I remember feeling giddy then – though maybe it was from the glass of wine I’d had while I’d been cooking. Giddy and silly, like some immature teenager, not a GP with a family, a home, responsibilities. And it wasn’t as though I had these thoughts any other time. Perhaps it was because my gut instinct had been shredded from when I was young – never knowing who to trust, always looking over my shoulder. I shuddered and, as ever, put the thought from my mind, apologising to my husband. Though I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep doing that.
I hear Kieran turn on his music in his room, leaving me still standing in the middle of the kitchen, feeling lost in my own home. The place feels far too big without Jeremy in it. I suddenly have an urge for a glass of wine, or a big fat spliff, like we used to do at university where Jeremy and I had met, sitting in a secluded spot down by the river on a balmy night, or leaning out of his bedroom window in his grotty lodgings. We saw each other often, but it wasn’t until a couple of years after Jeremy had graduated that our relationship steadied itself into something more solid. And it wasn’t long after I’d qualified as a doctor several years later that I fell pregnant with Kieran.
We were blissfully happy. Madly in love.
I slam my hands down on the kitchen counter, dropping my head. I take a deep breath, refocusing my mind.
‘Right,’ I say, looking up again. ‘Time to get a grip.’ I turn on the oven and grab a couple of chicken Kievs from the fridge, ripping open the packet before tipping them onto a baking tray. I shove them in the oven and head back to the hallway to check the mailbox outside the front door. I usually bring in any post when I get home, but after what had happened with Kieran, I’d completely forgotten.
My son’s music blares even louder from his bedroom – the bass reverberating through the ceiling. I bat away the thoughts of that night as fleeting shards of memory stab at my brain. I can’t deal with it right now.
I unlock the front door and then put the key in the little mailbox that Jeremy had specially commissioned – black metal with a sloping roof and a pair of swallows mid-flight painted on the front. ‘Swallow Barn’ is embossed underneath in a font we chose together.
There are a couple of letters inside – one a bank statement, which will go straight into my ‘to be dealt with’ pile because I can’t face opening it right now, and the other looks to be a supermarket rewards card offer. But there’s also a small packet in the mailbox – a thin padded envelope.
‘Odd,’ I say, knowing I didn’t order anything. My next thought is that perhaps Kieran bought something online – perhaps new strings for his guitar, which he mentioned he needed the other day.
But the envelope is clearly addressed to me.
My name is neatly printed in black felt-tip pen – Dr Jennifer Miller – followed by my address. There are no identifying flourishes or slant to the characters and the postmark is illegible.
I head back inside the house, dropping the mail on the kitchen counter before taking some frozen vegetables from the freezer. They’ll have to do – I really can’t face preparing anything but a basic meal tonight. Once the vegetables are in a pan of water, I shove the bank statement in a drawer and then rip open the reward card envelope – £5.50 in vouchers, which I carefully detach and tuck inside my purse. With the extra debt Jeremy left behind, every penny counts right now. Then I stare at the packet for a moment, puzzled, before carefully sliding my finger under the sealed flap.
‘Kieran, dinner won’t be too long,’ I call out, but I doubt he hears me.
At first, I don’t think there’s anything inside the envelope because it’s so light, but when I reach in, something soft catches against my fingers. Confused, I pull out the item and stare at it for a moment, unable to make sense of what it is.
Fabric… pale-pink cotton… dirty…
‘What the hell?’ I whisper, suddenly realising how light-headed I feel. I put down the envelope and unfold the scrunched-up fabric. That’s when I stumble over to a stool, steadying myself on the worktop before I sit down.
‘Oh my God,’ I whisper, my heart thundering in my chest. ‘What the hell is this?’ Or rather, I think – what the hell does it mean?
Someone has sent me a pair of girl’s underpants – filthy and worn, faded and frayed. Beneath the stains are little purple flowers, screaming out the innocence of the wearer. The pants look as though they’ve been lying in the gutter or dropped in mud.
I place them on the worktop, peering inside the envelope to see if there’s anything else. And that’s when I see the Post-it note with the words ‘I KNOW’ printed in the same black marker as on the envelope.
