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

by Lesley Sanderson

  The job takes no time at all. The locksmith gives me two sets of keys and I tuck the spare set under a pile of T-shirts in my bedroom drawer. Chris is going to go mental. Good. I’m about to turn the light off when I catch sight of Chris’s maroon towelling dressing gown hanging on the back of the door. He’d been wearing the dressing gown the first time I’d woken up in this room; he was pushing through the door with a breakfast tray for us to share in bed, a rose from the garden lying next to the cafetière, a smile brightening his face. The memory floors me and I sink onto the bed and sob. Then my anger dissolves. He has to be in trouble, he needs me. There’s no way Chris would intentionally put our home at risk. Would he?

  Six

  ELLA

  I pace up and down the kitchen as I wait for Chris to answer his phone. I go over what I want to say, hoping he hasn’t already left for swimming club. If he’s still going, that is. Nothing is certain any more.

  It rings over and over again, and the sentences I’ve prepared fly out of my mind as it switches to voicemail. I can’t bear to stutter out a message, let him hear me fall apart. I text instead, asking him to contact me urgently. Walking through to the living room, I sink down onto the leather sofa. I focus my gaze on the painting of the back of number 46 done by one of Nancy’s friends many years ago, the view across the pond highlighted by a bright blue sky. Seen through the large windows, the sky over the pond today is a murky grey, the weather uncertain. A row of bamboo canes in the garden blocks the light and I switch on the table lamp and start lighting the fire. The central heating is due to come on soon, but the old radiators do little to warm these high-ceilinged rooms with draughty old windows. I draw the curtains against the brooding sky and pray Jamie will arrive soon.

  * * *

  Jamie wheels his bike round the side of the house and leaves it outside the back door.

  ‘You need a strapping young lad to sort out this garden for you,’ he says, looking out at the jungle. He places a bottle of white wine and a pizza box on the counter and squeezes me into a tight hug. ‘Obviously I’ll hold the interviews for you, check out their physique, make sure you get the right man for the job. Listen to me, going on as usual.’ He shrugs his shiny bomber jacket off, hangs it behind the door. ‘Sexist, too – you might not want a man. I wouldn’t blame you in the circumstances. How are you doing? Tell me everything.’

  He waves me away when I go to open the wine and he’s soon poured two glasses and we’re sat on the sofa, bottle on the table, pizzas warming in the oven. I show him the card and recount the events of the night before.

  ‘And you had absolutely no idea? Not been keeping any tiny suspicions to yourself?’

  ‘Nothing. I’ve been hoping to get pregnant, decorating the nursery: that’s how clueless I was. You know how he treated me to a spa weekend? I can’t believe I didn’t see he just wanted me out of the way. He was relieved I knew, I could see that. That’s how I know this is real.’ My lip wobbles and I swallow a large mouthful of wine. ‘The worst thing is, he’s told me he wants me out of the house. You know how much I love it here, what it means to me.’ I swipe a tear which trickles out of my eye and I swallow hard, scared that if I start crying I won’t be able to stop.

  ‘He can’t kick you out, you’ve got a joint mortgage.’

  ‘But it’s his family home. He grew up here.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ Jamie refills our glasses. ‘Even if you weren’t on the mortgage, you’d still have rights. This is your main residence, your only residence. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about. It happened to my Aunt Muriel. My uncle tried to kick her out after thirty-five years of marriage when he had a full-blown midlife crisis and wanted to move his twenty-one-year-old secretary in. They ended up having to sell, but she was able to buy her own place. Muriel is happier than she’s ever been in her cosy cottage.’

  ‘But I couldn’t do that to him. I wouldn’t want to sell, either. I love this house.’ I don’t need to explain to Jamie that this is the only home I’ve ever known. My longest stay with foster-parents lasted eighteen months, after moving from house to house my whole childhood. And there I was, just one of many needy kids.

