But dry rot, crumbling plaster and rising damp only succeeded in reminding her of the mess she was in and she switched it off. Sipping her wine thoughtfully, she found it empty and reached for the bottle, wondering if she could really rule Red out. She had serious questions about her ability to judge, about her grasp of what was true and what was a lie. Perhaps, it was someone at work, someone she’d never met at all. She splashed wine into her glass, spilling a little on the sofa and not really caring.
She trawled her mind for other women Paul had mentioned or encountered in the last few months and she couldn’t tell if the list was pleasingly, or suspiciously short. He’d certainly had an effect on Susan Power, the nursery manager. The thought lingered before she pushed herself off the topic. She couldn’t go around accusing every woman she’d met of sleeping with her husband, she’d look insane, and wasn’t that exactly what Paul wanted?
Susan Power. What had Paul said to her that day when she’s been so late? Was it worth finding out? When she dropped Emma off in the morning, she’d go and ask her.
Topping her glass up again, she thought about Paul. A theory, that’s all she had really. There was no proof he was having an affair. All she had was that pair of earrings and an overheard phone call. For all she knew, the earrings were for his secretary, a married woman with three kids and a husband she adored. Diane had met her once at an office party, had been secretly relieved when the stylish, and very attractive, woman had been so vocal about her family. Had it all been an act? That was three years ago, just before Emma was born. A time when she had felt unattractive, weary and obviously insecure. She hadn’t been to another office party, unwilling in the first year to leave their precious baby with a sitter while she was so young. And since? She shook her head; she couldn’t remember.
For all she knew, he could have a different secretary by now. It would make sense. Because, if it wasn’t someone he worked with, when would he see her? Since her clinic stay, he’d been home every night.
And before that? Her brow furrowed. She’d tried to remember before, with little success. But now…hadn’t there been a conference? She squeezed her eyes tightly, trying to drag the memory back and then groaned. It just wouldn’t come.
She was frustrated and infuriated that, until now, she’d never had the strength or the resolve to insist that Paul fill in those missing weeks, those blank months in her mind. Now it was too late, he was using it for his own ends. ‘Spontaneous recovery, my ass,’ she muttered.
Reaching for the bottle again, she was horrified to find it empty. She got to her feet, swaying, and cursing herself for eating so little, she headed for the cupboard where she kept the empties. She opened it and bent to put the bottle inside and then straightened, brow creased. The cupboard was full. Hadn’t she emptied it just a few days before? Yet, now, she had to push bottles back to make space for the one she’d just finished.
Closing the cupboard, she leaned on the counter and tried to clear her head as the wine sped through her bloodstream. Try though she might, she could not remember what day she’d brought the bottles to the bottle bank. A week ago, maybe. But now the cupboard was full. She was drinking more than she used to, but there was no way she was drinking that much.
The only logical conclusion was that someone, and of course she meant Paul, was putting bottles into the cupboard to mess with her head. The thought sobered her up almost instantly. Switching off the lights, she headed to bed.
* * *
Waking with a start, she looked at her bedside clock to see that it was just past 3 a.m. Listening for a moment, she waited, her eyes flickering shut only to fly open when it came again, the plaintive cry that had woken her. It couldn’t be real; was it a dream, or a trick? Her eyes widened as an idea struck. Throwing back the duvet, she stood and, without bothering to throw on a robe, padded naked down the stairs.
Opening the door into the family room, she switched on the light. Where had she put her laptop? Then she shut her eyes. It would be where it was always kept for safety, under the sofa in the lounge. She hadn’t put it there, but she knew Paul, ever security conscious, would have done so.
For a moment, she stood outside the lounge door. She’d not been inside in days. Maybe what Anne had said made sense and something unpleasant had happened here during one of her blackouts. Something so terrible, her mind still couldn’t cope with it. She laid her hands flat on the door, fingers splaying, and closed her eyes. If she hoped that enlightenment would come by osmosis, she was disappointed. All she felt was the same quiver of fear.
