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

by Lesley Sanderson

  ‘Are you OK?’ the woman whose existence I had forgotten asks. Her child coos again and I force myself to look down at the chubby baby wrapped up like a parcel.

  ‘I’m fine, a moment of dizziness, that’s all, nothing to worry about. How can I help you and this gorgeous little fellow?’

  She smiles and shows me the stationery set she wants personalised for a present. Getting into conversation helps me switch into professional mode, and I immerse myself in work for the rest of the morning.

  But the chubby-faced baby has unsettled me, reminding me that I am not pregnant. Tears spring to my eyes. Chris’s words from that night echo in my mind, ‘You can stay here for a month, say six weeks max.’ After everything I’ve done for his mother.

  Nancy had just been diagnosed with stage four breast cancer when I first moved in. She was a tiny woman with a steely silver crop and piercing blue eyes. Her warm handshake and smile – identical to her only son’s – endeared me to her immediately.

  Soon I was accompanying her to the hospital for her treatments, chatting about anything and everything to take her mind off the gruelling chemotherapy, which zapped her of energy and eventually led to her spending more and more time in her room. Those moments when I was supporting Nancy’s thin frame as I helped her back into bed, running a cold flannel over the papery skin of her forehead, made up for some of those thousands of other moments in foster care, when I’d longed for a mother, a real mother, who needed me as much as I needed her. Caring for Nancy made me feel worthwhile at last.

  One evening when Nancy had been consumed by pain for what seemed like hours, and it had taken all my strength to calm her down without crying, I’d gone downstairs and poured myself a large slug of gin. Chris was late again and I was sitting on the sofa wishing he didn’t have to work so hard when he finally came home. He threw his corduroy jacket on the table and picked up the gin bottle, a look of surprise on his tired face.

  ‘Mother’s ruin,’ he’d said. ‘But I’ll join you.’

  I’d curled into him on the sofa, burying my face into his jumper, which smelt of wood shavings and pine aftershave. He didn’t need to ask what was wrong, and I let him think it was just Nancy’s pain. How could he possibly know his words were a trigger?

  Mother’s ruin. Mother’s day. Parents’ evening.

  How I hated those innocent expressions. At one school I attended for six months, the popular girl who made everyone laugh when she pointed out I was wearing a jumper the school office had provided, asked in a loud voice which of my parents would be coming to parents’ evening. Laughter echoed around the room and I hated those girls with their mothers they took for granted. Most of all I hated the mother who had abandoned me at the age of six. Despite her advanced illness, Nancy took me into her heart; she filled a void in me and I let her mother me. I knew I could never replace her own absent daughter, but I like to think Nancy needed me, too.

  The sun has vanished and I switch the lamp on as the sky darkens outside. There’s a thank you email from a customer regarding some wedding stationery I’d designed, complete with photographs of the place cards and menus we’d provided. The shots are beautiful and I save them for publicity purposes, trying to ignore the thoughts bombarding me about the contrasting state of my own marriage. A noise makes me look up. Rain is pouring down outside, the wind blowing it towards the windows where it streaks down the glass as condensation steams up the insides. A flash of lightning blasts across the street outside and I stand, taking deep breaths in and out, too late to stop the images flashing into my head, the blurry memory catching me unawares as it always does. Me screaming as a woman straps me into the car, rain pelting on the window, my small hand wiping fruitlessly against the steamy glass as her face becomes a blur and I can no longer see her features. Features I have long since forgotten, despite doing everything I can to remember them. But the emotion I felt at the time has never left me. Like a knife digging out my innards, twisting and scraping at the injustice of it all.

  The sound of my phone ringing jolts me back into the room. It’s Jamie returning my call.

  ‘I one hundred per cent know I set the alarm because I talked Sam through the procedure to make sure she knows what to do. I know she won’t normally be setting it herself, but just in case, you know?’

  With everything that’s been happening I’d forgotten about our new shop assistant.

  ‘Yes, I’d have done the same. But it definitely wasn’t set.’

