The Perfect Father: the most gripping and twisty thriller you'll read in 2020

by Charlotte Duckworth

  I can’t stop the smile on my face as I leave the house. A baby. Ours. What will he look like? It’s not raining today, which is a relief. I follow the towpath along the River Wandle all the way through Tooting until I get to Wandsworth. Same route, every day. It takes me just over an hour to get to Wandsworth Town, where the Wandle meets the Thames. There’s a bench there. My bench. It’s where I sit and watch the river, writing new material for my act.

  Last year was my quietest year ever, work-wise. But everyone knows that’s how it goes in this business. 2015 is coming, and it’s going to be wild. New year, new chances. I can sense change in the air. After all, things will definitely be different one way or another. Because this time next year, we’ll have a tiny baby.

  There are tons of angles to exploit on the ‘becoming a dad’ thing, and I start scribbling. Jay Martin covered it at the Edinburgh Festival last year, but his show was too bitter and it tanked, as far as I know. I find myself wondering how other expectant fathers feel when they hear their partner is knocked up. It’s not something that’s talked about much, really, considering all the focus on gender equality these days.

  Not that I have a problem with gender equality, of course. Only that it’s so unrealistic. Women are clearly the superior sex.

  And that’s what makes it so easy to sketch out an act that will appeal to the masses. The pathetic man-child, waking in the night in fear of being usurped by a real child. It’s so easy, so obvious.

  I can’t stop writing.

  At the end of the page, I stop and watch a young teenage couple huddled in the corner by the railings that overlook the river. They’ve had a row; he’s pleading his case while she rolls her eyes and refuses to look at him. Ouch. It’s painful, his desperation. Poor sod.

  My mobile phone vibrates in my pocket. Honor, my perfect sister-in-law. Married to my perfect brother Nick.

  ‘Good morning,’ I say, into the phone.

  ‘Oh, thank God you answered,’ Honor says, breathlessly. ‘I’m . . . where are you?’

  I look up at the teenage couple, who are now hugging, faces buried in each other’s necks. She gave in, then. Women often do. But they store it all up for the future, tiny little seeds of resentment they carry with them, nurturing them with every little misdemeanour. Until before you know it you’ve got a triffid on your hands and it’s eating you alive.

  ‘Nowhere important,’ I say to Honor. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’ve messed up,’ she says. ‘Thought the dentist was tomorrow, it’s today. My usual babysitter isn’t free. I don’t suppose . . .’

  ‘What time do you need me?’ I interrupt. Honor loves me. I’m everything that Nick isn’t: present, attentive, caring. She couldn’t live with me though. I’m an amusing sideshow, but she likes Nick’s money and ambition too much.

  ‘Half an hour?’ she says, and I can almost hear the weight lifting from her shoulders in her voice.

  Mothers have it hard. My mum was only young when we were born, but having to deal with Nick and I fighting was enough to put her off having any other children. Although that might have also had something to do with my father.

  Father. The biggest joke of them all.

  ‘I’ll get some trousers on and be there right away,’ I say.

  Honor gives a little laugh. I like the idea that she’s picturing me in my underwear. All these petty victories against Nick. Pathetic, but irresistible. It will annoy him that I stepped in to look after his kids while he was slaving away at his desk in the city, making rich men even richer.

  ‘Oh no, were you working late last night? Sorry, hope I didn’t wake you,’ she says.

  ‘Not a problem,’ I say. Unfortunately I wasn’t working. ‘Honest.’

  ‘You are a lifesaver,’ she says. ‘Thank you. What am I going to do without you when we move?’

  I hang up the phone and stuff my notepad back into my bag.

  It’s no great hardship to babysit Nick’s twins. Kids are underrated. They’re three now and more entertaining than most of the adults I know. Honor is one of those typical Barnes mothers who complains that she misses working, but really doesn’t know how lucky she is that the main demands on her time are lunches with friends and administrating the local mums’ Facebook group.

