The Perfect House

by R. P. Bolton

  She scanned the car park, but Tom’s car – their car now – wasn’t among the ranks of parked vehicles flanking the entrance.

  Please don’t have gone out.

  She bent down to straighten her tights where they’d gathered at her ankles and when she looked up again, a woman tapped quickly down the concrete steps. Sharp in a silky blouse and tailored skirt, with a neat cap of hair and red lipstick, she was an American cop show detective. A world away from the crumpled colleagues she’d met at the Christmas do who wore Next trouser suits and cried after too many pints.

  Ellie dabbed at her sweat-smudged mascara and smoothed down her hair. She was about to head for the entrance, when a man jogged out, waving a folder.

  Tom.

  Ellie retreated behind a parked transit van. Too far away to hear the details, she watched the woman shake her head in a rueful Can’t believe I forgot that gesture and Tom laugh in return.

  Radiating from this easy exchange was a shared sense of belonging; the camaraderie that went with working difficult cases and unsociable hours. Even from this distance, Tom looked transformed.

  He looked happy.

  39. Now

  Could that goddess be new Detective Constable ‘she’s a diamond’ Tanya?

  From the hiding place behind the van, she watched the other woman get into a sporty red car and drive towards the exit barrier. As it neared, Ellie quickly flipped her hood up and fussed with the pram blanket. Only when the car had disappeared into the distance did she risk a glance at the station. Doors closed. No sign of Tom.

  Inside the station, the desk clerk tapped his pencil against a crossword. A half-eaten sandwich rested in a cardboard box next to him and despite the Perspex screen that separated them, the smell of chutney churned her stomach. Half a dozen people sat in the waiting room, staring at their phones.

  There were no signs of Christmas in here.

  ‘Can I help you?’ He sounded as bored as he looked.

  She leaned close to the intercom and spoke in a low voice.

  ‘Hello, I’m here to see DC Hartley.’

  ‘Can I ask what it’s about?’

  ‘I’m his girlfriend.’

  He gestured to the row of moulded plastic chairs, the kind that don’t invite you to hang around, picked the phone receiver up and took up his pencil.

  In the absence of a baby changing room and with an ‘Out of Order’ sign on the disabled loo, she tried to fit the pram through the door marked ‘Visitor WC’. But no matter how much she jiggled it, the pram was too wide and she ended up awkwardly reversing out.

  ‘Back in a minute,’ she whispered to Trinity and parked her outside by the door.

  In the cubicle, she had just enough time to turn the lock and sit down before her bladder exploded. A moan of relief escaped her and she leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her knees. Level with her eyes, a poster advertising a helpline listed forms of emotional abuse: economic control, rejection, criticism, gaslighting. A blurred woman sat with her head in her hands under the caption: ‘He made me think I was losing my mind.’

  There was a quiet knock and Tom’s barely audible voice. ‘Ellie, are you in there?’

  ‘Won’t be a minute,’ she said, getting up quickly and flushing the loo.

  She washed her hands quickly and shook them inside the dryer. Some anonymous visitor had written ‘You don’t belong’ in black pen on the tiles.

  ‘You shouldn’t have left her,’ Tom said under his breath when she came out, drying her hands on her skirt. ‘We get all sorts in here.’

  ‘I was absolutely desperate.’

  He lifted Trinity out of the buggy. ‘Next time, ask the desk to mind her.’

  Behind the screen, the clerk impassively peeled his banana.

  ‘Roy,’ Tom said into the grill, ‘if anyone asks, I’ll be back in an hour. OK?’

  He walked a few feet away, held his mobile to his ear. ‘Tanya? I’ve just got to pop out. What time are you back?’

  Pause. Laugh.

  ‘Yeah. Quick as I can. Bye.’

  He slung his jacket on the back seat. Buckled the baby in. Folded the pram. Got in the car. He said something about Jess. Something about the baby.

  Tom and Tanya.

  ‘Ellie?’ He leaned across the steering wheel, forehead almost touching the windscreen to see past her. He squeezed her knee.

  ‘I said you should have rung me. You look knackered.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ A light flashed on the dashboard and he put both hands back on the wheel. ‘I’d better fill up.’