  ‘Is everything OK, no signs of a break-in?’

  Jamie obviously got distracted when he was showing Sam the procedure.

  ‘Everything looks fine to me. How was last Saturday?’

  ‘Your latest range of cards are selling super-fast. Mrs Donovan called in to thank us for the wedding stationery and left us a huge box of chocolates. I’m afraid I just had to open the box, and honestly, they are so delicious I had to stop myself gorging the lot. They’re in the fridge. Very complimentary about the shop she was, too. My display, obviously.’

  I smile, my pulse returning to normal. We have a running competition over who can create the best window arrangement. So far, Jamie’s winning.

  ‘And was Sam OK?’

  ‘Sam was great, you picked a good one there. And she’s got the most divine shoes. But more importantly, how are you feeling?’

  ‘Oh, you know. A bit shaken up, to be honest. What with everything that’s been going on at home—’

  ‘Maybe you need to take more time off.’

  ‘No, I’ll be OK. Being in the house is a constant reminder that Chris isn’t there. And the good news is that Alice is moving in.’

  ‘Fab, that’s great news.’

  ‘There is one thing, though.’ I hesitate; it’s petty, but even so. ‘The window display is great, honestly it is, but would you mind moving Chris’s chair out and redoing the display without it? I’m not sure I can face it every time I come to work at the moment.’

  ‘His chair?’

  ‘Yes, you know, the one he made—’

  ‘Of course I know which chair, but I’m not that thoughtless. I didn’t put it in the window display.’

  Then who did?

  Diary

  3 MARCH 1996

  What have I done?

  Those were the last words written in my diary, some twenty years ago. A journal suddenly cut short. I couldn’t face ruining the fairy tale that I’d begun with the ugly tale my life became. Edward changed, and I couldn’t bear to record that change. But now I fear I must.

  The changing of Edward. Writing it down helps, because this low pain in my stomach makes me uneasy. I stand here in our bedroom of twenty years, looking down over the garden at the man who once made my heart swoop every time I saw him, and I see a man I don’t recognise. His age shows now; he carries too much weight and his hair has grown thin. But I wouldn’t undo anything, because Edward and I created our beautiful children and I would fight to the death to protect them.

  As much as I don’t want it to be true, my hands tremble as I write this down because then it becomes a fact. Edward doesn’t encourage original thought. Especially from his wife. ‘Women should know their place.’ No, what I fear – and I must write it down – is that Edward may do something to harm me. There, it’s done now, recorded for posterity. I’ve said it, outed my fear. I write this for my children so that if the day comes when they wonder why their father would do such a thing, they will know that I, their mother, loved them more than anything else. And I no longer love my husband: that love died a long time ago. There. I’ve said that too. I––

  * * *

  Another unfinished sentence, he almost caught me again. I have to be more careful.

  One thing that hasn’t changed over the years is my Wednesdays with Doris. I look forward to our time together all week. We’ve been meeting every Wednesday for years now. Doris was a slip of a thing when I started writing my diary, wearing her old flower-print sundress and platform shoes, thick eyeliner rimming her e
yes. Edward would have had a heart attack if I wore a dress that length, but Fred chuckled and said hadn’t his girl got a lovely pair of pins? I stopped mentioning Fred after that incident in the baker’s. That was the start of everything.

  Originally we’d taken it in turns to go to one another’s houses, but soon after that incident Edward stopped working Wednesday afternoons and it was never the same. We couldn’t share confidences in the same way when he was around. We’ve been going to hers ever since. Fred is usually at work but if he were there he wouldn’t insist on listening in like Edward does. Edward always wants to know what I’m doing; I’ve told him I don’t tell Doris any of our current troubles with Melissa, but I do. My daughter is becoming secretive. Normal teenage behaviour? I’m not convinced. Sharing my worries with Doris keeps me sane. Most of my worries, that is. My worries about Edward are written down; I’m too scared to say the words out loud. But Doris knows all about this journal and where it’s hidden. One day, should the time come, she’ll know where to find it. I’ll make sure of that.

