Obsession: A shocking psychological thriller where love affairs turn deadly

by Amanda Robson

  His first question.

  ‘How’s Jenni?’

  I stiffen.

  Jenni. Jenni. Jenni.

  ‘Much as to be expected,’ I snap.

  He sits next to me on the bed and silence falls heavily between us. I look out of the bedroom window and see the ungainly lines of the row of houses across the road. Our house is not what you’d call a gem of British architecture, but we’ve done our best with it. Oak floors, toffee leather sofas, pale green paintwork. Very John Lewis. Very Dorset Cereal. Despite its ample size we have cluttered it with plastic toys and paperwork. Cluttered it with the debris of our lives. I look over the road at a mirror image of our house and ask myself if I lived there, in another life, would it be any better? Probably not. But it would be fun to try.

  Rob’s voice cuts across the weight of our silence.

  ‘Even if she is just as to be expected, perhaps you could describe it for me?’

  ‘Ranting and unpleasant. Wanting to bury Craig’s lover in excrement.’

  ‘Well. Can you blame her?’

  ‘Her vocalisation was rather visceral.’

  ‘At this stage in the process I wouldn’t dwell on her every word.’

  ‘OK. I won’t.’

  He pulls me towards him and kisses me, pushing me back on the bed and undoing my bathrobe. I start to undress him, pushing my breasts into his face. Our usual moves. In their exact order. No variation. What we do always works.

  It’s over. I really need that shower now. He is collecting his clothes from around the bedroom where I have thrown them, grinning from ear to ear, and whistling. Rob always whistles when he is happy. He turns to me.

  ‘Maybe Jenni should try revenge sex,’ he says, erect at his own suggestion.

  I look away without bringing myself to reply.

  ~ Jenni ~

  From the moment I enter the church, its silence presses down on me, filling me with the presence of God. Light pushes through the stained glass window behind the altar, dust dancing in its pathway, illuminating baby Jesus. He sits on a stern-faced Mary’s knee, pointing his index finger at me. Pointing, through a fog of dust and incense – making me feel his love.

  I pray. Or try to. Closing my eyes tight and pushing the world away. Turning my mind in on itself and concentrating on my husband, on every detail of his body, from the freckle to the side of his ear to the long slender line of his feet. His laugh, his smile, his face when he told me he had been unfaithful. I look up at the stained window, at the fine-coloured beauty of Madonna and child staring down at me. As I continue to stare, transfixed by the beauty of the Madonna, Mary is becoming Carly. Soft dark hair thickened by peroxide, face fattening and starting to laugh. She is pointing at me, mocking me. Her laugh, gentle at first, becomes harsher and harsher. A mechanical, piped laugh. And then the laughing fades, and behind the laughing I hear choral music. Through the beauty of the music, Carly holds her arms out to me.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she begs.

  Forgive you? Not ever. Or at least not yet.

  ~ Carly ~

  My mother tries to suppress the frown that is trying to furrow her forehead. She stands up and starts to clear the dishes. I sit and watch her bustling about my kitchen in the Jamie Oliver apron that Rob bought her. She is squeezing out too much washing-up liquid in her usual way; banging the pans together. My headache reaches a crescendo. I put my head in my hands, rubbing my temples to try to ease it. My mother looks across and sees me watching her.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asks.

  She walks towards me, smelling of soap suds.

  I try to form the right words. ‘It’s just that everything seems so heavy. So difficult. Some days I just feel as if I can hardly move.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asks.

  Silence suppurates because try as I do, I cannot explain the vacuum I am living in. I cannot break through the loneliness of it. The fug in the room tightens around me. I am looking at my mother from inside a plastic bubble. A plastic bubble I cannot reach through.

  ~ Rob ~

  Another week gone by. Saturday morning again. Getting up at 6 a.m. to look after the children so that Carly can have a lie-in. Carly, so exhausted recently. Thank goodness for CBeebies, even if its name sounds like baby dribble. I sit dozing on the sofa for hours, curled up with my offspring. Enjoying the warmth of them, the scent of them, as they watch TV. When Carly eventually staggers downstairs in her pink fluffy dressing gown I extricate myself and step into the kitchen to make her a cup of tea. She follows me. We sit at our antique pine table sipping Earl Grey.

