by Ruth Harrow
Copyright
© Copyright Ruth Harrow 2019
Ruth Harrow has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 9781091528369
Also By Ruth Harrow
In Her Footsteps: A Gripping Psychological Thriller With a Breathtaking Twist
Contents
Copyright
Contents
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
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Also By Ruth Harrow
Author's Note
Prologue
Here I am.
In your house.
The famous house.
And you have no idea I am here.
While you are out living the dream, I trail my hands over the collection of beautiful clothes hung neatly in your walk-in wardrobe room; most of the garments inside cost more than I would ever dare to spend on a whole outfit.
This morning I sat at your kitchen island, ate toast and drank coffee from your favourite mug. I suspect that some of the stools have never even been sat on. They are still pristine, immaculate, like everything else in your house. I am careful to choose the seat with the most give, while I sit here and imagine what it is like to be you. I wish I had more time.
More than ever, my heart longs for the day this house will be all mine; when I alone will be in charge of the décor, the colour scheme and the little trinkets. The carefully chosen, expensive and, let's be honest, Heather, tacky knick-knacks you have deliberately peppered around the place will go straight out. Not given away, or sold, but smashed.
Destroyed.
Along with every other trace of you in this house. With a smile, I muse that the one reminder of you I might keep would be the wedding photos. Something for me to remember you by; but somewhere safe; out of sight.
Hidden.
I make my way upstairs, thinking with a gleeful heart how you are going to feel when you experience the kind of hurt and humiliation you are used to inflicting.
What will it be like to be on the receiving end, Heather?
In the bathroom, I take my time to peruse the small collection of items you have on display. A small basket on the sink unit contains a handful of exquisite lotions and toiletries. For a moment, I think they have been selected by you purely to appease the many eyes that take a peek inside this house, but then I notice that one of the tubes of facial moisturiser has been well used. Unusual for anything in this house to look that way.
Like a child let loose in a sweet shop, I squeeze some onto my fingers and apply it delicately along my cheekbones. The scent of you hits me straight away, and at first it angers me. A sudden gust of memories and emotion swirls around my head, but it fades as soon as I wonder if anyone will notice that I smell of you. And if they do, what will they think?
My fingers dip into the basket, looking for more treasures and happen across a lipstick. Excitedly, I see that the end is smooth and worn and, of course, I immediately recognise it as your signature shade.
I just can't help myself.
It's important not to apply too much – that would look strange. A light smearing and I will know what it tastes like to be you. Maybe then I will have some idea of what makes you tick. How you can treat those around you like you do...
I lean forward over the sink and admire the most subtle effect in the large, frameless mirror. It surprises me how plain it is considering how much you always like to show off with minor details. You probably think it's cool for it to be understated, elegantly plain...
A noise in the hallway makes me jump. My head instinctively snaps in that direction and my heart hammers away in my chest; a discordant beat, the soundtrack to my wrongdoing.
For a fleeting second, my brain wildly conjures an image of you on the other side of the door. I don't mind though. In this moment, the very thing I want most in the world is for you to walk in right now and see me.
Catch me in the act.
I dare you.
1
As I follow the bend and curve of each and every road, they become smaller, narrower. The cars become fewer and further between. Green hedgerows now border the edges and the further I drive, the taller and more foreboding they become. My hands and feet seem to be making this journey on autopilot, almost as though I have drifted here.
The radio banter and hazy pop tunes now crackle and fade in and out and as they do I feel bathed in a sudden dose of relief – I am close now.
My hands flick off the radio as they have done many times upon turning onto this last road. This country lane of Hope Valley is now so familiar to me, it feels as though it is simply an extension of my own home.
The dull light of this gloomy January afternoon is kept at bay by the bright headlights of my Hyundai four-wheel drive.
As I make my final turn, the leafy hedges and rough country track disappear to become the dark slate paving and gleaming-white rows of solar lighting of my driveway.
I'm home.
The quiet rustling sounds and cool Peak District air hit me as soon as I step out of the car. The hustle and bustle of the crowded Manchester Airport is now long gone. Even though it is still late afternoon, the light is already changing. Pink and yellow streaks illuminate the wintry sky above the tall, spindly silhouettes of the trees surrounding my house.