The size label on the pants is faded but still just legible – ‘Age 11 to 13’ sends a wave of nausea through me. Quickly, I shove the pants back inside the packet, sickened by the sight of them – and that the size indicates they belonged to a young girl.
Unable to concentrate, I do my best to finish preparing dinner, grabbing a couple of plates from the cupboard, checking on the Kievs as they crisp up. I call out to Kieran again that food will be ready in ten minutes, and I think I hear him call back ‘OK’ above the din of his music.
The bottle of wine in the fridge signals to me as I take out the ketchup, knowing Kieran will want sauce. I put a hand on the cold glass bottle, hoping it will help to numb the thoughts swirling around my head.
Who the hell would send me such a thing? I’ve always thought of myself as well liked in the community, having lived here all my life, apart from during my training years. My mother was in the WI, my dad worked in the local car industry and I bake bloody cakes for the village fete, for Christ’s sake. My mind scans through everyone I know, even trawling my patient list, wondering who might have a grudge against me. But I can’t think of anyone – apart from Scott, of course. Despite everything that’s happened, I don’t see why he would send me a pair of girl’s underpants. It doesn’t make any sense at all.
Whoever it is, they must have made a mistake, I think, trying to convince myself it’s nothing, that it doesn’t mean anything.
‘Probably some nutter, or a stupid joke,’ I whisper, setting the table. A part of me wonders if I should tell the police, but on top of everything, I can’t stand the extra layer of disruption. And it wouldn’t reflect well on me either – a respected GP in a small community. Instead, I take the packet out to the garage and stash it away underneath a load of items in a storage box, before coming back inside and scrubbing my hands until they’re sore.
Fifteen
Rhonda
‘Right,’ Rhonda says, standing in Jen’s bedroom, her hands on her hips. Her blonde hair is swept up in a messy bun, held in place with a red scarf tied with a knot on top, covering her darker roots. ‘Let’s get stuck in.’
‘I’m not sure I can, Ron,’ Jen says through a voice tinged with exhaustion. ‘Perhaps I should move into the spare room, just shut the door on all of this. Let me take you out for lunch instead, to say thanks for everything you’ve done.’
‘No, it needs doing, hon,’ Rhonda says, advancing further into the room slowly, picking her way through the mess as if it’s a crime scene. ‘You can’t keep putting it off. It’s time.’
‘Don’t judge,’ Jen says as Rhonda plucks some discarded clothes from the floor, dropping them in the laundry basket. ‘My head really hasn’t been in a good place lately and most nights I’ve just fallen into bed and—’
‘Stop,’ Rhonda says, placing a finger over Jen’s lips. ‘What are mates for if not to hold your hair back and help?’ God knows, Jen’s been a rock for her more times than she can count. It’s the least she can do to help sort out Jeremy’s belongings. Besides, she wants to do it – no, needs to, if she’s honest.
‘You’re an angel and I don’t know what I’d do without you,’ Jen replies, gripping on to Rhonda’s finger when she removes it to speak. ‘No one knows the mess I’m in,’ she adds, sweeping her arm around the cluttered bedroom. ‘Not to mention this.’ She points low dow
n on her stomach. ‘I haven’t told another soul apart from Kier overhearing, which didn’t go down well. He’s barely spoken to me since. I honestly don’t know what to—’
‘One thing at a time or you’re going to implode in a ball of anxiety. Once we get Jeremy’s belongings sorted, you’ll feel a little more in control.’
Rhonda walks into the en suite bathroom, scanning around. Two toothbrushes sit side by side in the pot on the shelf above the sink, and a man’s towelling robe hangs on a hook beside the shower screen. Various other men’s toiletries are littered around the bathroom – Christ, it even still smells like Jeremy, she thinks, closing her eyes for a moment, breathing him in.
She returns to the bedroom and opens the fitted wardrobe doors. The rail on Jeremy’s side is crammed with shirts, trousers and jackets, with the shelf unit to the side filled with folded jumpers and sweat tops. Rhonda unfurls a black refuse sack from the roll and tears it off.
‘So it’s all going in the garage for now?’ she says, thinking that perhaps it would be best to donate most of it to a charity shop, perhaps keeping a couple of items for sentimental reasons.
Jen nods, her jaw tight and her teeth clenched.
