The Housewife: A completely addictive and gripping psychological thriller Read online

  She couldn’t have said anything more appealing to the inveterate nosy-parker. ‘In the same place?’

  ‘Yes, but earlier, if you can. It’s going to take time to explain.’

  Agreeing on nine forty-five, Diane hung up.

  Back downstairs, she finished the wine she’d poured. She was going to tell Anne everything. Funnily enough, knowing she wasn’t all that perfect herself made it easier.

  She washed the wine glass and put it away. Leaving Emma asleep, she got on with preparing dinner. Another casserole, easy food. Chop everything, dump it in a dish, empty a jar of sauce on top and bung it into the oven. It was done in ten minutes.

  Before waking Emma, she ran upstairs and brushed her teeth, swirling the toothpaste around a few times. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, she sighed. The stress was getting to her. She looked tired, her hair needed washing; it was greasy, lifeless. Fishing a hair tie out of her drawer, she tied it back.

  Rubbing Emma’s back gently to wake her, she sat beside her and switched on the TV. ‘Let’s watch Pet Zoo,’ she said, switching channels. Letting the sound drift into the background, her brain struggled to understand what was going on but, no matter how she looked at it, it didn’t make any sense. It kept coming around to the same fact: Paul had encouraged Red to give her a job.

  A shriek of laughter interrupted her thoughts, and she looked down at Emma who pointed at the screen, her eyes wide in wonder as a trio of young monkeys cavorted in a children’s play area. She brushed one golden curl from the child’s forehead and leaned down to kiss it in place. And then it hit her. They both adored Emma, was that the key? Feeling the soft, warm weight of the child in the crook of her arm, she looked down at her. She’d do anything for her. So would Paul.

  Was that it?

  That information leaflet with its official blue logo and crest, detailing everything he needed to know to have her committed. Hidden away until he needed it.

  She shook her head slowly as a series of horrendous thoughts bombarded her. She’d dismissed the idea that it was a conspiracy against her, laughing at her own paranoia. But what if she’d been right? What if it was all a devious plot? And Paul getting Red to give her the job in the charity shop was just the first step. It set the scene. It was there she’d had her first meltdown after that strange woman had appeared. Red and Paul. Working together and conspiring against her.

  If she was right, they were to blame for everything that was happening to her.

  Twenty-Two

  She thought through this new and horrifying idea. If she was right, Paul was being very, very clever. He adored Emma. If he planned to divorce Diane, he’d want custody of her.

  What better way to obtain full custody than to prove she wasn’t a competent mother? She’d had a breakdown and there were huge portions of the last year that she couldn’t remember. Hadn’t she felt, over the last couple of weeks, that she was heading for another breakdown; feeling that edge to fall over was close and getting closer.

  What if everything that had happened was designed to drive her straight back to that clinic?

  Her eyes filled with tears as she considered all the things that had happened. That woman…not a stalker…someone planted by Paul to unsettle her. And how well it had worked. And that child’s cry? A cat. He probably heard it just as clearly as she did.

  She bit her lip and swallowed a sob. This was her husband, the man she loved. Love wasn’t something that could be switched off at will. How could he do this to her, how could he be so cruel?

  Easing Emma from her arms, she left her watching TV and went upstairs. She would not cry in front of her. Sitting on her bed, feeling hopeless and lost, she let the tears flow. The pain of his infidelity made her double over, his intention to destroy her made her moan with despair. She curled up on the bed, wrapped her arms around her knees, and sobbed.

  It was several minutes before she regained control, but when she did, when she straightened, wiping her face with her hands, her eyes were hard. Knowledge was power; now that she knew what he was up to, she’d start to fight back. She’d put the pain of his infidelity, of his utter and absolute betrayal, to the back of her mind to be dealt with sometime in the future. She’d lost him; she wasn’t going to lose Emma.

  There was no point in challenging him. He’d just laugh and deny everything. Or tell her she was being paranoid. Keeping quiet and playing the game was the best way of ensuring he didn’t win, and certainly the best way to make sure she did.

