The Housewife: A completely addictive and gripping psychological thriller

by Valerie Keogh

  ‘It’s time you were leaving,’ Anne said.

  Diane blinked. She was being thrown out? Her face fell. ‘Yes, of course,’ she mumbled, averting her eyes; she’d overstayed her welcome. She didn’t blame Anne for wanting her to leave.

  Anne placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘I meant to pick up Emma, that’s all. You’re always concerned about being late.’

  Diane looked at her watch in horror. ‘Gosh,’ she said, ‘I’m so sorry. You’re right, I’d better fly.’ She turned to face her. ‘You’ve been so kind to me, thank you, it is appreciated.’

  Anne smiled briefly. ‘You’re welcome. But you can’t keep going like this, you know. You’ll have to do something, and soon. Whether your husband’s aim is to have you committed or drive you to suicide, either way does not bode well for you.’

  ‘I just need to get all the facts,’ Diane said, nodding. ‘Then…’ She hesitated. ‘If I needed a place to hide away, could I—’

  ‘Yes,’ Anne said, interrupting her, ‘of course you could come here. For as long as you like.’

  ‘Just let me get all the facts first. Enough to make sure he hasn’t a hope in hell of getting custody of my daughter.’ Diane looked at her for a moment. Maybe, she thought, a hug was the only thing appropriate. She stepped closer and put an arm around Anne’s shoulder and held her for a moment. ‘Thank you,’ she said before stepping away. ‘Now, I’d really better get going.’

  At the door, she turned to say a final farewell. ‘I’ll keep in touch. I’ve nothing planned until Tuesday when I’ve an appointment to see the nursery manager, Susan Power. I want to know what Paul said to her that day.’

  ‘You think it’s connected in some way?’ Anne asked, surprised.

  Diane frowned. ‘It was odd. Paul was speaking to her and she just looked over to me with a strange look on her face. Almost as if she pitied me.’

  ‘Ah,’ Anne said, ‘so of course you’re worrying about exactly what he said to her.’

  Diane reached for the doorknob and opened the front door. Still frowning, she turned and looked at Anne. ‘If, as I think, he’s gathering information to use against me, and gathering witnesses he could, potentially call on to give a character statement, who better than the manager of the nursery Emma attends?’

  With a glance at her watch, Diane shook her head, and headed to her car. She was still exhausted. Exhausted and worried. It all sounded so straightforward when she was with Anne. Everything seemed clear. But she hadn’t told her about what had happened outside the lounge last night; the wave of sadness, the blackout. Diane wanted to believe her theory about the sound module, she really did, but after last night she wasn’t sure that she wasn’t imagining every single thing.

  Thirty-One

  Once again, there was no sign of her stalker outside the school and, once again, there was no relief, just a moment’s surprise followed by intense, crippling anxiety. Maybe she’d never been there. Once Emma was strapped in, she looked for her again and when she didn’t see her, walked to the gate and stared up and down the road for several minutes.

  She was still standing there when Rose Metcalf stopped her car beside her and let down her window, scathing eyes raking her from head to foot. ‘Diane,’ she said, ‘you do know your daughter is absolutely hysterical, don’t you?’

  Diane spun around and looked back to her car in horror. ‘Emma,’ she cried, sprinting back. Unfortunately, the cries had drawn the attention of a few other parents. Worse still, one had gone into the school and was returning at a run with a serious-faced Miss Rogers.

  They all reached the car at the same time, Diane pulling open the door and engulfing the sobbing child in her arms, murmuring to her that she was sorry. She unsnapped the straps and pulled her out, holding her tightly as she cried. Over her head, several pairs of eyes were watching her, and she could hear the mutters of horrified onlookers before Miss Rogers chivvied them on to leave.

  ‘Really, Mrs Andrews,’ the young teacher said, in a tone Diane had never heard her use before, ‘we can’t have this.’

