The Woman at 46 Heath Street: A twisty and absolutely gripping psychological thriller

by Lesley Sanderson

  Oh, the garden! It’s a long rectangle of grass bordered by flower beds. I’ve planted them in my head already. I want purple and white crocuses peeping up in spring followed by red roses, sunny marigolds, pale pink snapdragons and a huge cluster of white hollyhocks. I can’t wait to get started. There’s a shed for Edward, and a little fence which separates our garden from a pond. Gazing out from the bedroom window, I can see Hampstead Heath stretching out beyond the pond; the grass is scorched by this splendid summer and the leafy treetops look golden in the sunlight.

  And I’ve already made a friend! A lady named Doris who lives at number 48. She came into the garden and said hello over the fence. Her house is to the right of ours when you’re facing the heath. She moved in a year ago with her husband Fred and I didn’t like to ask but she looked about the same age as me. She’s got ginger hair, which some people don’t like, but it’s ever so pretty, chunky curls bouncing on her shoulders. She was wearing a long yellow dress, revealing freckly arms, and dainty white shoes. And what a smile she has! Her smile splits her face and opens up the prettiest dimples. I just know we’re going to be great friends. We chatted and chatted and could have gone on all day but there was so much to do, and she laughed at my excitement. She’s invited me round for tea next Wednesday. I can’t wait, but I want every minute to last. I’ll have had a week here then: seven whole days in Heath Street.

  * * *

  7 JULY

  Wednesday has finally arrived. We spent today sitting in Doris’s garden drinking lemonade under the scorching sun. We talked about the never-ending summer and the neighbours and, well, everything really. Doris’s husband owns a bakery in the village and he’d made us some currant buns that we ate after we’d finished our lemonade and she’d shown me round her garden. Noises from the heath punctuated our conversation – dogs barking, children squealing and peals of laughter. A huge splash from the pond made Doris jump to her feet. ‘Somebody’s fallen in,’ she shouted, making me laugh. She’s ever so funny. She talked about her husband and how she felt about him without a care in the world. Some of the things she said made me blush and she laughed. Nothing gets past Doris.

  The sun was low in the sky when I let myself back into my house – how I love writing those words! Edward was in the kitchen, standing looking out at the garden. I laughed and asked if he was imagining flowers popping with colours and maybe a cherry tree; I do so love cherries. But he was holding himself stiff, like a post, and his face wasn’t lighting up with laughter like mine.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked. The room felt chilly, as if a gale was blowing, wiping the smiles off our faces, but the windows were closed. The trees looked ominous in the half-light.

  ‘You’re late,’ he said.

  ‘But—’

  ‘You weren’t in. I want you to be here when I get home from work, waiting for me.’

  ‘I was only next door.’ I laughed again, but with a little uncertainty; this wasn’t my usual loving Edward. Muscles twitched in his neck, as if he were grinding his teeth. I’ve heard him doing it in the night when I’m woken by the swishing of the trees out on the heath. ‘I was with Doris. Remember, I told you she’d invited me over on Wednesday.’

  ‘Make sure you’re back by six next time,’ he said, and went upstairs to change out of his work clothes.

  I set about making our tea; I made sure I cooked his potatoes just the way he liked them. It was only a small thing, but as I mashed butter into the steaming vegetables and watched it melt away into nothing, I couldn’t help wondering about Edward’s reaction.

  Four

  ELLA

  Her.

  The voice down the telephone line was husky, resonant of smoked cigarettes, late nights and illicit fun. I imagine her throwing her head back in laughter and exposing her pale neck; a neck men want to stroke, my man, specifically; a neck I could put my hands round and squeeze.

  I sit bolt upright in bed, scared by my own thoughts. Even with the curtains left slightly open to let in a slice of moonlight, my heartbeat sounds loud in the vastness of the bedroom – it feels double the size without Chris lying beside me. It’s at night that I become aware of how old this house is. Wind rattles the windows in their crumbling frames and the walls creak as if sighing with age. On the landing outside the bedroom, the airing cupboard never rests as water gurgles through ancient pipes and the immersion heater hisses threats into the silence. I switch on the lamp by my bedside; it’s pointless trying to sleep with Nancy’s voice whispering along with the noises of the house.