  ‘Chris hasn’t been straight with me about that, either.’ I recount the conversation with the bank. ‘And you know the stress we went through to get the mortgage, when we thought we’d finally solved the problem of the inheritance tax. He was thrilled when I offered to help with the mortgage. It’s all such a mess. Last night I was so angry I had the locks changed. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Chris will go mad. I can’t believe I did that.’

  Jamie’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Wow. You don’t waste time, do you? Good on you. Serves him right.’

  ‘I don’t know, Jamie, it was a stupid impulse. I just want him back.’

  The smell of burned cheese drifts into the room and Jamie jumps to his feet. We sit at the kitchen table and Jamie eats most of the pizza while I nibble on the burned crust, before we take our wine back to the sofa. Darkness has fallen outside and the sound of the wind rustling through the grass makes me shiver. I draw the heavy red-and-gold curtains, wishing Jamie didn’t have to leave.

  ‘Cold?’

  ‘It’s not that. You’ll think me stupid, but I’ve never been at ease staying here on my own. Growing up in care you’re never on your own. Bordering the heath is fabulous, obviously, but late at night it does things to your imagination. Especially with our jungle garden. I imagine all sorts of horrors lurking out there.’

  ‘Look. I know you’re hurt and there’s tons to sort out, but you will get through this. You could get someone to move in temporarily. Ask a friend to stay, or take a lodger. Rents are all short contracts these days. You could get someone for three months, say. Whatever you and Chris decide, it’s going to take that long at least. And I’d get yourself a solicitor, check your rights.’

  I nod, trying to appear braver than I feel. I can’t let this happen.

  * * *

  The glass of brandy I swallow down before bed, squinting my eyes shut and wincing in the hope that it will knock me out into a deep sleep, serves only to give me a slight headache as thoughts batter one another inside my head. A couple of times I begin to drift off when the thought of the missed mortgage payment catches me and I sit up, sweat pooling down my back. Is he in trouble? My body radiates heat and I open the window. I stay there for a while, peering out into the black night. I need to raise money – and fast – as there’s no way I can cover the whole mortgage payment on my own. In the darkness, alone, Jamie’s suggestion to ask someone to stay feels like a good one.

  * * *

  The text Jamie sends me the following morning gives me a possible solution. I’m clutching a cup of tea – black, as I’m out of milk – and staring out into the garden. Last night’s wine is pummelling my head and the pizza feels as if it’s lodged in my stomach. Lady pads across the lawn and waits, her unblinking eyes focused on me as I interpret her desire to be let inside. If only Chris’s intentions could be read as easily. He’s still not been in touch. The ping of a text on my phone makes my hands shake and thick drops of liquid plop onto the table. It’s from Jamie. I don’t bother to fetch a cloth. Chris likes the house to be kept spotless, but Chris isn’t here any more and my slovenliness feels like a small, if pathetic, rebellion.

  What about Alice?

  Alice, of course.

  Alice would be perfect as a lodger. Jamie hasn’t even met her but I’ve told him all about her. Good old Jamie. My mood subtly flickers into life at the thought of her: the friend I met at my yoga class a few months back, who was living with her parents again and looking for a place to stay. Alice, so poised and exotic, with her tanned skin and long dark hair, fringe feathering over her eyes. She was late, the first time; strolled in and slapped a mat down onto the floor beside me, ignoring the glare the teacher threw her way. If someone were to look at me like that, my cheeks would glow red and I’d try to make myself as invisible as possible. Not the newcomer. Lyi
ng on the floor, arms stretched out, I compared my thin white arms to her glowing, sun-kissed skin, defined muscles and elegant posture. She obviously wasn’t new to yoga – neither was I, but years of practice hadn’t resulted in much of an improvement for me. I still found most positions unattainable, but this gazelle-like creature laid down next to me looked at ease, and I wished she’d dropped her mat down somewhere else.

