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

  Diane’s eyes narrowed. ‘Wasn’t my interview with Red confidential?’ she said, more sharply than she had intended, regretting the words when she saw the embarrassed blush.

  But the blush wasn’t embarrassment, it was annoyance. Anne put her coffee down with as close to a bang as you could get with an almost full mug. ‘We were talking about how best we could use our new volunteer, actually,’ she said, her voice defensive. ‘We were going to wait until you’d settled in and ask you to update our web page.’

  It was Diane’s turn to blush. She put her coffee down. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I’ve had a bad couple of days.’ She watched Anne’s face relax a little as she reached to pick up her coffee again. It looked as if she’d accepted her apology. Relieved, Diane sat back. For a moment, she was tempted to tell her about the strange woman; it would be good to share with someone. She had no friends in London and although she still occasionally met up with some of her Bristol friends, it was so infrequent that they never really made it past polite small talk. She picked up her coffee with a sigh. No, she couldn’t tell her. She’d already made herself out to be paranoid, she didn’t want Anne to think she was crazy. Maybe she was. She batted away the thought and pinned a smile in place as Anne put her mug down again, looked at her watch and jumped to her feet.

  ‘Gosh, is that the time? I said I’d only be gone twenty minutes,’ she said, with a smile. She grabbed her coat and put it on, fastening the overlarge buttons down the front.

  Diane stood. ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said politely. ‘I’m sorry how things worked out. Tell Red…tell her I was grateful for the opportunity.’

  Anne finished fastening her coat and moved into the hallway where she turned to say goodbye. ‘Maybe we could have coffee sometime?’

  Surprised, Diane nodded quickly. ‘I’d like that,’ she said. Maybe, after all, they could be friends.

  Reaching up to readjust her headscarf and then lifting both hands in acknowledgment of what a pointless exercise it was, since curls fell out faster than she could put them in, she said, ‘How about Friday, then?’

  Diane smiled, genuinely pleased. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘Friday it is.’

  They arranged to meet at eleven in a coffee shop Diane had heard of but had never visited. ‘The Birdcage, Friday at eleven,’ she repeated as she opened the door. ‘See you then.’

  She shut the door with the smile still on her face. What an unexpected visit. There was a bounce in her step as she went back to clear away the mugs. Honestly, that something so simple could cheer her up so much. She needed to get out more, make new friends. Anne was a good start.

  She wondered about her. Perhaps she was right to be wary, after all, she knew absolutely nothing about her. They hadn’t had much time to chat in the shop during the one morning they had worked together. She tapped her fingernails on the countertop. Friday, she’d find out about her then.

  It was soon time to leave and pick up Emma. Grabbing her keys, she closed the front door and headed off. Almost without realising it, her eyes flicked up and down the street. For the first time, she wished they didn’t live in such a quiet area. She was barely on nodding terms with most of her neighbours, and only knew their names because of wrongly delivered post. The only one she saw regularly was the elderly Mrs Prescott who lived across the road and walked the twenty minutes to the nearest shop every day, always nodding with age-old graciousness when she saw Diane.

  Today, there was no sign of anybody. She climbed into the car and drove to the nursery, pulling in and reversing into a parking space. Arriving too early, she sat in her car listening to the radio, humming along to a song she remembered from her youth, fingers tapping the steering wheel in time to the music.

  When the song ended, she checked the time. Twelve forty-three. Any moment now, the nursery door would open. Other parents had arrived, the car park filling up around her. Looking out of the windscreen, a sudden lull in traffic allowed her to see across to the other side of the road.

  The sharp intake of breath was loud and automatic. Her hand flew to cover her mouth, pressing hard against her lips to supress a scream as she stared at the tall slim woman with the smooth bob.

  How could it be?

  And in the blink of an eye, as if to prove her right, there was suddenly nobody there.

  Eight

  If she couldn’t see her, she wasn’t there. Diane knew she was falling back on a child’s reasoning, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t there now, she’d never been there.

