The Women: A gripping psychological thriller

by S. E. Lynes

  Seventeen

  Samantha returns the photographs to the drawer, an awareness dawning as she does so of something new within herself, and within her relationship with her lover and the father of her child. It seems to her, putting these photographs back, arranging the drawer with everything exactly where it was before, that this is the behaviour of deceit but that this is how she must behave now, at least for the moment. Though isn’t this how she’s been behaving for a while, perhaps since she found the pills behind the sofa cushions, or maybe even before?

  And that is how a hole opens up in the life of a couple, she thinks. Small acts of subterfuge. Tactics. It isn’t as if he has betrayed her. It isn’t as if he’s been having an affair, but something has been lost between them and she wonders if they will get it back.

  Peter returns home late. Like last week, he smells of cigarettes and beer. She doesn’t question it, barely notices it, other than to remember that he mentioned he was meeting a PhD student and presuming that is what he has done. Nor does she remember in that moment the pills now disappeared from the back of the sofa. On her mind and on her lap are only the three pieces of creative writing she knows now were written and delivered with malicious intent, most probably by Peter’s ex-girlfriend, Samantha’s student, Aisha.

  ‘Peter,’ she says when he appears at the door of the living room.

  ‘One moment,’ he replies, and she listens to the fall of his shoes on the floorboards, hears him go whistling through to the kitchen – Rachmaninov, she recognises, Piano Concerto No. 2. A clank of glassware and she knows he will appear in a few moments with their customary evening glass of red. He never asks if she wants one. She wonders now if he ever has.

  ‘So,’ he says, joining her on the sofa and handing her a glass.

  ‘Peter, I’ve had another one of those pieces,’ she says.

  ‘What? Show me.’ He takes a large slug as she hands over the latest sheet.

  She watches him, drinks her wine. Unusually for her, she finishes half the glass in one go. Just the taste of it helps, the trickle of heat in her throat.

  Peter’s brow furrows. He stands up, wanders over to the record player, opens the lid. She is about to tell him not to put a record on, to focus on this, on her, when he appears to reconsider. He lowers the lid, returns to join her on the sofa. He drains his wine.

  ‘I think you should go and see Harry,’ he says.

  Harry Boyd, the guy Peter persuaded to let Samantha cover the maternity leave. She ponders on it sometimes, this network of men pulling strings behind the scenes, as if the rest of them are puppets. But going to see Harry is not what she expected Peter to suggest. He has not reached the most obvious conclusion: that this must be an ex of his, bound for revenge. Or perhaps he has.

  ‘But don’t you think it sounds personal this time?’ she pushes. ‘The house on the hill with the pictures on the walls? Whoever it is has been here.’

  He shrugs. ‘I’ll admit it’s creepy. But a house on the hill is a dramatic staple, isn’t it? What’s that Fleetwood Mac song?’

  She looks at him blankly, no idea what he means.

  He shakes his head. ‘“Big Love?” Never mind. All I’m saying is that it’s a well-worn phrase and lots of houses have pictures on the walls. Most, I expect. It’s how we customise where we live; it’s part of how we show who we are.’

  ‘But what about that stuff about liking girls and clothes and red wine? And Peter Pan? Your name is Peter!’

  He gives an amused exhalation through his nose. ‘My name is not Peter Pan though, is it? I can see why you feel unsettled, I’m not minimising it, not at all. Which is why I think you should go and see Harry. But it’s the quintessential predatory male, isn’t it? Likes girls, well, that’s bog standard; men like women, so what? And clothes, well, I wear clothes but I wouldn’t say I’m particularly interested in them. I need them. They serve a purpose and I don’t want to look like a Central Casting academic, which is fair enough. As for red wine, well, everyone likes red wine, don’t they? And again, it’s synonymous with sophistication, seduction, sensuality.’ As if to illustrate the point, he pours himself another glass. ‘Peter Pan is a household name, a byword for youthful men everywhere and, look, you’re overlooking this bit here … his daughter, all grown up now. I don’t have another daughter, only Emily, and she’s a baby. Honestly? I think whoever wrote this is a woman who has been jilted. Didn’t you mention that your Polish student had had a bad boyfriend? Didn’t she even say that was what she was going to write about?’

