The Housewife: A completely addictive and gripping psychological thriller Page 4

  ‘Banana ice cream!’ Emma squealed, her face lighting up with her smile.

  Diane bent forward and planted a kiss on her soft curls, breathing in her smell, feeling a lump in her throat at her absolute unconditional love. ‘Let’s go then,’ she said, pushing the trolley ahead, keeping her eyes on her daughter. Nothing else mattered.

  The pleasure and excitement in Emma’s wide eyes as she took the cold tub of ice cream was just the remedy Diane needed. She’d had a bad morning. There was nothing wrong with her that spending time with this gorgeous, enchanting little girl wouldn’t heal.

  Emma dropped the tub of ice cream into the trolley and rubbed her cold fingers, the look on her face making Diane laugh. She took her hands in her own and rubbed them. ‘Better?’

  Blonde curls bouncing, Emma nodded. ‘It hurt,’ she said, continuing to look at her fingers with a hint of suspicion.

  ‘We’ll get our revenge when we eat it later,’ Diane said, ruffling her hair. Feeling so much better, putting the earlier silliness aside, she pushed the trolley forward. ‘Let’s go home.’

  She headed towards the checkout and unloaded her purchases onto the conveyor belt. She’d forgotten to bring bags, of course, so had to buy two, packing them up as the assistant took her money and handed her the change.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said with a nod, and pushed the trolley away. ‘We’ll have a bowl each as soon as we get home,’ she said, to Emma. ‘Maybe, we’ll even…’

  The words died on her lips as she caught sight of a woman in a navy coat standing near the exit. Her heart in her mouth, for one terrifying moment she thought it was her but then the woman turned to wave at another, both women soon smiling and hugging.

  She was just being silly. Paranoid. Maybe it was happening again.

  Five

  Outside, she looked around, feeling her heart thump. Taking a deep breath, she moved as fast as she could to push the trolley through the car park, the wheels rattling noisily, her badly packed bags tilting so that items started to fall out and slide about. She didn’t care, she just wanted to get to her car. Luckily for her, rather than being frightened, Emma thought it was a game. ‘Faster, faster!’ she squealed, waving her hands and chuckling when Diane did just that.

  Unlocking the car with a press of the fob as she approached, she opened the boot and threw the bags in, ignoring the pasta packet that had somehow split open. It would be all over the boot before she got home, but she didn’t care. The other loose items she flung in on top and banged the door shut. Lifting Emma out of the trolley with a wince, she pushed the trolley away from the car with her foot and left it there.

  ‘I want to do it,’ Emma complained as she dropped her into the child seat and strapped her in with shaking hands. Finally, standing at the open driver’s door, one foot inside as if prepared to jump in and drive away at speed, she braved a final look around. The car park was busy, there were people everywhere, but there was no sign of anyone bearing the remotest resemblance to the charity shop woman. She sat in her seat, took a deep breath and clasped her trembling hands.

  ‘Mummy,’ Emma said, ‘can we go now?’

  ‘Of course, darling,’ she said, twisting her hands together. ‘Just give me one minute.’ Deep, slow breaths in, slower breaths out. She’d attended various classes at the clinic, and each session started and ended with this simple relaxation technique. She’d used it ever since. Sometimes, it worked.

  ‘Mummyyyy!’ This time the word stretched out in the start of a whine.

  Diane started the engine, took another deep breath and let it out. ‘Off we go,’ she said, with forced jollity, turning up the music to drown out her anxiety. She kept her eyes firmly on the road in front of her as she drove, ignoring the few people she passed. At this stage, she just wanted to get home.

  Once there, she left the groceries in the boot and, ignoring the pain, lifted Emma out and rushed towards the door, struggling with her keys, afraid to put her down, afraid to look behind her. Kicking the door closed, she took a shuddering breath before hugging Emma tightly for a moment and letting her go.

  But then, of course, Emma wanted her ice cream.

  Diane knew her fear was irrational, but it just wouldn’t leave her. Leaving Emma in the living room, she stood in the hallway with her hand on the front doorknob and took a deep breath. Then, with a speed she hadn’t realised she possessed, she opened the door, jumped down the two steps and rushed to her car. She stumbled in her haste and almost lost her footing, a hand on the bonnet of the car saving her from a fall. Wrenching open the boot, she grabbed the shopping bags in one hand, banged the boot shut and ran back into the house.