  Moments later, with Emma strapped into her seat, she drove the short distance home with tunnel vision, barely reducing speed as she pulled into her driveway. Safely inside the house, she locked the front door, sliding the safety chain she rarely used into place, and stumbled into the family room, closing the door and leaning against it.

  She glanced toward the telephone. Maybe she should ring the police? But Paul would find out. Then she’d have to tell him about the fiasco in the charity shop and he’d wonder why she hadn’t told him already. She pasted a smile in place as Emma appeared from the downstairs cloakroom, her trousers around her knees and a grin on her face. Diane bent to help her with her clothes, the buttons on the trousers difficult for little three-year-old fingers. She kissed her on top of her head as she fastened them.

  ‘Hungry, sweetheart?’ she asked.

  ‘Tommy says he gets cornflake sandwiches for his lunch,’ Emma said, toddling over to her chair.

  Diane helped her up, the twinge in her side telling her she needed to take more painkillers. Cornflake sandwiches? She was almost tempted. Instead, she took a carton of soup from the fridge, opened the top, put it into the microwave and switched it on.

  Five minutes later, they were both sitting down to mushroom soup and cheese sandwiches. When they were finished, she gave Emma a glass of milk and switched the kettle on to make coffee.

  The half-empty bottle of wine called to her as she put the milk away. She took it out and poured some into a clean mug, stopping when it was half full, only to swear under her breath and fill it to the brim. She threw the mug of coffee down the drain and sat opposite Emma, sipping the wine.

  She was still drinking it twenty minutes later, listening to Emma’s soft snuffle as she slept on the sofa. It was having its effect. Her ribs still ached, but she felt more relaxed. Debating the wisdom of taking painkillers on top of the wine, she decided against. Anyway, the pain focused her even as the wine relaxed her. She’d almost convinced herself that the woman she’d seen outside the house yesterday had just borne a similarity to the charity shop woman, but now she knew she was wrong. It had been her, and it was her outside the nursery today. Was she, for some reason, following her?

  Finishing the mug of wine, she returned to the fridge and took out the bottle. There wasn’t much left, maybe a quarter of a cup? Unscrewing the lid, she emptied it into her mug and stood leaning against the counter while she drank. She needed to know if the woman was outside now. Holding the mug in one hand, she ran a hand over her face and moved away from the counter. Alcohol-induced bravery; she’d better act while it was still working.

  The blinds in the lounge were open, so she sidled into the room, edging around the wall to the window. Stepping to one side, she could see quite a way up the street. There was nobody to be seen. Reaching out, she grabbed the cord and shut the blind before walking across to the other side. Draining the mug, she waited a beat before carefully raising one slat to peer out. Nobody. There was nobody there.

  She wasn’t sure if she felt relieved that there was nobody there, or annoyed. Had the woman been standing there, while Emma was safely asleep, she might have gone out and faced her. Might have found out if she were real. She dropped the slat and headed back to the family room, leaving the blinds shut.

  Emma woke just as she went through. She bent down to kiss her on the cheek, pulling back quickly when the child’s nose crinkled up at the smell of alcohol on her breath. Reaching for the remote, she switched on the telev
ision. ‘Watch TV for a while,’ she said, brushing away the feeling of guilt. She wasn’t giving her cornflake sandwiches, she was just letting her watch TV. She’d play with her later. When she didn’t reek of alcohol.

  She went to her room and brushed her teeth for several minutes, swirling the minty paste around her mouth before spitting it out. Then, because her side ached, she popped two painkillers. Looking in the cabinet mirror she saw her reflection; it looked as bad as she felt. She applied some make-up and brushed her hair. She didn’t look a lot better but it was all she could do.

  Back downstairs, parental guilt reared its head and she switched off the television and spent the next couple of hours playing with Emma. It was impossible to spend time in her company without feeling better. Buoyed by her infectious laughter, Diane lost herself in the world of dolls and purple stuffed toys, and closed out reality.