  Chris has left a thick sweater hanging over Nancy’s rocking chair and I inhale his smell as I pull the jumper over my head, a hint of pine from his aftershave, my birthday present to him earlier this year. He’d opened it in bed, ripping through the paper I’d so carefully wrapped, barely acknowledging the breakfast tray or touching the chocolate croissant I’d slipped out specially to surprise him with. He’d kissed me on the head, already checking his phone as he walked out of the bedroom, and left his mug of tea half drunk. Now I see clues everywhere: flashing warning signs that I failed to notice. A trail of crumbs for me to follow. I go downstairs, switching lights on as I go. He’s bound to have left evidence somewhere, something that will lead me to her.

  I go through the pockets of his coat and jackets, which hang by the front door. Plenty of chewing gum, empty sweet wrappers, some loose change and a scrunched-up parking ticket. I smooth it out and check the date; it’s over a month old, issued in Oxford. Was he there for work, or…? I begin to question everything. Did he think that by shoving the ticket in his pocket it would disappear?

  Despite having the lights on the house feels surreal at night. Outside, the street is shrouded in darkness but the odd light from other dwellings twinkles in the distance. A couple pass by, their loud and intimate laughter ringing through the silent street as I go back upstairs, stopping outside the box room. Listening to them transports me back to the first time Chris brought me here. We’d been for a meal in Hampstead Village and lingered in the restaurant, Chris drinking an Irish coffee, me sipping a mint tea. A candle flickered on the table between us, the light catching the tortoiseshell rim of his glasses, framing his brown eyes. He’d told me a story of an early trip to the optician’s as a kid, his sister forced to tag along, giggling at his inability to read the large letters on the visual chart. Chris described the National Health glasses he refused to wear at school through fear of being picked on. He laughed as he told me this story, but I could see the vulnerable little boy behind the polished exterior. It was the first time he’d mentioned his sister, but he shrugged and said they’d lost touch and switched the focus to me. Watching the dancing orange flame of the candle I told him my lonely experience of growing up in care, searching fruitlessly for my mother with only a few shadowy memories of her. He took my hand in his, the skin rough from years of working with wood, and asked me if I’d like to come home with him.

  I’d never been to Heath Street before. I was renting in Kentish Town at the time, a tiny bedsit with a shared bathroom. Turning off the main road, it was like leaving the city behind as dense bushes and towering trees bordered the street on both sides. Only foliage swishing in the breeze disturbed the silence. Chris took my hand as we followed the winding road around a corner to reveal a long row of houses. ‘That’s us,’ he said, ‘number 46.’ The white-fronted house loomed up at us from the darkness, semi-detached, resplendent in a row of houses backing on to Hampstead Heath, separated from the park by a pond. I shivered to think of that deep expanse of heathland stretching behind the house, dark and silent.

  I move across to the window in the box room, the spare bedroom where I store my craft materials, Nancy’s books and some of her personal belongings. I wouldn’t let Chris take them to the charity shop; they meant so much to her – and now, to me. The books are on a shelving unit in an alcove, all of Nancy’s paperbacks: mainly romance novels and historical fiction. The light from the landing is enough to illuminate the room a
nd I stand and look at the heath, past the tangled garden of number 46 and across the sleeping pond which shimmers as moonlight picks trails across the water. But the heath itself is still, meadows hidden in darkness, resting from the endless stream of dog walkers, runners and tourists that tramp through, marvelling at such greenery in London.