  * * *

  4 MARCH 1996

  * * *

  Edward was tidying his shed, muttering to himself as he removed gardening implements: an old bicycle I’d forgotten he owned; rolls of wallpaper from years ago – relics of his long-forgotten decorating project, born from the enthusiasm of the energetic young man who moved into his first home. A man who no longer exists. He’s changed, as have I, no longer the pretty young thing he scooped into his arms and carried over the threshold of 46 Heath Street, the house I’d not been allowed to see until he got the keys. He likes surprises, does Edward. Unfortunately his surprises are not so nice these days; they have a nastier feel about them. Like creeping upstairs to spy on what I am doing. That’s one of his favourite tricks. I have to remind myself of how hard my heart hammers in my chest when I hear his footsteps on the stairs. I fear my hiding place isn’t good enough. I fear for my life.

  Ten

  ELLA

  I press the bell, say ‘Rutherford Carpentry’ when prompted and walk up the stairs, my legs heavy, my stomach clenching. Chris isn’t replying to my calls or messages and I’m not leaving until I get an answer. My nerves aren’t eased when I push through the office doors and come face-to-face with Tanya behind the shiny reception desk. She’s partially hidden behind a large pink orchid, but stands when she sees me.

  ‘Good morning, oh, it’s Ella, isn’t it? Hello, how are you?’

  If she is the other woman then she’s a good actress.

  ‘I’m good thanks, how are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. Chris is in with a client at the moment. Is he expecting you?’

  ‘No, I was passing by, thought I’d drop in.’

  ‘Take a seat, he shouldn’t be too long. Can I get you a coffee?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  Tanya emerges from behind the desk, elegant in her pencil skirt, silk blouse and high-heeled red shoes. She makes me feel mousy, with my thin frame and pale hair. She pushes through double doors, where I catch a glimpse of the open-plan working space.

  ‘I’ve told Chris you’re here,’ she says as she comes back into reception with a small tray holding an individual cafetière, a cup and sachets of milk and sugar, placing it down between us. The phone rings behind the desk and she pats down her glossy hair with her red nails as she answers. ‘Yes, that’s what I said.’ She flashes a glance at me and lowers her voice. ‘Later, OK.’

  Her carefully made-up cheeks are flushed as she avoids looking at me and taps at her keyboard. It’s her. It has to be her. The office door opens and a man in a suit emerges, signs out and leaves, followed by Chris. He appears in the doorway, looks over his glasses at me and beckons me through. He isn’t smiling and my thoughts are all over the place. I leave the untouched tray on the coffee table and follow him. The desk is covered in paper, which strikes me as odd given Chris’s OCD tendencies, and his swimming bag is in the corner of the room, unzipped, water bottle sticking out. He closes the door behind us.

  ‘What are you doing here, Ella? I wouldn’t come to your shop looking for an argument. It’s so unprofessional.’ Chris pushes his glasses up, which he always does when he’s nervous, and leans against the desk. I sit on a chair, flustered at the thought that Tanya could be the other woman. I flick my unhelpful thoughts out of my mind and focus on why I’m here.

  ‘You don’t answer my calls. How else can I get to speak to you? The bank rang, and said you haven’t been paying the mortgage. The man on the phone mentioned a payment break. Why don’t I know about this?’

  Chris stiffens and I see confusion in his eyes, but he quickly composes himself. ‘The bank, of course. What with everything that’s been going on I’d forgotten I hadn’t told you. I changed the mortgage payments temporarily, that’s all. It was after Mum died. You were having a hard time with it and I didn’t want to bother you with the intricacies of the mortgage.’

  He sinks onto the couch below the window. Our moment of passion on there feels like a lifetime ago.

  ‘The mortgage, Chris. I’m scared. What’s going on?’

  He runs his hands through his hair; his nails are bitten, sore-looking. Good. But he looks lost, vulnerable, and despite everything I feel a pang of sorrow – even now I hate to see him hurting. His voice is quieter when he next speaks. ‘It’s nothing to worry about. I took the payment break over the summer because one of my clients hadn’t paid on time, but that’s been sorted, and this month I forgot to change the standing order. That’s all. Nothing to worry about, honestly.’