  She dropped the bags on the counter and took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘It’s just coming, darling,’ she said, the promise keeping Emma sitting on the sofa, allowing her time to recover. Moments later, she left Emma happily watching TV with a bowl of ice cream and headed back to the lounge.

  The mess the spilt coffee had made on the floor brought a frown to her face. It needed to be cleaned up before Paul got home. She was a good housewife; the house was always sparkling, clothes always washed and neatly ironed. There was a certain pride in keeping everything looking so well. Paul had never commented, but she knew he liked the way she ran the house and, after all she’d put him through recently, she wasn’t going to let him down now.

  She’d no intention of telling him about the calamity in the shop, or the woman who had caused her such distress. If she told him, he would worry; he might insist she go back to the doctor. The doctor might suggest she go back to the clinic; he’d certainly insist she go back on those awful pills they’d prescribed, the small red pills that looked harmless, cheerful even, but which had left her feeling dazed and apathetic.

  A couple of days after her return from the clinic, she’d stopped taking them, telling Paul a few days after that, afraid he would insist she take them or, worse, that he’d take her back to that therapist she really hadn’t liked at all.

  She’d persuaded Paul at the time that she was better off without the pills, and she was…she was…but now…if she told him what was happening, Paul would insist she go back to see the therapist, who would just give her something else to take, brushing aside her concerns, as if it were nothing to do with her.

  Tomorrow, she’d be fine. Her imagination was working overtime because of what had happened that morning. That was all. And she was still adjusting to Emma being in nursery…wasn’t there something called separation anxiety? Of course, no wonder she was feeling so unsettled. She would be fine tomorrow. There was no point in worrying Paul.

  Picking up the hand towel she’d dropped on the puddle of coffee, she wrapped it in on itself to stop it dripping and took it through to the utility room to put into the washing machine. At the sink, she turned the tap on, letting the water flow until it was as hot as she could tolerate with her bare hands and filled a bowl with hot soapy water to take back to the lounge. Emma, she was relieved to see, was still engrossed in the programme she was watching and didn’t even look up.

  She knelt down and started scrubbing to clean away all the evidence of her stupidity. It took quite a while, requiring a few visits to the utility room to empty out the coffee-stained liquid and replace it with clean water. Finally, she sat back on her heels and surveyed the area. It would just about pass, she thought, standing up, feeling the pain in her side as she did; how was she going to explain that? She wouldn’t, she decided; it was painful, but not excruciatingly so; she’d take a couple of painkillers before he came home, and he’d be none the wiser.

  Returning the bowl to the utility room, she spotted the shopping bags where she’d dumped them on the kitchen counter. It was something Paul always complained about. ‘You put them on the floor and then put them on the clean counter?’ He’d said it so many times that eventually she’d stopped doing it. He was right, after all. But bending up and down to empty the bag from the floor was a chore she didn’t feel like today, especially with the g
nawing ache in her side.

  Unpacking the bags, she put everything away and emptied the spilt pasta in the bottom of one of the bags into the rubbish bin, shaking it down to the bottom where it wouldn’t be seen. With the bags folded and stacked neatly in their drawer, she reached for the disinfectant spray to spray the counter, wiping away her guilt at the same time.

  A cup of tea would have been perfect but, checking the time, she decided there wasn’t any to spare if she wanted to get the lasagne made and in the oven. Paul liked his evening meal on time; he’d watch the six o’clock headlines and expect his dinner on the table at six fifteen. Usually, everything went to plan. Lasagne was a dish she’d made many times and normally didn’t require much concentration. But today, the ragù caught on the bottom of the pan and the béchamel sauce boiled over in the microwave. She managed to rescue both, and, still a little worried she might have added salt twice, she slid it into the oven quickly and shut the door.

