Chapter 9
On the way to the front door, I hastily pull a rug over the blood stain, then quickly check myself in the downstairs bathroom mirror, making sure I don’t have any blood on me. I don’t, but I look green. I pinch my cheeks.
The doorbell chimes again. I go and open the door.
‘Hi! Teri!’ I smooth my hair and immediately regret it. My hand is shaking like a leaf. I force a smile as I shove it in my pocket.
She tilts her head. ‘Is this a bad time?’
And I have to say, I am thinking that if I’d rung someone’s doorbell five times, banged on the door, called out to them, then rang the doorbell again and no one answered, it’s a fair bet it’s not a good time.
‘Not at all.’ I smile. My face is trembling. ‘I was taking a nap. What is it?’
‘I’m desperate for a screwdriver,’ she says, hands together in prayer.
‘I need it to put my bed together. I’ve looked everywhere, in every box, and I can’t find mine.
I had to sleep on the mattress on the floor last night.
And let me tell you, that floor is gross.
’ She grimaces, even sticks out her tongue briefly.
I stand there, feeling dizzy, wishing I hadn’t opened the door after all.
‘A screwdriver?’
‘Yes. Do you have one? Can I come in?’
Only then do I realise that it’s started to rain lightly, the wind has picked up, and Teri doesn’t have a jacket on. She stands there rubbing her arms, shivering on the spot.
I rub my forehead. ‘I was having a nap.’
‘I’m so sorry. I came before, but you didn’t answer.’
‘I was probably sleeping.’ My legs are starting to shake. I don’t think I can stand there much longer.
‘Right. Well, if I could grab this screwdriver, then I’ll be out of your hair.’
‘I don’t have one,’ I blurt.
She tilts her head. ‘Maybe in your tinkering husband’s toolbox?’
Shit. I did say that, didn’t I? I take a breath. ‘Sorry, I’m not thinking straight. I’ll get one and bring it over.’
‘I’ll come with you now,’ she says, and to my horror, she walks right past me and into the house.
I am a heartbeat away from screaming, ‘No!’ But it’s too late. She’s already inside.
‘Oh my God, I love your house!’
I think of Holly in the garage with her dead father. The garage door is thick and self-closing, so she might not even hear us. It will be fine. Just get her the stupid screwdriver and send her on her way.
But what if Holly wonders what’s taking me so long? She’s not going to come in, is she?
I am suddenly aware that Teri said something and is waiting for me to reply. I blink. ‘Sorry. I’m still waking up. What did you say?’
‘I said I love your house.’
‘Thank you. All right. A screwdriver.’
‘Could I have a glass of water?’
‘Water.’ For a moment, I don’t remember what water is. Oh, wait. It comes out of a tap.
I walk towards the kitchen, my eyes trained on the floor, checking for traces of the horror that had unfolded here barely half an hour ago.
‘Your place is big and bright,’ Teri says. ‘Mine is like a cave.’
‘Yes, it would have been two or three rooms here once, but the previous owners took those walls down and made it all open,’ I say on autopilot, astonished I managed to string an entire sentence together.
‘I love that! And I love the carpets. And this!’ She looks up at the skylight. ‘Did you put this extension in?’
‘No. We’ve only been here a couple of months. The previous owner did the renovation.’ Didn’t I just say that?
I fill up her glass from the water dispenser tucked in the fridge door. Again, my hand is shaking but she doesn’t seem to notice. If she asks, I’ll say I’ve recently quit drinking.
She goes to stand in front of the French doors, gazing at the garden. ‘I don’t have a garden. Just a big slab of concrete.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Oh? You’ve seen it?’
‘You can see it from upstairs.’
‘Of course! I’ll have it all dug up, eventually. Once I get the money. I have to find a job first.’
‘All right. Let me find that screwdriver for you,’ I say.
‘I was an office administrator for a law firm in London,’ she says.
Now I’m wondering, did I just ask her what she did for a living?
‘I’m not sure I’ll find that kind of work here,’ she continues. ‘And probably not at that pay level, but I’ll do anything, receptionist, whatever.’
She has to leave. I can’t have this person who talks so much in my house right now.
‘You wouldn’t know of anyone looking for a receptionist, would you?’