  What could she possibly have done to warrant such treatment, such cruelty? How could their love have turned so toxic?

  He thought she’d crumble, didn’t he? It was time she showed him she had inner strength; she just needed to find it. An idea came to her that brought a slight smile to her lips. It was time to turn the tables, even just a little. Checking on Emma once again, she dashed back upstairs, had a quick shower and washed her hair. She chose her clothes carefully, blow-dried her hair and left it loose. Carefully applied make-up and she was ready.

  The animal programme had just ended when she went back down. Switching the TV off, she settled Emma with some toys; the educational ones Paul had bought her. Once she began playing, she took a few photographs with her phone. She’d build up a collection of photos showing what a wonderful, caring mother she was and what a happy, contented daughter she had.

  Emma was still playing happily when Paul came through the door. He looked down at her approvingly before turning to Diane, an eyebrow rising when he heard jazz music playing in the background. ‘Nice,’ he said with a smile. ‘We haven’t listened to that in a while.’

  ‘I was in the mood,’ she said, tossing her hair back and looking at him through her eyelashes, a flirtatious glance that had him blink and turn away, but not before she’d seen the puzzled look on his face.

  Smiling, she took the casserole out of the oven, putting plates inside to warm while she finished setting the table.

  ‘Finish up playing, Emma,’ she said, putting knives and forks in place as Emma abandoned her game and headed over, climbing up into her chair without assistance. Soon they wouldn’t need the booster seat at all; she was growing up so fast.

  Switching the oven off, she stood for a moment, took a deep breath and then took wine glasses from the cupboard and put them on the table. She poured wine into both and put the bottle away. She certainly didn’t want him calculating how much she’d already drunk.

  ‘I fancied a glass of wine,’ she said, pre-empting his objection to this unusual mid-week drink. ‘I’ve poured you one too, but you don’t have to drink it if you don’t want.’

  He had only glanced at her earlier but now his eyes lingered on the tightly fitting T-shirt she’d changed into, the low-cut neckline that exposed the curve of her breasts. She bent down to take the plates from the oven, keeping her arms close to her chest to increase her cleavage.

  Straightening, she caught his stare. ‘Breast of chicken casserole,’ she said, resisting the temptation to wink, suddenly feeling as if she might be overdoing it. There was no point in going overboard. For the moment, she had him just where she wanted him. Confused.

  She maintained a steady stream of innocuous chat over dinner; she told him about meeting Anne that morning and made up anecdotes about people who visited the charity shop earlier in the week without a hint of embarrassment at her lies.

  ‘So, you still like it there?’ he asked, picking up the wine she’d poured for him and taking a sip.

  She sat back, hooking one elbow over the back of the chair. She could feel the fabric of her T-shirt stretch, saw his eyes flick down and away.

  You bastard, she thought, forcing her lips to smile as she considered his question. ‘Yes, it’s perfect for me right now. I think when Emma goes to primary school, I’ll probably look for something more challenging, or, what was it you called it?’ she asked, faking a puzzled look. ‘Oh yes, a proper job.’ She gave him a bright, full-on smile.

  After dinner, Paul we
nt to watch the news. Diane made him some coffee and took Emma upstairs to get ready for bed. When she was ready, dressed in pale-yellow pyjamas with white ducks encircling arms and legs, she looked so adorable she picked her up and squeezed her.

  ‘Mummy!’ the child squealed, wriggling from her arms and toddling away to run downstairs and climb onto the sofa. She was cuddled up to her father by the time Diane came down.

  She took her time tidying the kitchen and loading the dishwasher, but he was still sitting there when she’d finished, Emma curled up beside him, fast asleep. Tired and weary, the chill of his betrayal like a weight in her chest, she’d no energy left for pretence and games. Now, she just wanted him to go so she could have another glass of wine. She was aware she was drinking too much but it was a crutch she needed at the moment. When this whole horrible mess was cleared up, she’d give it up. Or, she tempered, she’d cut it down anyway.