  Her bruised side ached. Paracetamol wasn’t strong enough; she’d stronger painkillers in her bathroom cabinet, so she went up, took two and looked at herself in the mirror. She looked tired, she thought, resting both hands on the basin and leaning closer to look at the fine lines around her eyes, wondering when they’d appeared. Paul would worry if he saw her so pale, so washed-out. Applying tinted moisturiser, mascara and some pale-pink lipstick, she stood back to check she looked okay just as a car pulled up outside. Paul. He was like clockwork. With a quick flick of a brush through her hair, she took a final look and headed downstairs.

  ‘Hi, darling,’ she said, reaching the last step, stopping as she saw that Emma had beaten her to it. She watched as he bent to tickle her, making her gurgle with laughter. He adored her, and she him.

  ‘You go back and play while Daddy gets out of his suit,’ he said, turning the child toward the open door. ‘Off you go,’ he added, patting her bottom.

  With Emma on her way, he looked at Diane. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘You look a bit tired,’ he added, his eyes lingering on her face. ‘How was your first day?’

  ‘It was good, busy,’ she said, stepping off the stairway so that she was closer to him, breathing deeply, catching the lingering hint of his aftershave. Resting her head on his shoulder, she waited for his arms to pull her closer and, for a moment, stayed there feeling safe. It would have been good to tell him everything; they could have laughed over the mix-up in the shop, at her silly overactive imagination.

  ‘It isn’t too much for you, is it? Maybe it was too soon to go back to work, even in a voluntary position.’ he said, pulling back and looking her over once more, concern in his eyes. ‘I want you to get better, Diane. If it’s too difficult…’

  She should have said it was, should have said she’d give it up but the words wouldn’t come to admit to such a failure. ‘No, it’s fine,’ she said, planting a kiss on his cheek and moving away. ‘Go, get changed, dinner is nearly ready.’

  ‘What are we having?’ he asked. ‘Work was mayhem and I didn’t get a chance to have lunch.’

  ‘Lasagne,’ she said, watching his face to see if he approved.

  ‘Okay, good, I like that,’ he said, and headed upstairs.

  Diane stared after him for a moment. There was a time when he’d kiss her passionately when he came home from work, sitting on the stairs, filling each other in on their day. Before Emma came along, sometimes passion would take over, and dinner would wait or burn. Her sigh was loud and long. Now, he just worried about her.

  She set the table, switching off the TV as she passed Emma – she hadn’t thought to turn it off earlier – and handed her a book instead. Paul had probably already heard it, but at least if it were off when he came down, he might not make a fuss. She hoped not, she really didn’t need any more stress today. Emma took one look at the book and her face creased into a frown. For a moment, she looked so much like Paul that it took Diane’s breath away. Sometimes, she wondered if hair colour was the only thing her daughter had inherited from her. ‘It’s one of your favourites,’ she said, pleadingly. To her horror, Emma’s face tensed and her mouth opened. Waiting for the inevitable wail, she frantically flicked the pages of the book, causing a draft that made Emma’s curls lift and her eyelashes flutter. Her face changed in an instant.

  ‘Again!’ she chuckled.

  Relieved that the impending disaster was averted, Diane happily spent a few minutes flicking the pages of the book. ‘Okay, last time,’ she said, ‘now just sit and read it until Daddy comes down.’

  ‘Thank God,’ she muttered, making her way back to the kitchen. Taking the lasagne out, she placed it on the hob while she quickly made a green salad, placed the salad bowl on the table and checked that everything was as it should be, everything in its place.

  ‘Smells good,’ Paul said coming in, sniffing the air appreciatively. He looked more relaxed, Diane thought as he took a seat on the sofa beside Emma and switched on the TV to catch the news. He always did once he changed his tailored suits for casual clothes, the long-sleeved grey T-shirt and sweatpants he now wore suiting him far better.

  She took the plates from the oven and dished up the lasagne, giving Paul an extra-large helping. ‘It’s ready,’ she said, raising her voice to be heard over the sombre tone of the newsreader.

  Paul switched off the TV, picked Emma up and carried her across to her booster seat, pushing it closer to the table. ‘There you go,’ he said, putting the spoon into her hand and moving her plate nearer. Taking his own seat, he picked up his cutlery and started to eat.

  ‘It’s good,’ he managed to say between mouthfuls, hoovering up forkfuls hungrily for a few minutes before asking, ‘So how did your first day go?’

