by Ruth Harrow
I rush around the house checking the doors and windows are shut.
Determined to have a wholesome meal, I moved my slow cooker into the kitchen and prepared the ingredients last night. Now, I take the filled crock pot from the refrigerator and set it upon the base in the kitchen, before setting the switch on to low.
It's a long drive to the holiday properties and I'll be gone all day. It will be nice to come back to a home-cooked stew this evening.
Before I leave the kitchen, I pause and step back over to the back-door. The handle doesn't give to my twist and I am satisfied that it is locked.
I must have simply forgotten to check it before. How long had it been unlocked for before I realised that night?
The traffic is mainly on my side until I reach the outskirts of Altrincham. I'm stuck in a traffic jam moving at less than a walking pace. Panic rises in me and my palms are sweaty against the steering wheel. Thoughts of a replacement gift sail out of my head over the roofs of the many cars that trap me in a line going on for miles.
An hour behind, I eventually join the lane that is moving again and glimpse the source of the delay – an overturned lorry up ahead. As I drive past, I take in the broken glass and metal shredded like torn paper.
Two cars are battered ahead of the lorry wreckage; more glass and crumpled metal.
The silver ring of the Mercedes badge gleam at me from the monochrome car and I realise it is the same colour and model James drives.
A large green sheet has been strung up haphazardly near the driver's door and I glimpse the grubby knees and high-vis trouser stripes of paramedics in the gap beneath as they tend to the grey-haired driver.
Not James.
I force my eyes to stare forwards, blinking the images away. My cold fingers grip the steering wheel and I try to forget about the last time I saw my husband.
In my head, I calculate how long it will take me to get to the apartments now with this delay.
I had planned to use this time to work out the right things to say, questions I need to ask.
In my rush, I hadn't managed to load my phone with the meditation music I had wanted.
True, I could have used the time I spent staring at the dark ceiling in the early hours to do that, but I chose to follow the advice I had read online about sleeplessness. Apparently, it is almost as beneficial as sleep to lie still and rest in bed than to get up and distract oneself.
I'm not sure I agree with it.
My stomach demands attention as I pull into the car park of the holiday properties just under an hour late. There wasn't any time to stop for breakfast, or lunch so I had to appease my appetite with a squashed old Mars bar I found in the glove box.
There isn't any time to take in the sweeping views of the sea and the town down below. I'm flustered and take a deep breath to try and calm down.
It feels odd to be walking up to the apartment building empty-handed when I had spent a great deal of time yesterday selecting a thoughtful gift for John. There are only two other cars in the car park – one, a red Fiat and the other a long BMW. There is no sign of anyone else, but the main entrance door is open and I step inside.
'Hello?'
No answer.
I step along the concrete hallway and peer around the first of the open doorways into what would be the living room. A shrill laugh echoes off the barren walls and I follow it through to the would-be bathroom.
My heels clap loudly on the unfinished floor and announce my arrival. Ian and Lisa look around and stop talking mid-conversation to look at me.
'Heather, you made it.' Ian smiles and moves forward, switching a colourful box to his left hand so he can shake mine briefly.
'Of course. There was a delay on the motorway – quite a bad accident actually.'
He follows my gaze to the object he is holding. 'Oh, it's just a little something Lisa got for my son, Isaac.'
'Oh, yes. John said it was his birthday on Saturday wasn't it?'
Really, I'd seen the party pictures on a Facebook post. The only indication Ian had children, almost buried already by pictures of his boozy outings with Matt and his other friends.
Ian pauses for a split-second. 'Yes, his tenth.'
Annoyance stabs at me that, despite my efforts, I have managed to turn up empty handed and I'm aware of Lisa's smug smile spread across her broad features.
Glancing down at the gift in Ian's hands, I see it looks like a simple spelling board game. Obviously, Lisa hadn't paid much attention when doing her research.
'It looks like you might have made a mistake there, Lisa,' I say. 'My friend's niece, Lilly, used to have something like that when she was five, not ten. I think that's probably a little young for Isaac.'
Lisa's horrible smile stays firmly upon her face, but Ian's drops completely.
'Isaac is dyslexic,' he explains to me quietly, with a hint of a grimace. 'We find these sorts of thing are good for him. I was telling Lisa about it at the party on Saturday.'
The heat blooming in my face is surely visible through the stark light pouring in through the frosted glass window. 'Oh, well. I see... Sorry, I didn't realise.'
For the first time, I appreciate how quiet the building is. No sound of traffic or hint of a wave from the sea reaches up here where the apartments stand on the hill.
Lisa and Ian glance at each other and the mood is suddenly so awkward I wonder if I should just leave right now.
'So, is John upstairs? Or hasn't he arrived yet?'
'No, Dad can't come today. He's in bed with really nasty flu.'
'Oh, how terrible,' Lisa simpers. 'Tell him I'm thinking of him. I'll have to send a goody-basket his way.'
'Oh, well I can tell you he'd love that,' Ian grins with a wink.
