The Housewife: A completely addictive and gripping psychological thriller

by Valerie Keogh

  The Housewife

  A completely addictive and gripping psychological thriller

  Valerie Keogh

  Books by Valerie Keogh

  Secrets Between Us

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Epilogue

  Secrets Between Us

  Valerie’s Email Sign-Up

  Books by Valerie Keogh

  A Letter from Valerie

  Acknowledgements

  For my husband Robert and my siblings, Patricia, Deirdre, Heather, Geraldine, Declan, Joyce and Brendan.

  One

  Diane looked across the dinner table at her husband and knew she wasn’t going to like what he said. It was something about his eyes, they looked at everything except her.

  Paul’s puppy-like brown eyes were the first thing she’d noticed about him when they’d met, that and his towering six-foot-two height. She’d been queuing for coffee in a café near where she worked and was trying to find change for the tip bowl. Fumbling in her purse, she’d dropped a pound coin on the floor and, as she’d stooped to pick it up, so did the man behind, both of them reaching for it at the same time. Her blue eyes had met his brown. He’d laughed, so had she. Moments later, he’d stood beside her table and asked if he could join her. ‘All the other seats are taken,’ he’d explained.

  Looking around the almost-empty café, she had laughed and waved to a chair.

  And that was that. Paul had only planned to be in Bristol for the day, but by the time they’d finished coffee they’d arranged to meet for dinner the following Saturday. After that, they’d spent every weekend together; Paul catching the train to Bristol after work every Friday to spend the weekend with her in her tiny rented apartment. At night, the two of them curled up in her small double bed, sometimes staying inside all weekend until he reluctantly dragged himself away on Sunday evening.

  Six weeks after meeting, back in the same café, he’d gone down on one knee and asked her to marry him. It was crazy. Way too fast. But when he’d said he couldn’t live without her for one more day, she’d found herself agreeing with him; she loved him, her friends loved him and, reluctant to ever drop off the wave of romantic euphoria, she had grinned and said yes.

  They didn’t wait, marrying as soon as they could arrange it and, a mere two months after meeting, Paul had carried her over the threshold of his London home. ‘Welcome home, my darling wife,’ he’d announced, setting her down in the hall of the beautiful Victorian house he owned in Copse Hill.

  ‘Wow,’ she’d said, her eyes wide. ‘When you said you had a house, I wasn’t expecting something so grand.’

  Visibly pleased with her response, he’d taken her hand and brought her into the family room that stretched across the back of the house. ‘When I bought the place, it was falling apart,’ he’d explained, ‘it was the only reason I could afford it. Back here,’ he’d waved his hands around, ‘there was a small kitchen, a couple of storage rooms and a dark, dingy sitting room. I had them all knocked into one and extended.’

  ‘It’s amazing,’ Diane said, trying to take it all in, her eyes sparkling. She moved into the kitchen, fingers trailing along the cool granite of the counters, her eyes taking in the top-of-the-range cooker. She stopped in front of the huge American fridge-freezer. ‘I’ve always wanted one of these,’ she said, turning to him with a smile.

  He grinned. ‘There’s not much in it apart from beer.’

  Opposite the kitchen, the room spread into a living room where a large comfortable-looking L-shaped sofa faced a huge TV screen. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the garden flooded the room with light and French doors opened onto a patio.

  ‘It’s just lovely,’ Diane said, seeing his face light up with pleasure at her enthusiasm. ‘Maybe we could get a big table for here?’ She sketched a space between the kitchen and living area with her hands. ‘There’s plenty of room.’

  ‘I usually eat in front of the TV,’ he’d admitted, ‘but I like that idea. We can go shopping at the weekend.’ He’d pulled her close. ‘We’re going to be so happy,’ he’d promised, kissing her lightly on the lips. ‘Now, why don’t I show you the bedroom?’

  Diane had laughed and kissed him hard. ‘How about,’ she’d said, huskily, ‘we start down here?’

  An hour or so later, smiling as Paul snored softly beside her on the sofa, she’d squeezed out from under his arm, grabbed her clothes and headed off in search of the bathroom, dressing as she walked.

  Turning the knob on the only other door in the hall, she found a small sitting room that looked over a pretty front garden. Decorated in dated floral wallpaper and with a clashing carpet, Diane guessed Paul had not got around to redecorating. It would, she’d thought, make a lovely room to sit in to read. She’d stood on the stairway and smiled. The house gave her a good feeling. She was going to be happy here, she thought, hugging herself with the sheer pleasure of life. They were going to be happy here.

  * * *

  She’d found a job almost immediately in what was grandly called the IT department of a haulage company, but was disappointed on her first day to discover it was a new department and, for the moment, she’d be working alone. Her office was located down a quiet corridor and, apart from the odd person who rang with queries, she rarely got a chance to speak with anyone.