  ‘Did you sleep OK?’ I ask.

  ‘No.’

  She is sitting, head in her hands, tears pricking at the edges of her eyes.

  ‘I’ve been awake since four.’

  ‘Carly, you need help.’ I pause.

  ‘Because I can’t sleep?’

  ‘Because you’re depressed. You need to go and see a psychiatrist.’

  ‘Of course I don’t need a psychiatrist.’

  ‘You could just go for an assessment.’

  ‘Why should I?’ There is a pause. ‘Why do I need a psychiatrist when I’ve got you?’

  ‘I’m a GP. I only know a little about depression.’

  ‘Why do you think I’m depressed?’

  I reach across the table to hold her hand. ‘Because the light has gone out of you.’

  Tears begin to stream down her cheeks. She squeezes my hand so tight I fear she might break it.

  ‘Please, Rob. Promise me you won’t send me to someone. Can’t you see that it will destroy me?’

  ‘Why will getting help destroy you?’

  ‘Because … because …’ she stammers. ‘I need to cope on my own.’

  I see a flash of determination in her eyes. The determination that I fear will be her downfall.

  ~ Rob ~

  I press the buzzer of Jenni and Craig’s now Craig-less mockGeorgian townhouse. Craig has moved round the corner, back into his parents’ house where his old bedroom is still intact; a mausoleum waiting for him, walls still covered with school team photos and a poster of Pamela Anderson after her first boob job, so old now that it’s curling at the edges. The door opens and Matt and John are standing in the hallway.

  ‘Uncle Rob,’ they say almost in unison, clinging to my legs. ‘We thought you were Daddy. Daddy’s coming round now.’

  And then Craig is there behind me, and the boys have relinquished my legs and are climbing up their father’s body. He hoists them up, one in each arm. They wrap their legs around his waist and for a second my heart lurches in agreement with Carly, who insists Jenni is being selfish, splitting up the family. But when I see Jenni standing in front of me, thin as a rake, her large eyes circled by the black tell-tale rings denoting lack of sleep, my heart lurches again.

  ‘Hello, Craig,’ she says, voice clipped, managing a tight smile in his direction.

  Her hands are trembling. I want to take her in my arms and protect her. As Craig leaves with his sons, he whispers in my ear.

  ‘Thanks, mate. Thanks for coming to stick up for me.’

  Jenni and I are alone in her hallway. She bursts into tears and moves towards me. She clings on to me so tightly and cries so hard that I fear she will never stop. Her body pushed against mine feels bony, so different to Carly’s soft curves. I cannot help myself, I lean down and kiss the top of her head, putting my nose into her soft shiny brown hair. She smells and tastes of patchouli oil and honey. She doesn’t seem to notice my indiscretion, her body continuing to heave against mine. Her sobs increase. I reach in my pocket for my handkerchief and hand it to her.

  After what seems like an hour, but may only be ten or twenty minutes – I don’t know because my arms are holding her so tight I can’t see my watch – Jenni’s sobs eventually begin to quieten and she pulls away from me.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispers. ‘Come in.’

  I follow her through the rest of her tiny hallway, through the dining
area of her open plan living room, into the seating area where she collapses into a small floral sofa. Feeling guilty about our physical contact which I fear Carly would not understand, I clear a few toys off the sofa opposite and sit down, as far away from her as possible. The room is in disarray; littered with Duplo and jigsaw pieces, soft toys and scattered dressing-up clothes. The glass coffee tables (not sensible with toddlers) are covered in crumbs and finger marks, empty plastic beakers and coffee cups. The curtains are unopened. I spring up and open them. Jenni blinks her red-rimmed doe eyes as the sunlight hits them.

  When I am sitting down again, arms and legs crossed to signal my formality, Jenni sniffs and then says, ‘Rob, why are you here again?’

