Obsession: A shocking psychological thriller where love affairs turn deadly

by Amanda Robson

  Brittle eyes become tighter.

  ‘Jenni, you know I’m not a Christian. We discussed it before our wedding.’

  ‘But things are different now. We have the kids, they’re getting older.’ I feel tears welling. ‘They need a Christian upbringing.’

  He exhales sharply. He shakes his head.

  Annie Lennox is here. She stands by the table, elbows wide, as she screws the bottle opener into the cork. It takes her an age to bed it in, and then it sticks as she tries to retract it.

  Please, God. Make Annie Lennox go away.

  Eventually she manages to ease the cork out. Then she pours the wine out from a great height.

  My prayers are answered. Annie Lennox finally retreats.

  I lean across the table towards Craig.

  ‘The children need a strong Christian influence.’

  His jaw is tense like his eyes.

  ‘They’ve got that in you.’

  ‘Seriously, Craig. They need a clear message. From both of us.’

  He takes a large gulp of his wine, eyes holding mine.

  ‘I just can’t do it, Jenni,’ he says. ‘I’m not a Christian. You know that.’

  ~ Carly ~

  ‘Carly, Carly, can you hear me?’ a voice asks.

  I do not reply. I lie wrapped in stiff cotton sheets, watching a woman wearing a blue cotton nurse’s uniform pressing a buzzer at the side of my bed. She leans over me, eyes searing into me.

  ‘If you can hear me, blink,’ she says.

  I blink.

  Her eyes widen and she leans over and presses the buzzer again. I struggle to sit up in bed, fighting against the drip line that is tangling against me, but I can’t manage. I just lie still, eyes open, watching her watching me. Beyond the nurse, the room begins to come into focus – white upon white, shiny and hygienic. I move my head to the side. I see a picture of Rob and the children in a wooden frame balanced on the white cabinet next to my bed. Pippa has her fingers bent to look like claws and is pretending to roar. Then the world becomes fuzzy as I drift back to sleep.

  ~ Rob ~

  ‘I have to go. It’s an emergency.’

  I move through the surgery, past the waiting patients, past the receptionists into the car park, so distracted that I’m not sure I’m safe to drive. But I’m too impatient to wait for a taxi. I skid my car into reverse, almost hitting the silver Mercedes parked behind me. The traffic on the main road traps me in the car park. Every light is against me. At the hospital, the car park is so busy that I have no choice but to park on a grass bank and hope I won’t get ticketed.

  Through the double doors of A and E, through the trauma unit, straight to Critical Care, bursting into your room with the staff nurse following me. You are fast asleep, just as you were when I left you this morning. Fast, fast asleep. I am drowning in disappointment, tears pricking my lower lids. The staff nurse puts her arm on my shoulder.

  ‘She was awake for about half an hour. She’s only just gone back to sleep.’

  I sit down next to you and take your hand.

  You’re asleep but your sleep is different, you’re moving a little, your eyelids flickering. I sit watching your thin stretched face, your lips jerking at the edges, longing to take you in my arms, longing to speak to you. Every minute that you stay asleep feels like a year. I play games in my mind, telling Pippa, telling Heather that you have woken, and that you are sitting up asking to see them. That I am holding your hand across the table at a candlelit dinner. I squeeze your fingers in mine. For a second I think you squeeze back.

  ~ Carly ~

  In my dreams I fall again and you are laughing, Jenni, face contorted, long dark hair tangled and matted. I land heavily on a hospital bed and open my eyes. Rob is sitting next to me, blurred, as if separated from me by a mist. He smiles and moves his face closer to me but still I cannot see him properly.

  ‘I can hear you but I can’t see you very well,’ I say, but he doesn’t reply.

  I close my eyes to dream again.

  ~ Carly ~

  I wake up in a hospital bed in a room that looks blurred, as if it has been made of fuzzy felt. Rob is here, holding my hand. I strain towards him. I want to feel his lips on mine. He moves towards me. Our lips meet.

  Electricity. Sweet electricity.

  I press my lips against his, firmer, tighter. But then I remember what I have to tell him. I pull my lips away. I try and tell him about you, bitch-whore Jenni, but I’m not sure any words come out. He has not heard me. His expression does not change.