  ‘But I can’t help worrying. We own the house jointly, remember?’ I breathe deeply. ‘You didn’t mean what you said about me having to move out, did you?’

  He stares at me for what feels like a long time, shaking his head.

  ‘Are you serious? Of course I meant it. You can’t tell me you’re expecting to stay? It’s my family home, Ella.’

  My cheeks burn as the enormity of what he says hits me.

  ‘I thought I was family,’ I whisper.

  Chris closes his eyes, breathes out loud. ‘Can’t you see, that’s the problem. You want too much from me. You took over Nancy, and now she’s gone…’

  ‘Took over?’ My whole body feels hot. ‘She was sick, Chris, dying, I looked after her. I did what any decent human being would have done. Where were you when she needed you?’

  A phone rings from the office outside and Chris gets to his feet, looking behind me. He pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

  ‘I can’t do this, Ella. Not here, it isn’t appropriate.’ He gets to his feet. ‘I’ve explained the situation to you. I’m sorry, I really am. I never wanted to hurt you. Let’s wait a little to get used to the situation, then we can talk, I promise. It will give you time to work out what you want to do. But you must understand, it’s my house. Plus, there are so many memories there for you, of Mum dying. Do you really want to stay there?’

  He wants to move her in.

  Something snaps inside me and I grab my bag from the floor.

  ‘Just so you know, I’m not going anywhere. And we haven’t mentioned the scratch on my car. I know it was you – or your fancy woman. There’s no way she will ever live at 46 Heath Street.’ I open the door and pause in the doorway. Slamming the door behind me, I walk on shaking legs back through the office. I maintain my composure as I sweep through reception past Tanya and out to the staircase. Only then do I collapse against the wall.

  * * *

  The next morning I take the car to the garage to get the paintwork fixed. Seeing that word engraved on the side makes me feel all churned up inside.

  The garage is conveniently only a few streets away; Ron, the mechanic, is doing a crossword in the office over a cup of tea when I call in.

  ‘I haven’t seen you for a while, Ella,’ he says. ‘Any good at crosswords? I’m stuck on eight across – a type of lizard.’

  I smile wryly as Chris springs to mind – I need to find some humour in th
is situation, but Ron wouldn’t get the joke and I wouldn’t know where to start explaining. ‘Gecko’ is the only example I can come up with.

  ‘You’re a star,’ he says, writing it down. ‘All done. Now show me this car of yours. What’s the problem?’

  I point out the scratch and he walks slowly around the car examining the damage. It looks worse, somehow, under scrutiny: L E A V E.

  Ron shakes his head repeatedly. ‘Do you know who did this? What does it mean?’

  I shrug. ‘It was parked in the street and the alarm went off, but of course they were long gone by the time I got out there.’

  ‘What did the police say?’

  ‘I didn’t call the police.’

  ‘Why ever not? This is nasty. It’s also going to cost you a bit to repair.’

  ‘They wouldn’t catch anyone. It’s petty crime, it’s not worth reporting.’

  ‘They could have done a bit of the old door to door – you never know, some old biddy might have been looking out of her window.’

  ‘I doubt it. Nobody came out to speak to me.’ I shrug. ‘It’s too late now, anyway. I just want it sorted. I need the car.’

  ‘Can’t you borrow your husband’s? Or has he sold it already?’

  ‘Sold it? He’s only had it a few months. He cherishes that thing. Besides, he needs it for work, he drives all over the place. And he hates public transport.’

  Ron crinkles his face in concentration. ‘That’s funny. He rang me to ask whether I could sell it for him. He was meant to be dropping by, but he never did. Must have changed his mind.’

  I nod, trying to hide my confusion.

  ‘Tell you what, I’ll take some photos before I fix it, in case you change your mind, want to claim on the insurance. I’ll have it done in a couple of days.’