  I sit on the bed and take a book down from a shelf. The novel I’m drawn to is Rebecca, Nancy’s favourite book. Set in a large brooding house by the sea, a mysterious former wife is haunted by the woman who went before her. Maybe reading it will help me feel Nancy’s presence again. I grip the book between my hands, looking at the cracked spine, staring at the sea on the cover, the coastline which sweeps across to meet a turbulent sky. For the first time I wish I was there, anywhere but alone in this house. I turn to the front page where my attention is drawn to an inscription: ‘To Nancy with love, your dearest friend.’ I frown; she never mentioned any close friends. As I shift on the bed something flutters from the book and lands on the rug. A yellowing sheet of paper, folded. I pick it up and unfold the thin, torn paper which is covered with writing in different shades of ink, much of it faded. It’s a school report, dated March 1996, but the top part is torn off and there’s no name. Chris’s? Each subject is handwritten and initialled by a different teacher, but the student referred to is a ‘her’ and most of the writing is too faded to read. I can’t help feeling a jolt of envy; I don’t remember ever seeing a report. I doubt I stayed long enough at one particular school to warrant one. This student’s grades are Cs and Ds and the comments I can read describe her as ‘not paying attention’, ‘easily distracted’ and ‘needs to apply herself’. There’s a comment at the bottom beside the number of days absent, which is thirty. ‘She needs to improve on her attendance’. Chris’s sister, maybe? Maybe she truanted, wasn’t academic. Nancy never mentioned her either. Not once. I’d tried to ask her and she’d pursed her lips and turned away. She must have had her reasons. My birth mother gave me up when I was six. I knew about pain and I understood Nancy’s reluctance to go there, not wanting to push her.

  My eyes feel gritty and a wave of exhaustion washes over me. This can’t be happening again. After Nancy’s death I spent most nights roaming the house, haunted by sleeplessness, until Chris took action, forced me to go to the doctor, nursed my broken heart. But who is there to pick me up now?

  Five

  ELLA

  When I wake and see the unruffled sheets beside me, for a blissful second I think Chris has gone to work. Then I remember and I sit up, heart racing. I don’t want it to be true. My eyes land on the photograph of Nancy beside my bed. It’s the only one I have: her pale blue eyes clear against her silver crop. Roaming about last night and reading the old report feels like a dream, trivial compared to the cloak of sadness I can’t shake off this morning. Opening the blind, I look out at a sea of slate-grey sky stretching over Hampstead Heath. Down in the garden a solitary blackbird pecks at a worm hidden in the long grass. So many times Chris has promised to fix the lawnmower, to sort out the grass; no wonder he didn’t have time, I realise now. He’s neglected the outside while I’ve lovingly restored the inside.

  I look around at the pale grey walls and the dark blue contrast wall where Nancy’s mirror hangs. The gilt frame is old-fashioned yet beautiful. I study my face in the glass. My small, delicate features look pinched; my ashen skin matches the walls. Chris used to kiss me on my button nose, teasing me about how small it was. The sad grey eyes looking back at me from the mirror fill with tears.

  Our bedroom was the first room I decorated, contrasting the light grey walls with the rose-coloured rug on which I now stand. It’s soft under my bare feet but it cannot cushion the sting in my heart. I wince as something sharp digs into my foot; I pick up the offending cufflink and hop over cold floorboards to the bed, clutching my toe. The pain is mild but tears spill out of my eyes as the reality of my situation hits me. Chris has left me.

  The piercing sound of my alarm bursts into the room and I curse the harsh noise I chose specifically to make sure I wake up. It sets my nerves on edge and I breathe deeply in and out, try to compose myself. I’m due at work in an hour, but I can’t face it today. Not for the first time I thank God, who I’m not sure I believe in, for sending Jamie into my life – my perfect employee, assistant and friend. The beauty of running my own business means I work hours that suit me, and I’m confident Jamie will cover for me at short notice. I know I’d do the same for him.

  As his mobile rings I go over what I’ll say in my mind. There’s no need to tell him about Chris. I keep the conversation brief, but as soon as I start to tell him I’m not coming in he interrupts me.

  ‘What’s wrong, Ella? Your voice sounds all funny.’

  ‘That’s because I’m trying not to cry, you idiot. I didn’t want to do this.’

  ‘This is me you’re talking to, remember. No secrets from Jamie. Tell me, come on, what’s that husband of yours done now?’

  There’s a light tone to his voice but despite his young age Jamie’s got a wise head on him. He’s given me a lot of sensible advice during the last two years since I opened my boutique gift shop and he came wandering in with his CV and set about making himself indispensable. He has a gift for helping me find a solution to things I worry endlessly about. His art degree means he’s got a good eye for display, part-time hours give him enough time to work on his portfolio and he’s always happy to cover at a moment’s notice. Living at home and doted on by his mother, it’s easy for him to be flexible.