  ~ Rob ~

  Yesterday you told me that you can hear me but that you can’t see me. A start, Carly, a start. And I think you can see me a little. Today you smiled when I entered the room. When I stroked your back. When I made a clumsy attempt to hug you by dodging your lines. I sit and watch you lying there, breathing shallowly, paler than pale.

  Then after a while, the miracle that I have prayed for for months happens; your eyes open for me – tentatively, heavy lidded, but properly. They open and they remain open. I lean across towards you, into your line of sight and smile. You stir in the bed and pull yourself up to a sitting position. Blue eyes sharp like copper crystal. Eyes locked into mine. Carly, I have waited for this moment for so long, practised what I will say to you so often, but now it is here I cannot find the words to explain my emotions. So I take your hand and wait for you to speak first. After a while you are straining to whisper. I move the bedside chair closer.

  ‘Rob, I need to tell you something.’ I lean forward, desperate for your words. You pause and squeeze my hand tightly. ‘Your little bitch-whore tried to kill me.’

  ~ Craig ~

  Bored as I wait for the teachers to release my children, I stand pretending to be interested in the school notice board. A woman comes and stands next to me, leaning forwards as if she is straining to see. I can smell her perfume. Even though I make a point of no longer looking at other women, I allow myself to turn and glance at her. She is tall, almost as tall as me, and she has shoulder-length glossy blonde hair cut in a bob. She runs her fingers through her hair and shakes her head as she reads. My glance is turning into a stare but I seem incapable of turning my head away. She has brown eyes, much smaller than Jenni’s, and pouting lips. Even more pouty than Carly’s. A few drops of perspiration have formed on her upper lip and I watch her wipe them away with her index finger. She smiles at me warmly. Why is she smiling like that? Is she lonely?

  ‘Are you going to the homemade cake sale?’ she asks.

  ‘Social event of the century. Of course I’m going.’

  She laughs politely. ‘I am too. It’s in the hall now. Come with me if you want to know the way.’

  I walk across the playground with her, towards the school hall, which smells of sweaty trainers and overripe cheese.

  Come on, Craig, you know the rules, any other woman but Jenni – ignore. Ignore. Ignore.

  That night in bed, being near to Jenni makes me feel breathless, as if the air doesn’t contain enough oxygen. I breathe quickly, my erection pulsating. I put my arms around her and pull her towards me. I caress her breasts but they feel soft and spongy. Flat. Without desire. I reach for her clitoris and she widens her legs. She goads me with her eyes. I know what she’s thinking: Get it over with so that I can go to sleep.

  I try to excite her, but nothing works. She turns away from me and opens her bedside drawer, pulling out the lubricant she seems to need these days. She wipes it on herself and on me as well and then she turns over languorously and allows me to enter her from behind. Her nipples are semi-erect now, I tease them as I pump. She is no longer Jenni, but Rupert’s mother – blonde and busty, creamy and delicious, breasts as ripe as cherries. I try pressing my usual button: any other woman – ignore. Ignore. Ignore. But I cannot. It doesn’t work. I cannot stop fantasising about Rupert’s mother.

  ‘What’s Rupert like?’ I ask Mark the next day as we are having breakfast.

  ‘He’s a bit of a wimp.’
<
br />   ‘So you don’t want to ask him for tea or anything?’

  ‘No, thanks, Dad.’

  In the end I get to know her through work. It’s eleven o’clock at night, and I’m drinking hot chocolate and watching a bit of TV with Jenni before we go to bed. My phone rings: I’m called to the fire station. A flurry of activity, flinging on my uniform and running to the station, which is just around the corner, still doing my jacket up. Good job Jono and I volunteered to check all the breathing apparatus earlier. We haven’t had a shout for weeks. We’re very charged up. Exhilarated. Except for Jono, our driver, who is calmer than calm. He wouldn’t be allowed to drive if he wasn’t. The engine pushes into darkness, lights flashing, siren howling, twisting along narrow country lanes. Turning into a crescent drive, towards a detached Georgian house, almost a manor house but not quite; perfectly balanced architecture and a Downing Street front door. The door opens and Rupert’s mother is standing there with wet hair, wearing only a pink bath towel. Our eyes are out on stalks.