  To make matters a million times worse, Emma, on hearing her beloved teacher’s voice, turned from her mother’s arms and reached out for her. Diane had no option but to allow her to be taken, feeling her departure as a physical blow. She stood on the sidelines watching her own daughter comforted and soothed by another woman feeling embarrassed, humiliated and, above all, guilty. It was only a few minutes, a small voice reasoned. She dismissed it. A few minutes to a three year old was a long time.

  A few minutes, listening to Emma being comforted by someone else, was even longer. It was nearly five minutes before her sobs subsided into soft snuffles and another five before the teacher agreed to hand her back to Diane, the look on her face saying she wished she didn’t have to. With Emma back in her seat, her tear-stained face looking calmer, she turned to the teacher. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You must think I’m a terrible mother.’

  The teacher hesitated and looked into the car where an exhausted Emma had fallen asleep, damp eyelashes resting on soft pink cheeks. ‘It’s not for me to judge,’ she said, looking back at her. ‘But I will have to make a report about this incident to Mrs Power.’

  Diane pressed her lips together tightly on words that had to remain unsaid if she wanted to keep sending Emma to the nursery. ‘Fine,’ was all she could manage without saying more.

  Closing the car door gently so as not to wake Emma, she climbed into the driver’s seat without another word or glance at the teacher. Emma was still asleep when they reached home. Diane opened the front door before returning to lift her out, envying her ability to sleep so soundly. Lowering her to the sofa, she draped a blanket over her and sighed. She’d had no lunch. Maybe she was a terrible mother. Continuing to berate herself, she trudged back to the car, slamming the doors shut and locking it before she returned to stand and stare at her sleeping child. What the future held in store for herself, she wasn’t sure, but it had to be good for Emma. And that meant staying with Diane. Paul had shown what he was capable of, how manipulative, cruel and greedy he really was. She wasn’t going to trust him with her precious daughter’s future.

  Putting the episode at the nursery out of her mind, she took her mobile phone from her bag and headed upstairs to search Paul’s office for a sound module and end all this insanity. There was a moment’s panic when she opened the drawer in her dresser and couldn’t find the key, her hand rummaging among her underwear. And then the blessed relief as her fingers closed over it.

  Back on the landing, she listened for a moment but there was no sound from downstairs. She didn’t waste any time. Inserting the key in the lock, she turned it, pushed the office door open and began to search as she had done before, this time with a much clearer idea of what she was looking for. Nothing on the desk, or beside the computer, in the drawers or on the shelves. Nothing.

  Maybe it was in his bedroom, hooked up to an iPad or something? Before leaving the office, she opened the middle drawer and took out the sheaf of papers she’d seen the last time. As fast as possible, she took a photo of each one and returned them to the drawer. With a quick look around to make sure everything was as she found it, she switched off the light, shut and locked the door.

  The spare bedroom Paul had used since she came home from the clinic was at the back of the house. It was a bright room with windows on two sides and, like all the bedrooms, it was large with an original fireplace. It was smaller than the master bedroom, but probably the prettiest in the house.

  She’d made the beds quickly that morning but obviously hadn’t plumped up the pillow. Picking it up, she looked at the indent his head had made and put her face to it, breathing him in. Despite everything he’d done, her heart ached with the knowledge that he no longer wanted her, wondering, not for the first time, when he’d stopped loving her. Giving the pillow a quick shake, she put it back. She needed to get on with her search.

  Ten minutes later, every piece of furniture in the room
had been checked. She even looked on the windowsill behind the curtains. But there was nothing to prove he was tricking her. With a final look around the room, she left, closing the door behind her.

  She should check on Emma but, instead, she returned to her room and sat on the bed, tapping the key to Paul’s office against the palm of her hand. She’d heard the cry last night so perhaps he’d used it then, didn’t have time to lock it in his office this morning, so took it with him. She bit her lip. That was a possibility. But so was the possibility that this was all in her head. She shook herself, she had to believe it was in his briefcase. It was her last hope. He usually kept it in the office, safe and secure behind his locked door. She’d have to look on Saturday morning when he took Emma out for the day.

  Checking the time, she was startled to see it was five thirty. It had taken far longer than she’d expected. A frown creased her forehead. It wasn’t like Emma to sleep for so long.

