All in Her Head: The gripping debut thriller that readers are going crazy for in 2020

by Nikki Smith

  ‘I got you something,’ Jack says, opening the door of the sitting room.

  I glance at her. She’s quieter, but I know it’s only temporary. ‘What?’ I ask. ‘She’s getting fidgety. I think I need to feed her.’

  He points at the wall. There’s a large canvas painted in countless shades of blue that fade gradually to creamy white as they reach the bottom of the picture. Sea and sky above a beach. Two tiny figures in black stand at the edge of the surf.

  ‘I wanted it to be a surprise,’ he says. ‘It’s supposed to be us. When we were travelling. I found an old photo of us in Australia and asked this guy to paint it. D’you like it?’

  ‘It’s beautiful.’ I feel a physical ache to be back there. To stand in bare feet on the sand with nothing to do, no responsibilities. I can remember how the salt stung the sunburn on my cheeks when I dived in the sea.

  Jack leans down to kiss me. His eyes search my face, looking for praise for his efforts, like a child showing off their first piece of writing. It’s like he’s trying to prove something.

  I look away. He doesn’t understand that at the moment I can’t cope with his neediness as well as hers. She feels awkward in my arms, reminding me of her presence.

  ‘Where’s the other picture?’ I ask.

  ‘Which one?’ he says.

  ‘The one that was up here before. The one we had framed of us at your office party last year.’

  He doesn’t look at me as he reaches up and adjusts the canvas on the wall, making sure it’s not crooked. ‘I put it away,’ he says. ‘It’s in the cupboard.’

  I like that picture. Harry had taken it. My figure had still been just slim enough to fit into my favourite black dress then, before I was pregnant.

  ‘Have you thought about what we’re going to call her?’ he asks, changing the subject.

  I haven’t. She still has the tiny plastic wristband with Baby Reynolds written on it attached round her arm and I can’t imagine her being called anything else.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say.

  ‘How about Matilda? Your mum’s middle name? She could be Tilly for short,’ he says.

  I hesitate, then nod. I don’t mind if he chooses. I’ve got too many other things to think about.

  We walk into the newly decorated nursery which smells of fresh paint. A baby mobile with stars dangling from it hangs over the white wooden cot. The yellow bedding inside is brand new, the small blanket folded neatly on top of the ironed sheet. All ready for her to sleep in. It’s not big enough to hold me, but at the moment I wish I could lie down and pull the covers over my head to hide myself away underneath the soft fabric. If I raised my arms, I’d be able to make a tent above my face, like I did when I was little, and stare at the patterns on the material drawn by the sun shining through the window.

  ‘I know it’s way too big for her and I’ve still got the bookshelves to put up before it’s finished,’ he says, ‘but it’s getting there. And we need to let the paint dry out. I don’t want her in here when it smells like this.’

  ‘She’ll sleep in the Moses basket beside our bed for now,’ I tell him. ‘I need to be able to keep an eye on her and it’ll be easier to get her out at night.’

  ‘Do you want me to look after her while you try and have a sleep?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m OK.’ He’s treating me like a child when nothing has changed. I’m not ill; I’m perfectly able to cope.

  Tilly arches away from me. She doesn’t seem to like me very much. I shut the door of the nursery and walk into our bedroom to feed her. I can hear Jack muttering in the hallway. He must be answering the door.

  ‘Is that my dad?’ I shout.

  He doesn’t reply. I have to stop myself from calling out again as I don’t want to disturb Tilly. She’s keeping me where she wants me already, confined by obligation, unable to get up until she’s finished. She starts to cry when I wind her. The noise grates in my head as I carry her in to where Jack’s sitting on the sofa.

  ‘Who was that?’ I ask.

  Jack frowns. ‘Who was what?’

  ‘I thought I heard the door?’ I say.

  He shakes his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Can you take her for a bit?’ I ask as I lean down and put Tilly into his arms. She’s still grizzling as the doorbell buzzes. This time the noise is unmistakable.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Jack says, starting to get up and holding out Tilly as if he’s handing back something that’s my responsibility.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll go.’

