The Perfect House

by R. P. Bolton

  The first message was from Jess. Are you OK for lunch this week? X

  And the second from Tom.

  Been to the chemist for your blood pressure tablets. But now at work. Sorry. Emergency x

  She waited for the threat of tears to pass before she dialled him, but it went straight to voicemail.

  Muffled whimpers came from the cot. The hump of blanket undulated and the whimpering turned to a whine that scraped down Ellie’s eardrums like sharp fingernails. Hard to believe that such a gorgeous child was capable of such an ugly sound.

  ‘Mummy’s here,’ she said.

  Get up! she ordered her legs. Things to do. But her traitorous body refused to co-operate. It was so warm, so seductive, so easy to sink deeper into the cushioned seat. Babies were tiny dictators, torturing with their endless, shrieking demands. Perhaps if Ellie closed her eyes and stayed completely silent, Trinity would let her snatch another half-hour. Perhaps if she—

  Her phone buzzed against the changing table mat. Tom.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he said, his tone worried but controlling it. ‘I’m on the baby app now and …’

  The loud hiss of a coffee machine drowned the rest of the sentence. As it faded, other sounds filtered in: music, conversation, laughter.

  ‘Where are you?’ Her voice came out a croak.

  ‘Costa,’ he said.

  ‘Costa?’ she echoed, suddenly alert. ‘You said you were going to work.’

  Chair legs scraped across a hard floor. Crockery clinked. A woman laughed, very loud, very close.

  ‘I am at work. We’re just picking up something to eat.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Me and Tanya,’ he replied, impatient now. ‘Els, look at the baby, please?’

  When had the baby started screaming? She got up clumsily from the chair. Her legs were stiff, as though she hadn’t moved for a while. The baby kicked, face turned to the wall. Where were the nappies? The wipes?

  Robotically, she changed Trinity’s nappy. A hundred excuses for sleeping through the baby’s screams sprang to her tongue, vanishing before she could choose the right ones. Meanwhile, Tom sat in Costa. With Tanya. Watching her.

  She draped a onesie over the camera’s spying eye. Tom’s voice came out of the phone, sounding echoey and weird. She couldn’t talk to him now. Wincing, she rubbed her knuckles into the small of her back. Falling asleep in that chair was a bad idea.

  The dark stain had returned, oozing from under the cot and, despite the warmth, Ellie shivered. She hesitantly dabbed the carpet with her toe then felt her sock. Dry. A shadow, then, not a stain. From the corner of her eye, the green light glowed faintly through the fabric of the onesie and she withdrew her foot, scooped the baby up and slunk out of its spying range.

  The pinhead light continued to glow. So, she was still being watched.

  Was Tanya self-consciously sipping her latte while Tom frowned at his phone screen? Or were they thigh-to-thigh on a squishy sofa, shaking their heads at her lacklustre parenting?

  Watching her.

  Criticising.

  Conspiring.

  38. Now

  Ellie screwed the lid on the nail polish and puffed sharply on her fingertips. Dove grey to match the new ASOS top hanging on the front of her wardrobe. Trinity lay gurgling on their bed, flexing her tiny fingers towards the plush giraffe Tom danced above her.

  ‘Give me a ring when you’re finished and I’ll drop you back home,’ he said. ‘I’ve already told Tanya I’ll be nipping in and out today.’

  Tanya.

  She took a slow breath and carefully scraped a hair’s breadth of polish from a cuticle.

  Within an hour of his I’m-in-Costa-with-Tanya call yesterday, he’d returned with her new blood pressure pills, two bags of groceries and an apology for sounding like a TED talk. Ellie, too exhausted to argue, let him feed the baby while she crawled back to bed. But sleep refused to come. Instead, she stared at the repeating swirls on the Artex ceiling and reasoned with her brain’s Department of Paranoia.

  Tom’s one of the good guys. He would never do anything to hurt me.

  Oh come on, Paranoia had sneered. You know that’s not true.

  ‘We’d better get going soon,’ Tom said, swooping Mr Giraffe to tickle Trinity’s nose.

  ‘Give me ten minutes.’

  Tom took the baby downstairs while Ellie pulled on black opaque tights, wiggling the waistband over her belly. Buttoned a black A-line skirt and slouched into the grey top. She tied her hair back and tugged a few strands loose at the front.