  She watched him stand and stretch and felt tension ease.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, bending to pick up the sleeping child. ‘I’ll take her up to bed.’

  There was a strange look on his face that Diane didn’t like. Maybe, she thought with a flash of horror, she’d come on too strong. She was damned if she was going to sit wondering and waiting. ‘Will you be coming back down?’ There was no invitation in the question, no hint of flirtatiousness this time in her voice.

  He looked perplexed. ‘You’re in a strange mood today,’ he said. ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Everything is hunky-dory,’ she said, pasting a smile in place. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

  ‘That’s okay then,’ he said, with a shrug. ‘No, I won’t be down, I have a lot of work to do.’

  She waited until she heard his office door close before pouring herself that much-needed extra glass of wine and collapsing into the sofa.

  Another mouthful of wine and she put the glass down. She sat for a long time without moving, trying not to think, trying to give her poor, abused brain a rest. She still loved him – love wasn’t something you could switch off that easily – but now that the initial shock had eased, it wasn’t as painful as she would have thought. She frowned, wondering if perhaps, somewhere in those forgotten months, she’d been aware of what was going on. With a sigh, she shook her head. She loved him and would have remained faithful to him. Betrayal wasn’t in her nature. She’d thought it wasn’t in his. Perhaps, she’d never really known him at all.

  Suddenly weary, she finished the wine and rinsed and put away the glass before switching off the lights. She stood in the darkness for a few seconds before turning to leave the room, pulling the door shut behind her. Upstairs, there was no light from under the office door or Paul’s bedroom door. She’d no idea of the time, but it must be later than she’d thought.

  Slipping quietly into Emma’s room, her breath caught when she saw how the light from the hallway made her curls shine, turning them into a halo around her face. Her angelic daughter, there was nothing she wouldn’t do for her. Unfortunately, she knew that Paul felt the same.

  With a heavy heart, she went to bed and tossed and turned until morning. Bleary-eyed, she finally gave up at six, threw on a robe and padded barefoot down the stairs. She made a pot of coffee, set a tray with a china mug and a jug of hot milk and took it to the small table near the window. Pulling back the curtains, she sat into the comfortable bucket chair to drink it, forgot about the weekend that loomed ahead and watched the day dawn. It would be hours before Paul was awake, at least two before Emma was. Just for a few hours, she would pretend that all was right with her world.

  Twenty-Three

  Nothing untoward happened over the weekend; there was no sign of her stalker, no further sound of a baby’s cry. Diane no longer went into the lounge so she had no idea if that feeling of terror still persisted.

  She took several photos of Emma: having her lunch, playing with those ridiculously expensive toys, turning the pages of her favourite book. ‘One more,’ she said, as the child’s eyes began to droop. Finally, she took one of her curled up on the sofa, asleep.

  Ammunition. She needed to gather as much as she could.

  She didn’t continue her game with Paul. The more she thought about it, the more devastating his betrayal and his willingness to destroy her to get what he wanted. She didn’t know who the man she’d married was, and found it hard to bring herself to look at him.

  He commented a number of times on how quiet she was. ‘Are you sure you’re feeling all right?’ he asked for the second time on Sunday evening. ‘You sure you’re not overdoing it in that shop?’

  She looked at him and saw the look of concern on his face. If she hadn’t seen the information sheets on how to have her sectioned, if she hadn’t seen the receipt for those expensive earrings, she might have been taken in. Her mouth twisting in disgust, she quickly turned away. ‘I’m fine,’ she replied.

  She was tempted to pour wine at dinner again that night, but dismissed the thought. After all, she didn’t know what kind of ammunition Paul was trying to collect; she didn’t want any talk of alcohol abuse. She’d wait until after he’d gone to his office.

  Did he spend hours on the phone to her when he was up there? She’d heard the one call, guessing now that he’d been speaking to Red; he probably did every night. Maybe that was a special one, a birthday…an anniversary. Bitterness coursing through her with biting sharpness, she wondered when he saw her. He hadn’t spent a night away from home since her return from the clinic. Had he done so before? She couldn’t remember.