  I soon changed my mind. Our regular teacher, a gentle, willowy woman, was on a spiritual retreat, and her replacement was of a different breed. Once the instructor began barking commands, the facial expressions of the new arrival as she caught my eye and raised one shapely eyebrow made me want to giggle like a naughty schoolgirl. In fact, the whole class was rather like one of those hundreds of lessons I’d endured over the years at countless different schools, always the new girl, the one who got stared at. But for the first time someone appeared willing to engage with me, and I embraced it. Never mind the shopping and getting home to cook Chris’s dinner. He was rarely turning up on time back then.

  ‘Jeez,’ the sun-kissed newcomer said as we placed our mats up on the racks in the corner, ‘I thought yoga was meant to be relaxing.’

  We fell into step as we made our way downstairs to the changing rooms.

  ‘It’s supposed to be dynamic but that was something else. Heidi – that’s our regular teacher – is away at the moment. It’s usually very chilled out. It’s your first time, isn’t it?’

  She nodded. ‘I’ve just moved to London, thought I’d check out the local classes. If I’d wanted a boot camp I’d have popped over to Hampstead Heath. But if you say it’s not normally like that, I’ll give it another go.’

  ‘Heidi’s back next week, thank goodness. My ears are still ringing.’

  ‘Do you fancy a coffee? You can tell me which other classes are best avoided.’

  * * *

  Alice turned up at yoga again the following week and it became a regular thing to go for a coffee or a juice after class. She told me how she’d been living in Spain for the past year and was back staying with her parents until she found something more permanent. Alice had worked with a friend who was a landscape gardener and she planned to set up an urban gardening business in London. She was warm and friendly, and when Nancy passed away I discovered what a good listener she was.

  Alice would be the perfect lodger.

  Diary

  1 JANUARY 1977

  HAPPY NEW YEAR

  So much has happened. I planned to write every day. I was so happy then. How quickly things have changed.

  The Wednesday before Christmas should have been another of my weekly afternoons with Doris. It was her turn to come here. I was so looking forward to it. I got up early, walked down to the village and bought some mince pies from Fred’s. He made a joke about me not baking them myself, and I joked back that I couldn’t compete with him. I was putting the pies in my shopping bag when I heard Fred say ‘hello Edward’. That was a surprise – Edward was doing a cake run for the lads he was on a decorating job with. We chatted to Fred for a little while, then Edward went back to work and I didn’t think anything of it.

  I was in a good mood, and I made a detour to sit by the pond and feed the ducks for a bit. When I got home I finished tidying and had some soup and crackers before Doris came. I was humming along to the radio and I jumped out of my skin when Edward walked into the kitchen. I hadn’t heard him over the music, and besides, he never came home for lunch.

  I knew something was wrong as soon as I looked at him. His jaw was clenched, his body stiff. I was afraid just looking at him. He threw his bag on the floor and before I could speak he’d grabbed my arms and was shaking me hard.

  ‘Edward, Edward, stop it,’ I shouted over and over, but his eyes were glazed and it was only when I screamed that he stopped. He pushed me back into the chair, knocking the table and causing the soup to spill over the floor.

  ‘I caught you,’ he said, ‘I knew it. Laughing and flirting with that baker from next door.’

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Edward went on about Doris and her ‘fancy ways’. He said she was a bad influence and that he felt he wasn’t good enough for me. I told him he’d got me so wrong. I’d never looked twice at Fred, he belonged to Doris and she was my friend. Couldn’t Edward see how much I loved him? He grew quiet after that. He kept saying sorry, he went back to work and I was left feeling as if a whirlwind had burst through the kitchen. I cried as I mopped up the tomato soup from all over the floor.

  By the time Doris came at three the kitchen was all spick and span as if Edward’s outburst had never happened. But Doris saw my hands shaking when I poured her tea and the cup clattering in the saucer gave me away. She made me tell her what had happened, and I told her we’d had a row but I didn’t mention Edward’s jealousy about Fred because I didn’t want her to get that idea in her head in case it spoilt our friendship. I felt better after I’d spoken to her. I always do, which is why I won’t risk our friendship with that nonsense about Fred. We agreed that Edward must have had a bad morning at work and left it at that. She joked about him being older than me, more responsible.