  My dad’s face is surrounded by a bright white halo on the video entry screen as he peers at the camera. I let him in and wait by the door as he walks up the corridor. His hands shake as he adjusts his glasses after he gives me a hug. For years he didn’t seem to age at all, but since I got pregnant, I notice it more every time I see him. The start of her new life seems to highlight his own mortality. I don’t like being reminded of his frailty, of the fact he won’t always be here. I want him to have time to get to know his granddaughter.

  He stares at Tilly resting on Jack’s shoulder. ‘She’s beautiful, Ali. What a little sweetheart.’

  ‘You can hold her if you like,’ Jack says. ‘I thought I’d go out and pick us up a treat from that cake place Ali likes up the road. What d’you fancy? One of those strawberry tart things you usually have?’

  I nod.

  ‘I won’t be long.’ He passes Tilly to my dad, who cradles her in his arms, and her cries quieten. My shoulders relax as the noise stops. ‘You must have the magic touch, Edward,’ Jack says as he picks up his car keys off the hall shelf and shuts the front door behind him.

  I frown and lift Tilly out of my dad’s arms.

  ‘She’s quiet with me too, you know,’ I say defensively.

  He smiles, stroking Tilly’s hand. ‘You were the same, you know. Cried all the time for the first few weeks.’ If she does that, I don’t know how I’ll cope.

  I stare at the front door. It feels like Jack’s abandoning me. I wonder if it’s going to be like this every day. I’ll sit waiting for the time to pass while I look after her until he comes home. And then he’ll leave the next morning and I’ll have to do the same thing all over again.

  ‘Nice of Jack to go and get us a treat,’ Edward says. I dismiss the thought that he didn’t want to be stuck here with us. I know how well he gets on with my dad. When he hadn’t got a bonus last year, it was my dad who had phoned to reassure him he hadn’t let anyone down. Had told him not to worry and that he’d lend us the money for another round of IVF.

  ‘I’m here to help you, Ali,’ Dad says. ‘If you want me to.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I insist.

  ‘You can be so stubborn sometimes,’ he says. ‘You remind me of your mother.’

  ‘I do?’ We rarely talk about Mum. I’d thought of her this morning when I’d looked at Tilly in her cot beside me in hospital. Wondered if she’d felt the same after she had me. That it wasn’t at all how she’d expected it to be. Like she was missing something. That she was different from all those other women on the ward whose faces radiated instant happiness as they held their babies. Whether she hid the dread that’s replaced the baby in my stomach and is growing faster than she ever did. I can’t ask her, so I’ll never know.

  Tilly starts to grizzle again and I grit my teeth. The sound makes me wince. It crawls over my skin and into my brain, where it scrapes along the surface like nails on a blackboard.

  She stops crying if I jiggle her as I walk round the flat. My dad offers to do it, but I refuse, so he rummages around in the hall cupboard and gets out our toolbox to fix the tap that’s dripping in our kitchen instead. I’d asked Jack to do it before I went into hospital, but he obviously hasn’t got around to it.

  I take Tilly into the bathroom and lie her down on her mat to change her, undoing the poppers on each leg of her Babygro and pulling it up to get her nappy off. As the mater

  ial peels away from her stomach, I notice she has red marks o
n her skin that look like bruises. A chill runs down my back as I remember the leaflets we’d been given on meningitis. I put my hand on her head. She doesn’t feel hot. I stand up and search through the bottles and packets on the shelves in the bathroom cabinet for the digital thermometer we’d bought before she was born. It’s in the corner, its packaging still intact, which I hack apart with a pair of scissors, telling myself not to panic. I press the small nozzle into her ear. Thirty-six point four. Normal. I should feel reassured, but I don’t. I do it again. Still thirty-six point four. I wonder if it’s working properly.

  ‘Dad,’ I yell.

  There’s a mumbling from the kitchen.

  ‘Dad! Can you come here a minute?’

  He appears at the bathroom door. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Tilly’s got marks on her stomach.’ I try to keep my voice calm.

  He kneels down beside me in the small space, holding onto the door frame for support as he lowers himself slowly onto the floor. ‘What? Where?’

  I point. He bends over her, running his fingers from left to right just below where I’ve pulled up her Babygro. He looks at me.

  ‘I can’t see anything,’ he says.