  From the bathroom, she could hear him chattering away to the baby. Speedily and efficiently, she applied make-up to the face reflected in the mirror. Her real face was hidden behind a zombie filter, all thready eyes and lifeless skin, and while she couldn’t conjure up eight hours of sleep, she did have the miracle of make-up. Foundation, concealer, a big swipe of blusher, two coats of mascara that did little to minimise her puffy bags. Not miraculous, but better. Human, at least.

  She pinned a smile in place and went downstairs.

  Half an hour later, they pulled level with a queue of blank-faced commuters. Tom jumped out and opened the boot before Ellie had even taken off her seatbelt.

  At the rumble of an approaching bus, the queue shuffled forward.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to park up and wait?’ he said, clicking the car seat onto the buggy. ‘Or walk you to the office?’

  ‘We’ll be fine.’ She kissed him. ‘Don’t worry.’

  He sped away just as the bus pulled into the bay, leaving Ellie and Trinity on the pavement. Diesel fumes clouded around them. Normal women in office clothes talked, shouted, laughed. There were signs of Christmas everywhere: a stall selling hot chestnuts. A busker singing ‘Fairytale of New York’. Cheerful Santas hung in shop windows and shoppers clutching multiple bags streamed by. She leaned against the Perspex bus shelter. Breathed. Adjusted Trinity’s fleecy hat, tucked her blanket in. Breathed again.

  For almost five years, her daily commute had taken her along this street. Now as she wheeled the pram past bars and stores that used to swallow her monthly pay, it was like strolling down a street on the moon. But the street hadn’t changed – she had.

  Keep going. Nearly there.

  Craftmags occupied the whole of the second floor of Regal House. She paused at the ramp next to the steps. Behind that soot-streaked façade, her replacement sat counting the hours till she could slip away.

  The double doors slid open. Same magazine titles fanned on the coffee table, same plastic ferns no one ever bothered to dust, same drab pictures on the same drab walls.

  If the walls of Regal House could talk, they would bore you to death.

  Different receptionist, though, currently delicately picking at a spot with her long, pointed fingernail.

  ‘Ellie Wight, here to see Jess Peel at Craftmags.’

  The girl handed her a visitor pass and pointed at the lift. ‘Fourth floor.’

  Trinity goggled at the lift’s mirrored interior.

  ‘Going up,’ Ellie said.

  Jess was waiting outside Craftmags’ office. She rushed towards them, arms held wide.

  ‘Hello, you,’ she said, hugging Ellie. ‘Wow, you look fantastic. And Trinity!’ She hitched her skirt up slightly to kneel by the buggy. ‘I can’t get over how much she’s grown since I saw her in the hospital.’

  On the other side of the glass wall, colleagues vigorously tapped keyboards and chatted on phones. The first to see her was Liz from accounts, and Ellie returned her enthusiastic wave with a smile.

  Olly, Layla and Sarah from design gathered to coo over the pram, followed by Penny from HR. Boring work and toxic building aside, Craftmags wasn’t a bad place to work. With one notable exception.

  ‘Hello, Joan.’

  The line manager offered an insincere smile. ‘Well, this is a surprise. And this is …?’

  ‘Trinity.’

  ‘How cute,’ Joan said in a tone that
implied the exact opposite. ‘And can I just say I think it’s great you’re not rushing to lose the baby weight. So refreshing.’

  Before Ellie could reply, Fehmida from IT asked about the renovation project and that led to everyone chipping in with their own nightmare builder stories. Joan’s smile stretched thinner and thinner, until she said loudly, ‘I hate to spoil the fun, but …’

  Jess pulled her coat from the back of her chair and wound a long, striped scarf around her neck.

  ‘I’m going out for lunch now with Ellie. See you later.’

  Joan’s smile set like rigor mortis. ‘Don’t be late back. Deadlines don’t meet themselves.’

  The pair of them waited until they were in the lift before collapsing in fits of giggles.

  ‘I hate to spoil the fun,’ Jess said, mimicking Joan’s tight-lipped delivery. ‘Bollocks. She exists to spoil the fun. She is like the Funspoiler General.’

  ‘Not rushing to lose the baby weight,’ Ellie said, inspecting her side view in the lift’s mirrored interior. She smoothed her palms down over her belly.

  ‘Take no notice of the cheeky cow,’ Jess said. ‘Do you fancy Nexus?’