  Her feet were light and fast on the stairs and she went through the open door to the family room with her heart racing and a feeling of dread in her chest. Emma was there just where she’d left her, curled up, unmoving, long eyelashes resting on porcelain-pale cheeks, rosebud mouth; a china doll.

  Diane knew, if she touched her, she’d be so very, very cold. ‘Oh God, no,’ she said, the prayer coming on a desperate whisper even as she felt a familiar wave of nausea sweep through her body, legs weakening, a hand reaching out for support. She wanted to call out, scream her pain and loss, but words wouldn’t come. She wanted to go and take Emma in her arms, shake her, make her wake up, but she knew it was no good. Somebody was sobbing, the sound deafeningly loud in her ears. It took a few seconds to realise it was her own cries she heard. The hand holding onto the door frame dropped away and she collapsed to the floor.

  Thirty-Two

  She came to slowly, feeling the hard floor beneath her hip, a pain in the arm she lay on, a deep sense of dread and horror coursing through her, making her heave. It would be better to open her eyes, face the reality of her situation, life without her baby. But she couldn’t do it. The darkness was better. If she couldn’t see it, it hadn’t happened. Stay hidden from the pain. Don’t let it get you.

  ‘Mummy?’

  Her eyes snapped open. ‘Emma?’

  ‘You were asleep and you wouldn’t wake up,’ the little girl said, her lower lip quivering.

  Diane reached a hand out and brushed the child’s tear-stained face. ‘Emma,’ she breathed. She struggled to sit, waited for her head to stop spinning and stood, holding onto the door frame, legs shaking.

  She looked down at her daughter, who looked back at her with such a serious look in her brown eyes. ‘Poor darling,’ she said, guilt lashing. She reached for her, holding her close, planting kisses on her head as she moved, slowly and carefully over to the sofa. A quick glance at the clock on the wall told her she’d been out for about ten minutes.

  Ten minutes? The poor child. ‘I’m so sorry, sweetheart,’ she said, rocking her gently in her arms. When she started to get restless, to squirm to get free, Diane reached for her favourite book, which was never far away. ‘I’ll read you a story,’ she said, relieved when Emma settled down. She wanted to keep her close, to feel her warmth, her breath on her face as she read the words she’d read so often before.

  Despite the physical reassurance of the little body snuggled into hers, the ghost of her terror that Emma was dead still lingered. Reluctantly, she left her playing with toys while she prepared dinner but was unable to stop her eyes constantly darting in her direction to make sure that she was there, alive and well.

  Dinner prepared, she returned to sit with her, giving in to her demands to read the book yet again. She didn’t actually need to read the words; there weren’t many and she’d read them so often she knew them by heart. She turned the pages, said the words and kept her eyes on Emma’s face.

  They were still sitting there when Paul arrived home, the rattle of his key in the front door making Emma squirm from her arms to run to greet him. For a second, she felt bereft, then she stood to set the table.

  Paul had Emma in his arms as he came through, the affection on his face genuine. About the only thing genuine about him, she thought, turning to greet him. ‘Hi,’ she said, ‘dinner’s almost ready.’

  ‘Good,’ he replied, putting Emma on her feet. He watched as she toddled over to the sofa before turning to Diane. ‘Did you have a good day?’

  ‘Oh, just the usual,’ she said, turning the heat down under one of the pots, concentrating on stirring the Bolognese in the hope that he’d ask no more questions.

  Over dinner, the conversation was, as usual, desultory, neither of them making much effort. Even Emma, normally chatty, was quiet. Withdrawn, Diane thought, looking at her. It hadn’t been an easy day for her; for a child who rarely cried to be in tears twice in one day was a huge leap. Guilt whipped through her. The one consolation was that the child hadn’t yet mentioned either episode, so she didn’t have to deal with Paul’s criticism.

  When they’d both gone, Emma to bed and Paul to do whatever it was he did in his office, she poured herself a glass of wine. Tomorrow she’d stop, but tonight she needed the crutch of alcoholic oblivion.

