The Housekeeper

by Natalie Barelli

  “Like the colleague with the cat,” I say.

  “That’s what I said! I asked if the bouquet was well received, and he said, ‘Absolutely. My colleague feels much better because of them, and I expect my apartment to do the same.’ Which I thought was pretty funny. Then he came a third time, and this time he asked what my favorite flowers were. I don’t have a favorite flower; they’re all special in their own way. But I played along. I love violets, but they don’t last long. Sweet peas are one of my favorites, but I didn’t have any to sell. Tulips are special. An underrated flower that comes in all sorts of varieties. People don’t like them in vases because they tend to droop; they think the flowers are dying but that’s not true. That’s just the way they are, which makes very beautiful cascading bouquets if you cut them in different lengths.”

  She pauses to take a sip of coffee, and I’m trying to understand why we are talking about flowers, if we will ever get to the point, and if there is a point at all.

  “I showed him the Burning Heart variety,” she continues, “yellow and red, with big swirls of color. He bought two dozen of them, then after I’d finished preparing the bouquet, he offered it to me with a flourish. Will you come out with me, he asked, for a drink? I’d just been dumped by my not-very-nice boyfriend. His name was Barnaby, and by the time I found out he was cheating on me, it had been going on for months. Which made me ‘not the brightest tool in the shed,’ as my father would say.” She rolls her eyes.

  “So Harvey walked into my life, brandishing a bouquet of Burning Heart tulips. That first night, he took me to the Ritz-Carlton for cocktails and Jacob’s for dinner. I can safely say I’d never set foot in such places. My dates so far had been more of the Let’s have a beer at the local sports bar, it’s curling night.”

  I laugh at that.

  “Would you mind if I had a cigarette?” she blurts.

  “Here? Now?”

  “It’s the coffee, it makes me crave nicotine. If it bothers you, I won’t. I shouldn’t anyway. Oh, and Harvey thinks I’ve given up. Which I have,” she hastens to say. “I didn’t smoke at all once I found out I was pregnant. But I’ve been sneaking one here and there lately. He’ll kill me if he found out.”

  I shrug. “It doesn’t bother me, it’s your house.”

  She gets up and pulls out one of the cookbooks on the shelf and retrieves a pack of Marlboro, a lighter, and an ashtray. Then she opens the window and sits down again.

  “Promise you won’t tell?” she asks, cigarette already in her mouth.

  “My lips are sealed.”

  “Thank you.” She takes a drag. “That’s better,” she says, exhaling a thin column of smoke. “I wasn’t used to men like Harvey. Men who open the door for you, who help you put your coat on.”

  “I hate that,” I say. “It just makes it harder.”

  She smiles.

  “So what happened? If you were there and he was here?”

  “I didn’t expect our little romance to go beyond his business trip. But then he extended his stay. When he left, he promised to come back. I didn’t really believe him. But he did come back. Then every time he’d leave I’d think, okay, this is it, this the end, but he kept coming back to me. We spent many wonderful nights together in my small apartment. He was different, he made me laugh. He was charming and interesting and kind. Then he asked me to marry him. What can I say? By then I was in love. Head over heels. And pregnant with Mia.” She smiles, but there’s something sad at the edges of her eyes. She stubs out the cigarette.

  Of course she was pregnant. I can just imagine how she made herself into everything he wanted, seductive and sweet at the same time. She’d gush that having sex in the missionary position for five minutes was the most thrilling experience of her life. Then, somehow, against all odds and statistics, she got pregnant, accidentally, and Harvey being a gentleman, well … as they say, the rest is history.

  “I was thirty years old when I met him. It’s not old but still, I thought my life’s direction had been set by then. I did begin to worry about whether I’d ever have a family. I hadn’t met the right man yet, and while I wasn’t holding out for Prince Charming, I thought it would be nice to meet someone reliable, someone who could hold down a job, someone who didn’t feel the need to lie all the time. So while I might have expected the compass needle of my life to swing a few degrees here or there, a few minor detours, I sure didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect Harvey.”