  He’d replaced the cap and was striding across the forecourt to the kiosk when his phone rang. Not his work phone, but his personal phone.

  Still facing the windscreen, she stretched her arm behind her and fumbled for his jacket pocket. The ringing stopped as she slipped it out, not once taking her eyes off Tom. The glass doors slid open to let him in and he joined the blessedly long queue at the till. A beep alerted her to a message.

  Tanya missed call.

  Ellie’s mouth went dry.

  The phone burned in her hand. Should she? Terrified of what she might find, more terrified of not knowing, she shuffled lower in the seat. Her finger hovered over the PIN screen.

  A woman came out of the petrol station. Tom moved up the queue.

  She pressed the call log button and the names of friends, family, colleagues, tradespeople appeared. Ellie. Simon. Danny. Dave Carpets. Tony Gas Fitter. Dad. Carol. Tanya. Tanya. Tanya …

  Tom stood at the counter now. Ellie went to switch the phone off, but her shaking finger caught the browser button, opening the last search.

  Postnatal mental illness, types of

  Jumbled words and phrases leapt from the screen: psychosis, depression, PTSD. Swiping through the open tabs revealed more: Auditory and visual disturbances. Paranoia and confusion. Irrational behaviour. Sleepwalking. Memory loss. Previous history of mental health, traumatic birth. Mothers can reject or even harm their babies.

  Everything inside her head rearranged itself.

  Tom had googled this?

  A flash of movement caught her eye. She clicked the phone off and stuffed it back in his jacket just as he appeared at the door.

  ‘I got you a treat,’ he said, dropping a Bounty into her lap. ‘Your favourite.’

  Mothers can reject or even harm their babies.

  Fury rose up in her throat, choking her with a taste of bile. Then just as quickly, it drained away, taking the last of her strength with it. Everything, even her bones, dissolved into the upholstered seat. What was the point?

  ‘You haven’t said how you got on with Jess,’ Tom said, oblivious.

  Mothers can reject or even harm their babies.

  With considerable effort, her mouth shaped a response. ‘Do you mind if we don’t talk? I’ve got such a headache.’

  They sat without speaking. She pressed her forehead against the cool window. Drizzle fell on one dreary field after another while the handle of her bag scored deep lines in her palms.

  Her phone dinged with a message from Jess.

  I’m worried about you. Call me? xx

  Irrational behaviour. Paranoia. Did Jess think that too? Did everyone?

  When they arrived home, Tom took the pram out of the boot and carried the sleeping baby up to bed while Ellie remained in the hall, hardly aware of where she was.

  ‘I’ll take the afternoon off,’ Tom said, startling her. ‘I can stay here with you two. Maybe you could get some sleep?’

  The stair carpet had disguised his creeping footsteps and now he stood on the bottom step, watching her with … concern? Curiosity? The angle of the light carved strange shadows on his face and for a moment, he looked like a stranger.

  Mothers can reject or even harm their babies.

  ‘Go to work.’ She forced a light smile. ‘Honestly, a couple of paracetamol and a little sleep while Trinity’s napping and I’ll be fine. Go.’
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br />   ‘Tell you what, I’ll pick up some work and bring it home.’ He scratched under his shirt collar. ‘Be right back, OK?’

  He leaned in to kiss her.

  Mothers can reject or even harm their babies.

  At the last second, she stepped away from him and he ended up kissing thin air.

  40. Then

  Ellie blinked, hardly daring to look again in case she’d imagined it. But there it was: the red 78%, boldly circled three times.

  A bubble of happiness swelled inside her. Yes! Students flowed around her as she walked – no, floated – clutching the essay in both hands. Evenings out with Tom or Mia she’d turned down. Hours spent at the library. Late nights, early mornings. All worth it now, because of this.

  Slipping the heavy rucksack off, she sat on a low wall by the bike shelter and took her phone out.

  ‘Guess what, Mum?’ she said before Carol could get a word in. ‘I got seventy-eight per cent. That’s a distinction.’

  Carol’s tone radiated pride. ‘That’s wonderful news, love. You really deserve it, you’ve worked so hard. I’m just on my way to see your dad, actually. He’ll be chuffed to bits when I tell him.’