  Barnes isn’t far but I’ve walked enough today, so I take a bus. Within twenty minutes I’m outside their deceptive terraced house, on a cul-de-sac just set back from the river. When they bought it, as bright young newlyweds, it was a wreck. Nick spent his bonus having it brought up to the same standard as all the rest of the houses in the street: adding a big white kitchen extension and poky loft bedroom. I remember Esther’s face when they unveiled their transformation, the weird ‘o’ shape her mouth made as she complimented Honor on her choice of paint colours.

  They spent over a hundred grand on the building work. I know because Nick told me. Twice.

  They put it on the market a few months ago; it went under offer at £1.75 million.

  Outside the bay window, Honor has planted lavender in little zinc window boxes. One has fallen off on to the perfectly arranged purple gravel in their postage-stamp-sized front garden. I stare down at it and knock the huge lion’s head of a door knocker.

  The front door opens.

  ‘I love you, I love you, I love you,’ Honor says, flinging her arms around me and kissing me on both cheeks. The kissing is a new thing, something she’s caught from living here.

  ‘Pleasure to be of service, ma’am,’ I say, doffing a pretend cap like an idiot, and putting one foot on the step up to the entrance. ‘Oh!’ I say, pausing. ‘Did Nick stumble home drunk last night? Something’s knocked over one of your window boxes.’

  Honor peers round me to look at the window box, lying side up, its contents spilling out like guts.

  ‘Bollocks,’ she says. ‘It was probably the dog. Never mind, come in.’

  I make my way through to the white kitchen. My nieces, Jasmine and Sienna – yes, their names sound like Disney princesses to me, too – are sitting on the sofa in the extension, eating toast and staring up at the huge television on the opposite wall. The aforementioned dog is asleep at their feet.

  ‘I won’t be too long. It’s a private dentist so they don’t usually run late,’ Honor says, rummaging about in her handbag until she pulls out a lipstick. I watch as she carefully traces over her pale lips with it, staring at her reflection in a compact mirror. She used to be attractive but now she’s too thin. Draped in floaty materials, all scrawny legs and arms that are mottled with sun damage, even in winter.

  I think of Esther. Robust. Not overweight, but big-boned, with a smooth layer of fat coating every surface. Like armour to protect her from the world. Even her face. It’s what makes her look young. She’s flat-chested too. I quite like it; she doesn’t.

  As always, my mind drifts to Sarah, comparing. I don’t know why, but ever since Esther got pregnant, I can’t stop thinking about Sarah. Far too much thought of her today already, Bird.

  ‘What are we watching then?’ I say, turning my attention back to my nieces. ‘Ahh, Waffle the Wonder Dog, eh? Why’s he so wonderful then? Because he’s named after my favourite Belgian snack? But is he covered in chocolate or strawberries, that’s the question . . . let’s see, let’s see.’

  Jasmine giggles and snuggles against me as I sit beside her. She smells like kids do: of salty skin and innocence and fabric conditioner.

  I can’t wait for this. I can’t wait for it with my own kid. All of it: the inane children’s television, the colouring-in, the nose-wipes and nappies, the middle-of-the-night cuddles . . . bring it on.

  Esther

  We are as late as we can possibly be without it seeming rude. I crunch up the driveway to Vivienne’s flat in my block heels. I’m wearing a dark blue dress made of fabric with a velvety sheen, my leather jacket and more make-up than I have
done for weeks.

  We have ignored the bossy dress code on the invite. Robin doesn’t do fancy dress. As he’s always told me, he’s ‘allergic’ to organised fun. And I didn’t have time to get anything together. All of Viv and Sean’s other mates are actors, and they have a vast array of costumes to plunder – it’s easy for them. My lank hair is pinned up in a neat bun, and I’m wearing the earrings Robin bought me for Christmas.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ Robin said as we left our flat. He doesn’t usually say things like that. When I once asked him why not, he replied that if he said it all the time, it would dilute its meaning. ‘How are you feeling? Is the bambino giving you a hard time yet?’

  ‘I’m OK,’ I said, trying not to worry that I didn’t feel anything really. What if this was the beginning of a miscarriage? What if the baby had stopped growing? I couldn’t bear it if something went wrong. It’s all too magical, and it scares me.

  I’ve started taking pregnancy tests every morning just to make sure I didn’t dream it all.