  “I bet you had a nice wedding.”

  She smiles. “I can barely remember it. Even when I look at the pictures. In the church, we had to do away with the tradition of his side/her side of the aisle, as I had only a smattering of people attend. Harvey had a list of over two hundred, although I think at least half of those were acquaintances of his mother’s. ‘People we must invite, Harvey, darling. They’ll never forgive us,’ Patsy had said.”

  I’m surprised at the sharpness of her tone when she talks about Harvey’s mother. “I take it you’re not close?” I ask.

  She lights up another cigarette. “She doesn’t like me. I mentioned it to Harvey once, early on, and he said I was being overly sensitive. His mother doesn’t like a lot of people, he said. I don’t know why he thought that would make me feel better, considering she adores his first wife.”

  “There’s a first wife?” I ask, innocent-like.

  “Serena. I never met her. She moved to London after the divorce. But his mother took a long time to forgive Harvey for divorcing her—such a lovely woman, and beautiful, too. A true sense of style, is how she referred to Serena at my own wedding.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Awkward.”

  “That’s one of the reasons Patsy doesn’t like me. Harvey left Serena for me, you see.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “Harvey was still married when you met him?”

  She cringes a little, then recovers quickly. “I didn’t know he was still married. By the time I found out, they were already going through the divorce. But it didn’t take long. It was amicable.”

  Yeah, right.

  “Anyway, my parents came to the wedding, of course. In all the photos, they look really happy, which is a miracle in itself. My mother in her green silk dress and, oddly, white gloves. My father with red cheeks in his light gray suit, the same gray suit he brings out for every special occasion. I remember thinking it was stretching worryingly around his waist, just like me!” she chuckles. “Still, it was sweet. They kept telling me how proud they were. Like I’d achieved something really significant.”

  Of course they were proud. She’d finally caught the big fish. Then I think of the phone conversation she had with her father and I wonder how he feels now.

  Hannah empties the ashtray into the trash and says she’s going to lie down. I guess it’s all the lies that take it out of her. I tell her not to worry, I’ll feed Mia when she wakes up.

  Still, that was a good story, and she told it well. If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost believe it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The next day, Hannah goes out, I don’t know where to. To her therapist, no doubt. It’s the first time I’m alone here, and I’ve been dying to go through her things, especially her bedroom, but of course I haven’t because she’s always here, so the moment she leaves I almost run upstairs.

  I start with the dresser. It’s clearly hers, some kind of antique thing with a big mirror on top and lots of little drawers. There’s a photo in a pretty silver frame, of her with Harvey on a vacation somewhere. He looks very relaxed, very proud with his arm around his wife’s waist. She’s heavily pregnant and her face is more puffy than it is now. She stands with one hand on her stomach, looking at him in puppylike adoration. I pick it up to take a closer look at her. You’d never know, looking at those big eyes and that pretty smiling mouth, what an evil heart she carries within.

  She’s got some nice beauty creams, which I help myself to. I try on some green eyeshadow and pocket a Dior lipstick from the back of the drawer
.

  They have two walk-in closets, his and hers. He has conservative tastes, it must be said. Nice suits, hanging according to season and color. Lots of shirts, white ones, some with stripes. Her clothes, on the other hand, are surprisingly ordinary and barely fill a third of her space, although I notice some new shoes, very nice, expensive, definitely, then I get it. Of course, she’s trying to lose weight before she splurges on a new wardrobe!

  I spot the dress I saw her buy at Bergdorf Goodman’s the day I followed her. It’s a black lace cocktail dress with a nice edge to the décolletage, and a brilliant idea flashes in my mind. Since she’s so insecure about her weight, I’m going to sew inside the seam. I’m already laughing at the thought of her putting it on and finding it doesn’t fit anymore.