She moved closer and pressed the length of her naked body against the door. Was she just going crazy? A smile wavered on her lips. If Paul happened to come down the stairs and saw her pressed naked against the door he would certainly think so.
She was about to pull away, when a memory flashed before her eyes. A happy memory, full of noise, light and excited voices. They were in the lounge; she was smiling at something Paul had said and Emma was dancing around, begging to see whatever it was Diane held in her hands…something just at the corner of her mind, desperate to find a way out…but it faded as quickly as it had come and, as it faded, a wave of intense, devastating sadness swept over her, such sadness she thought she would die from the hole it seemed to leave in its wake. She tried to pull herself from the door but found herself unable to move, as if glued to that faint trace of memory. When another crashing wave of sorrow hit her, she gave in to it and slipped slowly to the floor.
When she opened her eyes again, soft light poured through the fanlight above the door. Freezing cold, she felt physically sick. She tried to stand, but her feet were numb; trembling, she crawled on her hands and knees to the stairway and reached for the banisters to pull herself up, but she was unable to grip with her icy cold hands. With no other option, she crawled up the stairs, one step at a time, until she reached the landing.
She’d have liked to have called for help. For Paul to come and pick her up, bring her to bed and comfort her with the warmth of his body. For a moment, she rested on all fours, her forehead against the carpet. A howl built inside, it had an edge of madness that terrified her, she could feel it grabbing hold, trying to force its way out and she bit down on her lip, holding it in. Using the pain to focus, slowly, she inched herself towards her bedroom.
It was a struggle to clamber into bed, but she managed and pulled the duvet around her, over her head, around her feet. Her teeth chattered, her hands were so cold they hurt, and she couldn’t feel her feet. How stupid she was to have gone near the lounge. She didn’t want to think about what could have happened there. What awful thing could cause such sorrow?
Her teeth chattering, she lay awake until morning, too afraid to sleep, too terrified to think about what memories lay behind that door. She waited until her alarm went off before she rolled out of bed for a long, hot shower.
She dressed in warm layers: a silk vest, a brushed-cotton, long-sleeved T-shirt and a fine-knit jumper. Navy trousers and thick socks sealed in the warmth that was finally returning to her legs. Her reflection in the mirror almost sent her running. If Paul thought she’d looked shattered yesterday, what was he going to say today? There was nothing she could do about her red-rimmed eyes, but she made an attempt at concealing the dark half-circle under each.
Downstairs, once Emma was sitting with her cereal, she filled the kettle and popped a slice of bread in the toaster. Today, she needed caffeine, food and comfort, in any order they came. The toast came first since she’d forgotten to press the switch down on the kettle. Pressing it harder than it needed, she closed her eyes in frustration. She was so tired she couldn’t think straight.
As soon as Paul left for work, she took out her mobile and rang Anne. ‘Hi Anne,’ she said. ‘Something’s come up, would it be okay if I called to yours to use your computer rather than going to the café.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Anne said. ‘I’ll see you when you get here. I’ll be writing, so if I don’t answer straight away, you�
�ll know why.’
Hanging up, Diane drained her coffee and made another. She’d have to mainline it to keep awake for the drive to Emma’s nursery, and she wanted to be alert enough to try and get a meeting with Susan Power.
With Emma dropped off with a smiling Miss Rogers, she headed for the receptionist’s desk. ‘Hi, Debbie,’ she said. ‘I wanted to have a word with Ms Power, would it be possible to see her today?’
Debbie looked up over the rim of her glasses and said, ‘I’m sorry, she’s not available. Is it something someone else can help with?’
‘No, I’m afraid not,’ she said. ‘It’s personal, and really important that I see her today, couldn’t she could spare a few minutes?’
The receptionist’s eyebrows rose. ‘It’s impossible—’
‘Just a few minutes, please,’ Diane interrupted, her voice cracking a little. ‘It’s important.’
‘I can see that,’ Debbie said quietly, ‘but, unfortunately, Ms Powers is away at a conference in Leeds. She’s not back until next week.’ She looked down at her computer screen and tapped a key. ‘I can put you down for a meeting on Tuesday, if that’s any good?’
