him with a wink. His cheeks flare up at the compliment, but I can tell he’s pleased. Jesse is a shy boy who does not cope well with change. Paul and I had many conversations about how he’d handle leaving London. Paul seems to think there will be a period of adjustment and then Jesse will simply be fine, that it’ll be a journey and we’ll just need to support him through it. We’ll – I love it when Paul says things like that. It means so much to me that he includes me within the family unit.

I glance over to check on Margo, who I set up at the dining table. Her pens are scattered around, lids enthusiastically discarded and her colouring book open. Her elbow holds down the page with her head resting on her palm as she scrawls. She is humming the tune to ‘Wind the Bobbin Up’ as the felt tip makes a scratching noise. Content. Completely unconcerned by the fact she’s left the only home she’s ever really known. The two of them are like chalk and cheese. But there is a reason for that: being the eldest, Jesse was more aware of what was going on at home.

From across the shiny stainless-steel kitchen island, I look out into the vast space of the living area. It almost feels limitless with the transparent double-height ceiling and glass bi-folding doors which lead onto a sweeping lawn surrounded by towering pine trees. The sky is still blue even though evening is closing in – with a hazy looseness hovering around us. I’m looking forward to later when it’s pitch black. I’ll be able to lie back on the sofa and stare up at the stars.

I still can’t believe I live in a house like this. The downstairs is dissected by a contemporary black wood burning stove which hangs down from the high ceiling like a big black club hammer. The soft furnishings are muted browns, beiges and blacks. On the far side is a long twelve-seater dining table with wooden chairs Paul tells me are called ‘wishbone’ because of the ‘Y’ shape of their back. They look very expensive. As does everything. The cushions, the rugs, the paintings on the walls.

On the other side of the wood burning stove is the hallway that leads to the kids’ rooms, their bathroom and Paul’s study. Along that way too are the stairs that go up to our master suite at the top of the house. Instead of bannisters there is a glass wall that lines the edge of the steps.

The owners have left a scattering of belongings that they must have decided were easily picked up at their new location and not worth shipping. As soon as we arrived the children gravitated to a wooden shaker-style toy kitchen residing in one corner of the living area. I had to brush it down and rinse off the red pots and pans before they got their mitts on it – everything seems to be covered in a fine layer of dust, more than I would have expected from six months of abandonment. What with all the cleaning on top of the unpacking, it is going to take me a while to feel completely relaxed here. I keep telling myself not to overdo it. But I’m so ready for all of this and it’s my job to make it feel like home, after all.

Outside, I notice a bird hopping across the lawn picking at something in the grass with its beak. I have no idea how we’ll ever get used to living within solid walls again. Being here will spoil us when we downsize to something we can afford to buy. Paul had just sold the home he shared with Emma when I moved into his rented flat in London. So, he has the money to buy somewhere, but I don’t want to pry and ask how much, unsure if that would be overstepping the mark. People can be funny about personal finances, and I feel terrible that I can’t contribute and rely on him so heavily in that sense. As well as all the other senses too. And he’s so generous. Always buying me expensive presents. Hopefully it won’t be like this forever, and I’ll be able to pay his kindness back. I can’t dwell on it too much right now, it makes me feel useless. Yet another thing I can’t bring to the table.

‘Mummy . . .’ Jesse begins, but then he realises his mistake and stops himself. He looks mortified. ‘Lauren, I mean . . .’ he mumbles, head down, staring at the floor. Hands shaking.

I crouch next to him and squeeze him to my side. ‘It’s okay,’ I say gently. He lost Emma in such a horrible way. Cancer. She literally withered and died in front of their eyes in a matter of months. He was so young, and still is. She just exists as fragments to him now. Moments he cannot decipher. The trauma so appalling, and he was so small – he can barely remember her at all. And Paul rarely speaks about her – well, not in front of me. The pain so raw for him, and harder still to face his children’s. Margo doesn’t take much notice as she was only one when it happened. She has no idea anything is missing at all. But Jesse feels it. The weight he carries around is visible to me. Grief when you can’t quite recollect the person belongs to other people more than you.

My parents both died when I was very small. I was brought up by my aunt and uncle who moved to Australia as soon as I finished school. I don’t blame them for going. They were more than sixty when they got lumped with me. I was due to travel to Sydney just before my accident but obviously couldn’t go once it had happened. My uncle is too old to make the trip back now, and my aunt would never leave him. We email, and they send the odd postcard, which is very sweet. I’m so grateful for all they’ve done for me. They really should have been relaxing and enjoying life when I came along, and I certainly don’t want to be a burden to them again. Maybe, one day when the kids are a bit older, we could go out there. I’d really like to see them with my own eyes after everything I’ve been through. Paul agrees it would be nice, although the twenty-four-hour flight with two kids is quite a horrendous thought. Thank goodness for iPads.

‘Sorry,’ Jesse says, still unable to look up.

I squeeze him again and kiss the top of his head. ‘It’s fine, Jesse.’ To be honest, I’d quite like them to call me Mummy one day. But I know it will take a while to work up to that. And I have no idea what Paul will think of it. It’s a big step and one that is very loaded. I’m not trying to replace her. Anyway, it’s something the children can decide much further down the line. He’s not even asked me to marry him yet.