  But that evening, instead of cuddling up on the sofa to watch The Generation Game like we always did, Edward put his coat on and said he was going for a drink. I tried not to mind but he knew I didn’t like being alone in the evenings with the expanse of the heath out there. The sound of the wind whipping up the trees and the house groaning and protesting unsettles me. I couldn’t relax and I kept looking at the hand on the grandfather clock, which ticked loudly but never seemed to move. Nine o’clock came and then ten, and eventually I gave up and went to bed. But I couldn’t sleep with the howling gale making the trees sound as if they were whispering horrible words to me.

  I laid awake feeling scared and it was gone midnight when Edward came home and stumbled about downstairs. The worst thing was I wasn’t just frightened of what was out there, I was also frightened of Edward and what he might do. He’s different now and I don’t know why. What have I done?

  Seven

  ALICE

  The phone call was unexpected, but welcome. Ella Rutherford, my gym friend asking if I’d care to stay in her house for a bit. I’d told her the story of needing a place to live but I hadn’t expected this. Her husband was going away for a bit, apparently, she didn’t go into detail. There was a catch in her voice; she was upset, I could tell. There would be plenty of time for a heart-to-heart once I’d moved in. Ella and I had lots in common, I’d made sure of that, and besides, we were already friends. I’d taken a quick look around the room I’d be renting and gave an emphatic ‘yes’.

  After Ella rang to give me the good news I turned up an hour later with a bottle of wine. She hugged me when she saw me. I couldn’t wait to see the house. She’d never once invited me round to number 46 Heath Street, even though she talked about it all the time. I couldn’t wait to move in.

  I took a step backwards when Ella opened the door. Her sleek and straightened hair was pulled up into a messy knot and her eyes were blotchy and red. When she’d told me that her husband was away, it wasn’t strictly true.

  ‘He’s left me.’ Tears poured down her face and she folded into my arms. ‘I didn’t want to tell you on the phone.’ She still wore the thick, diamond-encrusted platinum band on her wedding finger and I was dying to ask more details, but there was going to be plenty of time for that. As soon as I saw the house I knew I had to live there.

  Ella pulled the dining room door closed en route to the kitchen. On the earlier tour of the house she’d told me it was her favourite room. It was where she did all her craft work, where she created the cards she sold in her shop. It was a lovely room painted in pale green; the trestle table in the centre was covered with bits of material, paints, paper and card. The window faced Heath Street and the room felt more modern than the rest of the house; everything in it looked new, apart from the old sewing machine passed down from her mother-in-law. I visuali
sed the needle biting down into cloth and looked at the view across Heath Street instead, where a cluster of trees and bushes made it feel like living in a forest.

  We sat in the kitchen on high stools, lights turned down low. The stools felt slightly out of place with the rest of the old-fashioned furniture, especially the grandfather clock that still chimed on the hour. The owner of the Wine Cellars shop in town had rubbed his hands at my request for a recommendation, asking the inevitable ‘red or white’ question; I’d had to make an educated guess. Somehow Ella with her well-cut clothes and dainty ways struck me as more of a chilled white wine kind of girl. The wine merchant wrapped his choice – ‘a New Zealand white with fresh gooseberry and intense citrus flavours’ – in brown paper, and I hoped Ella would appreciate my offering. The concentration on her face as she sipped it and the way she ran her tongue over her lips followed by a long sigh suggested I’d made a good choice. Champagne would have been over the top, in the circumstances.

  ‘I needed that,’ she said. With her pale face and ash-blonde hair she cut an ethereal figure against the backdrop of heavy, country-style kitchen furniture.

  ‘Talk to me. What’s happened?’ I said.

  Her husband had left her. ‘Temporarily,’ Ella explained and her lip wobbled as she took another long sip of wine. I barely touched mine. Perhaps I’d miscalculated the situation. Maybe it wasn’t help with the mortgage she needed from me, but company.