Читать книгу 11 Missed Calls: A gripping psychological thriller that will have you on the edge of your seat - Elisabeth Carpenter, Elisabeth Carpenter, Libby Carpenter - Страница 17

Debbie

The oil from Bobby’s fish fingers spits from the frying pan; a drop touches my lips. I put my finger on my mouth to rub the sting away.

I can’t have imagined Nathan this afternoon. We had a conversation.

‘We have to see each other,’ he said. There must be meaning in that. But why would Monica say Nathan was at work? And if she was so worried about me looking hysterical in the street, why didn’t she pull over?

The front door slams shut. It must be ten past five. Bobby’s banging his legs against the chair under the dining table. Thump-thump, thump-thump.

‘Stop it!’

He doesn’t look up, but stops his legs.

It’ll take Peter another five seconds to hang up his jacket. Five, four, three, two—

I hear him throw his newspaper onto the settee. He usually says hello.

‘Everything okay?’ I say, peering through the kitchen doorway into the living room.

‘Hmm.’ He pulls off his tie. ‘I’ve brought in your flip-flops. They were on the doorstep.’

‘What? Again?’

I can feel my heart banging in my chest. Has Monica told him about this afternoon? Has Nathan? I’m sure I had them on after I picked Bobby up from school.

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘They probably slipped off again when I was getting the pram in.’

‘It didn’t look like it. They were placed together, just outside the front door – like someone had put them there like that.’

‘How odd. Did Monica ring you?’

He looks at me, wrinkling his nose. ‘Are you being serious?’

Bobby must’ve seen my flip-flops slip off, picked them up. Or I might’ve put them there before I closed the front door. That could’ve happened. Monica must’ve mistaken my flip-flops for bare feet earlier – they must keep coming off without me noticing. Easily done. I’ll wear sandals next time I go out.

I don’t tell Peter I haven’t prepared our tea. Instead I say, ‘I thought I’d go to the chippy for us tonight. A treat for you – after working so hard.’

I sound like my fifty-two-year-old mother.

I should’ve become a Career Woman. I heard that Michelle Watkinson from college flew to the Bahamas last year, first class. Though she probably has to put up with letches feeling up her arse as she pushes the trolley up and down the aisle. She hasn’t spoken to me since I had children. And I haven’t put make-up on since Annie was born, so I wouldn’t be any good at her job.

I’m stuck, in limbo.

I don’t know why I’m trying to appease Peter anyway. It wouldn’t hurt him to offer to cook tea once in a blue moon. But I’d never say that. What if he knows something? What if he can read my thoughts?

‘Hmm,’ he says, again.

I interpret that as: You’ve done nothing all day. The least you could’ve done is stick a Fray Bentos in the oven and some chips in the fryer.

‘I’ll make you a cup of tea while you think about it,’ I say.

He goes straight to the baby; she’s lying on the blanket on the living-room floor.

‘Hello, my little angel,’ he says.

I fill the kettle, roll my eyes at the wall, and immediately feel guilty for it. I put a bowl of beans in the microwave and turn the dial. It’s handier than I thought it’d be. It pings, and I burn my fingers taking the bowl out. Peter’s already sitting in his chair at the table.

‘Had a nice day, have you?’ His tone is neutral.

‘Well, you know. Been stuck in the house for most of it.’

‘You should get yourself out and about.’ He leans back in the chair. ‘If I had the day to myself, I’d be out there. Spot of fishing, trip to the park.’

Day to myself? I want to shout. If I had the day to myself, I wouldn’t choose to be inside all day. But I don’t want to appear ungrateful.

‘But you don’t even fish.’

‘I’d take it up, probably.’

‘You can’t take a baby fishing.’

The kettle clicks off and the beeper sounds in his pocket.

‘For God’s sake,’ he says, the chair nearly toppling behind him as he gets up to use the phone in the hall.

I pour hot water into the mug with Mr Tea on it.

When did we become people like this? We used to laugh about friends who turned into their parents. We said we’d never be like that when we had kids. We said we’d go out all the time, cook nouvelle cuisine, and listen to records. Trisha over the road is always zipping about here and there. They’ve got a car seat for their precious Tristan and they’ve been to Marbella twice since she had him. And she has highlights. They’ve got the money, I suppose. She’s got a white Ford Escort cabriolet that she loves showing off. It’s a C reg; Peter says that’s only last year’s. She’s went back to work at the hairdressers’ when her little one was seven months. I heard her shouting about it outside to her friend. It’s exhausting just thinking about work.

I dump three sugars into Peter’s mug.

His face is red when he comes back into the kitchen. He’s breathing hard through his nose.

‘What’s happened?’ I say.

‘I’ve got to go back in. The alarm’s going off in the shop and there’s nobody else answering their bloody phone.’

‘Have a sip of tea before you go.’

I grab his cup from the counter and hold it out to him.

He frowns. ‘I haven’t got time for that.’ He flicks his wrist.

The cup flies out of my hand and smashes onto the floor. Tea splats like paint from a tin. For a moment, we lock eyes.

