You're All Mine

by Ruth Harrow

And with that, he stalks towards the door and shuts it behind him without looking back.

  57

  As soon as the door shuts behind James, Nicole suggests that Lilly should take her drink and watch television in the lounge.

  Nicole looks up at me. 'Unless Aunty Heather is worried about any spillages?'

  'No, it's fine, I guess. That living room carpet is already stained, anyway.'

  Nicole glances at me and I know she is remembering the incident at James's birthday party too; when I'd been concerned about how the gathering was getting more drunken and loud than I had anticipated. And how I had been fretting that James's colleagues weren't using coasters; simply resting their tumblers on the wooden furniture surfaces and the bare marble of my fireplace.

  To make a point, James had knocked his own glass of wine over on purpose and it smashed on the corner of the grey marble. Red liquid billowed out through the fibres of my pristine dove carpet. I kept finding fragments of glass for days afterwards.

  It took me much longer to get over what my husband had done – I hadn't known him capable of such an abrupt act of temper.

  Now, I follow Nicole into the kitchen and she pulls the door closed behind me.

  'Are you going to tell me what the hell happened now? Where were you? And why were you acting so strange when James was here? What's going on, Heather?'

  'I told you, something came up and I forgot the time. And I wasn't acting strange around James – what are you talking about?'

  Nicole moves over to the island and drops herself down. She gives me that searching look again. 'I saw you, Heather – you were acting all guarded. And there was an atmosphere... Have you two had an argument or something?'

  I fold my arms across my chest. 'No, of course not. I'm just mortified I made such a mistake. I know today was really important for you.'

  Nicole pulls an open packet of tortilla chips towards her and takes one out.

  'So, how did it go?' I ask. 'The appointment?'

  'Fine.'

  'That's it?'

  'Well, there's not much more to tell, really. The doctor gave me a test and confirmed what I already knew. Then she referred me for more appointments with a midwife regularly.'

  'Oh. I would have thought there would be more to it than that. Something more solid.'

  'Well, the pregnancy is still at such an early stage. You won't even see anything on a scan until much later on. And it's a good thing I wasn't kept there longer too since you didn't bother to pick Lilly up like you said you would.'

  I open my mouth to apologise again, but close it and shake my head instead. It seems futile to say the simple word 'sorry' yet another time.

  I can tell Nicole is still angry with me – her tone is brisk and she seems agitated, glancing out of the window into the fading light of the garden every now and then.

  Something out of place catches my attention – the white box of sleeping pills is out on the edge of the worktop.

  Nicole follows my gaze. 'Sorry, Heather. Lilly came across them. It's not very safe to leave medication lying around with a child in the house. James said he didn't realise they were even there.'

  I pick them up and stuff them back into the drawer.

  But it seems too late now, however, as I was equally as terrified of James seeing them.

  Now the rush is over, my thoughts spring back to my earlier visit to my parents' house.

  I turn back to Nicole. 'Nic – do you still have Lisa Richard's contact details? You didn't happen to get her phone number when you arranged that restaurant meeting?'

  'Why?'

  'I need to get in touch with her.'

  'Why don't you just contact Jones and Stanton?'

  'Well, it's not really about work. Anyway, she reports to either Ian or John and so do I. I don't really have a legitimate reason to contact her. It would sound strange.'

  'Then why do it? Maybe you shouldn't, Heather.'

  'But I have reason to think she is interfering in my life – at work and at home.'

  Nicole snorts bitterly. 'Because you think she broke into your house and wrote a message on your bathroom mirror?'

  'Thanks for taking this seriously, Nicole.'

  There is an odd atmosphere in the kitchen now. I feel the need to keep my distance from my best friend who is clearly still smarting from my earlier misdemeanour.

  I lean against the worktop near the sink and rub my temples with my fingertips, sensing a stress headache coming on.

  As I do, I notice a remaining fragment of broken wine glass partially hidden underneath the toaster. I must have missed it when I had cleared up after my outburst of temper.

  'You know, Nic, I've had a horrible day. I'm really tired and–'

  'I thought that might be coming.' She screws up the empty crisp packet and I step out of the way to let her put it in the bin.

  'It must be exhausting letting your friends down, mustn't it? I wouldn't know, Heather. I've always been there for you.'

  'Nicole, please,' I beg. 'You have to believe I didn't do this on purpose.'

  'I'm sure you didn't. But like James said – you always think whatever you are doing is more important than anyone else. You still haven't told me what you were doing instead when you should have been picking up Lilly.'

  She pauses in the doorway and stares at me, waiting for me to divulge.

  I stare down at my grey marble floor. 'I just had loose ends to tie up with work, that was all. It's the final meeting tomorrow...'

  'Right, sure you did. You know where to find me if you decide to tell me the truth.'

  She opens the door to the living room. The sounds of a manic cartoon echo into the kitchen where I stand alone. 'Come on, Lilly,' I hear Nicole say. 'It's time to go.'