  It was almost five before she stood up, suddenly aware she’d given absolutely no thought to dinner. A quick search of the freezer turned up a chicken crown she’d bought some time before. Hoping she could cook it from frozen, she turned it over to read the instructions, a sigh of relief escaping when she saw she could. She checked the clock. Just perfect. Deciding to do roast veg to go with the chicken, she peeled and chopped a selection, poured some olive oil into a metal dish and threw the lot in using her hands to coat them all in the oil. Checking the time again, she spread a tea cloth over the tray and put it to one side.

  Next, she took the empty wine bottle and half filled it with water before screwing the cap back on and returning it to the fridge. Paul wouldn’t want wine until Friday, so she’d have to replace it by then. Back in the lounge, she lifted one slat and peered up and down the street again. Still nothing. Relieved, she opened the blinds. And, finally, she took the safety chain from the front door and fetching her house keys she unlocked the main lock.

  That was it, wasn’t it? Everything was the way it should be. She held a hand to her head. It felt muggy; she wasn’t used to drinking in the middle of the day. She leaned against the door for a moment with her eyes closed, feeling incredibly weary.

  Her eyes snapped open to the sound of a baby’s cry from the other room. Tutting, she pushed away from the door and headed towards the family room to switch off the TV. Emma, the little monkey, must have found the controls again; she’d have to be firmer about the rules.

  But she was shocked to find the television blank and Emma sitting on the floor surrounded by her toys, happily playing. Diane rubbed her eyes. Seeing things and now hearing things? She gave a heavy sigh that drew Emma’s attention. The little girl looked at her with a serious expression and said, ‘Have you got a pain, Mummy?’

  ‘No, darling,’ she said, managing a reassuring smile. Dismissing her foolishness with a shake of her head, she went into the kitchen to finish preparing dinner.

  With Emma playing quietly again, a check of the clock told Diane she’d half an hour before Paul was home. She made a mug of tea and with a last glance at Emma, headed into the lounge to relax. At the door, she stopped with her hand on the doorknob, suddenly strangely nervous about opening the door. With a grunt of annoyance at her hesitation, she flung the door open with unnecessary force. It banged against the wall making her swear softly and hope the handle hadn’t caused damage to the wall.

  She was being silly. With only a moment’s hesitation, she went in to sit on the pale blue sofa that sat against the far wall, facing the window. It used to have two huge turquoise feather cushions, one propped on either end, now there was only one. She’d asked Paul if he knew what happened to the other, but he’d just looked at her blankly and shrugged.

  ‘Did it get damaged or stained, maybe?’ she’d persevered and then, with a frustrated shake of her head, she’d added, ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘It’s just a cushion,’ he’d said dismissively, turning away.

  She’d searched the house for it before accepting it was gone. Somewhere in those missing hours, she guessed, it had been damaged beyond repair and thrown out. She never mentioned it again, propping the single cushion in the middle of the sofa. It looked odd but, so far, she hadn’t the heart to care.

  Maybe she’d buy two new ones, she thought as she moved closer to the sofa, her mug of tea cupped in her hands. Her initial nervousness hadn’t ebbed and now a lick of fear joined it to send goosebumps over her skin. What felt like minutes passed before she was able to take a single shaky step backward. Then another and another until she was back out in the hall. Reaching out with one hand, she grabbed the door and pulled it shut.

  Back in the kitchen, she threw the tea down the sink. Had there been any more wine in the fridge, she’d have downed the lot.

  It was just stress, and her overactive imagination playing tricks on her. That was all. She frowned; everything was fine until she’d seen that damn woman. She needed to find out who she was.

  Most importantly, for her sanity, she needed to prove she was real.

  Nine

  The next day, when she drove to the nursery to collect Emma, she looked around for the woman as she indicated and pulled into the car park. There was no sign of her and Diane breathed a sigh of relief, closing her eyes for a brief moment, opening them with an indrawn breath when she saw her, exactly where she’d been the day before. Diane tried to keep her eye on her for as long as she could but the to and fro of cars and people blocked her view and, almost as soon as she had appeared, she had gone.

