by Ruth Harrow
She would want to know what was wrong and I wouldn't know where to start.
It is a shame I couldn't keep my feelings reined in this morning as I would have loved her bubbly company.
After a fruitless morning, I grab a bite to eat for lunch, taking my time amidst the busy bustle of the lunch hour.
In the afternoon, I scour a loaded fabric outlet down a shabby road in the outskirts of the city but don't find what I want. I'm only half-disappointed because I'm pleased to have been given the opportunity to search for something. I've had a purpose all day to take my mind off things.
I do so like it when I'm kept busy these days.
Telling myself that it will pass a little more time, I take a detour from my journey on the way home. As I drive, the surroundings become stuffier and soon I am navigating my way through the shabby underbelly of Sheffield – away from the trendy coffee shops, pretty boutique outlets and new-build homes. It has been years since I have ventured down these roads and certainly not in the vehicle I drive now.
No one from here would recognise my car; I'm not really sure they would recognise me.
Luckily, the rows of identical houses and the roughly tarmacked roads are being hammered by heavy rain, perhaps keeping the residents from being tempted to venture outside; aiding me in my reminiscent reconnaissance.
Through my windscreen wipers, I see the old house where I spent the first eighteen years of my life.
Under my command, the spin of my wheels slow and I marvel at how the building outside still looks just the same as I remember, just much smaller.
An attempt has been made to brighten up the grey monotone of the building in the form of a single hanging topiary. The white lights nestled in the acrylic leaves seem like a small mocking imitation of my own solar lights of my driveway.
This small act of home pride does very little to distinguish the house form the rest of the street, which seems to stretch on forever; mirrored on for many roads parallel throughout the rest of the estate.
Movement in one of the windows snaps me out of my stream of childhood memories.
I see the curtain of the front bedroom as it is tugged across and I face back towards the road, resuming my speed.
I continue forward and don't look back again.
21
The key slides into my front door and on the threshold I prepare myself to check for any lingering unwanted odours. When I breathe easily, I am satisfied no trace of anything unpleasant remains.
The house feels a little draughty, however. I indulge myself in the habit I have gained since the boiler broke down and press my hand on the hallway radiator. It is plenty hot enough.
In the kitchen, I give the back door handle a firm tug and am relieved to find it locked. I pour a glass of wine and take it through to the lounge, sipping it as I search my favourite online stores for the fabric I want on my laptop.
My legs ache from traipsing along so many streets in search of the elusive product I have depicted in my design concepts.
I make an order for something that looks like what is in my head and hope it will do the job. I had wanted to buy the material in person, with the ability to run my fingers over it to check if it feels right.
While I have my computer on, I make an order for some paint; I spotted an area near the back door earlier that requires a touch up for some reason.
Unmotivated to cook anything more elaborate, but in need of energy, I make myself a hot sandwich in James's beloved toasting machine.
The rest of the evening is spent responding to messages on social media and my blog. In many cases, I get replies to my responses and get drawn into several conversations, one from what sounds like a potential client.
Before I know it, dinnertime minutes turn into evening hours and my eyes sting from staring at a bright screen in the darkness of my living room.
Closing the laptop lid, I'm aware I have pulled several muscles in my shoulders from where I was hunched over in what I thought to be a temporary sofa position on my computer.
Now my thoughts linger on a long soak in the bath; I can't remember the last time I took one, always hopping into the shower before rushing off to do something.
I turn on the taps and light the candles beside the bath. Other than for the staged photograph, this is the first time I have lit the candles.
In my walk-in wardrobe, I rummage around in the boxes hidden beneath the rails of clothing.
Nicole gave me a relaxation gift set for Christmas containing strongly scented soaps and creams; I think she had been trying to tell me something – that I shouldn't push myself too hard with work, I guess.
I can't recall ever using a set like this before, despite many passing through my hands over the years. I'd always put them on one side and dropped them off at a charity shop, but now I'm actually glad of the lilac-coloured liquids scented with lavender.
Now that I untie the string around the box and open the packaging, I see the contents more clearly. Handwritten French words adorn the labels on each item and I realise with a tinge of sadness that Nicole had obviously purchased this gift for me during her trip to Paris with Dean at the beginning of December.
That was the last trip they took together, shortly before they broke up. When she got back she had talked excitedly about how much she had enjoyed the wonderful Christmas markets of Paris. She had wanted to go ever since James and I had been.
I feel angry on her behalf that Dean had already been cheating on my best friend as he walked hand in hand with her in the most romantic city in the world, choosing gifts for their respective loved-ones.
I return to the bathroom. The shiver that brushed over me when I got home touches my skin again through my dressing gown and I close the door behind me to keep in the warmth from the hot water.
The bath is now full and I turn off the taps. I untie the brown string of a hessian drawstring bag in my hands, and tip in some bath salts, relishing how wonderful they smell.