Rhonda plucks out some shirts, slipping them off the hangers before folding them and placing them in the bag.
‘Just stuff them in,’ Jen suddenly says, ripping out a bunch of sweaters and shoving them in the sack. ‘I don’t give a toss any more. I just want them gone. They can go to the rubbish dump for all I care.’ She lets out a half-choke and half-sob in a poor attempt at stifling her tears.
‘Oh, Jen,’ Rhonda says, gently taking hold of her hand. ‘It’s OK, it’s OK…’ When the tears start in earnest, she pulls her friend in for a hug, cradling her head against her shoulder as she strokes her hair. ‘We’ll get through this… we will. Just one moment at a time, all right?’ She feels the small nod of Jen’s head against her neck as she stares up at the ceiling, not sure she believes her own words.
‘Thank you,’ Jen says through a sniff, pulling a tissue from her pocket. ‘I can’t believe that only a short time ago we were all planning another trip to Devon once the kids’ exams were out of the way.’
‘I know…’ Rhonda says, feeling herself tense up. She needs to tell Jen about Kieran, the reason he was lurking outside her office the other day. If only she’d not told him to come and see her, he wouldn’t have overheard what he did. ‘And we’ll plan something again when you feel more up to it. Maybe we can get away in July. Jeremy will be with us in spirit.’
In reality, she can’t even begin to imagine what it would be like without Jeremy there – and isn’t sure she wants to find out.
‘Knowing him, he bloody will be, too. Haunting us.’ Jen manages a laugh.
‘About those exams,’ Rhonda says, turning back to the wardrobe. She continues to fold the clothes before putting them in the bag. It doesn’t feel right to just shove them in without a care. Briefly, she touches a sweater to her face, closes her eyes.
‘What about them?’
‘I’m honestly wondering if Kieran should defer. He’s had a lot to deal with the last few weeks. I don’t think his mind is—’
‘No,’ Jen says firmly, yanking some ties off a rack. ‘He would hate that. So would Jeremy.’
‘It’s just that he’s been skipping classes quite a bit now. And when he does show up, he doesn’t engage.’
Jen stares at her in disbelief, wrapping a tie around her fist until her fingers throb. ‘Christ,’ she says, feeling as if her son is slipping ever further from her. ‘You should have told me sooner, Ronnie.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She looks away briefly. ‘I convinced senior management that I’d deal with it. They know our relationship, that you and I are best friends. And they know how well I know Kier.’
Jen nods and closes her eyes briefly. ‘Thank you. But I really don’t want him to be a year behind his peers or even drop out of school aged sixteen.’
Rhonda feels the knot in her guts tighten. ‘I also think he’s been smoking weed, Jen. A couple of times I’ve smelt it on him and… well, I don’t think it’s helping his mood—’
Jen hurls the tie to the floor in an excessive action that doesn’t have the impact required, so instead she kicks over the waste bin on the floor beside her dressing table. Tissues and cotton pads and other rubbish fly across the room. She lets out a helpless sob as she paces back and forth, trampling over discarded clothes. Then she bends down to gather up some of the spilt rubbish, but drops it again as the tears start to flow. Unable to help it, she flops down onto her bed, burying her face in the pillow.
Rhonda sits down beside her. ‘I’m so sorry, Jen,’ she says, reaching out for the sleeve of Jeremy’s sweater lying beside them.
An hour later, Rhonda ties up the last bag of Jeremy’s clothes. ‘Shall we start taking them down?’
Jen nods, her eyes still red and puffy from tears. After her crying had subsided, Rhonda had popped downstairs and made tea. Then they’d sat on the bed together, discussing a practical plan to help Kieran – one that he wouldn’t instantly run a mile from. One with an incentive.
‘If you’re totally sure?’ Jen had asked a thousand times, punctuated by blowing her nose and profuse apologies. Rhonda knew her tears weren’t just from Kieran falling behind at school. It highlighted yet another area of life where responsibility now fell on her and her alone. Gone were joint parenting plans. Gone was joint everything. She was completely alone, and Rhonda hoped that she’d just made one corner of Jen’s life seem a little less daunting.