  ‘Do you want to tell people?’ Robin asks as we ring the doorbell. ‘I was planning on standing on the table, y’know, megaphone in hand . . .’

  I roll my eyes at him.

  ‘No,’ I say, firmly. ‘I don’t want them to know. If anyone notices I’m not drinking I’ll just say I’m on antibiotics for a UTI.’

  ‘As you like it.’ He nods as Vivienne opens the door. She’s dressed as the Bride of Chucky but somehow still manages to look amazing.

  ‘What have you come as?’ Robin says. ‘Your younger self?’

  Vivienne glares at him.

  ‘Hilarious. I haven’t come as anything anyway, I live here. Good of you two to make the effort as always,’ she replies, grabbing the bottle of Prosecco Rob’s holding. ‘Come in, come in. Coats on the sofa in the spare room!’

  In the kitchen, Vivienne thrusts a glass of Coke at me with a wink.

  ‘Here you go, chicken,’ she says.

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she says. ‘Been sick yet?’

  ‘No. I feel weirdly fine,’ I say, lowering my voice. ‘Listen, we’re not . . . we’re not telling people yet. Early days.’

  ‘Of course!’ she says, widening her eyes at me. ‘I wouldn’t breathe a word.’

  I’m not sure I believe her, but I’m also not sure that gossip about me is considered interesting enough to be gossip at all. I look over at Rob. He’s already sitting on the bench by Vivienne’s expansive dining table, helping himself to a bowl of crisps and chatting to a brunette. She has a lot of make-up on.

  Rob always says make-up is for dead people and clowns. I watch them for a few seconds. The girl is smiling at him, touching his shoulder as he talks, and he’s rolling his eyes at her chat, as though they are old friends.

  Suddenly she looks up and our eyes meet briefly. Unthinkingly I narrow mine and she frowns, looking away, before resting a hand on Rob’s leg.

  I have never felt jealous or insecure before. Vivienne’s friends are all like this – luvvies who are really tactile. When Rob’s performing, he quite often gets women coming up to him afterwards, patting his arm and telling him how talented he is. He’s gracious in accepting compliments, but he’s always been very mindful of how he behaves around women. You could say he’s a bit obsessive about it. He once told me that reputations can be ruined by even the slightest bit of misinterpreted behaviour, that you can never be too careful.

  I’ve never felt threatened, but tonight, something about my newly vulnerable status and the way this girl is looking at him makes my stomach churn.

  Someone turns the music down and Vivienne shouts over the hubbub that it’s time for us all to play Cards Against Humanity.

  I sidle over to my husband, a protective hand on my stomach as I walk, and gently sit on his lap, putting my arms around his neck. I would never normally behave like this, and I feel his body stiffen in surprise.

  He kisses me on the cheek. I don’t look at the girl.

  ‘Hello, wife,’ he says into my ear. ‘Can we leave yet?’

  From the tone of his voice I can tell that he’s already tipsy. He had a beer before we left, but I’m still surprised he’s got drunk so quickly. Then I see the glass of whiskey in front of him. Anger floods my veins and I bite down on my lip. He says he needs alcohol to get through evenings with Vivienne and her friends, but he wouldn’t normally drink neat spirits.

  He shifts sideways so that I’m facing the girl.

  ‘This is Kim. She was in that Channel 4 sitcom, do you remember? The tarty receptionist with a heart of gold,’ he says. ‘Kim, this is my better half, my light, my love, my one and only . . . ball and chain, Esther.’

  ‘Hi,’ she says, swallowing and flashing me a tooth-filled smile. ‘Tarty indeed. Your husband is hilarious.’

  ‘Lovely to meet you,’ I say.

  I give her a tight smile and turn to Vivienne who has started the game.

  By 10.30pm, Rob is completely drunk. There isn’t anything unusual about that, of course. But tonight he seems more drunk than normal. Or perhaps it’s just that I’m more sober than normal. I’ve always found him an amusing drunk – funny in public, but then soppy and loving and protective in private. But as a stone-cold-sober witness, I can see that my perspective has been skewed. At the moment, he is an overbearing drunk: loud, opinionated, larger than life.

  He is annoying.