  ‘I’m so sorry you’ve been disturbed. I was in the bath when the fire alarm went off.’ As if we haven’t noticed. She continues. ‘Nothing’s on fire, I can assure you. I think the links to you must be faulty. Maybe a spider has got inside the detector or something.’

  I step forwards from the men.

  ‘Don’t worry. We don’t mind coming out. It’s our job. Better to be safe than sorry,’ I say, taking over from the Station Officer, hoping he won’t have a go at me later. ‘But do you mind if we just check inside?’

  ‘No. Of course not. Thank you. My son, Rupert, despite all the noise, is still asleep in his bedroom.’ There is a pause. ‘And my husband’s away.’

  She steps back from the doorway. We put plastic covers on our boots and step inside. She hovers in the hallway as we check everything out. A quick glance in the kitchen. A quick look at the boiler and the fireplaces. It only takes about five minutes to see that everything’s fine.

  As we leave she says, ‘Craig.’

  So she knows my name.

  ‘We’ve seen each other at the school gate, haven’t we?’ She holds her hand out to me to introduce herself. ‘I’m Ana. Anastasia Donaldson.’

  I stand looking at her. She pauses.

  ‘Do you think you could come back tomorrow and help me check my alarm? The company we use haven’t been very reliable.’

  That’s a no-brainer.

  ‘Of course.’

  The next day I am here at ten-thirty on the dot as requested. This time she is dressed; wearing jeans, and a figure-hugging polo neck jumper. Don’t look, Craig.

  ‘Thank you so much for coming,’ she says as I step into the hallway. ‘It was very nice of you.’

  We stand in the hallway, beaming ridiculously at one another like a pair of awkward teenagers, as if neither of us knows what to say or what to do. Pulling myself together, I snap off the grin.

  ‘How many detectors are there?’ I ask.

  ‘One in every room. Two in the larger ones.’ She pauses. ‘And the control panel is in the basement.’ She smiles at me again. ‘Should I take you there first?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  I follow her as her heels click across black and white marble, past sultry paintings of mountains and forests, past tangled golden wall lights, through a doorway at the back of the hall. Down a scarlet-carpeted staircase, down, down into a vaulted stone basement, where she flicks a switch to illuminate row after row of wine bottles, and a line of control panels. I stand in front of the control panels. There are so many that for a few seconds I feel confused.

  ‘The smoke alarm control panel is the first one on the right,’ she says pointing to it.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I tell you what, I’ll leave you in peace to get on. Give me a shout from the hallway when you’ve finished.’

  And she disappears somewhere into the vastness of her home. I start at the control panel that indicates which smoke detectors require checking, and then I go through them room by room. The house is so large it takes me hours. Seven bedrooms. Seven bathrooms. Kitchen. Kitchen dining area. Kitchen sitting room. Formal dining room. Three drawing rooms. Conservatory. Breakfast room. Two studies. When I am finally ready to leave I stand in the hallway and shout: ‘Anastasia!’

  Within seconds she appears from one of the smaller drawing rooms and gives me a friendly smile. ‘Thank you so much. It’s taken so much of your time. Have you any time left to have a coffee before you go?’

  I know I should say no.

  But I hear myself say, ‘Yes.’

  Anastasia must like proper coffee because a metal machine that looks as if it should be in Starbucks sprawls across the lefthand side of her restaurant-sized kitchen. She twists handles and turns knobs and eventually produces two small white china cups steaming aromatically. We sit opposite one another at her glass kitchen table and I take a sip. It’s so strong that I cough.

  ‘It’s so good of you to help me. My husband isn’t around.’ There is a pause. Her face becomes pinched and strained. ‘I expect you heard on the grapevine that my husband and I are getting divorced.’

  ‘I hadn’t, no. My wife, Jenni, and I only moved here fairly recently. We’re not part of the local mafia yet.’ I pause. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’

  ‘I’m not,’ she replies, a little too boldly to sound genuine. She is biting her lower lip a little with her teeth. I know that trick. Hurting yourself to distract yourself from crying. I pull my eyes away from her face and look at the floor, just to give her a moment.