‘Totally sure,’ Rhonda had replied. ‘It’ll give Caitlin the boost she needs, too. And I reckon they’re crazy about each other, so instead of it seeming like a chore, they’ll both be dying to get stuck in. I’ll give them the spare room to work in and keep them plied with drinks and snacks. Hell, I’ll even throw in a pizza at the end of a session if they get through the work.’
Jen had closed her eyes, mumbling a heartfelt thank you. ‘I think Kieran’s crush on Caitlin is one-way, though,’ she’d managed through a snotty laugh. ‘It’s a bad case of unrequited love, poor lad.’
‘Well… Caitlin loves Kieran’s company,’ Rhonda had said, knowing Jen was probably right. Her daughter was certainly lovesick and dreamy-eyed over someone, but she wasn’t sure it was Kieran. Truth was, she saw him more like a brother, but if studying with Caitlin gave the lad some motivation, then she wasn’t about to burst his bubble.
‘Can you manage?’ Rhonda asks now, as they struggle across the landing with three bags each.
‘Yup, but be careful on these top few steps. They’re lethal. Slippery as hell, so watch out.’ Jen had indicated this with a nod of her head as they padded down in socks.
‘You’re not wrong,’ Rhonda jokes, half dropping a bag as she grabs the handrail to steady herself. ‘Great idea putting polish on the treads.’
‘You can thank our old cleaner for that one,’ Jen replies, shoving the keys in her pocket from the hall table. ‘She literally spray-polished everything out of spite after Jeremy kept telling her off for using cheap products on his beloved antique furniture.’
The two women put on their shoes and head out to the garage, waiting as the automatic door trundles open. ‘Christ, it’s cold out here,’ Rhonda says as they duck under the automatic door.
‘There is some space at the back, believe it or not,’ Jen says, stopping for a moment as she stares at Jeremy’s bottle-green Stag, which takes up one half of the double garage. She shakes her head. ‘He loved that old thing,’ she says, looking away and squeezing past the piles of boxes, bikes, old garden toys, stacked-up deckchairs, tools and everything else that had accumulated during seventeen years of family life. Her eyes flick over to a plastic tub stacked against the back wall – the place where she’d stashed the mysterious package. A shudder runs through her.
Rhonda drops a couple of the bags at the garage entrance before picking her way through all the clutter with o
ne bag held up high. ‘I’m not seeing this space you talk of.’
‘Back here, look,’ Jen says, pushing her weight against an old wooden garden table to shove it to one side. That’s when it knocks into a huge car roof box leaning up against the wall, sending it crashing sideways and knocking over a few boxes, followed by the sound of breaking china.
‘Bugger,’ Jen says, dropping the bags she’s holding. She picks her way through the mess to begin restacking the items. ‘I think that was Mum’s old vintage plates. Great – they’ll be smashed and—’
‘Jen…’ Rhonda says, staring at the corner of the garage that the car roof box had been concealing. She frowns, waiting for Jen to look up to where she’s pointing. ‘Is that Jeremy’s… is that his ski stuff?’
She stares at the pair of skis propped up against the brickwork with several sets of poles leaning beside them. A black helmet with a well-known ski logo on the side hangs on a hook beside the equipment, plus a chunky pair of ski boots with the same branding.
Jen stares at them for a moment. ‘Yes, yes, it is,’ she says finally, quietly. She glances over at the Stag, then back to Rhonda. ‘It’s like he’s everywhere, Ron. It’s not that I want to forget him, of course I don’t. But I never get a respite from thinking about him. Everything triggers a memory.’
‘I know… it’s so hard. But what I actually meant is why is Jeremy’s ski stuff… well, here? Didn’t he take it on the trip? It’s the new kit you bought him for Christmas, isn’t it?’
Jen stops what she’s doing and turns to Rhonda, frowning, as though it was something she hadn’t even considered herself. ‘Yes, you’re right,’ she says, as if it doesn’t have an explanation.
Rhonda opens her mouth to speak, but Jen interrupts her.
‘Don’t think I didn’t ask him the very same question when he left for the airport. In fact, it caused even more ill feeling between us when he left. Which is ghastly to think of now, given what happened.’
The Trapped Wife: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller with a mind-blowing twist Page 10