  ‘I’m not going to make new friends there,’ she’d said to Paul after her first day.

  He’d smiled at her and pulled her into his arms, whispering. ‘You’ve got me, darling.’

  She’d snuggled into him. He was right. She had everything she needed.

  When her girlfriends visited from Bristol for a weekend, they oohed and aahed over the house, her happy life and the pubs she took them to where they flirted with the locals and drank too much wine. They’d promised to return, she’d promised to visit them but then she discovered she was pregnant and everything changed.

  For a moment, just for an infinitesimal fraction of time, she’d felt terrified of the unstoppable roller coaster her life had become. But Paul’s love was an anchor; she’d clung to it and the moment had passed. She’d looked around their great big house and, imagining the sound of children’s laughter filling it, rested her hand on her flat belly and knew, despite the timing, that she wanted their baby.

  So, it turned out, did Paul, a grin splitting his face almost from ear to ear when she’d told him.

  ‘Seriously
?’ he’d said. ‘I thought you were on the pill.’

  She’d held her hands up. ‘I am. I mean, I was. But so much has happened in the last few months with the wedding and moving to a new house, maybe I forgot? I’ve done the test. It’s really happening. I—’

  ‘That’s fantastic news,’ he’d interrupted her when he saw the look of concern on her face. He’d folded her into his arms. ‘So, it’s a bit sooner than we’d planned. It will be perfect. Don’t worry.’

  She hadn’t worried but, sometimes, she’d felt overwhelmed.

  * * *

  Everything was different now, including, she realised with a quiver of sadness, Paul’s eyes. They used to be warm, now they had the cold sheen of amber. Guilt whipped her. It was her fault; she’d put him through so much in the last few months, he’d been so supportive, so understanding no matter how many times she’d whispered, I don’t remember. There had to be a way to make it up to him, to get them back on track.

  She rested her elbows on the dining table they had bought together that first weekend, almost four years ago. Putting her fork down, she laid her hand on it, fingers splaying on the warm oak, trying to connect with times when they’d been happier. It seemed such a long time ago.

  ‘Are you listening to me?’

  She heard the touch of impatience in his voice and lifted her eyes to look at him. ‘Sorry,’ she said with a smile before picking up her fork again. ‘What were you saying?’

  ‘That I’ve read some research,’ he said, cutting into his chicken.

  She sighed and wished he’d get to the point. He was obviously afraid to upset her; she appreciated his concern, his gentle approach, but sometimes it had the opposite effect to what he’d intended. Like now. She could feel anxiety uncurling.

  Oblivious, Paul took another mouthful, chewing and swallowing before he continued. ‘It appears that children who mix with others from an early age are more advanced than their peers.’

  ‘Really?’ she said carefully, as she tried to read his face. He’d changed his workday smart suit for casual chinos and a T-shirt that emphasised his broad shoulders and athletic build. He seemed relaxed, but he still wasn’t looking directly at her.

  He pushed a lock of his mousy-brown hair from his face. ‘According to the article, they learn better,’ he said, ‘and find it easier to interact with others. They cited a number of studies. There seems to be no doubt.’ He looked across the table at her, finally meeting her eyes. ‘I contacted a local nursery, Diane, they invited me to come and look around, so I did. The manager, Susan Power, is a great believer in starting young.’ He dropped his gaze to concentrate once more on his dinner. ‘We’re in luck,’ he said, ‘they have a place available in one of the classes. I met the teacher, a Miss Rogers. Emma will love her.’

  Emma looked up from her plate when she heard her name and grinned. ‘Finish your dinner, sweetie,’ Diane said, turning her plate around and watching her for a few minutes, smiling at the determination on her little face as she concentrated on getting peas onto her spoon. She wished she could stay looking at her but, from the corner of her eye, she saw Paul wasn’t finished. His face still wore a pinched expression.

  ‘She can start on Monday.’

  It was a statement, not a suggestion inviting comment.

  She let the breath she’d been holding out in a sigh, her fork falling from suddenly limp fingers to clatter noisily onto her plate. ‘Monday. That’s so soon. Isn’t she too young?’ Her knuckles whitened on the handle of the knife she still held. ‘I feel like I’ve already missed so much.’

  He heaved a sigh, reached across the table and caught her hand. ‘It’s a month since you came home from the clinic, Diane,’ he said gently. ‘You’re doing fine.’ He nodded toward where Emma was still chasing peas with her spoon. ‘Mrs Power says she’s the perfect age to start.’

  ‘But Monday?’ Diane said, looking at her daughter, her face angelic despite the rim of tomato sauce that circled her mouth. ‘It’s so soon.’