  Every week without fail, while she wiped down the headstone and replaced the flowers, her mum conducted in-depth one-sided conversations with Dad. And maybe it was weird, having chats with the dead, but for half an hour every Sunday at least something filled the Dad-shaped void.

  ‘I’d better go,’ Ellie said, shouldering the rucksack. ‘I’m meeting Mia and Tom in the refectory.’

  Dad. The bubble of happiness popped and she dropped back on the stone seat, ambushed by loss. That’s how grief operated. One minute, you were chatting on the phone, happy with your essay grade and life. The next, misery slammed into you. Winded you with the awful truth that no matter how much you need them, no one’s love comes with a lifetime guarantee.

  The rucksack’s thick nylon straps had rubbed against her bare skin. She wiggled her hand underneath, trying to ease the pressure, then took it off. That’s when she saw them.

  Hemmed in on all sides by the lunchtime crowd, Tom and Mia sat so close they were almost touching. Ellie froze, breath suspended in her lungs as she watched. He spoke and she laughed, punctuating each burst by slapping her hands on the Formica table. Head down, her ponytail swung and her body shook with mirth. They looked so at ease. So right.

  Ellie’s heart gave an extra little beat.

  From this distance, if you didn’t know better, you’d think they were a couple.

  41. Now

  True to his word, she had barely enough time to feed and change Trinity and try to create order from the chaos of the kitchen cupboards before Tom returned with his work laptop, a boot full of supermarket bags and an over-the-top solicitous attitude that immediately set anxiety humming through her veins.

  ‘Why don’t you have a bath?’ he said. ‘I’ll sort the baby.’

  And now, as warm water lapped over her arms, legs, back, every part of her felt chewed up, spat out, lifeless. Except for her memory, which feverishly replayed Tom and Tanya’s meeting over and over, like a GIF.

  She runs out. He catches up with her. They both laugh. Tom looks happy.

  Contradictory thoughts shuttled back and forth.

  He’s being too nice.

  He’s always nice.

  He’s cheating.

  He would never cheat.

  The water closed in and she swished from side to side, fanning her hair. When she surfaced, wet strands clung to her cheeks. She hooked them behind her ears, lowered her head to the edge of the bath and stared at a jagged line in the ceiling plaster directly above her.

  A vision zipped in unannounced: Mary Brennan lying here, looking up at that crack growing year after year. Did she give birth alone on this chequered lino? Lock herself in here to cry when they took her baby away?

  Ellie hooked her fingernail under the edge of the plug and teased it out. Why did Mary never replace the broken chain? She lifted a towel from the hook Mary must have used. Did Mary slip on the lino; steady herself on the edge of the basin like this? Did she have a bath on the day she died? Feel dizzy and stagger out, only to collapse on her bed?

  There was a soft knock. ‘Everything OK?’ Tom said.

  Her ‘Fine, thanks. I’ve just got out’ sounded pretty convincing.

  ‘I’ll make a start on tea. Give me a shout if you need anything.’

  Tom had left a pile of dirty clothes in a heap in the corner. When Ellie bent down to pick them up, she felt a sharp twinge in her back. Bloody Tom. Why couldn’t he put things away? She fastened her dressing gown and gingerly crossed the landing to the nursery.

  She dropped the onesie and tights in the laundry bin. The camera’s pinprick light told her the parent unit was still on downstairs. No problem. If he were watching now, he would see a capable woman plumping cushions and straightening a row of teddies. A capable mother humming the melody to a lullaby while she carefully smoothed the cot sheets and straightened the blanket.

  ‘I’m worried about her.’

  Tom’s murmur came out of the speaker. It was on the tip of her tongue to say, ‘Oh God, what’s happened?’ when, with a jolt, she realised he didn’t mean the baby. He wasn’t talking to Ellie at all, he was talking about her.

  In the pause that followed, she retreated slowly and unobtrusively out of the camera’s range. She hardly noticed the frame digging in her spine as she squeezed into the gap behind the door, listening intently.

  ‘Sleepwalking and nightmares. Confusion,’ Tom continued in response to a question Ellie couldn’t hear. ‘Constantly cleaning.’