  Lana. Yes, she did. She did say that. Samantha has thought this before, and now Peter’s said it too. If Peter hasn’t mentioned a former student lover, so what? It’s none of her business and it looks like it was a few years ago, four or five, yes, that’s years. She hasn’t mentioned Aisha by name, so he has had no reason to feign ignorance. He is ignorant. He has no idea that his ex is in Samantha’s class. And Aisha was probably about to tell her when she rushed off.

  Suddenly it doesn’t seem possible that Aisha wrote this. Or at least it seems possible that she didn’t. It is too mad for Aisha, too bitter. And the writing itself is perhaps too basic for an English literature graduate who casually drops a T. S. Eliot reference into four lines of verse. But then it doesn’t seem likely to be Lana either. The correct use of the definite article suggests it was written by someone with English as their mother tongue. Jenny? Jenny is pretty strident. Jenny was alone with the folder today. Jenny is close to Aisha; could she have some sort of crush on her, be in love with her even?

  Could Jenny be writing on Aisha’s behalf, perhaps even without Aisha knowing?

  ‘Samantha?’ Peter says. ‘You’re miles away.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She smiles, sips her wine. ‘Do you think I should call the police?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, what would you say? A student with mental-health issues is writing dodgy poetry? I’d like to report a sinister piece of prose?’ He laughs, reaches for the back of her neck, strokes it.

  ‘But …’ She flounders. He is right, of course. It’s hardly a body or a burglary. ‘But the other thing is that I went for a walk with Emily earlier, just after you’d gone, and I bumped into that guy I told you about, the one who’s writing about the last man on earth.’

  ‘What, here?’

  She nods. ‘Outside. Sean, his name is. I mean, I thought he was harmless, but he was coming up the road from the direction of our house. It was quite dark by then, although he did see me and say hello, but he looked … weird. Off, you know? He didn’t stop. Usually he tells me a load of stuff I don’t need to know, like where he’s going or about roadworks or whatever. It’s a sign of anxiety, that whole over-explaining thing, I think, but I’ve never felt threatened by him.’ She doesn’t mention the open back door. Peter would kill her. The lamp on a timer, the safe in the cellar, the alarm she secretly never uses, the double locks on the windows … He is very security conscious.

  Peter is silent for a moment. Samantha finishes her wine. She feels better for having told him, for his poise, his logical reasoning, and for his hand on the back of her neck. His life before he met her belongs to him. For all she knows, Aisha was just a fling. Peter has the right to have had flings, girlfriends. To get worked up over a photograph is silly, paranoid. He’s with her, Samantha, now, and Aisha turning up in a local writing class is not exactly the weirdest coincidence in the world. She obviously got to know the area while dating Peter. Samantha herself loved this area from the moment Peter introduced her to it; it’s completely understandable that Aisha loves it too. And besides, even if Aisha did enrol with some dodgy agenda, that isn’t Peter’s fault, is it?

  It might have seemed strange that the piece of writing didn’t appear to freak Peter out even a little bit, but then again, if he has nothing to feel guilty about, he would be exactly as calm as he is now. All he has been is kind and calm. She loves his calmness. She loves him. She needs to stop being so suspicious.

  ‘I think,’ he says
slowly as she curls up against him, ‘you should take the three pieces of work to Harry next week and just chat it through. I think it’s time to let the college know and put it on record. I can have a word with this Sean guy—’

  ‘No, it’s OK. I can do it.’

  ‘OK. Well, you can ask him what he was doing in your road, and if he can’t provide a decent answer, tell him gently and kindly that if you see him near your house again, you’ll call the police.’ He puts the flat of his warm, dry hand to her face, presses her head softly against his chest. ‘But most of all, don’t worry,’ he says. ‘I won’t let anything bad happen to you. Some people are just a bit messed up, you know? Most cases of actual violence come from people we know. Trust me.’