  ‘So it was your decision, was it?’ I ask after a few moments.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I suppose that makes things easier.’

  ‘It hasn’t been easy.’

  Her fingers are tightening so sharply around the handle of her coffee mug that I fear she may break it.

  ‘It’s never easy.’

  ‘You sound like you know.’

  ‘Almost.’ I pause. ‘And almost’s bad enough.’

  ‘Almost? What happened?’

  I sigh. I really don’t know why I do this when I’ve hardly met her and I’m so ashamed about what happened between Carly and I, but I tell Anastasia the truth.

  ‘I had a brief affair.’ I pause. ‘My wife and I are still recovering from the aftermath. Still working things out.’

  ‘Well then,’ she says with an awkward smile, ‘I’m sorry to hear that too.’

  We sit in silence for a while, and then I can’t help myself.

  ‘What happened with you then?’ I ask.

  Her eyes are filling with tears now; not even biting her lip can prevent them. ‘I just can’t talk about it yet.’

  ~ Carly ~

  I’m tired. So tired. Lying here, drifting in and out of sleep. People come and go. Rob. Mother. Pippa. John. Matt. Rob, here again, holding my hand, reassuring me, kindness in his green freckled eyes. Somewhere through this fug of rest, and sleep, and love, I remember what happened. I know I must find the words to tell someone. But every time I try I’m not sure my words come out. But my strength is returning. I warn you, Jenni, you’ve not got long. Do you hear me? Not long before everyone knows what you have done.

  ~ Craig ~

  Anastasia Donaldson infatuates me with her amazon limbs and her Emilia Fox cuteness. Blonde hair. Brown eyes. A perfect combination. Her educated accent tumbles like sugar candy from her caramel throat. My eyes follow her at school drop-off and pick-up. The children used to walk to school along the beach, but now I take them in the car, and park as close as I can to her shiny new Range Rover, almost as big as the school mini-bus. We joke about that with her.

  ~ Carly ~

  Today my body is Herculean – I’m riding on air. I wake up and hold my hand down to press my buzzer and call the nurse. I hold it down for a few seconds and when she doesn’t appear I hold it down again. After a while a nurse comes scuttling down the ward. She arrives at my bed with a half scowl, half smile.

  ‘Are y
ou all right, Carly?’ she asks.

  ‘I need to see Dr Willis. It’s important. I need to tell him something.’

  ‘Is it anything I can help you with?’

  ‘No. I need him. It’s something he’s been helping me with for years.’

  She checks my machines, and my lines briskly, with a sense of nurse-like urgency; quick and efficient, but slow enough to be sure not to make a mistake. I watch her with a sense of regret. That’s what I used to be like. When she seems satisfied everything is fine, she steps away from my bed to page Dr Willis.

  She comes back. ‘He’s on the next ward,’ she tells me. ‘He’ll be over as soon as he can.’ She looks at me consideringly. ‘Would you like some water?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  She fills my glass from a jug on my bedside cabinet, and places it on the tray that swings across my bed, careful to make sure it’s in a position I can reach.

  Miss Calm-Efficiency then puts her head on one side as she looks at me.

  ‘If you need me for anything at all, just buzz.’

  Miss Calm-Efficiency leaves.

  I sit in bed sipping water, waiting for Dr Willis, looking at my bland surroundings, trying to find something interesting to rest my eyes upon. But the only colour in the room is the photograph Rob brought from home. The one of our family trapped in time on that Breton campsite. Pippa pretending to be a lion, showing us all her claws. Today I know I need to show mine.

  Dr Willis is coming, I hear the familiar sound of his cowboy boots stomping noisily down the corridor. He is here, standing next to my bed, leaning forwards face furrowed with concern.

  ‘How are you feeling, Carly?’ he asks.

  ‘I’d like to say never better, but that wouldn’t be quite true.’

  He laughs. I try to laugh with him, but no laughter comes. He pulls up a chair and sits next to my bed. As he crosses his legs his trousers rise up his legs a little, displaying his crocodile boots.