The Housemate

by Pattison C. L.

  Copyright © 2019 C. L. Pattison

  The right of C. L. Pattison to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Headline Publishing Group

  First published as an Ebook in Great Britain in 2019

  by Headline Publishing Group

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 6198 4

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  About the Author

  C. L. Pattison spent twenty years as an entertainment journalist, before embarking on a frontline career in the police force. She lives on the south coast of England.

  About the Book

  A gripping psychological thriller about two best friends who invite a stranger into their home . . . perfect for fans of THE HOUSE SWAP and FRIEND REQUEST.

  YOU INVITED HER IN.

  NOW SHE’S HERE TO STAY.

  YOU LET A STRANGER INTO YOUR HOME

  Best friends Megan and Chloe have finally found the perfect house.

  And when they meet Samantha, she seems like the perfect housemate.

  YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT SHE’S HIDING

  But Megan thinks there might be more to Samantha than meets the eye. Why is she so secretive? Where are her friends and family? And why is she desperate to get close to Chloe?

  YOU’RE ABOUT TO FIND OUT

  When strange things start happening in the house, Megan and Chloe grow more and more alarmed. They soon realise that letting a stranger into their home - and their lives - might be the worst idea they’ve ever had . . .

  Acknowledgements

  Writing is a solitary pursuit, but publishing is definitely a team event and I am indebted to Mari Evans and the hugely talented gang at Headline. A heartfelt thank you to everyone involved, but especially to my editors Sara Adams and Toby Jones for their wonderful, insightful ideas and constant encouragement.

  The Housemate

  I can’t remember what brought me down there, to the scrubby patch of woodland on the edge of the Common. Was it the way the light was filtering through the trees, or was it the sound of laughter? It doesn’t much matter either way.

  When I ventured into the woods, what I saw made my stomach lurch in shock, like the feeling when you miscount going upstairs in the dark and climb a step that isn’t there. In that moment, everything around me seemed surreal, supersaturated – the brittle blue of the sky, the luminous green of the moss, the wicked little breeze lacing its way up along my arms and legs, lifting, ever so slightly, the ends of my hair.

  I hid behind a tree and watched her with the enemy, listened to the soft laughter that rose like an arpeggio, as my brain struggled to comprehend the depth of her betrayal. My first instinct was to run, but then I felt rage, like a wave, begin deep behind my ribcage and grow, filling every artery and vein, until my eyeballs swelled with it. I wanted to plunge my fingernails into her face, to pull open the seams of her pretty smile and cut angry, crescent-shaped lines into her cheeks. I wanted her to scream, to writhe, to bleed. I wanted her pain to last forever. And in the end I got my way; I usually do.

  It took planning and a certain amount of guile, but when it came to it, she was like a lamb to the slaughter. Right up to the end, she didn’t suspect a thing. And just like that, the bitter taste in my mouth was replaced by a sudden, soaring rush of joy.

  1

  Megan

  I saw it first. The small, cream-coloured postcard, bottom row, second from the left. There was nothing remotely attention-grabbing about it, the characters hastily formed, the descriptors spare, the punctuation lacking – the work, it seemed to me, of someone in a hurry. Easy enough to overlook among the many and varied enticements in the convenience store window: bicycles for sale, childminding services, an unplanned litter of guinea pigs, free to a good home.

  I rubbed the smeared glass with my elbow and leaned forward for a closer look. As I read the words on the postcard, I felt a rush of light-headedness that made my palms tingle and my heart beat faster. I knew we’d been right to set our sights high, to hold out for something that ticked every box on our wish list. Now, at last, it seemed our patience had been rewarded.

  Eager to share the good news with Chloe, I went to the open door of the shop and looked around until I spotted her, standing at the till. As she half-turned to hook her bulging canvas tote over her shoulder, I waved to catch her eye and made a beckoning gesture with my hand.

  ‘I think our prayers have been answered,’ I said, as she walked towards me. Without further explanation, I took her by the arm and led her to the window. ‘Read that,’ I said, rapping on the glass with a knuckle.

  She leaned forward, letting her shopping bag slide down her arm to the ground. ‘Bellevue Rise?’ she said, arching her eyebrows. ‘That’s up by the cemetery, isn’t it?’

  I nodded. ‘Yep.’

  ‘Didn’t we agree it had to be a ten-minute walk to the nearest station, max?’

  ‘It’s sixteen minutes to the overground,’ I replied. ‘Fourteen if you’re walking briskly. Hardly a deal-breaker.’

  Chloe stuck out her bottom lip and exhaled a puff of air as she tried to dislodge the strands of honey-coloured hair that had fallen into her eyes. ‘No, I don’t suppose it is,’ she admitted. She turned back to the postcard and continued reading. ‘Shit,’ she muttered under her breath a moment later.