I lean against the car for a few moments taking
it all in. It took me by surprise how much I longed for home when I was in Milan. I had worked so hard just to make it happen, I never dreamed I would want to be anywhere else.
The flimsy preparation for the winter weather in the form of a thin, black trench coat over my chiffon jumpsuit now seems ridiculous. The icy fingers of the British chill reach under the lapels regardless and cause me to shiver. I pull up the handle of my travel case and it glides almost soundlessly behind me over the smooth, dark stone.
I am relieved when I push the front door closed behind me and lean against it with my eyes shut. My business trip had gone almost as expected. There had been smiles, banter, compliments, and of course, much hard work getting materials ready, workpeople in position and much liaising with the owner of the building throughout.
The language barrier, however, had been more difficult than I had realised, causing hiccups and delays. I should have been home a little over a week ago – in time for New Year celebrations – but instead, I had to chase up an order of some major fixtures and fittings so the workmen could get started installing them. There had also been some misunderstanding over Italian building regulations and one of the windows had to be adjusted in accordance. But the final results had been stunning. Gabriele, the owner of the house, had been delighted with the finished work.
The extra time I had put in had all been worth it; I know that deep down.
Perhaps I might appreciate it more tomorrow when I wake up after a comforting night in my own bed.
I slip off my shoes and pad down the hallway to drop them into their rightful place under the wooden utility room bench. Above it, I hang my lightweight coat.
Then I pause.
I sink down onto the oak-topped seat and lean against the row of cushions all in natural stone and pastel shades, the bottoms of the many hanging coats brush the tops of my shoulders in a reassuring way.
As hard as I've tried to make the rest of the house homely, I have found this utility room to be my secret favourite. There is something deeply comforting about sitting in here. Usually, there is the scent of fresh laundry, still warm from the dryer, permeating the room; any noise I make is lost in the sounds of the washing machines and tumble dryers.
But at the moment there is silence.
With a snap, the room is suddenly illuminated causing me to gasp with surprise; bright wall fittings and downlights flood the room with warm white light and I find myself staring at my seldom-used slow-cooker sitting neglected in the corner – a gift from my husband for my thirty-fourth birthday. Since I received it last year, however, I have used it only twice.
After being together for twelve years, James's gift inspiration seems to have run dry. I think he used up his best ideas in the first decade. He certainly outdid himself on my thirtieth. I awoke on the morning to find a trail of thirty individually wrapped presents leading down to the kitchen where he was making bacon sandwiches for us both, comedy apron and all.
I smile at the memory and pull myself back to the present. This house looks so much different than it had then. Back then, we had only just moved in. Newly-weds, still giddy about owning our first house. Enthusiastic; in-love; oblivious as to what married-life was really like.
With help from James's mother, we managed to afford this place – a four bedroom detached house in the Peak District. Not quite in the countryside, but certainly off the beaten track.
The estate agent had described it as “requiring modernisation” as we entered a room where a decrepit old gas heater had fallen from the wall, but I didn't care. We could afford it and it would be all ours, just mine and James's. Our own little space. I relished the challenge of fixing up the place – that's how I got into interior design.
Before that, I had drifted through my career in recruitment, unhappy and unfulfilled. Finding I could earn a living doing something that filled me with excitement and enthusiasm was a dream come true.
It has taken over three years of dedicated hard work – long days and late nights – but I have carved a career for myself, really got my name out there. Forgoing spare time, outings with friends and date nights with James wasn't easy, but it has all been worth it.
Now, I am finding clients reach out to me and not the other way around. I suspect this is because my social media following is bigger and more loyal than ever.
I move through to the kitchen. This is one of the rooms that has enjoyed most of the renovation money, done out in coordinating grey-white marble on the floor and work surfaces. Dove-grey and pure white everywhere else.
The stretch of sky I can see through the small glass squares of the window has changed; now more pink than yellow, as a dramatic sunset approaches. I won't see much of it from the house however, as a simple, neat and green garden surrounded by leafless trees makes up most of the outlook outside.
Before I even cross the threshold, I see something so unexpected on the island in the centre of the room that I pause in the doorway. A large bunch of red roses sits in the middle in a tall glass vase of water. Beside it is a large box of chocolates, enticing bow with trailing ribbon-tails across one corner, just waiting to be unwrapped.