  She didn’t have any wine that night. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day; she needed a clear, rested head for all the private eye stuff she’d planned. It was the worst thing to think, of course. Immediately, she started to worry about not sleeping. How could she follow the woman for miles if she was as weary as she’d been the last few days?

  She didn’t want to take sleeping tablets as they left her groggy the next day, but she did have some painkillers that made her sleepy. She rummaged in her bathroom cabinet, found a packet and quickly took two.

  Then she lay on her bed and tried to sleep.

  She tried the mindfulness technique she’d been taught, but her mind refused to stay focused on the moment, drifting along all the different tangles of her life, attempting, almost pathetically, to unravel them.

  If she could just unravel one part, she hoped the rest would come undone and maybe the gaps in her life for the last year would close over.

  She’d really like that.

  And on that thought, she fell asleep.

  Twenty-Four

  She dressed with care the next morning. It was a grey, miserable day, the road and pathways puddled from overnight rain. In black jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt, she looked at herself in the mirror. Dressed for action. A pair of comfortable walking shoes and she was set.

  Paul’s eyebrows rose. ‘You going to a funeral?’

  ‘Anne always wears black,’ she said, ‘and she always looks so sophisticated. I thought I’d give it a go.’ She was getting so good at blending lies and truth it worried her. Maybe they were very alike, after all.

  ‘Anne?’ he queried, picking up the kettle to pour boiling water into a mug.

  She moved around him to take a mug from the cupboard, spooned instant coffee into it and held it out to him, waiting until he’d filled it before answering. ‘The woman from the charity shop I met for coffee on Friday. I told you about her.’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s hard to keep up with you.’

  Biting her lip, she stirred her coffee and added milk. His comment had been carefully neutral, too carefully. He didn’t believe her. She could see the sneering disbelief in his eyes and turned away before he could read the hurt in hers.

  He gave Emma her usual cuddle before leaving. ‘Be good, princess,’ he said, ruffling her curls. Diane received her usual dry kiss on the cheek. She wondered why he bothered going through the motions.

  Once he was gone, she concentrated on getting r
eady for the day. ‘Okay, Emma,’ she said, crouching beside her. ‘When you come out of school today, Mummy won’t be there to meet you. A very nice lady called Milly will bring you home instead and stay with you until I come back, okay?’

  Emma’s little face took on a serious expression as she digested this unusual change to her routine. ‘Will she give me my lunch?’

  Diane hugged her. ‘Yes, of course she will.’

  Dropping her off at the nursery, she mentioned to Miss Rogers that she’d arranged for someone else to collect her daughter and headed to the offices of the babysitting service, where she handed over the key to the receptionist and asked her to confirm that everything was arranged for that afternoon.

  Back at home she waited restlessly until it was time to leave. She’d decided to walk this time, had calculated the timing perfectly and stepped into the same alleyway at twelve thirty. It was damper and colder than she’d remembered. Shuffling from foot to foot and rubbing her gloved hands in an attempt to keep warm, the time passed slowly. The traffic on the road was fairly constant, but when she saw it build up, she knew it was almost time, the cold and damp forgotten as she concentrated her attention on the path across the road from the nursery.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the woman approach at five minutes to one. The same sleek bob, this time wearing a short, boxy jacket over dark trousers. Her unremarkable face was exactly as she remembered. As before, she was coming from the opposite direction, walking without haste. Diane felt anger bubble, her hands clenching. How dare she be so casual about what she was doing? Maybe, she should just forget about this stalker angle and go and face her now.

  Face her, and tell her she knew what she was up to. The idea lingered for a moment. But then she shook her head. If she confronted her, Paul would know the game was up. But he might come up with something else. No, she needed proof, something she could take to a solicitor, something that would give her some clout when they went to court to fight for custody of Emma. No, she’d stick to her plan. Find out who she was, and go from there.