  ‘If it gets worse,’ Peter says over breakfast the next day, ‘I was thinking you can hand in your notice. The pay is peanuts anyway and you should do an MA come September. If your poetry collection is accepted, we’ll get you something in a university, all right?’

  She nods, although that’s not what she wants. She hasn’t given her poetry a single thought. It belongs to a past life, a past her, a youthful obsession, a phase. Her priorities have changed. She wants to help the illiterate and the dispossessed. She has seen foreign students in the college, heard them speak. She cannot imagine where they have come from, what they have come from, but she knows enough to understand that they are seeking better, safer lives.

  ‘I’m sure it won’t come to that.’ She spreads butter on her toast. When she looks up, she sees that Peter is watching her. She passes the knife back over the butter, scrapes off the excess, wipes it on the side of her plate.

  Peter grimaces, tears off a strip of kitchen roll and, with one swift swipe, removes the butter from Samantha’s plate and puts it in the swing bin.

  Wordlessly he returns to the table and spreads sugar-free strawberry jam on his own butter-less toast. He is still a little flushed from his early-morning run.

  ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘I need to tell you I can’t have Emily the week after next.’ He bites his toast, smiles, as if this represents the most minor inconvenience. His matter-of-fact delivery, his whole demeanour in fact, is so different from the tender way he was last night, his willingness to take her worries seriously, and later, when they were in bed. Last night he was a warm and gentle breeze; this morning an icy blast.

  She tries to meet his eye but he is looking at his phone. ‘But it’s only for a few hours. And you know I don’t have anyone else.’

  ‘I know, it’s a pain. Could you ask your mum to come and stay?’

  ‘She has to work, you know. She can’t just take a holiday when she feels like it.’ Most people have to work to eat, she doesn’t add, much as she’d like to.

  ‘What about the crèche at the college? Yes, that’s it.’ He is standing up, throwing his navy Harris Tweed jacket over his shoulders. ‘Book Emily in next week as a practice run. She’ll barely notice. But it’d be good to try her out while I’m here to come and get her if it doesn’t work out. If it does, it might be better to have her there anyway going forward. I’m losing a lot of time on Tuesdays.’

  He bends and kisses her on the cheek. Before she can respond, he has grabbed his keys from the raku bowl on the hall table and is opening the front door.

  ‘Bye, girls,’ he calls.

  The door shuts.

  Eighteen

  Samantha stares after him, seething, though she is not sure why. Perhaps because he cannot even commit to looking after his own sodding daughter for a few hours once a week. Yes, perhaps it’s that. But if he has to work, he has to work. And the crèche might not be such a bad idea. It means she won’t have to rush home, and she fully intends to meet up with Aisha and Jenny after class.

  There are questions she needs to ask.

  She calls the crèche and books Emily in. When she goes to write it on the wall calendar, she realises that next Monday is the fifth of February, Peter’s birthday.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she whispers.

  It’s his fortieth. A landmark birthday. In all the turmoil, she’s totally forgotten. She is a rubbish, rubbish girlfriend.

  But when Peter returns and she asks him if he’d like her to invite some friends over at the weekend, or organise a meal out, maybe some drinks in the Marlborough Arms if she can find a babysitter, he replies with a good-natured wave of his hand.

  ‘Good Lord, no. Always low-key if there’s a zero on the end. Why on earth would anyone want to celebrate being a decade older?’

  Relief washes over her. He’s not angry. And she’s not expected to do anything grand. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. Besides, it’s too much with the baby and everything. And it’s a Monday, for God’s sake, no one wants to go out on a Monday. Let’s go to that new pizza place near St Margaret’s. I’d rather open a decent bottle of wine and have a quiet dinner with you.’

  ‘Fine,’ she says. ‘I’ll book it. What’s it called?’

  ‘Pizza Romana. I’ll send you the link.’

  He seems genuinely happy, tells her to relax in the living room while he fixes them a drink. She goes through, sits on the sofa, kicks Emily’s furry giraffe underneath just in time.