  ‘Fine,’ Diane lied, ‘the other volunteers are very nice.’ Feeling she needed to elaborate, she told him the story of the bondage items that had been sent in to them. ‘Anne and I howled with laughter,’ she said, dropping her eyes to her food quickly so he wouldn’t see the sudden sadness that crossed her face. It had been a fun moment, forgotten in the wake of a terrible day. She’d miss going back there but returning wasn’t an option. She was embarrassed, humiliated and ashamed. How could she possibly explain? She looked up to find him staring at her.

  ‘You look tired, you’re certain it isn’t too hard?’ he asked, furrowing his brow.

  She shook her head, probably more emphatically than she should because he continued to stare at her for a few seconds before shrugging and continuing with his meal.

  There wasn’t another anecdote she could tell him about the job. She didn’t want to talk about Red, Beth or Anne who she’d really hoped…no, she had to stop thinking about them. ‘Emma enjoyed nursery today,’ she said brightly, hoping Paul wouldn’t notice how forced it was. It wasn’t a great conversation opener, but it was the best she could do. And it worked; Paul’s attention switched immediately to his daughter. ‘So, what did you get up to, princess?’ he said, smiling across the table at her.

  Emma revelled in his attention and happily told tales of her teacher, her classmates and the various things she’d done. Much of it was garbled and made little sense, but he listened to her intently. Diane sat back and tried to relax but she couldn’t. Luckily, they didn’t notice; all she needed to do was contribute a chuckle now and then when Emma, or Paul, said something witty and she was okay. She’d only given herself a small piece of lasagne, but even that defeated her. Afraid Paul would notice, she forced herself to eat a few mouthfuls before covering the remainder with a few salad leaves. ‘Would you like some more?’ she asked, standing with her plate in her hand and moving across to the kitchen as if she were intent on getting more for herself.

  ‘No, thanks, it’s very nice but I’ve enough here,’ he said without looking at her, his attention focused on his daughter.

  ‘Maybe I’ve had enough too,’ she said, covering the dish with tinfoil and putting it into the fridge. She scraped what was on her plate into the bin, rinsed the plate and put it into the dishwasher.

>   Filling the kettle, she switched it on. Paul liked coffee after his dinner. A glass of wine would have been her choice, but they had a rule: no wine during the week. Opening the fridge, she saw the bottle of Chardonnay they’d opened at the weekend and not finished. With the open door of the American fridge blocking her from Paul’s sight, and without thinking, she took the bottle from the shelf, removed the lid and held it to her mouth. She took two gulps, stopped for a breath and took two more before returning the bottle to the shelf and replacing the screw cap.

  ‘You ready for your coffee,’ she asked Paul, taking out the milk with an unsteady hand and closing the fridge door. She was shocked at what she’d just done, but there was a small part of her that relished the breaking of the rules, as if, by doing so, she was taking back a little control of something. And in the hellish day she’d had, that made her feel better.

  He mumbled an affirmative as he scooped the last of his lasagne up, the fork scratching the plate.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want more?’ she asked, wishing, not for the first time, that he didn’t scrape his plate as if it was the last meal he was going to have.

  ‘No thanks, just coffee,’ he said, putting his cutlery down with a clatter and pushing the plate away.

  Mimicking his actions, Emma dropped her spoon on her plate and pushed it towards his, reaching out to be taken out of her chair. He stood, lifted her down and sat again. With the taste of alcohol in her mouth, Diane held her breath as she put coffee in front of him and quickly removed the two plates.

  ‘Come on, Emma,’ she said, reaching for her hand. ‘Let’s get you into your pyjamas and then you can sit and watch TV with Daddy until it’s time to go to bed.’

  Upstairs, she left her daughter in her bedroom choosing which pyjamas to wear while she hurried into her ensuite bathroom to brush her teeth. Rinsing her mouth, she looked up and saw her reflection in the mirror looking guilty. ‘How silly,’ she muttered, grabbing the hand towel and swiping it roughly across her mouth, dropping it back on the rail as Emma came in, her favourite animal motif pyjamas clutched in her little fists.