  Almost a reprimand. But not, because of those soft brown chocolate-drop eyes. Fudge brownie, mixed with vanilla.

  I uncross my legs, lean forward and say, ‘Craig asked me to come. He wanted me to tell you, on his behalf, just how sorry he is, how much he loves you, and that he will never ever do it again.’ I pause. ‘He wanted me to ask you to give him a break.’

  ~ Jenni ~

  I sit at the front of the Eucharist service, with my father who is staying with me, praying for the strength to forgive Craig. My father has advised me that I need to move past this, because life is short and we must appreciate people while we have them. Bereft of my mother, he would say that. But what would he have said if she had been unfaithful? Mother or Father, unfaithful? That wouldn’t have happened, would it? If only my mother were here, so that I could talk to her. Why do you have to take people away so completely, Lord? Why can’t they at least just talk to us from Heaven, even if we can’t see them and hold them any more?

  I have taken to having imaginary conversations with my mother as I go about my chores; as I clean the bathroom or drive to the supermarket. And every morning, lunchtime and bedtime I pray to you, Lord. But so far the peace of forgiveness has not settled on me. Memories of happier times dance on the periphery of my mind. Craig and I bringing our first child home, swathed in the shawl my mother had knitted for him. Wrapped together in love, slow dancing at a Christmas party. Walking in the park; feet crunching across burnished leaves. But Carly is walking across my memories, destroying them. I am trying to stop her but I cannot. I must pray harder. I know, Lord, that you reward those whose prayers are genuine. I must make my prayers work. Carly and Craig. I picture them lying together, dying together, slowly, in pain.

  Retribution, not forgiveness. Oh how my prayers have failed, Lord.

  ~ Craig ~

  I miss Jenni so much. The warmth of her body beside me at night. The steady rise and fall of her breath. Her slim frame curved around mine. I miss the quirky things she used to tell me about her day, about the children. Without her I can’t even concentrate on my favourite TV programme. I save up things to tell her, like I used to, until I remember she does not want to listen any more.

  And the children. I cannot bear to think about the children. Seeing them every other weekend is difficult. They treat me with distant politeness, as though I am a stranger.

  So this week on Tuesday morning, when Jenni interrupted my breakfast by texting me about Relate, it was a no-brainer. And now on Friday evening, an hour before I need to leave for our first appointment, I am ready to go, wearing my interview suit, grey silk tie and a pink shirt, shoes so highly polished I can see my reflection in them. Mum said I had put too much aftershave on so I have doused it off with a sponge, and now I am pacing about my childhood bedroom. The bedroom in which so much has happened. I had my first girl in here, one heady weekend of my youth when my parents were away. It was where I used to sing, too. Sixteen years old with a second-hand karaoke machine, singing my heart out, psyching myself up for band auditions that never happened. I used to really care about it. These days, I don’t feel like singing any more.

  I look at my watch. Fifty-nine minutes before I need to leave. I might as well go and sit in the lounge and watch TV with my parents. That seems to be all my elderly parents do these days. Prepare meals and tidy up, drink tea and fall asleep in front of the TV. I have so little to do at the moment; half the time when I’m not on shift, I join them. Today, as usual, I find them semi-comatose in front of the early evening news. The lounge is too hot; stifling, and as soon I am sitting down with them, I join them in sleep. When my iPhone alarm goes off I pull myself into wakefulness. At last it is time to leave.

  Jenni is waiting for me outside a primary school, in the centre of town. A primary school between the police station and the post office, the place Relate use for their evening sessions. Jenni, mouth in a line. Jenni, wearing her best suede boots and the coat I bought her last Christmas.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ she says, without curving her lips.

  ‘That’s OK,’ I say.

  We walk in silence, side by side, into the red brick Victorian building, which needs a lick of paint. This red brick building is impersonal, uncomfortable, draughty and cold. Everywhere we walk our footsteps echo. Not quite sure where to go, we hover in the entrance hall. I pass time by reading the notice board. I try to admire the children’s paintings Blu-tacked to the walls. But surrounded by clumsy brush strokes, the cardboard smell of poster paint, and the endlessly wounded look on Jenni’s face, I am not appreciating them very much. Eventually, when we’re wondering whether to give up and go back to our respective homes, a woman puts her head round a door at the end of the entrance hall and calls us into her office. She is about fifty with a cosy, ‘come and sit with me in the front parlour’ sort of smile. We follow her into her office and close the door behind us.