We continue our teamwork. Jesse unwrapping as I wash and organise.

‘Sorry we’re having such a boring day,’ I say.

He shrugs. ‘Only boring people get bored.’

I break into a smile. ‘That is very smart, Jesse.’

The whole production of unpacking is taking a while longer than I was hoping. Mainly because I don’t really want to use any of Paul’s friends’ things in case they get damaged. So, I’ve found myself clearing all of them into our empty boxes to store in the garage.

Paul pauses as he walks past, taking in what I’m doing with a bemused smile. ‘They said they didn’t mind if we use their kitchen stuff.’

‘Kids break everything, Paul. I’d prefer it this way.’ He shrugs and lets me get on with it. I know he thinks I’m being overly cautious. But from what he’s told me of his friends, I can tell they’re the kind of people who’d appreciate my vigilance. And there is no way I can spend the next year stressing over every little breakage. I bet Emma would have done the same. No, that’s wrong actually. Emma wouldn’t have got all het up about it in the first place; she’d be in complete control the whole time.

‘It’s too hot,’ I say, walking over to the bi-folding doors and yanking them open with a heave. It doesn’t make much difference. In fact, I think I’ve just let more hot air in. I look longingly out to the garden. Like the front, it’s completely overgrown. Nevertheless, I’m looking forward to carving out a few hours away from unpacking to spend in the sunshine with the kids tomorrow. I think Paul said he spotted a sprinkler in the garage. I must order a paddling pool now we have a garden. I imagine what it will look like all pruned and mowed. I think of myself in a floaty cotton dress handing out pieces of watermelon for Jesse and Margo to crunch on. The sticky pink liquid pouring down their forearms as they rush back under the sprinkler squealing. The image stalls me. I forget what I’m doing for a moment.

‘Lauren?’ I jerk my head in surprise. Paul is standing next to me. ‘Are you okay?’ he asks, frowning.

‘Yes, fine.’ I smile broadly, wanting to remove his worry.

‘Why don’t you stop and take a break?’ he suggests. ‘You seem to have doubled the workload with the system you’ve cooked up. Tell me what to do, I’ll take over.’

I shake my head. ‘No, I’m fine, honestly. Full of beans. And I’ve got the best assistant here helping me.’ I smile down at Jesse who nods proudly.

‘Okay, well, don’t worry about sorting Jack’s study, I’ll do it. He said he’s happy for me to use it, but he’d prefer me to lock away his things now people will be coming and going, as he’s got all his important paperwork in there.’

I nod as I reach to open another cupboard. I find it jam-packed with colourful plastic beakers and plates and a couple of baby bottles too. I pick up a beaker and stare at it. It’s well worn. I run my finger over the daily-use scratches. It could be any cup in any family house anywhere. I look out at the sophisticated setting. It really looks too pristine to have had children living here.

‘They’ve got a little girl Margo’s age,’ Paul reminds me. ‘I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if we used their stuff. She’ll have grown out of it all by the time they get back. We could use that booster seat I saw in the garage instead of ordering a new one to replace the one that broke?’

I shake my head forcefully, annoyed he doesn’t understand. ‘No, Paul. It will just get disgusting with food all over it. I’m sure they wouldn’t like us to.’ I tut. ‘I’ll see if I can get one delivered out here.’

‘It’s not Mars,’ he replies, laughing at me before noting my displeasure and coming over, arms open, ready to hug. My irritation melts.

‘Are you sure it isn’t?’ I reply into his chest.

‘Come on, isn’t it great? I feel like I can breathe again.’ He squeezes me tightly and sways me from side to side in that way he does. I can tell he’s thrilled to be here. I am too – just slightly more tentatively. Paul has the ability to jump into something with confident gusto in a way I’m obviously not programmed to muster.

‘It’s amazing,’ I reply, not wanting to put a downer on things.

I empty the cupboard of children’s items into the box I’ve already unpacked and then close the lid and tape it shut. Picking up the full box, I walk towards the internal door that leads to the garage which is set back from the main house. It’s not heavier than the others, but I begin to feel light-headed. En route something on the ceiling catches my eye and I stop. A black shiny dome, like a CCTV camera in a shopping centre, but smaller.

‘Hey, let me take that,’ Paul says, rushing to take the box from me. I look down and realise my hands are shaking.

‘I’m fine,’ I murmur, but let him remove it from my grasp. ‘Is that a camera?’ I nod towards it.

Paul looks in the direction I’m looking. His brow furrows and he presses his lips together. ‘I’m not sure, possibly. Looks like one. I don’t know where it’s connected to, though.’ He puts the box down and goes to a plush-looking panel on the wall. ‘I can’t see anything,’ he says as he taps on the device. He glances around again before adding, ‘It’s most probably connected to an app. It won’t be turned on.’

‘You don’t think . . . they’re watching us, do you?’ I suddenly feel very self-conscious. I’ve been going through all their belongings.

‘No, of course not, Lauren.’ He laughs. ‘They’ve probably disconnected it. I can ask how to make it work if you want? We can use it?’

I shake my head. ‘Weird to have a security camera inside a house instead of outside, isn’t it?’

‘They’re wealthy, and wealthy people have a lot to lose.’ He comes over to me, having to quas. . .