  I’ve drunk nothing but Coke all evening, eaten handfuls of plain crisps. None of the party food Vivienne has served appealed to my newly sensitive stomach, and I feel bone-tired.

  By 11.30pm, I haven’t seen my overbearing drunk husband for nearly an hour, having left him to a heated debate about football transfers. I am trapped talking to a very serious wannabe film director in the narrow hallway of the flat. He’s leaning over me, bottle of beer in one hand, too many buttons of his shirt open at the top. I’ve run out of small talk but it doesn’t matter; he has enough for both of us.

  Sean squeezes past us on his way to the bathroom, and I grab his arm.

  ‘Have you seen Rob?’ I ask.

  ‘Uh,’ Sean replies. His face is shiny with sweat, his Chucky make-up smeared against the collar of his costume. ‘Yeah, he’s in the garden, I think.’

  ‘Will you excuse me?’ I say to the director. My head feels as though it’s made of cotton wool. I can’t even remember his name, let alone anything he’s been telling me.

  I push past him, towards the kitchen at the back of the flat. As I pass the spare bedroom I see a couple going for it on the pile of coats on the sofa. Standard stuff for a New Year’s Eve party, but something in the aggressively animal-like way they are behaving makes me feel uncomfortable, like I don’t belong. Like I’ve wandered into a teenagers’ house party or something.

  Outside on the patio, the darkness of the night hits me. Twenty minutes until the new year, until the year my baby will be born arrives. Thirty minutes until it’s an acceptable time to drag my drunken husband home. Where is he, anyway?

  The patio is filled with huddles of people, the scent of cigarettes filling the air. No one is smoking pot, which is unusual. At the back of the garden, where Vivienne has hung tea light lanterns in the large pine tree, I see my husband’s shape. Unmistakably large, his head a fuzzy, hairy silhouette against the candle behind. But something about the angle of his head alarms me. I can’t see him clearly; there are too many people between us, but I know from the way his head is cocked that he is leaning down. Then someone in front of me moves, and I blink in confusion at what is suddenly too clear to deny.

  Rob is kissing someone.

  I feel myself retch, and suddenly the ground begins to move. I grip on to Vivienne’s garden table as I stare and stare, willing myself not to be sick. And then, Rob’s head moves again until his face is finally in view, his eyes rolling back slight
ly in his head. His hand moves to his mouth, and he has the humility to look surprised, at least.

  I take a deep breath and walk towards them. He sees me before she does.

  ‘What . . . what . . . what are you doing?!’ I say, dumbfounded, but then my whole body is wracked with sobs and I find myself doubling over. The confusion I felt dissolves into absolute, abject misery. My husband. Bird. The love of my life.

  My hands fly to my forehead. It doesn’t make any sense.

  ‘Oh fuck,’ I hear the girl, Kim, say. She bends down and tries to take my arm but I push her off.

  ‘My fault,’ she says. ‘Chill out . . . just a bit of fun . . . New Year’s Eve and all that . . .’

  My hands dig into my knees as I look up at them.

  ‘How could you?’ I say, burning with humiliation. Suddenly, I feel another arm on mine. I look up and my eyes meet Robin’s. He’s so far gone, he’s barely even there.

  ‘Tot,’ he slurs. ‘Fuck. Sorry.’ His head lolls and his eyes seem to roll back in their sockets. ‘I’m . . . I told you she was tarty.’

  He starts to laugh and it turns into a choking cough.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ I say, furious with the realisation that I am going to have to be the mature one now, even though he is in the wrong. I am going to have to take charge of the situation, get us home safely, make sure he sobers up.

  He stumbles backwards then sits on the ground.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, and I see a heaviness to his eyelids that makes me worry he might fall asleep. He weighs sixteen stone. If he collapses here, there will be no moving him. I reach over to one of the patio tables and pick up an abandoned glass. It’s filled with clear liquid. It’s probably not water but I don’t care. I throw it over him and he splutters.

  ‘We’re leaving,’ I say, aware that a crowd has gathered around us. Kim has disappeared. ‘Get up.’

  There are gasps from the crowd, followed by sniggers. Who needs the West End when you have this kind of entertainment?