She rolled her hands into fists, feeling her nails make half-moon indents into the soft skin of her palm. ‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice tight with frustration.
Debbie’s eyebrows rose at the tone, but she said nothing and looked down at the keyboard. After a moment, she looked up again. ‘Ten thirty on Tuesday. I’ve put you down for a thirty-minute slot, unless you think you’d need longer.’ Her voice was cool.
‘Thirty minutes is fine. I’m sorry, I didn’t sleep last night.’
The receptionist’s face relaxed a little and then her sharp eyes took in the pallor that lay behind the poorly applied make-up. ‘Are you sure you’re okay,’ she asked gently.
‘Just tired,’ Diane said, with a shaky smile.’ Ten thirty on Tuesday. Thank you.’
She walked through the door to the car park feeling Debbie’s eyes on her, praying that she would get to her car without collapsing.
* * *
When Anne opened her front door, she took one look at her, led her inside the house and over to the sofa. ‘You look like you haven’t slept a wink,’ she said, fluffing the cushions behind Diane’s head before pulling off her shoes. She took the blanket from the back of the sofa and draped it over her. ‘Have a rest. I’ll be over at my desk writing. When you wake, we can talk. But,’ she added, seeing a frown appearing on Diane’s face, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll wake you in time to collect Emma if you sleep too long.’
* * *
An hour later Diane woke, disorientated, with that muggy feeling that comes with sleeping during the day. A clock on the wall, told her she hadn’t been asleep long enough to make a difference to the exhaustion that had settled in for the long haul, but she did feel a little better.
Pushing the blanket away, she swung her feet to the ground and sat up, her eyes following the sound of soft clicks on a keyboard to where Anne was hunched over a computer on the other side of the room.
She stopped typing and turned suddenly, somehow sensing Diane’s eyes on her. ‘You’re awake.’
She shook her groggy head. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘just about. You were concentrating so hard, I didn’t want to disturb you.’
Anne waved a hand. ‘I have to eat and drink,’ she said reasonably. ‘Sometimes I get so caught up that I forget but then I suffer the next day because I can’t write at all. Take your time getting up. I’ll make us something.’
Diane relaxed back and closed her eyes. The comforting sound of cupboard doors opening and closing, of plates clinking, the rustle of paper. She could stay here in this house. Never go home. Pick up Emma, and bring her here. In a house this big, there was sure to be a room to spare. Here there would be no stalker waiting outside, no room full of dread, no strange cries in the night.
Or would all her troubles follow her wherever she went? A tired smile flitted and faded.
Opening her eyes, she struggled to her feet and crossed the room to offer some help.
‘No, I’m just done,’ Anne said with a smile, nodding her head toward the table where she’d laid out cups and saucers, a pretty jug brimming with milk and a plate of sandwiches cut into triangles with the crusts cut off. ‘Sit, relax. I’ll bring a pot of tea in a sec.’
With a grateful smile, Diane pulled out a chair and sat. She didn’t deserve the kindness the woman was giving her so freely, but she was relishing it. Anne put a fat red teapot down onto a wooden pot-stand, pulled out the chair opposite and sat. She picked up the pot again and held it out to Diane, who pushed the fine porcelain teacup and saucer toward her and waited while it was filled with strong, aromatic tea. Adding a drop of milk, she took a sip. ‘Mmmm,’ she said, ‘this is lovely.’
‘It’s a special blend,’ Anne explained. ‘I discovered it years ago and got hooked. Now I can’t drink anything else.’ She pushed the plate of sandwiches toward her. ‘Eat.’
‘I’m not feeling very hungry,’ she said, reaching for one. The bread was fresh, the ham and pickle salty and tangy. It was delicious. She reached for another, devouring it in a couple of bites and held her cup up for a refill when Anne held the tea pot out again.
When the plate was empty, Diane guessed she had eaten most. ‘That was really good,’ she said, putting her cup down on the saucer and pushing it away.
‘You needed it,’ Anne said simply.
‘Yes.’
