Chapter 11
THEN
Roxanne started arriving earlier and earlier.
By the sixth week of our friendship – though friendship felt like the wrong word by then, something too voluntary for what this had become – she was at my door by nine in the morning, before I’d properly woken up or had time to prepare myself for pretending to be pleased to see her.
‘I brought pastries,’ she said, holding up a paper bag from the bakery in town. ‘Thought we could have breakfast together.’
I should have told her I had work to do, deadlines looming, couldn’t spend the morning chatting over coffee and almond croissants.
But she was already moving past me into the hallway, already heading for the kitchen like it was hers, and saying no felt impossible by then.
Like we’d moved beyond the point where boundaries were allowed.
So I followed her. Made coffee while she arranged the pastries on a plate – one of my good plates, the ones Daniel and I got as a wedding gift. She knew where everything was by then. Didn’t need to ask.
We sat, and she talked about nothing much.
A TV show she’d watched last night. Something funny she’d seen on her walk over.
The weather turning colder, winter approaching.
Normal conversation that should have felt comfortable but instead made me tense.
Because I was waiting. Waiting for the moment she’d pivot, the way she always did, towards something more personal. More probing.
It came after the second croissant.
‘Can I ask you something?’ she said, brushing crumbs from her fingers. ‘And you can tell me if I’m overstepping. I know I probably am.’
My stomach tightened. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s about Daniel.’
Of course it was. Everything came back to Daniel lately. The way she mentioned him in conversation, casual but frequent. The way her eyes followed him when he was in the room. The way she remembered details about his life that I’d somehow forgotten – or maybe never knew in the first place.
‘What about him?’ I kept my voice neutral. Light.
She hesitated, doing that thing where she made herself smaller.
More vulnerable. It was an act I was starting to recognise.
The way she acted like the nervous friend, unsure whether to speak, worried about causing offence.
It was designed to make you reassure her.
To tell her it was fine, she could say anything.
I didn’t reassure her.
I just waited.
‘I’ve noticed something,’ she said finally. ‘And maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. But… has Daniel always been quite so friendly with other women?’
The question landed like a rock. For a moment I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t process what she’d just suggested.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I just mean…’ She stopped, bit her lip. ‘When we’re out. Or when people visit. He’s very attentive. To women. Very charming. And I’m not saying he’s doing anything wrong. Not at all. It’s probably just his personality. But I wondered if you’d noticed.’
I had noticed. Daniel had always been charming.
It was one of the things that drew me to him at the start – that easy warmth, that ability to make people feel seen and valued.
But lately it had felt different. More pronounced.
Or maybe I was just more aware of it now that Roxanne had pointed it out.
‘He’s just friendly,’ I said. ‘That’s who he is.’
‘I’m sure you’re right.’ But her expression said she thought I was naive. That I was missing something obvious. ‘It’s just that yesterday, when that woman from the town shop stopped by—’
‘Mrs Baskin?’
‘Is that her name? The one with the grey hair. He was very… I don’t know. Very focused on her. Laughing at everything she said. Standing quite close.’
Mrs Baskin was seventy if she was a day. The idea that Daniel might be flirting with her was absurd.
‘She was probably telling him about her grandson,’ I said. ‘Who’s applying for jobs in Daniel’s field. He was just being helpful. Offering advice.’
‘Oh.’ Roxanne looked embarrassed then. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve completely misread it. Forget I said anything.’
But she knew I wouldn’t forget. That was the point of planting these seeds. They took root whether you wanted them to or not.
‘Is everything okay?’ she asked after a moment. ‘Between you and Daniel? You seem tense lately. More withdrawn.’
‘I’m fine. We’re fine.’
‘Because if you ever need to talk…’
‘We’re fine, Roxanne.’
The sharpness in my voice surprised us both.
She blinked, pulled back, and I felt guilty immediately.
She was just trying to be a good friend.
Just looking out for me. Except she wasn’t.
She was doing something else. Something I couldn’t quite name but could feel in the way my shoulders stayed tight whenever she was around.
‘I should get to work,’ I said, standing. ‘Thank you for breakfast.’
‘Of course. I’ll get out of your way.’ She started gathering her things – her jacket, her bag, the paper bag from the bakery. Then she paused at the kitchen door. ‘Kelly? I really am sorry if I upset you. I care about you. About both of you. I just want you to be happy.’
‘I know.’
But I didn’t know. I didn’t know what Roxanne wanted any more. If I ever did.
She lingered there a moment longer, like she was waiting for me to say something else.
To reassure her. To invite her back. When I didn’t, she gave a small smile – sad, resigned – and left.
I watched from the kitchen window as she walked down the path and disappeared round the bend.
Only when she was completely gone did I realise I’d been holding my breath.
I know that’s a cliché – something you’d see posted over and over in some thriller-reading group – but I don’t care.
The house felt different without her. Lighter.
The air less thick. I walked through the rooms – all seven of them on this floor alone – and everything looked the same but somehow wasn’t.
The throw blanket she’d brought was still draped over the couch.
The framed print she’d given us still hung in the hallway.
Her presence had seeped into the fabric of this place, marking it in ways I couldn’t quite articulate but could feel everywhere I looked.
And I’d let her. That was the worst part.
I’d grown too trusting through my comfortable life.
A life I’d stumbled into rather than built.
Daniel’s family wealth was the quiet kind – no yachts or private jets, just a portfolio of properties and a generous trust fund.
The account never ran low, and I’d got too used to it.
All this comfort had made me too soft. Too willing to let someone in because I’d never had to worry about what they might take.
Now I was paying for it.
I sat at her usual seat – the one facing the window – and tried to work out what had just happened. Tried to understand why a conversation about Daniel’s friendliness had left me feeling so unsettled.
Because it wasn’t just what she’d said. It was how she’d said it.