  ‘What?’ I asked, unable to keep the impatience out of my voice.

  ‘This place is fully furnished. I thought we were sic
k of living with other people’s dodgy taste in interior design.’

  ‘Let’s not judge it before we’ve even seen it. For all we know, it could be straight out of the pages of Ideal Home.’

  She made a face. ‘Unlikely.’

  Sensing her reluctance, I clasped my hands pleadingly. ‘Come on, Chloe, it’s a whole house, with a garden and an eat-in kitchen and two double bedrooms. It’ll be a million times better than those pokey flats we’ve been looking at.’

  Her eyes slid wistfully back to the shop window. ‘It would be lovely to have a proper house and I could probably put up with the walk to the station. But aren’t we both ignoring the elephant in the room here?’

  I looked down at the pavement and nudged an ancient piece of chewing gum with the toe of my shoe. ‘I assume you’re talking about the rent?’

  Chloe rolled her eyes. ‘Of course I’m talking about the rent; it’s way more than we can afford, especially when you factor in the cost of commuting.’

  ‘I bet I can get the price down,’ I said confidently. ‘Remember those gorgeous handwoven throws I bought in Marrakesh? Seventy-five per cent discount, thank you very much.’

  Chloe smiled, remembering the two weeks we’d spent in Morocco – just one of many fun holidays we’d had together. ‘Yeah, but that was less to do with your negotiating skills and more to do with the fact the stallholder fancied you,’ she beamed. ‘And anyway, they expect you to haggle. That’s why everything in that souk was vastly overpriced to begin with.’

  I scowled melodramatically. ‘Rain on my parade, why don’t you?’ Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pulled out my mobile phone and waved it in front of her face. ‘So what do you reckon? Shall I contact the landlord and arrange a viewing asap? This one isn’t going to hang around for long.’

  Chloe shrugged. ‘Why not . . . what have we got to lose?’

  It had been six weeks since Chloe and I had embarked on our quest for the perfect property. We met twelve years ago at an Argentine tango taster class in our first week at university. The tango soon fell by the wayside, but we formed an unshakeable friendship that had outlasted numerous boyfriends, Chloe’s year abroad in Prague, my six-month Southeast Asia trip, and more changes of address than either of us cared to remember. Even though we’d lived at least a hundred miles apart for most of our friendship, we’d been there for each other through good times and bad. When I was unexpectedly crippled by a violent bout of gastroenteritis, Chloe made the four-hour round trip by public transport to my sickbed, armed with essential oils, homemade lemonade and her Netflix password. And when she discovered her boyfriend of three years was cheating on her with his financial advisor, I organised a surprise spa weekend for us. Not only did this provide my best friend with a much-needed distraction, I also used the time to talk her out of reporting her boyfriend’s hook-up to the FCA for professional misconduct, thus saving her a lot of time, energy and potential embarrassment.

  It’s strange, really, because, on the face of it, we’re polar opposites. Chloe’s a stage designer for an up-and-coming theatre company in London. She’s creative, spontaneous and highly sensitive; she wears her heart on her sleeve and always sees the best in people. My background’s in science. I’m a pharmacist; I’m calmer than Chloe and more circumspect. I love being organised and the reassurance of a perfectly-put-together plan. Our friendship shouldn’t work, but for some inexplicable reason, it does. The Japanese have a special word for it – kenzoku. Literally translated, it means ‘family’. It’s the deepest sort of connection there is, deeper than soulmates even – almost like you’ve known each other in a past life.

  Until recently, I was based on the south coast, locuming at various GP surgeries . . . fairly tedious stuff, but the money was good. I’d wanted to move to London for a while – not just for my career, but also to be closer to Chloe, and three months ago, I landed a job at one of the top London teaching hospitals. Since then, I had been living in temporary hospital accommodation, but with the tenancy on Chloe’s flat share coming to an end, we’d decided to get a place together, just the two of us. Unfortunately, the task was proving rather more difficult than we’d anticipated. We’d both spent hour upon hour scouring the internet for suitable prospects, but the rental market in London was brutal and, with so many tenants bidding for a limited number of properties, we had suffered numerous disappointments. It really would be an incredible stroke of luck if a humble card in a shop window turned out to be our saviour.

  2

  Chloe

  The sun was setting by the time we arrived at Bellevue Rise. A last faint gauze of light hung over number 46 – a Victorian end-of-terrace in a street that seemed narrower than it actually was because of the cars parked nose-to-tail along its length. We came straight from work, both of us swapping our heels for sensible flats in anticipation of the walk from the station, which, as Megan had predicted, took sixteen minutes precisely. When we arrived, we stood on the pavement for a few moments, looking up at the red-brick property, with its handsome bay windows, each assembling our own first impressions. There was a small front garden, surrounded on three sides by a low box hedge badly in need of pruning. Flanking the central path were two large rose bushes in full bloom, their petals a pretty, faded pink.