  I take it downstairs to the laundry. There’s a sewing machine there, all set up on the bench. It takes a bit of Googling to figure out how to use the machine, and I use a dust cloth to practice on. Then I line up one edge under the bit of metal and press the pedal, and within seconds the dress is getting pounded by the needle, like a doll-sized jackhammer, but it’s not right and I pull on the fabric to release it, but it’s stuck. The thread has knotted itself into a tight ball. I’m starting to sweat. This is not going the way I imagined. This is turning out to be a really bad idea. What if she comes home now? How am I going to explain this? I can’t exactly say it required mending; by the looks of it, she’s never worn it before. I wish I’d popped another one of her Xanax before I started this, because it’s really stressing me out.

  But Mrs. Petersen did not raise a quitter, and an hour later it is done. I return the dress—looking a little worse for wear, it must be said—where I found it, and then I go to check on Mia. She’s awake, and perfectly happy. I pick her up, and she giggles at me, puts her little chubby hands on my face and frowns in concentration, like she’s exploring me. I keep her in my arms while I search the rest of the house, although without much urgency. But I do find a credit card statement belonging to Serena Carter, from a UK bank, hidden between two of Harvey’s legal books on the shelf. She doesn’t spend much. He’s scribbled “paid” on one of them, and I note that the statement is only six months old. Which means Harvey Carter is still paying his ex-wife’s bills, and he’s hiding it from Hannah. Now that’s interesting.

  Mia yawns and rests her head in the crook of my neck, and it feels so nice that I stand there, swaying slowly and even forget about Hannah for a while, so when she comes home I barely have time to put the statements back.

  * * *

  Maybe Harvey Carter is still in love with his first wife. Maybe he’s suffering from buyer’s remorse. Why else would he hide the fact that he’s paying her bills? In fact, why else would he pay her bills in the first place? They don’t have children, she’s a professional woman, surely she earns a good living. Maybe Hannah can sense it. Maybe that’s why she has this thing about Serena.

  I had another go at seducing him yesterday, in a less subtle manner because time is not on my side. He was in the small sitting room downstairs and Hannah was in bed—where else?—so I walked in with the top three buttons of my uniform undone but this time I wasn’t wearing a bra. Any more than three buttons and my tits would be falling out. I leaned against the doorjamb and put one hand on my waist, in what I would call a very suggestive pose, one that left little to the imagination.

  “Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Carter? Anything at all?” I asked, chewing on a fingernail. He looked up from his newspaper, blinked a few times and blushed. Then he went back to reading and said, “No, thank you, Claire. Maybe Mrs. Carter would like some herbal tea.” I turned around, too angry to be embarrassed, and left him there. I didn’t check whether Mrs. Carter wanted some tea. It goes without saying. But it’s beginning to look like I’m wasting my time here. I’m almost at the end of the first week and no closer than I was when I started. Except here I am, changing her sheets because apparently that’s on my schedule, and she had to remind me because I didn’t do it last Tuesday. So I guess the joke’s on me.

  I need a different plan. I liked the original because using Hannah’s own strategy against her had a nice symmetry to it. But maybe I’m overcomplicating things. Maybe I should just point a gun to her head and get her confession that way. I wonder where I could get a gun. I bet she owns one. Harvey would have bought it for her. A nice, compact little thing. A Glock, most likely. Something pretty and feminine, just like her. Maybe with a pearl handle or something.

  I peer over the balustrade but there’s no sign of her. I figure she’s still downstairs at her computer, where I left her earlier, so I search Harvey’s closet first. I’ll say I’m tidying up if she comes in. I run my fingers along the back wall behind the hanging suits, I check the shelves and inside the shoes, but there’s nothing that doesn’t belong there.

  I do the same in her walk-in closet, and behind the bottom shelf, I see a line in the wall that shouldn’t be there. I look more closely—it’s some kind of panel. I run my fingers along its edges, my pulse racing. I push softly, and it clicks open. I’m grinning. I’m thinking, gun, obviously. Totally. Gun. Again I make sure she’s nowhere near the bedroom, then I pull open the panel and reach into the cavity.