  Nexus meant birthday lunches, Christmas drinks, post-work rants about management. The perfect venue for networking, flirting, bragging, moaning and eyeballing the competition.

  As Ellie manoeuvred the buggy through the doors, she realised Nexus also meant narrow aisles, no space to park a buggy, and, wow, had it always been this loud?

  In short, there wasn’t exactly a ‘No children allowed’ sign hanging over the counter. But they didn’t really need one.

  ‘What can I get you?’ Jess shouted over the music.

  ‘Sandwich?’ Ellie said lifting Trinity onto her lap. ‘And a latte, please.’

  While Jess joined the queue at the counter, a group of suits and beards snagged the last table next to them. Really there was only seating for two, but they shoehorned a couple of extra chairs around the small table. One of them sat next to Ellie, spreading his knees so wide he nudged the buggy.

  ‘So, I told Marcus he could fuck right off. And then keep fucking off and then fuck off some more,’ he said.

  This was clearly the punchline to some long-winded anecdote and the other three burst into raucous laughter. Trinity squealed and the man who told Marcus to fuck the fuck off turned around.

  Angry heat flooded Ellie’s face. She unhooked Mr Giraffe from the buggy and frantically waggled him.

  ‘So, tell me,’ Jess said, putting the tray on the table. ‘How’s it all going?’

  On cue, a sustained grumble escaped from the baby.

  Jess held a finger out to grab. ‘Oh no, what’s wrong, beautiful?’

  The mirrored wall reflected Manspread’s friend, beard groomed like a show pony, glancing over as Trinity rooted noisily at Ellie’s chest.

  Flipping between embarrassment and anger, she tried, one-handed, to shuffle the changing bag out of the base of the buggy. Manspread’s lolling leg didn’t move.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Jess said loudly. ‘Could you let my friend get her bag?’

  A few heads craned their way and he twisted completely, turning his back on Ellie.

  Jess flung her knees apart in exaggerated imitation, adding gruffly, ‘Me man. Me massive balls. Me need all room.’

  Ellie laughed, but the effort of holding a squirming Trinity in place while unfastening her bra was making her sweat.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, pulling a large muslin square from the bag. ‘I haven’t tried this in public before.’

  ‘Did your mum used to hold the towel up on the beach so you could get your cossie on?’ Jess said, holding the top corners of the shawl like a shield. She deftly tucked the hem under Ellie’s exposed bra strap. ‘Anyway, how are things with balancing the house and the baby and everything?’

  Trinity began to feed and Ellie awkwardly picked up her own sandwich. ‘It’s been a pretty steep learning curve.’

  ‘I can imagine. Must be lovely though, having this little angel at home.’

  ‘It is. And also tiring and scary. And everyone has an opinion on what you’re doing. I took her to a mum and baby group and all the other mums were so together. And this’ – she pointed at her wet eyes and blew her nose on a serviette – ‘is another drawback.’

  Jess smiled sympathetically. ‘I can’t speak from experience, but I’m sure even the mums at your baby group feel the same sometimes. Maybe they’ve just learned to hide it. Trinity’s OK health wise now, isn’t she?’

  Ellie patted the table. ‘Touch wood.’

  ‘Well, then. If she’s fine, it’s proof you’re doing a fantastic job.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Ellie winced as Trinity shifted position. ‘She is perfect but I’m a sleepless hormonal wreck.’

  She took a packet of wipes from the bag and leaned Trinity against her shoulder, dabbing at spat up milk.

  Jess said, ‘Here, do you want me to hold her so you can have your coffee before it goes cold?’

  Ellie passed first the shawl then the baby over gratefully. ‘How come the temp didn’t stay?’

  ‘Joan said she was rude.’

  ‘Joan the Moan called someone rude?’

  ‘Yeah, irony overload,’ Jess said and launched into an anecdote about the temp’s ‘lengthy’ toilet breaks. Ellie’s body relaxed into the sofa, craving the everyday office gossip she had been so desperate to escape from.

  After five blessedly normal minutes, the muslin slid from Jess’s lap to the floor. A passing waitress stooped to retrieve it. Her long dark ponytail swished and Ellie glimpsed high cheekbones, a straight nose, and huge, thick-lashed eyes.

  Jess spoke, but the words didn’t penetrate. Ellie froze. Time rolled back ten years.

