The Doll House

by Phoebe Morgan

  ‘Where did you meet this girl?’ James says.

  ‘All right, well, look I told you not to get annoyed.’ Lucy looks nervously at Ashley, who attempts to give a reassuring smile. It is hard, through gritted teeth.

  ‘Just tell us.’

  ‘I met her through the internet,’ Lucy says.

  James puts his head in his hands. Ashley pushes her palms into her eyes.

  ‘On Instagram,’ Lucy says, ‘It’s a photo-sharing app, it lets you put up pictures, it’s great. Everyone uses it.’

  ‘I don’t,’ her parents say in unison.

  Lucy rolls her eyes, gives a weak smile. Her skin is deathly pale. ‘That’s because you guys are old.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ Ashley says. She doesn’t want to lose track of what her daughter is saying. ‘So you met this girl through Instagram? How?’

  ‘She started commenting on my photos,’ Lucy says, and in spite of everything Ashley can hear the pride in her voice. ‘Liking them, little things like that. It started around Christmas, I guess, and then we started chatting, you know, just in the Comments section, and she said she was coming up to London and that we ought to meet for a drink. She likes Ryn Weaver, just like me. She said she might be able to get us tickets.’

  ‘And did she?’

  Lucy looks down. ‘No. But she was so nice, Mum, really she was. She didn’t even seem that much older. She just liked me, she said I was fun, I reminded her of her sister. That’s all it was. I suppose – I suppose the drink stuff got a bit out of hand. I’m really sorry. I’m really really sorry.’

  James leans forward. ‘You understand how serious this is, don’t you, Luce? That your mother and I had to watch you be carried into this house by a policewoman last night? At fifteen years old?’

  Lucy looks at him. ‘I know.’ Her voice is small. ‘I’m so sorry, Daddy.’

  ‘Promise me you won’t see this girl again?’ Ashley says. ‘And you know you’re grounded, right, you’re not going anywhere for a while. Is that clear? And you’re not having that phone either.’

  She reaches out, retrieves Lucy’s iPhone from where it lies tangled in the bedclothes.

  James takes it from her. ‘You shouldn’t sleep with the bloody thing so close to your head, Lucy.’

  Lucy protests. ‘Dad! That’s my phone!’

  ‘Tough,’ Ashley says, ‘If you need a phone I’ll give you my old Nokia. Nothing wrong with that.’

  Then

  I’m in the building, watching him leave for work. All smiles. Yeah right. Sometimes I really wonder how anyone can ever trust a man. I mean, really trust them. I know I couldn’t. I don’t understand why people do, I’ve never seen evidence that we ought to. It must be hard being like the girls, so trusting, even until the end. But they haven’t seen what I’ve seen, they haven’t endured what I’ve had to endure. They float above me, safe and warm and untouched, and I am down here on the ground, a rat scrabbling to keep up. Sometimes I think no matter what I do, even if all of this goes to plan, I’ll never be able to change that. It’s too deep within me, I’m too far gone.

  The worst of it is the tedium, the endless little irritations. The new flat is noisy; you can hear everyone in my building but I try to tune them out. It’s mostly bearable, but occasionally I feel so anxious and frustrated that I have to excuse myself, go to the bathroom, lock the stall door and scream into my hands like I used to with the pillow when I was a little girl. I put my left hand tight across my mouth so that the sound can’t escape and I scream and I scream. When it’s over I feel better, lighter. I can keep going. Keep playing. I’m still in the game. Even if no one thinks I am. I look at my watch, circle it round my wrist. The leather burns against my skin. Come on, come on, come on.

  I reach into my bag, crouch down by the front door. I think of my mother. She has sounded so much stronger recently, our plan has brought her back to life. I don’t want things to go back to how they used to be. An image flits across my mind, of her staring silently at me across the kitchen table, her hair lank, spilling into her eyes. This is for her. This is for both of us.

  40

  London

  Dominic

  At around six o’clock they meet at the lift.

  ‘Phew,’ Erin says, ‘long afternoon. I could use that drink!’

  Dominic falls into step with her as they wander out onto the high road, away from the office. ‘Tell me about it.’ He loosens his shirt, it feels tight around his neck.