‘Have you enquired at the Research Park?’ I say, rifling through a kitchen drawer. ‘What kind of screwdriver were you after?’
‘Is that where your husband works?’
‘What? Yes.’
‘What does he do?’
‘He’s a partner at a management consultancy.’
‘Oh? Which one?’
I’m going to faint. I can already see little black dots dancing at the edge of my vision. ‘Sterling and Wicks.’
‘Ah, yes. I’ve heard of them. I will definitely check out the Research Park. Thanks for the tip!’
‘What kind of a screwdriver?’ I ask again, my vision blurry. Everything in the drawer suddenly looks foreign to me. Batteries, rubber bands, half-burned birthday candles. Did I really bring all this junk with us from London? ‘A normal flat one? Or one with the little cross?’
‘What a beautiful family,’ she says.
I look up, startled. Am I actually speaking out loud? Or only in my head? Because we definitely don’t seem to be having the same conversation.
‘Erm, thank you.’
‘So that’s your husband…’ she says, pointing.
I’m going to be sick. She has dislodged a photo of Max, Holly and me from under a magnet on the fridge door and is studying it intently.
‘Yes,’ I say, my heart like a drum. Can she not hear it? Is she deaf? ‘That’s Max.’ The photo was taken on my birthday at a French restaurant in Chelsea. We weren’t married then. We weren’t even a couple – although, to be fair, we were only ‘a couple’ for about five minutes before we got married.
‘And that’s your daughter, I assume?’ She points at Holly in the photograph.
‘Stepdaughter.’ I rummage through the next drawer down. Didn’t I tell her that yesterday? At this point, who knows? Maybe it’s all a bad dream.
‘Stepdaughter?’
‘Yes.’
‘You two seem really close.’
I look up and gaze at the photo. Holly was fifteen years old. She’s pressed against me, squinting and grinning at the camera with a mouth full of braces. A wave of love flows through me, reminding me why I’m doing all this in the first place.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes. We are.’
‘You’re very lucky,’ she says, putting the photo back. ‘And who plays the piano?’ She tilts her head towards the living room.
‘Sorry, did you say flat screwdriver? Or the one with the cross?’ I don’t know why I ask. I haven’t found a single screwdriver yet.
She doesn’t reply, and I realise she’s waiting for me to answer. The piano. Right. ‘Yes, that’s Holly.’
‘Is she good?’
‘Yes. I was sure there was a box of them somewhere…’
‘Can I help you look?’ she asks.
‘No… I should—’
‘Oh my God!!’
I jump and turn around. She’s staring at something on the floor, her hand over her mouth.
My heart is galloping in my chest. I must have missed some blood. I should have never let her in. What was I thinking?
She looks at me, eyes like saucers. ‘What the hell happened here?’
I wring my hands together. ‘I was preparing a chicken…’ No, wait. Do dead chickens bleed? I don’t think so. ‘And I cut myself, really badly, and—’
She narrows her eyes at me. ‘I mean this.’ She points at the skirting, and my legs almost give way from relief. There is no blood. It’s the milk, which has left rivulets down the wall and pooled at the bottom.
‘Oh, that?’ I pick up the empty milk bottle and put it in the sink. ‘We had a little accident this morning.’
‘Did you accidentally throw a bottle of milk at the wall?’
‘Exactly,’ I say, trying to laugh, but failing. ‘I turned around to say something to Holly and I turned so fast, the bottle slipped out of my hand.’
She tilts her head. ‘That’s quite the centrifugal force grip you got there.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Never mind. I was good at physics at school.’
‘Right. Well. I’d better…’ My heart is pounding in my ears now. I’m rummaging through cutlery like a mad woman. I open a third drawer.
Surely Holly is going to burst in any minute now. Will she be shouting something like, ‘Kate! Can we please wrap Dad’s dead body in the tarpaulin already!’
‘Ah. Here we are!’ I turn, brandishing a Tupperware container full of screwdrivers.
Teri beams at me. ‘Kate, you are incredible. Thank you so much.’ At the door, she says, ‘I look forward to meeting your husband too. What’s his name again?’
Bile churns in my stomach. ‘Max.’
‘Max.’ She nods to herself. ‘Nice name.’ Then she slaps the doorjamb. Twice.