  I point at her stomach, but they’re gone. Her skin is smooth and unblemished as she kicks her legs.

  ‘But I … They were just …’ I say.

  He pats my arm. ‘Perhaps her Babygro was rubbing against her. She looks fine now.’ He’s staring at me rather than Tilly and I don’t know why. I’m not the one he should be concerned about.

  I hear the front door open. Jack’s come back. Of course he’s come back. Dad gets up off the floor whilst I finish changing Tilly and fasten her Babygro. Jack puts his head round the door.

  ‘All OK?’ he says. Is he asking about me, or her, or both of us? Perhaps we now come as one indistinguishable unit, permanently fused together.

  I nod. My dad looks at me, and then at my husband. I assume he’s debating whether to mention the marks I thought I saw, but he doesn’t say anything. Neither do I.

  I follow Jack into the kitchen as he puts a bag on the counter and pulls out three boxes, all wrapped in pink ribbon.

  ‘Help yourself,’ he says. ‘I wondered if your dad could give me a hand with the tap,’ he says. ‘It’s still leaking.’

  ‘You weren’t here, so he’s already done it,’ I say. My tone is frosty. I know I’m being unreasonable, but I resent him leaving me alone with Tilly.

  Jack frowns and I think he’s about to speak, but he changes his mind, perhaps unsure whether I’m trying to make a point. He holds out his hands to take our daughter, but I ignore him, clasping her more tightly in my arms. A mixture of guilt and frustration sweeps over me as I walk out of the room. If he can’t stay here when I need him most, I don’t see why he should hold her at all.

  THEN

  Jack – Day One

  My mum calls whilst we’re trying to bathe Tilly, I recognise her voice above the wailing as she leaves a message on the answerphone. I’ll have to call her back. We’re both struggling to hold onto the tiny slippery body that tries to wriggle out of our grasp. Ali wraps her in a baby towel as I manage to lift her, dripping, out of the water, the small hood fitting neatly over her head. Ali’s hands shake as she lies her on the changing mat to fasten her nappy.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I ask.

  She nods. ‘I hate it that she’s so upset. I think I’m doing something wrong.’

  ‘Course you’re not,’ I say, putting my arm round her, but she shrugs me off. ‘She’s fine; she’s just not keen on baths. Perhaps she’s more of a shower girl.’ I glance at her as I say it, in an attempt to make her smile, but she doesn’t smile back and I notice her shoulders stiffen. I hand her the Babygro that’s been warming on the radiator.

  ‘I can get it,’ she says. ‘I’m not totally incompetent.’

  I don’t reply. I don’t want this to turn into a bickering session. I’d wanted Edward to leave earlier in the afternoon, so we could have some time to ourselves, but he hadn’t, so now we’re left trying to make the best of the most difficult part of the day. The part where I can see how shattered she is and all I want to do is settle Tilly so we can have something to eat.

  I take a deep breath. I shouldn’t resent Edward. I know he just wants to spend time with his granddaughter and without him we wouldn’t even have Tilly. He’d been the one who’d insisted on lending us the money for the last round of IVF. My stomach turns over when I think about how I’ve deceived him. I’ll pay him back as soon as I can afford it.

  As I go to play the answerphone message, I notice Ali’s taken the framed picture of us out of the cupboard and has balanced it back on the hall shelf. I wish she hadn’t done that. I thought she’d forget about it. I look past the man who smiles back at me in his dinner jacket with his arm round his wife to the woman standing behind them. Harry’s photo had caught her at a slight angle and she’s staring directly at me. I’d thought I could trust her. She’d found me at my most vulnerable when I’d needed someone to talk to. I open the cupboard door and slide the frame back onto one of the shelves inside as I focus on listening to the message my mum has left.

  I’ll call her back tomorrow, I can’t face it tonight. I’m worried she’ll be able to tell something’s wrong just from my voice. She knows me too well. I haven’t told her who I saw last week. It had taken a few seconds to recognise my father’s face when it had appeared on the screen of our intercom. I hadn’t expected to see him again. I’d warned him he wouldn’t be welcome. I’d gone to hang up, but he’d made it clear he wouldn’t leave unless he spoke to me. I’d agreed to meet him at the local coffee shop; I certainly wasn’t going to let him into the flat.