  ‘Welcome to Stansfield’s Relate,’ she says as we all sit down together in a triangle of grey plastic chairs. ‘My name is Edna. Edna Caldwell.’

  Edna has done what she can to make the environment more hospitable. She has a lavender scent diffuser and a photograph of her children on the desk. At least I presume they are her children.

  Jenni crosses her legs and folds her arms across her chest.

  ‘What exactly are you hoping to achieve from this, Jenni?’ Edna asks.

  ‘I want to learn to forgive him,’ she almost whispers, brown eyes moist, about to explode with tears.

  ‘What do you need to forgive him for?’

  ‘I’m sure you know. You must have read the notes. His sordid and illicit affair.’

  Edna turns to me. Her face hasn’t moved. As if whatever we say can’t shock her. She is totally used to this; immune to our suffering.

  ‘And you, what are you expecting from couples’ counselling, Craig?’ She simpers a little too long on my Christian name, over-warm and over-friendly.

  I inhale.

  ‘I deeply regret what I have done. No one is more important to me than my wife. I hope our counselling will help me to demonstrate that.’

  ‘Then why did you do it in the first place?’ Jenni hisses.

  I turn to her. She is crying and so am I. I am crying inside.

  ‘I can’t answer you. It was just sex. Meaningless sex.’

  ‘How can sex ever be meaningless?’

  ‘It can. It was.’

  ‘If sex is meaningless I never want to have sex with you again.’

  We sit in silence, Jenni staring blankly in front of her, eyes unfocused. After a while she stands up.

  ‘Sorry, Craig. I can’t do this. This isn’t going to work.’

  I stand up and move towards her.

  ‘Please, Jenni. Please try,’ I beg. ‘I’m so sorry. I miss you so very much.’

  ‘Missing you is only the beginning of the hurt you have caused me,’ Jenni says bitterly and walks out. Leaving me alone in this soulless room with Edna, the rest of my life stretching in front of me, to dwell upon her words.

  ~ Carly ~

  My life is shit.

  Jenni, all this business with you and Craig isn’t helping at all. Rob is so distracted that instead of helping me with the children at weekends like he used to, he spends half of his time bolstering y
ou up as you lurch from one emotional crisis to another.

  My sex life is shit too.

  I have tried to contact Craig a few times to request that we rekindle our relationship, but no sooner do I dial his number than I am cut off. He’s come round to our house a couple of times to see Rob, but despite my extravagant attempts to catch his attention with my eyes, or by brushing my hands across his, he has studiously ignored me. Once when we were alone in the kitchen for a few seconds he just rasped under his breath: ‘Leave me alone, Carly. It’s over.’

  And so, reluctantly, this is something I have been forced to accept.

  I repeat – my sex life is shit; it has become very tame; perfunctory. To make it less shit I would like to take another lover, but working as a nurse/receptionist in my husband’s medical practice and spending the rest of my time at home with small children is not the environment to discover a plethora of lovers. A plethora of lovers is what I need to make up for not having Craig.

  Worst of all, Jenni, my ex-best friend, you are a sanctimonious bitch. Oh me. Oh my. My husband’s been unfaithful. Cow eyes. Tears. That’s all we ever get from you these days. The more time I spend with you the less I like you. How did we become so friendly in the first place? How could you ruin your marriage over one apparently meaningless affair? I suspect even the vicar despairs of you.

  My mother says I should be more sympathetic. Any sadness leading to family breakdown is intolerable, so I am trying, and next weekend we are helping you move out of the lovely three-bedroom townhouse that you shared with Craig into a flat above a shop; it’s what you say you want. Rob will drive the hire-van. Rob and Craig will move the furniture. I will provide help with any last-minute packing, and moral support, while the older generation will look after the children.