  The glass was half empty when she heard the cry, her top lip rolling in a sneer as she convinced herself she’d been right. He’d brought the sound module to work with him, and now he was up there, playing it. Taunting her.

  Her belief in his duplicity strengthened her. She took the remainder of the wine and threw it down the sink. Switching off the lights, she went up the stairs and stopped outside Emma’s room where she stood for a long time, watching her slow, even breaths. The feeling of dread had almost gone, but the memory of it lingered. It had been so real.

  As she stripped and got ready for bed, the same thought kept bouncing around her head. It had seemed so real, but it wasn’t, the child sleeping quietly next door was proof of that. So maybe it was all in her head? Maybe there was no stalker outside the nursery today because there never had been? She’d thought talking to Anne had grounded her, making her believe in herself, in the truth of what she was seeing and hearing but, maybe, Red had been right to warn her about her relationship with a fantasist.

  She slipped under the duvet with a heavy sigh. This exhausted, it was impossible to think clearly. She was just slipping into a deep sleep when a long, mournful cry broke the night’s quiet. Just one, but it seemed to hang in the air for a long time before fading back to silence. With a lump in her throat, Diane realised it sounded just the same as poor Emma’s heartbreaking cry outside the nursery. Perhaps it was her poor exhausted brain just replaying that awful memory, the sound of her cry, her woebegone, stricken face.

  With tears running down her face, she fell into a restless sleep, waking numerous times to go next door to reassure herself that Emma was alive and well. At five, she gave up and, throwing a robe on, padded barefoot down the stairs. She made a pot of tea and took it to the seat near the window again and sat drinking it as she watched the world wake; finding solace in one of the few remaining comforts she could depend on in her life.

  Thirty-Three

  When, over the next couple of days, she saw no sign of the woman, heard no cries, and nothing out of the ordinary happened, she should have been happy. Instead, she felt more unsettled, constantly looking over her shoulder and shushing Emma to listen in the silence for…something, anything. The quiet was unnerving, and each time she would hug Emma to her and explain that Mummy was just being silly.

  On Friday afternoon, she was bustling about in the kitchen when she glanced across to where Emma was sitting on the sofa, one of her toys dangling from her hands. She wasn’t moving. And she hadn’t sung in the car on the way home. In fact, she was unusually quiet. Diane had been so lost in her own anxieties she hadn’t noticed.

  Guilt stung. Sitting beside her, she brushed her hand over her curls. ‘You okay, poppet?’ she asked.

  Emma turned to look
at her with her serious brown eyes. ‘Tommy doesn’t want to play with me any more.’

  Diane’s heart leapt. The sins of the fathers, or in this case the mothers. How dare that bloody Metcalf woman take it out on a three year old? If she got an opportunity, she’d have a word with her. She put her arm around Emma and pulled her close, dropping a kiss on her head. ‘Boys can be like that,’ she said, ‘don’t worry, you’ll find other boys and girls to play with, you’ll see.’

  A bowl of ice cream cheered her up a little and, for good measure, Diane switched on the TV and found a programme suitable for her to watch. She went back to the kitchen but kept a closer eye on her. Maybe she should have a word with Miss Rogers. The thought didn’t appeal but, for Emma’s sake, she’d do anything.

  The day was followed by yet another restless night. When morning finally dawned, she lay until she heard Emma moving about before she swung her legs from the bed.

  Today she’d planned to check out Paul’s briefcase and find the sound module; it was going to be her only opportunity this week. She felt so weary; tired of playing charades and so very sad.

  Strong coffee helped and she was smiling at something Emma was saying when Paul appeared down for breakfast. ‘What are your plans for the morning?’ she asked him, concentrating on pouring milk into Emma’s cereal so he wouldn’t see the unusual level of interest in her eyes. Before he answered, he peered out of the window, assessing the sky.

  ‘I was going to take Emma to the park. The weather forecast is for a dry day, but those clouds look a bit ominous.’

  Diane didn’t turn around. Please go, please go, please go. The words danced in her head. Moving back to the kitchen, she put two slices of bread into the toaster and stood waiting for it to pop.