There was silence as both women waited for the other to speak. Finally, Diane met Anne’s gaze. ‘You were right, I really didn’t want to believe that the man I married could be capable of planning all of this.’ Her eyes swam with tears and her voice choked. ‘But now, I have no choice.’
Thirty
Slowly, trying to sort it out in her head as she spoke, Diane told Anne about the wine bottles. ‘I remembered when I brought the empty bottles to the bottle bank,’ she said, ‘it was the day I bumped into Red. Only last week. I’ve been drinking a lot recently but there’s no way I’d have managed to get through all the bottles that were there since then.’
‘How often do you finish a bottle?’ Anne asked, holding a hand up quickly when she saw the look of annoyance on her face. ‘I’m not judging, I’m just wondering when you last put a bottle in the cupboard?’
Diane tapped a finger on the arm of her chair. ‘It’s the bottom shelf of a low cupboard, I usually just plonk the bottle in without looking. I opened a new bottle last night, so it would have been the night before.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t remember having any problem.’
‘Would he have had an opportunity?’
She thought for a moment. When could he have managed to fill the cupboard with empty bottles? To manage it quietly would have taken time. ‘First thing in the morning,’ she said, slowly, ‘during the week, he is always down before me. I get myself ready and then get Emma up.’
‘Every morning?’
She shrugged. ‘He’d have known he had at least thirty minutes to get it organised. I think you’re wrong, though,’ she continued, her eyes bleak. ‘I don’t think he’s trying to push me into killing myself. I don’t think he’d go that far. I think he’s trying to get me committed. To get full custody of Emma, it would be enough.’
‘Maybe,’ Anne said, the tone of her voice saying she wasn’t convinced. ‘But he’d never be sure you wouldn’t recover, and the situation would then change.’
‘You forget, he has this other woman waiting in the wings. While I was,’ Diane made quotation marks in the air with her index fingers, ‘recovering, he’d be showing the world the happy family life he’d made for Emma.’ She threw up her hands in frustration. ‘What court would rule against him?’
‘Did something else happen last night?’
A long, shuddering breath was her only reply as Diane struggled to regain the feeling of calm she’d had earlier. She didn’t want to talk about what happened outside the lounge, it was too raw;
she wasn’t sure she could talk about it without breaking down. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said finally, with a trace of a smile. ‘I bet you regret agreeing to let me come here.’
Anne stretched a hand across the table and grasped her arm. ‘I think you desperately need someone to talk to. I’m more than happy to be that someone.’
‘You’re right, thank you.’ She took a deep breath. ‘There was something else but I really don’t want to talk about it, not yet anyway. Anyway, it wasn’t why I wanted to come. You remember I told you about that strange cry I keep hearing?’
Anne nodded, releasing her arm and sitting back.
‘I wondered if it was some kind of recording.’
‘A recording,’ Anne repeated, surprised, but to Diane’s relief, not sceptical. Her eyes narrowed in thought. ‘It’s a possibility, not hard to do with an iPad, or iPhone. Hang on,’ she said, getting up and crossing to her desk. She sat and, a few seconds later, called Diane over. ‘A sound module. Have a look,’ she said, pointing to the screen.
Looking over Anne’s shoulder, she read it with a grim expression. ‘One hundred seconds of recording that can be divided into four twenty-five second segments,’ she read aloud. ‘And look,’ she said, pointing to the next paragraph. ‘A timer allows segments to be played at random times throughout the day.’
She moved away and paced the room. ‘The bastard,’ she said through gritted teeth. She turned and looked back at the other woman who was still reading the details on the computer screen. ‘And that explains why he keeps his office locked. He must have it set up in there during the day. And at night he probably has it in his bedroom.’
Anne’s eyebrows rose at this reference to Paul having a separate bedroom, but she said nothing. Diane was trying to remember if she’d seen any sort of sound module when she was in his office looking through his papers. She hadn’t but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. She had to go back and search again. When she found it, she’d leave it where it was, and photograph it for evidence.
The Housewife: A completely addictive and gripping psychological thriller Page 18