  58

  As soon as I hear Nicole shut the door behind herself and Lilly, I sink down at the island and let the tears flow. My eyes prickled after James left, but the departure of both my husband and my best friend feels worse than a punch in the stomach.

  The most frustrating part is I only have myself to blame, as always.

  Something in me wants to call Nicole back; I have the urge to confess everything; I want to tell her every little weird incident that has happened and how I now feel like a stranger in my own home; I want to divulge the truth about my parents; about James.

  I want to confess what I did to Lisa in our final year of school – how I waited for her outside one day and confronted her about her years of bullying. When it came down to the moment when she rounded the corner onto the main road with her short little friend – her constant ally and goon – I realised I had no bigger plan than to scream and shout at her.

  At that moment, I had felt weak and foolish, but I went ahead anyway. I reminded her of every horrible thing she had ever done to me and how pathetic she was. I pointed out how she was worse off than me – living in a tiny flat with her single mother in an even shabbier part of town than I had lived. How she had no prospects once she left school.

  I realised after I had said everything I wanted that Lisa hadn't spoken a single word back. At first, she had smirked – in alarm more than anything else – but her face was awful by the time I had screamed myself into silence at her.

  I'll never forget that look on her face.

  When I started my rant, I thought she was going to giggle with her friend at me, then when I had finished, I thought she might take a swing at me instead. But she did neither.

  Maybe she thought I was going to attack her myself, but she rushed past me, leaving her friend gawping after her.

  It seemed to happen in slow motion.

  By the time I looked over my shoulder, she had broken into a run as she darted into the busy main road during the school rush.

  All myself and her short friend could do was watch as she was hit by a white transit van.

  It made an awful noise. There was a horrible screech of brakes that seemed to cut through everything and then all seemed to go quiet for a few heart-stopping
moments. Then the scene sprung into life again as the traffic stopped on both sides and people started to rush forward.

  Lisa's friend must have mentioned my name afterwards, as I was questioned by the head teacher and police as to what happened.

  I can't even remember what I muttered to them in that office the next day, my heart in my throat, but they didn't request to see me again.

  I haven't spoken to anyone of the incident, not even my parents who seemed unaware anything had happened at all.

  I want, no, I need to tell someone all this, but I just can't bring myself to do it. It is simply stuck in a deep chasm I don't allow light to ever filter into.

  But I know I won't say a word of any of it to anyone. I've spent too many years of deceit, turning away every time someone comes even close to my secrets.

  The room darkens around me so I flick the lights on and I notice the mascara smears on the back of my hand. I wrench myself from my stool and up the stairs.

  In the bathroom, I fill up the sink with warm water, for once not caring in the slightest that my stream of water is illuminated.

  I had spent so many nights selecting the right taps for the bathroom. There were brochures scattered everywhere; my internet search history was crammed tight with visits to home improvement websites.

  In the end, what difference does it make which taps adorn my bathroom when I am the only person here to see it.

  I splash water on my swollen eyes, wincing as soap works its way into the still tender skin of my hands.

  As I'm replacing my towel on the heated chrome rail, my attention is drawn to the shelf beside the window.

  After I found one of James's aftershaves smashed on the floor, I had spread the other bottles evenly across the shelf to hide the gap.

  Now there is an empty space once more. Another bottle is missing.

  My eyes immediately scan the floor. My toes curl up automatically, wincing as though I'm about to happen upon the broken fragrance bottle in my socked feet. But it is nowhere to be seen.

  The slow drip, drip of a tap reaches my ears, but it isn't coming from the sink I have just filled.

  It is coming from my seldom-used bathtub.

  Dropping to my knees, after first double-checking the area of the floor for hidden sharp bits, I notice that the entire inside of the bath is wet.

  I rub my palm over the high-sides and it comes off damp all over.

  That's weird. Had Nicole given Lilly a bath after she got here?

  James wouldn't have used the tub either in such a short space of time.

  And even if they did, they must have filled it very deeply, right up to the top even.

  I'm suddenly reminded of the morning after James stayed over recently – when my husband left with a trail of chaos and questions behind him.

  59

  After the day's events, I'm keen to continue the bottle of wine I have been nursing recently. I retrieve it from the fridge and pour myself a large glass.

  I'm immediately hit with a fruity fragrance I don't remember the bottle having before.

  In the living room, I sink onto the sofa with my phone and place the wine down on the coffee table in front of me.

  I promised myself I would report the ominous messages I have been receiving to the police this evening. But now I just feel fatigued. Perhaps I will go to the station in person instead. When I go through the cold hard details of what has happened in my head, it all sounds so flimsy; vague messages via Instagram from different usernames; little happenings around the home, but nothing seriously damaged and no specific threat all amounts to... what exactly?

  It all sounds so strange. I'm sure it would all seem more believable if I go in person. They will see how credible I am and take me seriously.

  Yes, I will do that tomorrow. It's the final meeting with John and Ian tomorrow afternoon. As long as I'm not too exhausted, I'll pop into the local station on the way home.

  I pick up my much-deserved wine and take a large gulp.

  Immediately, I wish I hadn't.