He shakes his head, turns around and walks out, slamming the front door behind him.

I’ve managed to get both the kids asleep at the same time. It might only last a few minutes. Peter still isn’t home. I hope he doesn’t come back while I’m watching EastEnders. Since I became pregnant with Annie, I’ve become obsessed with soap operas – especially this new one. They empty my brain just enough.

A few minutes after the opening titles, the key goes into the front door. I press pause. I don’t want him to think I’ve just been lounging around. He comes straight into the living room – without hanging up his jacket – just as I’m getting up. He glances at the telly.

‘I didn’t know this was on on a Friday.’

‘I taped it.’

He takes off his jacket and flings it onto the opposite couch.

‘Everything okay?’ I say.

I cleaned up your mess and swept your favourite mug into the bin.

He slumps onto the settee. I look at him, and I don’t think I know him at all. He can’t have been at Woolworths for nearly three hours – it doesn’t take that long to turn an alarm off. His eyes aren’t meeting mine. He’s not usually this secretive – perhaps he’s planning something. I glance around the room. He might’ve been watching me while he was out. I’ve seen those hidden cameras on Game for a Laugh.

‘I’m tired,’ he says. ‘All these broken nights.’

‘Oh,’ I say, narrowing my eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you woke up too. You always seem so fast asleep.’

He waves his hand. ‘Never mind.’ He sits up. ‘I’m going to book a holiday – or rather, I was hoping you could do it. It’ll get you out of the house for a bit. I can get some brochures this weekend. We can get one of those last-minute deal things. You could let your hair down.’

I want to tell him it’s a ridiculous idea, but all I say is, ‘We can’t go with a newborn. It’s a stupid idea.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ he says. ‘These first few weeks are the easiest – she won’t take much looking after.’

‘Easiest for who?’ I whisper.

‘They always sleep at this age,’ he says. ‘I was thinking. We could ask Nathan and Monica to come. Leo could keep Bobby entertained. It’ll be fun.’

‘I don’t know if a holiday’s such a good idea. Anyway, wouldn’t it be better just the four of us? Me, you and the kids. Annie’s so young, she might keep everyone awake.’

‘We don’t have to share accommodation … though that would make sense financially. She’ll be sleeping soon, if Bobby’s anything to go by.’

I feel the urge to scream and laugh hysterically in his face.

‘And,’ he continues, ‘I was thinking of going abroad. We’ve not been anywhere hot together before, have we? And it’ll be something to look forward to. I’ve seen loads of last-minute deals on Teletext.’

‘Hmm. I’ll speak to Monica about it tomorrow.’

The thought of going on an aeroplane makes my stomach churn. I’ve always hated heights.

‘Ha!’ he says, leaning forward. ‘I know what you’re like: if you’re not keen on something, you go quiet, hope it gets forgotten.’

I open my mouth to speak. He gets up quickly.

‘I’ll give Nathan a ring now.’

‘But it’s twenty to nine – you might wake Leo.’

My mother would never telephone anyone after eight o’clock at night – nor would she answer it. ‘If it’s an emergency,’ she says, ‘then they know where we live.’

‘It’s fine,’ he says, getting up and turning on the hall light.

‘Don’t talk too loud,’ I say, ‘or you’ll disturb the kids.’

My heart thumps as I hear him speak. I want to listen in and hear what Nathan says in reply … or grab the receiver out of Peter’s hands and talk to him myself.

Why is he being so stubborn about a holiday? It’s not like him to be this impulsive, or sociable. I turn my ears off, and only switch them on when he’s preparing to say goodbye.

‘I’ll get Debs to give you a bell when it’s arranged.’

Me? Why is he suggesting I ring Nathan?

‘Okay then,’ he says down the line. ‘Will do. Bye, Monica.’

I stand up quickly.

‘You were talking to Monica?’

He shrugs as he walks into the living room.

‘Yeah. Nathan was out.’

‘Where?’ It comes out of my mouth before I think.

Peter wrinkles his nose. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t think to ask.’

He’s the least curious person I know. ‘Why didn’t you pass the phone to me?’

‘Because it was my idea … and Monica is my friend too.’

Don’t I know it. He looks so pleased with himself.

‘I’m making a brew,’ he says, walking into the kitchen. ‘Do you want one?’

‘No. It’ll only keep me awake. Think I’ll head upstairs, early night.’

‘Night then,’ he shouts, above the sound of the kettle.

I switch off the telly, which was frozen on Lofty behind the bar at the Queen Vic. Poor Lofty, always taken advantage of … being messed around by Michelle. I used to think that about Peter, but now I’m not so sure. Maybe he’s not so predictable after all.

My hand’s reaching for the switch in the hall, when I notice a pink envelope on the doormat. It’s no one’s birthday, I think, as I bend down to pick it up. Didn’t Peter notice it when he came in?

There’s no name on the front. The flap isn’t stuck down; it’s tucked inside. I open it and take out the piece of paper. There are only six words. I hold on to the wall to steady myself.

I know your dirty little secret.