  Waiting for the nursery to open, Diane considered her next step. This was the second day she’d appeared. Tomorrow, she needed to be free to approach her, find out who she was and why she appeared to be following her. The woman might be some kind of crank; she wasn’t going to risk approaching her with Emma beside her.

  But there was no point in putting it off. She needed to find someone to take care of Emma for a few hours. When she appeared, chatting to a boy her size and age, Diane guessed he was Tommy of cornflake sandwich fame.

  The woman who came to pick him up looked frazzled and unkempt, her jumper creased, a stain on the leg of her jeans, but her face was pleasant; there was a smile on her lips and her eyes looked kind.

  ‘You’re Tommy’s mum?’ Diane asked as Emma came running towards her.

  The woman looked up from greeting her son and weighed her up before answering. ‘That’s right,’ she said, ‘Rose Metcalf. You must be Emma’s.’

  Diane nodded. ‘Diane Andrews,’ she said. ‘Emma is always talking about Tommy. I was wondering if he’d like to come back to ours for a couple of hours? You know, like a play date.’

  Rose looked puzzled for a moment. ‘Do you mean today?’

  The idea had just come to Diane and she hadn’t really worked it through. She needed someone to mind Emma while she followed the woman; if she had Tommy today, couldn’t she ask Rose to take Emma tomorrow? Or the next day? She moved restlessly from one foot to the other.

  Rose tilted her head to one side, considering the idea. ‘As it happens,’ she admitted, ‘I’ve got a dreadful migraine. It was a struggle to get here and I wouldn’t mind a couple of hours’ peace and quiet to let the medication kick in.’

  Diane grinned. Serendipity. ‘Fantastic,’ she said. Catching Emma by the hand, she moved out of the way as other parents led their offspring from the school. ‘I’ll come and take your car seat,’ she said, ‘and I’ll drop it and him back around four thirty, if that’s okay? I’m glad I can help. What’s your address?’

  Rose put her hand on her son’s head. ‘You hear that, Tommy? You’re going to go with Emma and her mum for a couple of hours. Be good, won’t you?’

  Diane hoped this was going to work. She’d never had another child in the house before and it felt so wonderfully normal, but also a little daunting. It was also her first connection with one of the other mothers; if it went well, maybe they would become friends. But first, she needed to get her life sorted out.

  Rose took a scrap of paper from her car and scribbled down her addr
ess. ‘It’s just around the corner from where Miss Rogers lives, actually,’ she said, handing it over. ‘She has that lovely house next to the ugliest church I’ve ever seen, you should drive down and see it.’

  Diane nodded as she took the address from her and tucked it into her pocket. ‘We’ll see you later then. I hope you feel better.’

  As it turned out, she needn’t have worried. Tommy was a polite and easy child to entertain and, despite his predilection for cornflake sandwiches, he ate the soup and ham sandwich she put in front of him without a murmur.

  It was probably cheating slightly but, for peace, she switched the TV on and parked both children in front of it after lunch. Emma, as she usually did, fell asleep almost immediately. Tommy was made of tougher stuff, but nodded off eventually.

  When they woke an hour later, they played quietly until Diane told them it was time to go. Strapping both children into their seats, she put Rose’s postcode into her satnav and followed the directions until she was pulling up outside her house. The Metcalf residence was a detached house on a very prestigious road, the house set well back behind stone walls with wrought-iron gates left open to allow entry. Indicating, she pulled in and drove up the curved drive, stopping in front of a truly beautiful house. Diane admired the square bay windows set either side of the ornate, panelled front door.

  Getting out, she stood and admired the grounds and house for a few moments until the two children signalled, loudly, their desire to get out. Tommy, having opened his own straps, scampered out as soon as she opened the car door. Emma wasn’t far behind.

  The woman who answered the door looked like a different person to the one Diane had met earlier, her hair neatly brushed, subtle make-up enhancing very pale blue eyes, a crisp white shirt and well-fitting jeans replacing the scruffy pants and jumper she’d worn at the nursery. ‘Are you feeling better?’ Diane asked as both children ran inside.