I'm aware of a sharp pain in the palms of my hands and realise I'm digging my plain, uneven fingernails in.
Ian claps his hands together. 'Anyway, shall we carry on?'
He continues talking about the bathroom as Lisa picks up her tape measure and continues taking measurements.
Her nails are a perfect pearlescent pink, straight and neat.
We move throughout the building taking measurements and photos, asking questions here and there. Whenever Ian makes a joke or speaks, he seems to direct it more to Lisa than me.
I try to pretend my cringeworthy mistake over Lisa's gift isn't the cause, and I know it's at least somewhat true as it didn't stop me getting a birthday party invitation for the weekend.
I wonder what Lisa did to get herself invited to a Stanton family occasion?
Several hours later we're all in the penthouse apartment. I've taken measurements of the floor space and now I'm recording the dimensions of the living room window for curtains. The wide rectangle of glass will allow the future occupants of the room a spectacular view of the town and hills, as well as the sea beyond.
Today the large mass of water is a dark grey; the cloudy sky beams silver light all over the whole scene. Even on a dull day, this room will be bright. The architect has done a good job of capturing the luminescence in this relatively small space.
Lisa and Ian are talking in the bathroom and part of their conversation brings me back down from skies with their glowing silver ribbons and back into the bare concrete room.
'...Obviously, I can't say much at this stage. But I can say that Dad has the interest of a Dragon, if you know what I mean.'
'Oooh, how exciting!'
'And they have good connections with the big retailers, you know – B&Q and the like. It's all in the beginning stages, but I'll talk to Dad. I think you're great at what you do. You've got a real creative flair for colours and all that.'
'Well, thank you, Ian. Flattery will get you everywhere, you know.'
Lisa's shrill giggle echoes around the room; I feel my glimmer of hope for the future slipping away like the tide in the bay below, leaving dark craggy rocks and slimy green breakwater exposed. Rotting and unappealing.
17
Before I leave
Aberystwyth, I place an order for carpet and flooring at a local company. Nicole texts me as the assistant is jotting down my order and I quickly text her back explaining how busy I am and that I already have dinner arranged, so I can't join her at a new American diner in Sheffield.
The drive home from Aberystwyth seems much quicker on the way back. My hands and feet seemed to slide over the controls of the car and draw me back to my house almost on autopilot.
It is evening by the time I get home and I am grateful that I managed to get the heating fixed.
When I walk in through the door and take off my coat and shoes, I am ready just to flop onto the sofa and switch on the television for some company, but I don't. The promise of a hearty stew seems most appealing after snacking on nothing but chocolate, crisps and a rubbery prawn sandwich purchased from a convenience store on the drive home.
Taking a glass down from my glass-fronted cupboard, I pour myself some wine and take a long glug before peering into the lid of the slow-cooker.
I'm dismayed to find that no heat rises up to touch my face and the ingredients look hard and raw in a bath of thin watery gravy.
As soon as I check the switch is set to “on”, my eyes flick to the wall where the switch is turned off.
I groan – I must have forgotten to switch it on this morning in my rush.
Today has been such a disaster, I wish I had never even got out of bed.
Before I even know what I'm doing, my hand moves up and slams the wine glass into the sink with all my strength.
Shards of glass fly everywhere and droplets of scarlet stream down the porcelain edges of the square basin, over the white cupboard beneath and drips onto the floor.
My eyes burn and pool with liquid too. Then I become aware of more dripping of dark liquid onto the marble of the floor to my side.
I look down, but this liquid is thicker than wine. More sticky.
I turn my palm over and see that the small vein of my middle finger is severed. The blood silently pours down my finger and large droplets rapidly taint my pristine marble floor.
I'm forcibly reminded of the stain in the luxurious wool of my living room carpet.
Through blurry eyes, I stare at my hand, flabbergasted that I can't feel any pain.
Blinking away tears, I look around the room for the kitchen roll; it is where it always is of course – wall-mounted on the other side of the kitchen, but for a second, I can't remember where I keep it.
I tiptoe bare-footed around shards of glass that are scattered far across the entire floor.
It's awkward doing it one-handed, but I tear off a handful of sheets and wrap my hand in it, squeezing tightly.
The dry sheets of kitchen towel drink crimson thirstily and rapid blooms spread and stain the white paper. I'm wondering if I'll need stitches when a flicker of movement in the garden causes me to look up.
There is something outside in the darkness.
Again I'm confronted by my own pale and shrinking image as I try to look outside.
My heart hammers somewhere in the region of my throat and I'm aware of holding my breath.
Is someone out there, lurking?
Sometimes badgers and foxes visit the garden, but the shape I saw looked bigger.
I only saw it for a split-second though. It could well be one of my regular woodland creature visitors.
But something nags at me, whispering that it isn't.
As quickly as I can, bare-footed and dodging glass, I move over to the light switch and flip it off.
I spin around and stare intently into the darkness outside, but see nothing.
No sign of any small creature, or anything more large and sinister.
No sign of anything at all.