  It’s not a gun. It’s a leather notebook with a thin leather strap—as thin as a shoelace—wrapped around it. I untie it, and a cream-colored card falls out. I pick it up, turn it around. It’s her wedding invitation. I open the notebook and flick through the pages.

  It’s better than a gun.

  It’s her diary.

  I still wake up some nights wondering where I am, but it’s different now. Before, I would run my hands over the sheets with their one trillion thread count and smile to myself. I’m in our bedroom, in our enormous bed. I’m home. Then I would reach out until my fingers brushed against some part of Harvey, his back probably, or his arm. He would be asleep because he always sleeps, no matter what. I would press myself against him, maybe move one of the many down pillows and shift it under my head. Or I would raise myself on one elbow and whisper sweet nothings into his ear, kiss his neck softly.

  Now, more often than not, when I wake in the dead of night, it’s because my heart is hammering and I am overcome with the absolute certainty that something is very wrong. I don’t reach for Harvey because as much as he tries, he can’t help me. He’ll tell me that I’m dreaming and that I should go back to sleep. He doesn’t understand how relentless and absolute this feeling of doom is. Like we’re drifting toward disaster, gathering up speed and we’re all blindfolded. I don’t even know what the danger looks like, only that I have to stop it before we reach it.

  Harvey says I’ve been like this ever since Mia was born. I don’t think I have. Mia is almost three months old now, but I was fine after she was born, I’m sure of it. I tell him that, but he just shakes his head. He says Dr. Malone is excellent, the best, and she can help me. He says that I’m suffering from anxiety attacks. He says everything is going to be fine. That he’s there for me, no matter what. It’s normal, he says. It will pass.

  Dr. Malone has very small eyes, like two black buttons too close together. But it gives her a weird piercing quality. Like she has laser focus and can read my mind.

  “Is this what maternal love feels like?” I asked, then with a chuckle, I added, “If so, it’s going to be a very long eighteen years!” I meant to lighten the mood. Look at me, I’m fine, I can crack a joke so let’s get off the crazy train, but she looked at me with her little eyes and said, “How long have you been feeling this way?” Then she asked all these questions like she was on a fishing expedition. Did I think the nurses at the hospital were going to hurt Mia? No. Did I have mood swings? Hmm, let me see, I just had a baby, what do you think? Instead I just said “probably.” Are they getting worse? No. Do I experience any hallucinations? Aural or visual?

  No. But I know where you’re going with this, I thought. Postpartum psychosis. I looked it up, too.

  I did my best to re
assure her I didn’t suffer from acute paranoia. I leaned forward, trying to see what she’d written down. I have enough problems without her trying to send me to the psychiatric ward, thanks all the same.

  Maybe it’s physical? Maybe I should get some tests done? Sometimes my pulse is so slow that merely standing up makes me feel like I’m about to faint.

  She says it’s probably just stress and that I should take a few days off. But all I have are days off. I’m beginning to think everyone is in on it, whatever this is. This thing that is killing me.

  She asked me if I was sad. All the time, I said, and I could feel my tears well up as I said it and it made me laugh. Look at me, I’m a walking cliché.

  She gave me a prescription for Xanax.

  That’s the last entry. It’s not dated. None of them are. They’re more like notes, random and mostly hastily handwritten. But if Mia was almost three months when she wrote it, then it must be a month ago, give or take.

  I flick through the earlier entries. The notebook begins with her wedding. It’s gushing and ordinary and I can’t stop reading, because this is gold. There must be something in there that shows what she’s like. What if she wrote something about her plans for Harvey? Something that proves that she’s only after his money? I could use that as leverage in exchange for her confession. But then I hear her on the landing below, calling me, and reluctantly I tie the leather cord around the notebook and shove it back in its hiding place.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I am almost at the house, grocery bags filled with ready-made spinach and ricotta cannelloni from the frozen section of the supermarket (three minutes on high in the microwave!) and an ordinary Greek salad from Allegra when Diane jumps out of a doorway and lands in front of me.