  I’d ordered a large latte at the counter, looking around for him. He’d been sitting at a table at the back, his hair more dishevelled than I remembered. Mum had always made sure he’d cut it regularly, but he must have forgotten now she wasn’t there. He’d been wearing the navy blazer and rotary club tie he thought lent an air of formality to his appearance. I’d carried my coffee over and had sat down opposite him.

  ‘A hello would be nice,’ he’d said, smiling. He had several different smiles, my father. I’d seen them all. This was the one designed for strangers who didn’t know him any better. The one that said it’s lovely to meet you, that I can’t wait to hear what you have to say. The tiny part of me that had allowed myself to hope he’d asked to meet in order to apologise, or at least reach out and build a relationship, shrivelled up as soon as I saw it.

  ‘I’m not here to exchange pleasantries,’ I’d said, not allowing the disappointment to show on my face. ‘We agreed you wouldn’t come round again.’ He’d taken a sip out of the paper coffee cup in front of him and I’d noticed he was drinking water. ‘Gone off coffee, have you?’ I’d asked.

  ‘No point in paying for something when you don’t really want it,’ he’d said. ‘They’ve got a legal obligation to provide water. I’d have had something at yours, but you didn’t seem very keen to invite me in.’

  ‘I thought we had an agreement,’ I’d said.

  ‘That was then,’ he’d replied. ‘Things have changed since last year.’

  I’d adjusted my chair, pushing it back a little further from the table. His eyes had flickered as he noticed the movement.

  ‘What d’you want?’ I’d asked. It appeared he wasn’t in a rush.

  He’d taken another sip of water. ‘I miss our chats, Jack.’ He was doing this to provoke me. If I’d got up and walked out, I’d have found him on my doorstep again. Probably not today – he enjoyed stringing out the agony – but he’d have appeared when I least expected it. I’d have come home to find him having a conversation with Ali. I assumed he didn’t know about the baby and I wanted to keep it that way, it was one less thing he could use against me.

  ‘What do you want?’ I’d asked again, keeping my voice calm, refusing to rise to the bait.

  ‘Perhaps if you asked “what d’you want,
Dad,” I might feel more inclined to reply,’ he’d said.

  I’d swallowed, looking directly into his eyes. They were the same colour as mine, but that’s where any similarity ceased. His had no warmth, like looking at glass. I’d seen straight through them to what lay beneath. He’d been playing with me. I’d curled my toes up in the ends of my shoes and forced myself to remember I wasn’t a child anymore. I didn’t need to seek his approval.

  ‘Either you tell me what you want, or I’m leaving,’ I’d said.

  He’d stared at me. I’d shrugged and pushed my chair away from the table as I’d stood up.

  ‘I don’t think you want to do that, Jack.’ He’d squeezed his hands round his cup and the cardboard had crumpled at the edges. I’d turned and taken a couple of steps away from him. ‘I’ll just come and see you again.’ There’d been a tremor in his voice. He hadn’t been sure if I was bluffing, and he’d just given away the fact that he was as desperate as I was. Whatever he wanted, he obviously couldn’t get it anywhere else. I was his last resort. Even though I’d known he was exploiting me, that fact still hurt more than I wanted to admit. I’d hesitated. ‘If you sit down, I’ll tell you,’ he’d offered.

  I’d turned around slowly and lowered myself back into my seat, watching him. He couldn’t be underestimated. I’d made that mistake too many times before.

  He’d adjusted his cufflinks as I’d waited, not speaking.

  ‘I need you to lend me some money,’ he’d said.

  I’d kept my face blank. The same request as last time. He’d begged and I’d refused until he’d told me he’d found out where my mother had moved to and was considering paying her a visit. I couldn’t let him put her through that again. And I hadn’t wanted him anywhere near Ali, hadn’t wanted her to meet him, to see the person whose genes I’d inherited and was so ashamed of. I’d given him the five thousand pounds he’d asked for and told him I wouldn’t see him again. It had been worth every penny, even though we both knew he’d never pay it back. He hadn’t known it came out of our savings for IVF and that I hadn’t told Ali what I’d done.