  Mia.

  The thought had barely formed before the waitress straightened, her face distinctly her own. When she spoke, her lips made different shapes from Mia’s. She held the shawl out, her forehead creased.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she said in accented English. ‘Can I help you?’

  Ellie’s hand trembled. ‘No, thanks. Sorry.’

  ‘Well, let me know if you need anything.’

  Taking out her cleaning cloth, the waitress slalomed through the tightly packed tables. Ellie pushed the plate with her half-eaten sandwich to one side and folded the muslin.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Jess said. ‘You’ve gone really pale.’

  The men at the adjacent table broke into leery chuckles. Ellie looked up, caught sight of her reflection.

  And her throat went dry.

  The mirrored wall showed the patrons of the crowded café. Framed in a tableau, Manspread and friends’ reflections eyed the waitress’s neat behind as she cleared a table. Jess’s shiny hair bent over Trinity. Her own face stared, open-mouthed.

  And one seat along, a figure in black lifted a dirt-streaked finger to her lips.

  Crockery rattled and a cup fell, spilling dregs of coffee as Ellie’s thighs rammed the table edge.

  ‘Ellie!’ Jess cried, the baby almost slipping from her arms. ‘What’s wrong?’

  For a fleeting second, she thought she might be dying. Over the rushing in her own ears, she heard the coffee machine, murmured conversations and ragged breaths. Her ragged breaths. The mirror reflected a hushed crowd of shocked faces, but the seat next to Jess was empty.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  Shaking off her friend’s kind hand, Ellie stuffed the baby’s things into the buggy. ‘Give me the baby. Now. Can you bring the pram?’

  With her daughter clamped to her chest, she barged sideways through tightly packed tables, past the waitress who clearly wasn’t Mia still holding a tray piled with empty mugs and plates.

  Outside, the pavement rose up. The sky pressed down. Pedestrians swarmed, crushing her. Cold sweat prickled her upper lip.

  Get away. Get away. Get away.

  The pram appeared through the door, followed by Jess, pinched and frowning as she tapped her phone to life.<
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  ‘I’ll just tell Joan I’ll be late back. Give me a—’

  Ellie leaned against the window of a takeaway. ‘I’m fine, honestly. I’ll walk up to meet Tom at the police station.’

  Rich smells of meat and fat wafted from inside the tinsel-decked kebab shop and she swallowed rising nausea.

  Look normal. Smile. Lower baby into pram. Fasten straps. Breathe. Walk.

  ‘Tell me what happened in there,’ Jess said, keeping pace through the crowd. ‘Are you feeling ill? You hardly touched your lunch.’

  ‘I thought I saw someone, that’s all.’

  Ellie moved aside to let a double buggy pass. A pair of red-faced siblings screamed in unison and the other mum, brown smudges under her eyes, gave her a grateful smile.

  ‘Who?’ Jess said.

  A young woman with headphones and cropped hair swerved around them, her heels clacking a sharp rebuke on the pavement. Not that long ago, Ellie had been that girl, irritated by dead-eyed pram pushers.

  ‘A neighbour. But I made a mistake.’

  ‘OK, good.’ Her friend’s eyebrows knitted together. ‘That aside, what the hell has this neighbour done to you to make you react like that?’

  The concrete and glass façade of Regal House loomed a few yards ahead.

  She plucked the first random excuse that presented itself. ‘Something and nothing. A stupid row about the garden. Anyway, it wasn’t her, so it doesn’t matter.’ Her cheeks already flamed with panic, so it wasn’t hard to fake embarrassment. ‘I’m so sorry. Look, you’d better go before Joan has a meltdown.’

  Jess narrowed her eyes for a few seconds, as if weighing up what to do. Decision made, she stepped forward to hug Ellie. ‘I’m only a phone call away. Anytime for anything.’

  At the top of the steps, she turned and held her fingers to her mouth and ear like a phone, mouthing ‘Ring me.’ Ellie nodded and smiled in return, tears prickling as her friend vanished inside.

  She set her shoulders. She hadn’t seen Mia. She hadn’t seen the woman. Too much noise and too many people had confused her, that was all. The walk would do her good. Clear her head.

  But weaving the buggy around bollards and bins and idiots who refused to move only raised her stress levels. By the time she reached the police station, her head, her arms and her bladder ached.