  ‘Chris has left me.’ Saying the words out loud makes it real and I stifle a sob.

  ‘Oh my God. What’s happened?’

  The note lies on the floor by my foot and I kick it away, hating her for writing it. Somehow it’s easier to hate her, this anonymous woman who’s burst unwanted into my life, rather than my own husband. The lump in my throat makes it hard to talk, but this is Jamie and I don’t need to explain.

  ‘Look, I’ll open up this morning; you don’t need to worry about the shop. Shall I come round after work? I’ll pick up some food and a bottle of something and you can tell me all about it. And you know where I am if you need me. Sending you lots of love and the best bouquet of virtual flowers.’

  I manage a weak smile as I imagine the bouquet, Jamie’s answer to everything. When his last boyfriend broke his heart he explained how visualising beautiful flowers bursting with colour helped to shift his dark thoughts. Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to work for me.

  * * *

  The phone ringing in the hall sounds loud in the empty house. It’s Chris, he wants to talk, he’s changed his mind, he’s made a terrible mistake. But the man says his name is Jonathan and that he’s from the bank dealing with our mortgage. He takes me through an arduous security process until he is satisfied that I am who I say I am.

  ‘Yes, Mrs.’ I stress the word, push the hair back from my face and stick my chin out. I am Chris’s wife, Mrs Rutherford, and nothing is going to change that. Our lives are too entwined.

  ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, but we haven’t received the latest payment for your mortgage.’

  My hair has flopped forward again and I twist it around my finger. ‘You must be mistaken,’ my voice sounds high, ‘there’s a direct debit from my husband’s account.’ We’ve always had this arrangement in place; Chris pays the mortgage directly and I pay my half to him. The mortgage is in both our names.

  ‘It could be because of the two-month payment break you’ve just had.’

  ‘Hang on, sorry, can you repeat that please? A payment break?’

  ‘Yes, it’s one of the benefits of our range of mortgages, why they are so popular. We understand that our customers sometimes find things a bit tough from time to time, Christmas, extra expenses, a house extension, it could be for any number of reasons. Your husband took advantage of this in the spring. He’s probably forgotten it needed to be paid again this month. Is he there now? Do you want to check with
him?’

  ‘No, he isn’t here.’

  ‘I could call you back?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll speak to him, but…’ As I speak, I realise I have no idea where Chris is or what he has been up to. I’m forced to tell Jonathan that circumstances are somewhat challenging at the moment and that it’s probably an oversight on my husband’s part – he’s had a lot on at work. Jonathan sounds sympathetic and gives me a couple of weeks to sort the situation out, suggesting that a three-month payment break is not in the terms of this particular mortgage but can be arranged for a fee. He sounds reassured when he hangs up but my nerves are wire-tight.

  I can’t understand why Chris hasn’t told me about this. Money isn’t the issue here, but what has he done with my money? The credit card bill, of course. Why did Chris need a payment break? Surely he wouldn’t want to risk losing this place? The thought of our home being jeopardised sends an icy chill through me. I spent my childhood being shifted from house to house, and in thirty years this is the only place I’ve dared to call home. The first bedroom I had in foster care was the only one I attempted to make my own, sticking posters of pop stars on the walls only to be moved on six weeks later. I didn’t make that mistake again.

  I wander into the living room and switch the lamp on; it casts a pattern on the pale floorboards. Despite painting the room in the latest Farrow & Ball shades, the dark brown sofa, the imposing grandfather clock and the old piano add a historical feel to the room. I look out through the patio doors at the darkening sky and the jungly weeds swaying in the breeze. Expense was another reason Chris gave for not tackling the garden. Then I remember the credit card bill and how he’s been spending his money on her. Anger tingles my nerves. ‘You can stay here for a month.’ His words sting more each time I remember them. The breathless female voice, ‘Is he there?’ I grab my phone, hand shaking, and dial the number of a local locksmith.