I sit on the edge and run my fingers through the warm, soft water and I close my eyes for a second and take a deep breath.
I can't remember the last time I really stopped in a moment. Even when I'm doing something enjoyable, I'm always thinking of the next task in my head.
The wind has picked up outside and it causes raindrops to continue to splash noisily against the windows of the house; it seems appropriate that a directionless pattering of water will be the soundtrack to my relaxing soak.
When I open my eyes again after a few minutes, I notice that the room has already filled with steam. The light of the candles illuminates the room with ease, the water vapour glowing around them and I am reminded of when James and I first tried out the bath together a few years ago.
On that occasion we had tea lights floating in the water with us. I smile weakly at the memory.
Another sound reaches my ears, one above the sound of the wild weather outside – I hear a thud somewhere in the house that I can't identify.
I stand up.
As I do, the flickering light from a candle skips across the bathroom mirror and highlights something I hadn't seen before.
Something is written in the steam.
I move forward and see my blurry reflection move forward too as I squint at the words.
You're all mine
22
The chill that I thought I had shut out seems to crawl over my skin again causing me to shudder in a violent shiver. Nausea rises in me and I pull open the bathroom door quickly. I look in both directions down the landing.
Nobody there.
Had someone sneaked in and written the message when I went to get the bath set?
Wouldn't I have heard them?
A feeling of dread washes over me that I was so wrapped up in my thoughts when someone could have been sneaking down the hallway.
I force myself to sneak quietly, systematically through the rooms upstairs, barefoot. Cold and with my heart pounding erratically against the fluffy white cotton of my dr
essing gown.
I'm almost too scared to peer around the door of the last room to check – my office. When I do I'm not prepared for what I see.
The window is wide open. Not just open, but pulled out wide as far as it will go on its hinges. My pot of pens that sits perpetually on my desk is on the floor, spilling the contents like sharp needles all over the thick dove-coloured carpet.
I glance back down the landing, eerie in its emptiness, as though the intruder is still here, hiding unseen on the stairs perhaps waiting for a moment to pounce.
Where did I put my phone? It is never usually more than an arm's reach from me but seems like miles away as I picture it on the living room coffee table downstairs.
I creep towards the top of the stairs and glance down into the hallway below. The lamps are on in the living room and the door is open, casting long sinister-looking shadows along the carpet, stretching dark hands towards the front door.
I hold my breath.
No movement comes from down below. There is silence, except for the continuous tapping of the rain on the windows.
Then logic catches up with my wild mind picturing all sorts of horrifying situations downstairs.
I know I locked the front door when I came home. I'm religious about it these days.
And I checked the back door in the kitchen when I got back. There was no give in the handle at all. The key was firmly in the lock – I can picture it clearly.
But the key shouldn't have been in the lock.
Didn't I move it to a higher shelf this morning before I left?
A new wave of dread washes over me. After a few moments, I force myself down the stairs and into the living room.
All clear and just how I left it with my laptop shut on the sofa.
I snatch up my phone and have the dialling pad in my hand as I move through the open door into the kitchen.
All empty and quiet, everything in its place just as before.
My eyes flick across to the back door lock. The key is exactly how I pictured it – firmly in the door lock. I move over and give it a turn.
Fully secure – it doesn't relent.
I pull it out of the lock and squeeze it in my palm. The metal is cold and sharp against my skin.
Did I forget to take it out the lock this morning?
I had planned it so clearly in my mind, maybe that is what I recall now. I had felt certain I had completed the action of placing it on a high shelf though.
But now, with the cold hard evidence in my hand, maybe I had only imagined doing it. Something in my mind nags at me that I did, but I'm so unsure. I had a lot on my mind this morning, rushing around with blurry eyes.
If I was in a court of law and heard the same testimony, I'm not sure I would trust it.
23
Before
I'm so busy at the moment, it seems hard to believe there wasn't a time when my living room wasn't full of fabric samples, colour-charts and paperwork. I've had my eye on the box room upstairs as a home office, but James is reluctant to give up the room as a bedroom.
He keeps hinting that we may want the use of that room in the future – subtlety isn't his strong point. At least now his mother has moved to Spain, I don't have to listen to Judith's advice about when the best time to try for a baby is, or what foods I should be including in my diet.
It is not that I don't agree with them, it's just that I need to get my career sorted first. Right now, I'm really getting somewhere.
I've had several projects over the last two years and now I'm on the verge of being chosen for a new and exclusive Chelsea waterfront development in London. I'm so excited, even if James wasn't overly thrilled when I gave him the news.
'But my annual holiday leave is coming up,' he said over dinner a few days ago. 'Mum and Dad said we can stay at their new villa in Costa Blanca. It's beautiful. I showed you the pictures, remember?'
'Yes, of course I remember. It looks wonderful. I just think that building my career takes priority over a holiday.'