  The cheek! She couldn’t hold in the quiet tut. If he didn’t leave dirty clothes and muddy footprints everywhere, she wouldn’t be ‘constantly cleaning’.

  Tom’s ‘uh-huhs’ and ‘yeahs’ were punctuated by longer pauses while whoever was on the other end of the phone chipped in their comments. Something went tink. Plates. Glasses. A cupboard door closed. ‘Look, she’ll be down in a minute, I’d better go.’ Pause and a sigh. ‘Yeah, me too. I hate the thought of leaving her when she’s like this.’

  Sounds of cooking resumed. Rattling pans, running water. Meanwhile, Ellie gripped the doorframe, barely registering the sharp poke of the hinges.

  Leaving?

  42. Now

  Tom had chopped a few cherry tomatoes, arranged slices of cucumber and shaken pre-washed lettuce onto two plates.

  ‘Help yourself,’ he said, placing a steaming bowl of pasta on the table next to two serving spoons.

  ‘This looks nice,’ she said with only the tiniest wobble marring the sentence.

  He didn’t seem to notice.

  Night swallowed the view of the garden. Even the aromas of warm tomato mingled with basil and mozzarella couldn’t make her dry mouth water.

  Then Tom laid his fork very precisely on the plate.

  ‘Ellie, I need to talk to you about something,’ he said. ‘It’s important.’

  Despite his confident tone, he seemed ill at ease. He steepled his fingers together and put them to his lips. She nodded, put her own cutlery down and slid her shaking hands under her bottom.

  So, after over a decade and everything they’d been through together, this was how it ended. At the kitchen table, in their first family home. Ellie closed her eyes. Waited for the axe to fall.

  Tom drew in a deep breath. ‘I got a message from Jess today.’

  She opened her eyes.

  ‘My Jess? Craftmags Jess?’

  ‘She sent me a DM on Facebook. She said you got spooked in the café then ran out. Something about a neighbour and the garden which I didn’t really get. She’s really worried about you. So am I. And Carol.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to Mum about me?’

  ‘I rang her while you were in the bath.’ He reached across to grab her hand. ‘I’m sorry, but I had to talk to someone. I don’t know how to help you.’

  ‘While I was in the bat
h tonight?’ she said slowly, drawing her hand back.

  He nodded.

  A wave of relief made her dizzy. She bent down and fiddled with her sock so he wouldn’t see the sudden rush of tears.

  But the emotion was short-lived. Rage at his hypocrisy lit her words with fury.

  ‘So worried you take on all the overtime at work?’

  ‘I am sorry about that. It’s just so busy,’ he said, sounding genuine. ‘A few more days, I promise, this will be over and I’ll take all my leave then. Look, about what Jess said—’

  She cut him off. ‘So busy that you went to Costa with Tanya?’

  His brow crinkled, nonplussed. ‘What’s that got to do with anything? I’m talking about you and me and Trinity, love. This is important. What Jess said—’

  ‘As important as sitting in Costa with Tanya when you should have been at work?’

  He regarded her and she could almost hear his brain trying to select the right response. She watched him take a deep breath. Let it out slowly as he took a beer from the fridge.

  ‘Trust me, at home, queuing for a butty … wherever I am, I am always at work. I have horrors up here’ – he stuck out a finger and circled his temple – ‘that I will never be able to unsee.’

  His phone buzzed in his back pocket. Foam bubbled down the sides of the bottle as he set it down with a clunk and swiped to decline the call. Not before Ellie had seen Tanya on the screen.

  ‘We can’t go on pretending everything’s fine,’ he said, mopping up the spilled beer. ‘Jess said you ran out of the café without even easting your lunch.’

  By ‘we’ he clearly meant ‘you’. As in you’re paranoid. You’re delusional. You might reject or even harm our baby. Images flashed. Alina, the baby-less mother. The blood-smeared wall at Willow Lodge as vivid as if it had happened that evening.

  ‘Are you saying I’m not fit to look after her?’

  ‘Of course not.’ The tip of his traitorous tongue darted left to right, licking foam from his lips. ‘You’re an amazing mum – anyone can see that.’