  ‘You see, people have babies,’ he says, coming through to join her with their drinks and a small plate on a tray, which he puts down on the coffee table. She stares at it.

  ‘Thinly sliced raw fennel,’ he explains. ‘Good for digestion.’

  ‘Right.’ They’re going to eat it, she supposes.

  He hands her a glass. ‘Bourgogne,’ he says before returning to his theme. ‘Yes, I was just thinking as I was pouring our drinks just now how important it is to have this ritual, don’t you think? Our little aperitif. It’s important to keep a handle on adult life, especially now that Emily is here. I’ve seen friends have babies and from one moment to the next they go from civilised human beings to blithering idiots, apparently no longer capable of decent thought or deed, their whole lives descended into a wash of breast milk, puke stains and shit.’ He chinks his glass against hers, takes a long slug she suspects is not his first. ‘I don’t want that for us, do you?’

  ‘No,’ she replies, nibbling on the fennel, which tastes of liquorice.

  ‘That’s why our routine is just as important as Emily’s. We have to stay civilised or we’ll fall into the abyss.’

  ‘Yes,’ she replies, not wanting to tell him that sometimes, when she has slept little, the wine gives her a headache, that she often still has that headache in bed. ‘I read that an early-evening glass of red wine can help with milk production.’

  ‘Really?’ he replies, and she tries not to notice the mild expression of distaste that crosses his face. ‘Excuse me, I’ve left the gnocchi on.’

  On Monday evening, Samantha gives Peter the card she has made and signed from her and Emily, together with Egon Schiele: L’oeuvre complet, 1909–1918, a book that cost over a hundred pounds but for which he sent her a link that took her to his Amazon Prime account.

  ‘This wrapping paper is lovely,’ he tells her as he plants a kiss of thanks on her forehead.

  Later, he even sings to the baby while Samantha has a shower, takes five minutes to apply a quick lick of mascara and throws on the black strappy dress. It’s too elegant, really, for a Monday night in a pizza restaurant, but it is Peter’s birthday and so far she’s only worn it for him inside the house.

  She returns downstairs brushing at the smooth fabric, a little embarrassed suddenly.

  ‘You look stunning.’ His eyes are soft, sloping at the edges in the way she loves. He hands her a glass of red and clinks his larger glass against it. ‘This is Pinot Nero, very light. Did I tell you this place uses polenta in the pizza bases? The guy is from Naples, apparently, and it’s bring-your-own, so we can take the rest of the wine with us.’

  He brings a chilled bottle of champagne too, so that they can toast, which he is about to do when she stops him.

  ‘Let me,’ she says, and he s
miles his permission. ‘Here’s to—’

  He throws up his hand. ‘Just … don’t mention the age, all right?’

  She considers him for a moment. It isn’t like him to be vulnerable. But she remembers her first sight of him, how she was moved by his carefully covered bald spot. The bald spot that is undoubtedly bigger this year.

  She holds up her glass of fizz once again. ‘Here’s to your no-big-deal birthday, which means little to me apart from my gratitude that you were born in the first place. How’s that?’

  He chuckles. ‘You’re a wonder. Cheers.’

  Over dinner, perhaps keen to move the conversation away from a birthday he is clearly not comfortable celebrating, he asks her with real interest more about her teaching, about the students. Emily is asleep in her stroller, zonked out by a good feed before they left the house. Samantha finds herself more animated than she has been in weeks.

  ‘I sometimes feel like I’m winging it,’ she confesses. ‘And it’s taking me hours to plan one lesson because I’m having to learn it myself first. It took me two days to write the class on subtext in dialogue. But I guess it’ll get easier, won’t it?’

  ‘It will, it will. And then you’ll be bored.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I love the people, that’s the main part of it. I could be teaching anything, really. I’d … I’d quite like to teach English as a foreign language though. Or teach people to read. You remember I said that?’

  He frowns, presses the paper napkin to his mouth. ‘I wouldn’t. You’re too intelligent.’

  She pauses to see if he’s joking, but he cuts another triangle of pizza and lowers the wilting point to his mouth.