  Before we had a chance to ring the bell, the front door swung open and a stale smell of old dinners gusted out from the interior, reminding me of the nursing home where I’d worked for less-than-minimum wage the summer I took my A levels. The landlord looked to be in his mid-sixties; his face was long and stern and there were deep furrows bracketing his mouth. He didn’t introduce himself, and simply offered a firm hand to each of us in turn, his demeanor suggesting he had more important things to do. Without preamble, he led us into a narrow hall, its walls lined with a haphazard collection of botanical prints.

  ‘We’ll start in here,’ he said, thrusting open a panelled door. Megan followed him in, but I lingered on the threshold, taking in the scene that lay before me. It was a sitting room, high ceilinged and generously proportioned. All around it pieces of furniture stood in elegant poses, high-backed chairs with elaborately curved legs, rickety side tables, a louche chaise longue, baring its faded striped chest to the ceiling. A handsome fireplace yawned from the far wall, a shrunken arrangement of dried flowers clamped between its cast-iron jaws.

  ‘This is a nice big room,’ Megan remarked.

  ‘It was two rooms originally, but they’ve been knocked through,’ the landlord explained.

  I stepped into the room, noting the absence of any personal items – books, coffee cups, remote controls. ‘Have the previous tenants moved out already?’ I enquired.

  ‘There were no previous tenants,’ the landlord replied. ‘This was my sister’s house. She died last year, probate has only just gone through.’ He ran a hand through his silvery hair. ‘My wife thinks I should sell it, but the property market’s pretty flat at the moment, so I’ve decided to hang on to it, at least for a year or two.’

  Megan prodded the arm of a wingback chair. ‘There’s rather a lot of furniture in here,’ she said, getting straight to the point, like she always did. ‘Would you consider putting some of the larger pieces into storage?’

  The landlord shook his head. ‘I haven’t got time for all that. You either take it as seen, or not at all.’

  ‘I think it’s wonderful,’ I said, my gaze drawn to the grandfather clock that loomed at the far end of the room, its throaty tick punctuating the silence. ‘I feel as if I’m on a film set.’

  The landlord smiled thinly and turned towards the door, drawing the sitting room inspection to an abrupt close. We followed him down the hallway to a modest kitchen with dated wall units and a scuffed slate floor. There was just room at one end for a farmhouse table with painted legs and five mismatching dining chairs.

  ‘I know it doesn’t look much, but you’ve got everything you need,’ he said, as he moved around the room, pulling open doors. ‘Combination boiler, fridge-freezer,
washing machine, dishwasher . . .’ He went over to the back door, jangling coins in his trouser pockets, as he peered out through the glass into the gathering dusk. ‘As you can see, the garden’s a decent size and there’s a perfectly serviceable mower in the shed. It’s electric, not petrol, easy enough to use. There’s a nice little patio just outside the door here. I’ve had it pressure washed; the sandstone paving’s come up really nicely.’

  ‘I like the pergola,’ Megan said, pointing towards the sturdy timber structure that sat on an elevated platform at the far end of the garden. It was smothered in plant life, the exact species indistinguishable in the diminishing light.

  ‘Yes, it’s beautiful in the spring; the clematis is spectacular. My sister used to love sitting out there.’ He gave a strangled smile and jerked his head ceilingwards. ‘The bedrooms are upstairs if you want to take a look. I’ll stay down here if you don’t mind. The stairs are quite steep and I’m waiting for a knee replacement.’

  The master bedroom, with its grand bay overlooking the street, was less extravagantly furnished than the sitting room directly beneath it. Centre stage was a large brass bedstead and Megan immediately flung herself down on the mattress and spread her arms wide.

  ‘What’s it like?’ I asked her.

  ‘Not bad; it’s a bit on the firm side, but nothing a memory foam topper won’t fix.’

  I went over to a whitewashed armoire, tracing its delicate curlicued edges with a fingertip. ‘This is really pretty; the landlord’s sister certainly had a good eye.’

  ‘Hmm, it’s a bit fussy for my taste,’ Megan said, rising from the mattress. ‘Come on, let’s check out the other room.’

  The second bedroom didn’t have the elegant feel of the first, or the ornate original ceiling rose, but to me it felt much cosier. In one corner, a mahogany wardrobe sheltered an army of arthritic wire hangers and next to it sat a dressing table and a chintz-skirted stool. A newish double divan was pushed up against the opposite wall, where a William Morris paper of golden lilies appeared to be losing its grip.