  ‘I know a bar just off Abbey Road,’ Erin says. ‘It’s meant to do really good beer.’

  ‘Are you a beer drinker?’ He is surprised.

  She laughs. ‘No, but I know it’s important to men. Or so Andy said, anyway.’

  ‘You still seeing him?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Hardly. Don’t think he’s interested. Think I might have been a bit on the side.’ She shrugs, but Dominic notices the flicker that moves across her face and feels a jolt of anger towards his friend. When is he going to learn to stop shagging around? Dominic suspects never.

  In the bar, Erin has a glass of white wine while Dom decides on a Peroni. Erin offers to pay but Dominic waves her card away, sticks them on his debit card. The bar is warm, full of tired city workers ordering pints, unbuttoning collars, loosening ties, knocking back the alcohol to relieve the stresses of the day.

  They sit opposite each other at a table in the middle of the bar.

  ‘So,’ Erin says. She smiles at him warmly, takes a sip of her wine. ‘Mm, nice. Better than the stuff they serve at my local. Why was your weekend so fraught? I mean,’ she adds hurriedly, ‘you don’t have to tell me, I just thought you might want to talk about it.’

  Dominic frowns, takes a sip of beer. He hasn’t drunk for a while, mainly in solidarity with Corinne; it feels vaguely illicit.

  ‘Well,’ he says. ‘I’m just . . . I’m a bit worried about Corinne, I guess. That’s all. She’s very . . . she’s a bit tense at the moment.’

  ‘Is that work stuff?’

  ‘No.’ He looks down. ‘It’s more than that. It’s . . . She sees things, imagines things that aren’t there or reads too much into things that are. Or seems to, anyway. She has these theories about her dad, he passed way last year, and I think it’s because of the fertility stuff—’

  ‘Oh?’

  He breaks off, hadn’t meant to mention it.

  ‘D’ you guys have kids? I didn’t know.’

  He swallows. ‘No, I . . . No. Not yet.’ Dominic feels suddenly silly, being so furtive. She is pregnant, isn’t she? He has seen the blue line of the test. Why must he be so careful all the time? Why shouldn’t he be happy?

  ‘We’ve actually been trying for children for a while,’ he says. He sips his beer, feels his shoulders relax a little.

  ‘Oh? I have a relative who’s trying for a baby, they’re doing IVF. Have you ever tried it? Sorry—’ she claps a hand over her mouth ‘—that’s so nosy of me! Ignore me, please.’ She reaches out, touches his arm by way of apology. ‘Can’t take me anywhere, that’s what my mum used to say.’

  She seems genuinely embarrassed. Dominic shakes his head.

  ‘No, no, it’s fine,’ he says. ‘Actually, we’ve done IVF four times. Been a nightmare.’ He swallows, takes a deep breath. ‘But actually we’ve just – we’ve just got pregnant.’ He doesn’t know how to phrase it, the words come out awkwardly. ‘Corinne got pregnant, I mean, it worked.’ It is the first time he has said the words out loud and he feels a sudden rush of tears behind his eyelids. He bends his head slightly, embarrassed.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Erin beams at him. ‘That’s amazing! Congratulations! Dominic, I’m so happy for you! Wow. You must be over the moon.’

  He grins, sheepishly, and takes another slug of Peroni, the liquid pleasant on his tongue.

  ‘Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?’ Erin asks.

  ‘No, not yet, we’ve only just found out. Early days, still.’ He clears his throat. It feels odd to be talking about
it. He hasn’t thought about the gender of the baby; it seems hardly to matter. What matters is its existence; a living creature made by him and Corinne.

  ‘I bet Corinne is so excited!’ Erin is saying.

  Dominic smiles – she seems very happy for the pair of them. It’s nice to have someone be excited.

  ‘So you think it’s all to do with that?’ Erin asks. ‘The hormones and stuff? I can imagine it’s very stressful.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Dominic says. ‘Yeah, I guess so. I mean, I don’t know. Her dad died, like I said, almost exactly a year ago now, and it affected her quite badly. And lately she’s, well, she’s been thinking about him a lot, become a bit obsessed with remembering her childhood. That sort of thing.’