James groaned and picked at his broccoli with his fork, sending green particles over my white china. A little tipped over the edge and onto my pristine table cloth.
I eyed James's dancing shirt sleeve, hoping it doesn't shepherd any particles of vegetable matter into the plush carpet.
At times, I regret opting for a carpeted dining room, but laminate flooring, albeit practical, has become so out of date. Besides, it feels warmer, cosier to have carpet; so far removed from what I grew up with.
James took a long mouthful of wine and gave me one of the searching stares I had been receiving from him in recent times. 'It isn't just a holiday though, is it? I feel like we barely see each other lately. It would be nice to spend some quality time together, just the two of us.'
He reached for my hand across the table and gave mine a squeeze. I relished how warm he was and gripped back.
I wanted to argue against the fact that we had barely seen each other, but I couldn't avoid the fact. At that moment, I looked at my husband, drinking in his thick, handsome features and full hair as though I hadn't properly seen him in a long time.
It was also the first time I noticed that strands of fair-hair around his ears were starting to grow through silver.
In the living room now, I'm busily typing away an email to the head project manager of the Chelsea waterfront development.
He must be online, as the emails bounce relatively quickly between us, and I'm careful to double-check everything and use the right wording before clicking send.
My fingertips are damp with anticipation and I'm terrified of saying the wrong thing. I don't want to let on that I have never handled a property of this scale or value before, thus far only small domestic projects.
The blurry shape of James appears behind me, framed by the open kitchen doors.
The jingle of keys and the smooth dark scent of the fragrance I bought him for his last birthday reach me through the cloud of my written dialogue.
I look over from my half-written email to James dull outline.
I've noticed how gloomy the room seems when I look away from the screen. After the bright-white glow of the laptop, the yellow lamps I've positioned around the room seem dark.
Maybe they need updating? Perhaps I should get some wall-lights fitted to help lift the room a little.
That would make a great idea for a new series of posts.
'I'm off then, Heather, sweetheart.'
I blink and James comes into focus. He is dressed smartly in black trousers and his favourite scarlet evening shirt – the one he proposed to me in.
Was it his favourite, or was it mine? I can't remember.
'You look nice,' I say, taken aback. 'Are you going somewhere?'
James takes his keys from his pocket and gives me a kiss on the cheek, giving me a more hefty dose of Bleu De Chanel. 'I already told you where I was going. You do remember, don't you?'
I look at him blankly, trying to recall recent conversations that may have included this topic, but I draw a blank and James smiles weakly.
'It's a colleagues birthday. I told you earlier in the week that a few of us are all going out for drinks and a bite to eat. I did invite you, but you said you were too busy.'
'Did I?' My brow creases as I try to remember saying any such thing. I don't even recall the conversation.
'Anyway, I'll leave you to it.' He crosses the lounge and is in the doorway to the hall when I call after him.'
'Whose birthday is it? I could have helped you chose a present. You know how much I love shopping.'
There is a slight moment of hesitation in my husband, his shoulders seem to tense slightly as I watch him glance back over his shoulder at me. 'It's Gemma. I already gave her a present at work this morning. It was just a small thing – a perfume. Wasn't expensive, or anything.'
'Oh – perfume? You should have asked for my advice. I probably would have gone for chocolates, myself. It would have been more appropriate for a female work colle
ague.'
James smiles in a way that seems a little nervous. 'As if Gemma would eat them. You know what she is like, don't you?'
'Yes, I remember. She's even more of gym bunny than Nicole, isn't she?'
I think of Gemma with her immaculately toned physique and smooth skin she likes to show off in sleeveless tops that I usually skim straight over on clothing rails, too terrified to show off my upper arms.
Why couldn't James's ex-Uni-girlfriend have had a penchant for fattening food and daytime television like most other students?
In the doorway, James shrugs. 'Yes, she still likes to keep fit. Anyway, I'd better get going.'
'Well, wait a second, maybe I can come with you.'
James takes a glance at my leggings and the hair I have drawn back into a quick ponytail.
'It would take you too long to get ready. You know what you are like.'
He checks his watch. 'I really do need to go, or I'll be late. I'll be back home by ten.'
He gives me a cheeky wink and disappears out the door, leaving the house quiet and still.
After a few minutes, I return to my work but have lost the thread of what I'm doing.
I stay up for the rest of the evening and keep myself busy with trivial tasks while the back of my mind is watchful upon the front door.
I am still sitting at my laptop on the sofa at midnight when James comes back home, smelling of alcohol and looking like he had a thoroughly great time.
24
After last night's scare, I know I need to make some kind of change. I've stayed up all night deliberating over whether or not the writing on the mirror was fresh.
My pleading logic wanted me to believe that James had left the message on the mirror before he left. A romantic gesture, perhaps?
He has never done anything like that before, but his behaviour has been unpredictable lately. I would never have expected some of the things he has done.