  My throat stings and a sharp, acrid taste clings to the delicate skin of my gullet making me gag slightly.

  I raise my glass in the lamplight and examine the contents. The dark liquid appears normal but it tastes like perfume.

  I lift the glass up towards my nose and inhale the scent.

  James fragrance – that's what the wine smells like.

  What the hell?

  In the kitchen, I pour the liquid down the sink and hastily down a glass of water before I pull the fridge door open. As soon as I pull the cork out of the bottle, I'm hit with more heady notes of aftershave.

  The remaining liquid in the bottle follows the contents of my glass. I watch as the swirl of ruby disappears, leaving my sink empty. I give the whole thing a thorough rinse for good measure.

  I'm left staring at the gleaming white ceramic of my farmhouse sink as a thought strikes me, tensing the muscles of my forehead.

  I had the locks changed – so how did James get in?

  An involuntary shiver runs over me and I look out into the dark garden. Clawed black branches hunch over every edge, giving the space an almost Gothic look.

  I had hovered around as the locksmith worked his craft on the front and back doors yesterday. There is no way James could have got into the house without physically breaking in. Yet he and Lilly were well and truly inside by the time I got back.

  I'm so uncertain that I actually go and check both doors for any sign of forced entry, but they are pristine and unmarked. Just as I left them this morning.

  I was surely all but a short way behind James and Lilly this afternoon. Nicole had clearly only just arrived too. Her cheeks were flushed and she was even slightly breathless like she had dashed over upon hearing of my blunder.

  The idea that James ruined my fabric delivery resurfaces. If he could have done that, then what else could he have done while in the house?

  60

  I'm exhausted, but I can't sleep. My brain won't switch off. It seems insistent on presenting everything that's been happening in a continuous loop for me to examine.

  The fact that the final meeting is looming ever closer is now at the forefront of my mind. I haven't done as much as I would have liked to prepare. I would normally have done more liaising with my client. I would have made more of an effort, dropped more compliments, given more gifts.

  A sense of creeping dread heightens as the hours draw nearer to morning.

  Just after midnight, I try to call James, thinking he can answer the burning question of how he got into the house. His mobile goes straight through to voicemail, however, leaving me to stew further.

  A few times, I go down to the kitchen and pull out the box of sleeping tablets. One time, I actually crush up half a tablet and add it to some water, but I tip it away again, my courage failing at the last minute.

  I can't risk oversleeping – I have to be up early and check everything is OK in the holiday apartments before meeting John and Ian at the property.

  It's judgement day tomorrow. I should find out whether my name will be on the other project John told me about.

  I have a feeling I just haven't done enough to still be in the running for it, but some part of me still hopes anyway. If my marriage wasn't in tatters, I probably would care less, but now it feels as though my career is all I have left.

  If I can win the other project maybe I can still get back on track with James.

  I'm keeping count of the hours of sleep I could get if I fall asleep straight away. I stop looking once it's less than four...

  *

  My alarm wakes me, cutting through my hard-earned sleep. I'm so tempted just to hit snooze, but I don't.

  Today is too important.

  I shower and dress. Usually, I leave out my carefully selected outfit for the next day on the back of the door, but I'm thrown off when I realise I didn't do it last night.

  I haven't even checked the weather forecast, so I'm left rummaging arou
nd for something suitable for longer than I should be. Besides, I can't find the particular pair of trousers I had in mind...

  My stomach is churning so much that I don't even bother trying to eat anything. I'm so anxious and jumpy I just can't bring myself to add my usual dose of morning caffeine into the mix. So I take a sip of water, struggling to swallow.

  Even though I wasn't prepared, I'm still half an hour too early to leave. So I busy myself around the house wiping down worktops and straightening my wall canvases.

  On the upstairs landing, I adjust my fishbowl of flowers, blowing off tiny particles of dust and plumping up the arrangement.

  Then I remember how I stashed the spare key in here. It is useless now that I have changed the locks, so I reach into the bowl to retrieve it.

  My fingers come into contact with nothing beneath the flowers but cold glass.

  Tutting, I remove all the peony heads and search for the key.

  When I still can't find it, I shake each artificial flower individually. Although I already know that the feather-light bunches of petals can't be hiding a metal key I rummage anyway.

  I know it was here.

  It has to be here.

  Of all the things I have been uncertain about recently, I know I definitely hid that key in here.

  I lift up the bowl pointlessly and notice my breath misting up the pristine glass. My breathing is faster than I realised.

  Why is all this happening?

  Before I know what I'm doing, I'm stuffing all the flowers unceremoniously back into the bowl and pulling out my phone.

  My fingers tap James's speed dial icon and I wait, listening to the dialling tone and my own ragged breathing. I take a deep breath and try to calm myself before the my husband answers.

  The call does not connect.

  My eyes find the time. James is probably driving to work right now.

  Instead, I send him a carefully worded text asking him in a roundabout way whether he moved the key or not. I fill out the message with much padding, trying to take the emphasis off the fact that I have lost a key inside my own house. I don't want him to think I'm losing my marbles.