  Erin is nodding. ‘I suppose it’s because you guys are going to be parents. Must bring it all back up. Besides, a year isn’t long, the feelings are probably still fresh.’

  Dominic nods, thinking. ‘Yes, I think you’re probably right. Something horrible happened – some fuckers scribbled on her dad’s headstone, when she went to see it – and it really upset her. Like it would.’

  Erin widens her eyes. ‘God, how awful. I’d be upset too!’

  He shrugs. ‘I suggested to her the other night that perhaps she ought to see someone, you know, a professional.’ He glances up at Erin, feels as though he wants somebody’s approval.

  ‘Not a bad idea,’ Erin says. ‘There’s no shame in asking for help if you need it. Mental health is a serious issue.’

  ‘Very wise.’ He breathes out, smiles at her. ‘Talking of which, I heard Claudia Winters got life?’

  Erin nods. ‘Yup. That woman won’t be coming out for a very long time.’

  41

  London

  Corinne

  I’ve been avoiding Gilly. I know I’m being silly, I know I am. But the thought has made its way into my mind, turning around and around until I want to scream. This sodding architecture firm and what they did. The words I heard her screaming down the phone come back to me, over and over. I know they came to Dad’s office, her and her husband. So . . . the thought refuses to go away. Can she have been talking about him, about my dad? Every time I think about it I feel uneasy, as if the air around me is tightening, closing me in. I run my mind back over the encounter with them, over and over. I can remember Dad reaching out, shaking their hands, Gilly’s smiling face as I was introduced to her. They seemed like a nice couple, very loved-up, one of those young pairs who are always touching each other – a hand squeeze here, an arm around there.

  I can’t believe I’m even having these thoughts. Dad didn’t do any dodgy dealings, he can’t have done, he wouldn’t have. But I know it’s her, I know they’re the couple I saw in his office. Maybe they came to Dad afterwards, or beforehand. Got a quote and went elsewhere. As soon as I have the thought I feel a rush of relief – yes, that’s it, it must be. I almost laugh – I can’t believe I’ve let my thoughts get so carried away. They came to Dad to get help fixing the mess the other firm made, that’s it. I force myself to think about something else, to stop being ridiculous. My dad was the last man on earth to get involved with anything like that – it’s just a coincidence, that’s all. He won’t have been the architect she meant. I’m sure of it. Snap out of it, Corinne. I feel in my pocket for the thing I’ve been holding all afternoon, my fingers diving in and out of my coat as though I’m checking it’s still there, as though I can’t quite believe I’ve got it. As thought somebody might take it from me. It’s my first scan.

  It was today, almost a year to the day since Dad died. It’s March and the hospital grounds were full of crocuses, their bright little heads poking up through the grass. I smiled at everybody even though I was nervous in case they found something wrong, but in the end it was wonderful, magical even. It sounds so silly but I loved the whole thing, it felt so exciting to be there for a good reason, so different from the endless consultations and failed IVF inseminations. They tested my bloods and then the nurse said, as I’d had so many problems in the past, did I want an ultrasound now? I’m only six weeks and three days (I never thought I’d live my life counting in days, now every one means so much) but she advised trying to do one early, that with IVF there can be a chance of complications. The egg could be in the wrong place.

  I hesitated – really I wanted Dom with me. I’d never pictured having my first glimpse of my baby all on my own. But now that I was there I didn’t want to have to wait, and the nurse was really sweet, she held my hand all the way through as the doctor did the scan and gave me a hug when we saw the little image on the screen, all funny and grainy. It doesn’t look like anything yet, not really, but I was so excited and the nurse printed me out a few copies specially so I can show Dom, send one each to Ashley and Mum.

  It felt so lovely and safe at the hospital, in the clean white room. It felt as though nothing could touch me. When she showed me the little bundle on the screen and I saw the tiny dark cells, the little flashing light of my baby’s heartbeat, for a moment I was invincible. I forgot all about the words on the gravestone, the things Dominic said at dinner, and there was just me and my baby, so far healthy and safe. It’s amazing that this tiny little group of human cells is inside me, curled up underneath my jeans. I pray the next eight months go quickly.