As soon as the appealing sight meets my eyes, I find myself pulling out my phone from my trouser pocket and taking a snap. I upload the shot straight to my Instagram account, along with the caption:
I have the best husband in the world!
I rummage gently through the flower-heads looking for a note but don't find one. I smile anyway, thinking of the gesture from my husband – he knows how much I love fresh flowers in the house.
The subtle-floral scent of roses fills my senses as I bend my head and take in a deep breath.
Then I turn my attention to the chocolates. Since I detest nutty centres, it has been a running tradition and long-standing joke for James to open a box of chocolates and remove the offending flavours before presenting them to me. The first time, he stuffed a few into his mouth in front of me with an air of showmanship, and his trademark charming smirk, as he struggled to chew.
So it tugs a little at the back of my mind to see the perfect red satin ribbon so pristine and untouched. It surely can't have been opened already? The bow is too perfect for James to have tied it himself; he doesn't have the patience or the eye for detail.
Lifting the lid, I see I am right – the box is full. My heart sinks a little that he hasn't played our usual game, but a waft of peanut causes me to set the box hastily back upon the marble surface.
As I do, I catch sight of the under-cabinet downlights shining through the vase water.
From this angle, it looks rather cloudy. Strange, since James was due to leave for his week-long business trip in Middlesbrough only this morning. Why wouldn't the water have been fresh?
I check the calendar on the inside of the pantry door. James's trip has been marked on it for months; he was definitely due to leave this morning.
Before I can ponder it further, an unfamiliar, odd hissing noise reaches my ears, causing them to prick up and my body to freeze, tense. My head snaps in the direction of the strange sound – it's coming from my vintage kettle on the worktop. With a jolt of panic, I see that there is a bright orange glow emanating from the spout, reflected upon the white subway tiles behind.
Without thinking, I hurry over and switch off the appliance at the wall socket and pull out the plug, wary of the sheer amount of heat it is emitting.
I drop it into my farmhouse sink and gingerly lift the lid to send a stream of cold tap water inside. As soon as water meets metal, a vicious bubbling erupts inside sending thick white steam into my face.
I swear, backing away.
2
Once the cloud clears, I inspect the unruly appliance; the inside is completely blackened. There goes any hope of hot chocolate after my long drive from the airport.
I look back at the socket I pulled the plug from – oddly, the kettle had been plugged into a timer socket and not the wall. Now that I look more closely at this corner of the room, I
realise it is dimmer than usual – the lamp usually plugged into the timer has been unplugged in favour of the kettle.
Why would James have done something so careless? If I hadn't come home at the time I had told him in my text from the airport, if there had been even a slight delay, then there might have been a fire...
I take a deep breath at the close call. My shoulders are tense, the muscles bunched and achy.
The air in the kitchen is unsettled now, almost like the temperature in the room has dropped a few degrees. I have the feeling I should go through the whole house and check nothing else is amiss.
Beside me, the pantry door is open. Inching forward a few steps, I peer through into the darkness. A prickling sensation moves over my skin – I have the feeling that someone is looking back, watching.
My imagination seldom needs much to feed it. In one movement, I sweep forward and snap on the light.
Six flush downlights sparkle onto shiny glass jars of flour, spaghetti, cereal, spices and sweets. Wicker baskets of tins and packets of crisps line the narrow room; neat; organised; boring and unthreatening.
This room is bright like all the others in the house. No dark corners for monsters to hide in, ready to jump out the second I am close enough.
My stomach protests, reminding me I have not eaten anything since the small pack of sushi at the airport.
The extension of my business trip means that I wasn't back in time to restock the household food stocks myself as I had planned to, leaving my husband to take charge of the task.
The thought fills me with apprehension.
James can't be trusted to handle the shopping alone. He always makes alterations, gets sucked in by bulk-buy offers, largely ignores the list and adds things to the trolley on impulse. For these reasons, I long ago resorted to making the weekly shop alone.
Looking through the refrigerator, I see my husband has been up to his old tricks. The salad crisper is so crammed full of wilting packets of kale, browning carrots and different types of onions, I struggle to open it.