That tone of concern layered over something else.
Something that felt less like worry and more like…
what? Satisfaction? Testing? Like she was checking to see if the seed had taken root.
If I’d started doubting my own husband based on her observations.
And I had. That was what made it worse. I’d started watching Daniel differently, noticing the way he interacted with other women. Started questioning whether his natural warmth was actually something darker. Something I should be worried about.
But those doubts hadn’t existed before Roxanne. Before her comments and observations and the way she positioned herself as the one who saw clearly while I was too close to notice.
I thought about Mrs Baskin. About how Roxanne had described Daniel’s behaviour – focused, attentive, standing too close. It had undoubtedly been nothing but a kind man offering career advice to a grandmother worried about her grandson.
Nothing more.
So why had Roxanne made it sound like something else? Why had she twisted a perfectly innocent moment into evidence of wandering eyes and inappropriate attention?
The answer sat heavily in my stomach.
Because she wanted me to doubt him – to see threats where none existed. Wanted to create distance between Daniel and me by making me suspicious. Making me watchful. Making me the sort of wife who questioned every interaction her husband had.
And it was working.
I’d been pulling away from Daniel for weeks by then. Not because of anything he’d done, but because of what Roxanne had suggested he might do. Might be doing. The hypothetical infidelities she’d planted had become more real than our actual marriage.
I stood and moved to the sink, washing the mugs we’d used, the plate that had held the pastries.
Her fingerprints were probably on these surfaces.
Her DNA mixed with mine like she was now a core part in the movie of my life.
Roxanne played the concerned friend. I played the grateful recipient of her wisdom.
Both of us pretended this was normal. That friendships naturally developed this level of intensity.
This level of invasion.
But it wasn’t normal. I knew it wasn’t. A real friend wouldn’t be there every single day.
Wouldn’t know where I kept my dishcloths and which cupboard held the cookies and exactly how Daniel took his coffee.
A real friend wouldn’t insert herself so completely into my life that I couldn’t remember what things were like before she’d arrived.
A real friend wouldn’t try to destroy my marriage from the inside.
The thought hit me suddenly, sharp and clear and terrifying.
That’s what she was doing. That’s what all of this had been. The constant presence. The intimate knowledge. The suggestions about Daniel’s behaviour. She wasn’t trying to help me.
She was trying to replace me.
I gripped the edge of the sink, my hands wet and trembling. The realisation felt both absurd and completely obvious. How had I let her get this close without recognising what she was doing?
Because she was good at it. Because she made herself seem harmless.
Needy. Grateful for any scrap of friendship.
Like she was the one who needed rescuing, who needed the kindness of strangers to survive.
And it made you want to help. Made you feel guilty for having boundaries. For saying no. For protecting yourself.
It was manipulation wrapped in vulnerability.
And I’d fallen for it completely.
I thought about the past six weeks. About how Roxanne had arrived with nothing and had slowly acquired everything.
Not just material things – though there were plenty of those scattered through my house by then – but information.
Knowledge. Intimacy. She knew things about my marriage that my nearest and dearest hadn’t known.
She’d seen Daniel and me at our worst. She’d been present for arguments and silences and all the small failures that happened when two people stopped trying. She’d catalogued our weaknesses.
And now she was exploiting them.
The question was: why?
What did she want? If she was trying to break up my marriage, what did she gain? Daniel himself? Was that it? Had she developed feelings for him and decided the best way to have him was to first destroy what we had?
Or was it something else? Something darker? Maybe she just enjoyed it. The power of injecting herself into someone’s life and watching it crumble. Maybe this was what she did. Moved from place to place, befriending lonely women, destroying their relationships, then moving on to the next victim.
I didn’t know. Couldn’t know. But I did know one thing with absolute certainty.
She wasn’t my friend.
She’d never been my friend.
And I needed her gone.
The next day passed without word from Roxanne.
No texts. No calls. No knock at the door.
I told myself this was good. That my sharpness yesterday had worked.
That she’d finally given me the space I’d asked for.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling this was temporary.
That she wasn’t gone, just regrouping. Planning her next move while I was foolish enough to think I’d won.
I spent the day working, or trying to. My concentration was fractured.
Every sound made me look up. Every shadow past the window made my heart jump.
I was waiting for her to appear. Waiting for the moment she decided that a single day of absence was enough penance and she could return to her position in my life.
She didn’t come.
By evening, I was more unsettled than relieved.
Because Roxanne’s absence felt louder than her presence ever had.
It felt like strategy. Like she was making me miss her by staying away.
Making me doubt my own assessment of the situation.
Making me wonder if maybe I’d overreacted.
Maybe her intentions had really been good and I’d pushed her away for no reason.
That’s what she did. Made you question yourself.
Made you feel like you were the problem.
I wouldn’t let her do that any more.
When Daniel came home, I was ready to talk.
Ready to tell him everything. About Roxanne’s insinuations and constant presence and the way she’d been poisoning our marriage.
About how we needed to cut her off completely.
Both of us. No more coffee meetups. No more dinners.
No more pretending this was a normal friendship.
But when he walked in, he looked exhausted. Defeated.
And the speech I’d prepared died in my throat.
‘Rough day?’ I asked instead.
‘You could say that.’ He dropped his bag by the door. ‘Is there wine?’
‘I’ll get it.’
We sat together with glasses of red neither of us really drank, and the words I needed to say felt impossible. How did I explain what Roxanne was without sounding jealous? Paranoid? Like the sort of wife who saw threats in every woman her husband spoke to?
She’d made herself impossible to accuse. That was her real skill. She’d made it so that any complaint sounded unreasonable. Any boundary sounded cruel.
So I said nothing.
We drank our wine in silence. And somewhere out there, Roxanne was waiting.
Waiting to come back.