  Dom’s gone for a drink tonight with Andy. He’s forgotten about the appointment but I’m trying not to mind, he’s been under lots of pressure at work with the Carlington House feature, and at home, with me. When he rang I hadn’t the heart to tell him off for forgetting, and a little part of me wants to prove it to him – see, I can cope! I’ve been to the hospital on my own, I’ve seen our baby’s heartbeat. I can be a mother. I can’t bear him to be frustrated with me, especially not now with the baby on the way. So I left it, told him to have fun. Andy though, yuck. He makes me shiver. Still, I guess it’s different for men. So long as Dom doesn’t pick up any of his bad habits then I’m happy.

  I get off at my stop, start to walk to the flat. I stick to the lit streets, don’t take my usual short cut. Even though I’m feeling excited, happy about the baby, the closer I get to the flat the slower my footsteps become, and it starts creeping back to me; images of the little horse rocking on the side, the cradle through the post, the horrible feeling that someone had been in the flat. I want to stay locked in the nice white hospital room for ever, where nobody can hurt me.

  I think about what Dom said at the restaurant. Does he really think I should see a professional? I hate that he thinks that. It makes me feel so weak, so inadequate. I want him to be proud of me, I don’t want him to worry.

  I’m going to try harder. I’m going to be really calm, and rational. I run my mind over all the little objects I have found over the last six weeks. They’re all still in the evidence bag, hidden beneath a mound of my underwear, deep in the drawer inside their plastic bag.

  I rang Mum when I came out of the hospital, told her all about the scan.

  ‘Oh Corinne, I’m so happy for you, and Dom,’ she said, and her voice sounded teary. I told her the scan would be in the post. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her one more time about the doll house, but she started telling me about when she first got pregnant with me and I just hadn’t the heart to question her again.

  ‘Maybe she really has forgotten about it,’ Dom said when I mentioned it to him again. He’s getting sick of me asking, I can tell. ‘She’s getting on a bit now, Cor. These things do happen.’ He’d grimaced at me. ‘Hope I never get old.’

  I’d smacked him on the arm. ‘A little sensitivity would be good, Dom!’

  ‘Sorry. Sorry.’ He’d given me a hug. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean, it could very well be that she’s just forgotten where it is and doesn’t want to admit it. It could be anywhere. I’m sure if I asked my parents to dredge up the crap I played with as a kid they wouldn’t be able to. When I went to uni they turned my room into a gym! Couple of charmers.’ He’d grinned at me, flexed his muscles. ‘Why
do you think I’ve got such a good body?’

  Maybe he’s right. It was such a beautiful, beautiful house. But that doesn’t mean I want it back in bits.

  As I enter our building I remember my resolve, think of the scans in my handbag and feel hopeful. Everything is going to be OK. I’ll show them to Dom when he’s back, and until then I’ll . . . well, I’ll start the dinner, or something. Make something nice. Show him how capable I can be.

  When I get upstairs, there is a figure outside our front door, crouched down low to the ground. I freeze.

  Gilly stands up and turns around. ‘Corinne!’

  ‘What are you doing?’ I say. My voice comes out a little oddly, too high-pitched. I swallow, telling myself not to be silly, although my heart is jumping in my chest and my face feels flushed, as though I’ve done something wrong, as though she can see what I’m thinking.

  She’s wearing a bright green coat, clutching a biro in her left hand. She grins at me and comes over.

  ‘I was just leaving you a note! Didn’t think you were in so was going to pop it through the door – just saying it’d be lovely to get together soon! I’ve been meaning to come see you. How did it go with the, you know?’ She gestures at my stomach and I can’t help it, I break into a smile.

  ‘I’ve just got back from the hospital,’ I say, and her face falls briefly but I put out a hand. ‘No, no, it’s nothing bad – Gilly, I’m pregnant.’

  For a second something flickers across her face, but before I can work out her expression it has changed again, and she’s smiling. I must have imagined it, she’s beaming, she looks so happy for me. It’s lovely, and as I look at her I feel a bit better – she’s so nice, she won’t have been talking about Dad. It’ll be nothing to do with him, nothing to do with me. She pulls me close and we have a little hug outside my flat; she smells comforting, familiar. Suddenly it hits me – she smells like my sister. She smells the same as Ashley.