The only thing my eyes are drawn to is the rapid swinging of the tree branches at the very end of the garden that merges with woodland.
They sway wildly as they settle, as though they have very recently been disturbed.
18
I need to do better; I need to up my game. Lisa has gone to great lengths to get one over on me.
Admittedly, she couldn't have dropped me more in it than I did myself at the meeting on Monday with the thoughtless remark I made about Ian's son. The worst part is, it was so unlike me to say such a thing.
I imagine what James would think if he had witnessed the scene and am glad he didn't. It doesn't stop me wishing he was here with me now, however.
I long for him to walk in through the door and wrap his strong arms around me. I wish for nothing more than to lose myself in his warmth. The feeling weaves itself through my insides and pulls tight, turning into a permanent ache I'm carrying around with me.
The obvious absence of my husband must be what is causing my imagination to fire up, turning against me. Why else would I see such ghosts? Figures moving around in the garden... It can only be my imagination.
I hope it is only my imagination.
After last night, I considered installing a security light, but immediately knew that would be futile; it would go off with the constant scurrying of wildlife. I would become desensitised; ignore it; rendering it useless.
I need to get a grip. The doors are locked, the windows firmly shut. I double checked. I'm surely safe in my own home. I've lived here for four years. It wasn't simply the presence of my husband that kept me safe before.
I tell myself that my worries are all in my head.
Right now, I need to focus on my work. There is no way I'm going to lose this project or the potential product range to Lisa.
In the early hours of Tuesday morning, I used the sleepless time productively and wrote out plans for some new blog and Instagram posts. John alluded to the fact that Ian monitored my online presence. The way to impress him is to make sure there aren't any of the gaps that had apparently concerned him.
I've come up with a whole load of ideas to make my blog look busy and well populated rather than abandoned looking.
In this industry image is everything; I need to prove to John and Ian that my professional persona is pristine.
I haven't left the house for days, I've been so busy. Seeing no one, I haven't wasted energy with makeup or straightening my hair. I've been living in my most comfortable loungewear – an old sweatshirt and jogging bottoms.
Luckily, I'm in a business where my home is centre-stage. I could never be one of those YouTube stars where every element of their appearance is scrutinised and attacked in the comments section.
I manage to get many new blog posts written and ready to publish. Even though in the past I usually only publish once a week, I decide to push myself harder from now on and get two done.
So on Wednesday, I publish a new post on attractive bathroom elements.
I utilise my new scented candles I picked up after the first meeting in Salford and position them lit in a glowing cluster beside my bath.
I can't resist stepping back a little and getting more of my painstakingly decorated bathroom in than I had originally envisaged.
I'm eager to continue my productive streak and decide to post a photo from my post on Instagram for some extra traffic.
It's a testament to the neglect of my online presence that I haven't responded to any of my Instagram messages for over a month. They are well and truly backed up and I work my way through each one, responding here and there.
Then I move onto my notifications; most are comprised of people following my tutorials where the user has created their own take on my makeover idea and seeks my opinion.
When I have turned every red icon grey and I'm caught up on everything, I feel a sense of satisfaction that my blog and social media presence no longer look abandoned. I wonder if Ian has seen it yet?
By Friday, I have my two new posts up and receiving plenty of attention from both new visitors and some familiar devotees. The second post is also bathroom themed, this time centred around storage ideas.
It's not so much of a dig at Lisa that I have chosen the bathroom to feature
in my last two posts, more of a chance to show my skills in the area to Ian and John.
I know I can produce bathroom designs as good as Lisa's, I just want the chance to prove it to the Stanton's.
By the time I go to bed on Friday night, I have my phone notifications switched on so I can keep up with new messages the way I always used to.
Just before I put my phone down for the night, I respond to two new messages leaving my notification bar empty again.
The next day, I'm dressed and am just adding some milk to my morning cereal, when my phone buzzes again with a new alert, this time telling me I have been tagged in a photo.
Expecting to tap out a quick response, I put my spoon down beside my bowl and tap the icon.
bunny90158 took a photo of you
I click on the message, mentally preparing what to type in response to another home makeover snap as the page loads. But when it does, I stop dead, staring at the screen.
I see an image of myself I have never seen before – one that has clearly been taken inside my home.
Not only that, but I look terrible. The image is distorted, stretched as though I'm reflected in something. My dull hair looks greasy, pulled back into a thoughtless ponytail; I'm makeup free and wearing the faded old sweatshirt that has always been too big for me, but now looks more oversized and baggy than ever.
My stomach swoops with shame. My mouth has turned dry and I forget all about my vague morning appetite.
The caption underneath the picture reads,
What the *real* Mrs Heather Peterson looks like...
Above the message, I see that bunny90158's post already has over two-hundred likes. A few comments embellish the bottom of the page.
kathryn_joel91 Ha! Definitely not goalz, this time, Heather.
hannah.xj Wow lol. It's amazing what a bit of lippy does usually! x
its_ninax9000 Don't be harsh, you guys. Heather is doing her bit for skin positivity. I think it's great #makeupfree