  ‘She’s three,’ he said quietly. ‘You don’t remember, but we did discuss this at length before, months ago. You agreed then it was a good idea.’

  ‘I did?’ She had no recollection, but she knew that didn’t mean anything. It was, after all, just one of hundreds of things she couldn’t remember.

  He sighed. ‘Yes,’ he said, squeezing her hand. ‘It’s even more important that she goes now, Diane, you’ve become quite clingy. It’s not good for her. Or you.’

  Too clingy? She let out a tremulous sigh. ‘Couldn’t we wait a few months?’ she tried again, hating the note of desperation that had crept into her voice.

  Taking his hand back, he concentrated on his dinner.

  She pushed her plate away, waiting for him to say something, to agree to wait, just for a few months, even a few weeks. But she knew when she saw his set face that his mind was made up.

  Finally, he put his cutlery down and pushed his plate away. ‘These places are like gold dust, Diane,’ he said. ‘You have to grab them when you can.’ He reached for her hand again, moving his thumb over the back of it in a soothing caress. ‘It’s best for Emma, you know it is.’

  There was nothing more to be said.

  Two

  The next day, Saturday, Paul was up before her and making Emma breakfast when she arrived down. ‘Hello, poppet,’ she said, bending to give her daughter a kiss on her cheek and running a hand over her blonde curls.

  ‘Hello, Mummy. I’m going to school,’ she said, dipping her spoon into her cornflakes.

  ‘I’ve been telling Emma about the fun she’s going to have on Monday,’ Paul said, catching her eye. ‘She’s very excited about meeting other children and making friends.’ Diane forced her mouth into a smile. If she’d had the slightest hope that he would change his mind, it faded in the face of his words. Reluctantly, she conceded defeat.

  ‘You’ll need a school bag,’ she said, when Emma had finished her breakfast. ‘Let’s go shopping and buy you one.’ She lifted her out of her seat and held her tightly for a moment, until she wiggled free.

  ‘You’re squashing me, Mummy,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry, darling,’ Diane said, putting her down and running a hand through her hair. ‘I just love you so much.’ She looked at Paul and pinned a smile on her face. ‘Why don’t you come with us? It’ll be fun buying stuff.’

  He put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close in a quick hug. ‘Impossible, I’m afraid. I know I usually take Emma on Saturdays, but I have so much work to do, sorry.’

  Disappointed, she shrugged and reached for Emma’s hand. ‘Just you and me then, kiddo.’

  Her local supermarket was a short ten-minute drive away. As usual, bustling with Saturday shoppers, it was chaotic and noisy. For safety, she’d have preferred to carry Emma, but she had insisted that she wanted to walk. Holding her hand tightly, Diane grabbed a trolley and headed toward the children’s section where she picked up a tiny, brightly coloured back-pack. ‘See,’ she showed her, ‘you can carry a drink and a snack in it.’

  She added a few coloured markers and a pink jotter and Emma sat in the trolley playing with them while Diane finished the grocery shopping, piling stuff around her.

  Back at home, with Emma asleep on the sofa and the groceries unpacked, she made herself a cup of tea and settled down at the table with her laptop to check out the nursery’s website. They gave clear directions to it, and she was pleased to see it was only about a fifteen-minute drive away from Copse Hill. Her eyes scanned the rules and regulations. Nothing out of the ordinary, although they appeared quite rigid, especially about time-keeping. That didn’t worry her, she was always on time; it’s not like she had anywhere else to be these days.

  Shutting the laptop, she turned to watch Emma sleep. Paul was right, she was being selfish wanting to keep her home for longer. Pressing her knuckles to her eyes, she swallowed. He seemed to think she was doing fine. She wasn’t too sure, but there was really no point in crying.
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  She’d done too much of that already.

  Three

  Monday came around too quickly. The nursery didn’t start until nine-fifteen, but Diane was up and dressed before eight, determined to have everything just right. She wanted to look the part amongst the other parents; efficient, together, in control. She took her time choosing the right clothes, eventually pulling on tailored navy trousers and a pale blue cashmere jumper she rarely wore. She applied a little more make-up than usual and finished with a scarf.

  It was all armour, she knew; a thin façade to hide behind so they wouldn’t see how nervous she really was. She’d been home a month and Paul said she was doing fine; she just wished she could believe him.

  It was stupid to be nervous about meeting the other mothers, but deep down she was desperate to make a good impression and maybe even make some friends. She hadn’t made new friends since she’d moved to London, and her plans to return to work after Emma was born had fallen by the wayside when she just couldn’t face leaving her with a childminder. ‘I’ll go back to work when she’s older,’ she’d said to Paul. ‘I don’t want to give up permanently.’