The Date: An unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist (21 page)

The first thing I do when I wake, when the sky has turned from black to grey but is not yet properly light, is to text Matt and ask him to come and walk Branwell at lunchtime. I tell him I am with Iris, and he asks why she can’t walk him.

She’s not well.
I text, and I
don’t think this is a lie. Although she insists she is fine – that brave face once more – she seems frailer than she used to. Breathless after walking up the stairs as she poked her head around the door to say ‘night, night, sleep tight’, and without Ben and Mum here there was only me to join in and say ‘don’t let the bedbugs bite’, and our voices sounded too small.

He tells me he’ll be
around at twelve.

At eleven thirty I inform Iris that Matt will be here shortly but I’ve a check-up with Dr Saunders at the hospital, so could she give Branwell to Matt. I loathe to think of him touching Branwell’s silky soft fur with hands that have touched Chrissy, but I’ve little choice if I want to be certain he’s out of the way.

I drive the long way around to my old address,
not wanting to risk passing him in his car. I park in the next street, so I don’t alert Chrissy to my presence. I want to deprive her of any chance to prepare herself, hide or run away, before I am in the house, standing face to face, asking not why she’s tried to ruin my life – I already know why – but needing to know whether any part of our relationship was genuine. The evenings sipping
wine and binging on the box set of
Friends
. The nights out, picking at bowls of tortillas, topping up glasses from a pitcher, analysing our past relationships. What was right? What went wrong? At least I know now what went wrong with Matt.
Chrissy
did. With Iris and Ben the only relatives present in my life, my friends were like my family. Looking back is like straining to focus through voile.
I’m not quite sure what I’m seeing was real. Jules. James. Chrissy. Matt. It had all felt so genuine at the time, the people I loved who I thought loved me too. Never before have I felt as small and insignificant as I do right now.

Memories crowd as I approach the house that was once my home. The winter-drab borders I dug that will soon be sprinkled with snowdrops and bluebells. Matt hanging
the thick bedroom curtains that trail the carpet making the room appear far more opulent than it actually is. Running to the chip shop on the corner as the smell of freshly fried fish drifted through the open window in the summer. Sitting on the swing seat in the garden, eating chips straight out the bag, licking vinegary fingertips. Salt on my tongue. Later, the taste of Matt as we made love
under the apple tree at the bottom of the lawn, out of sight of Mr Henderson.

Mr Henderson is by the window in his lounge and he waves as I pass by. He’s wearing a tie, so he must be waiting for a client. It’s unfortunate he’s spotted me, but Matt will know I’ve been here soon enough. I summon a weak smile and look away quickly. Does he know Matt has moved on with someone new? All
the times I asked Matt if he was seeing someone and he denied it, making me feel I was the one with the problem. Once, I thought there was nothing as painful, as corrosive, as suspicion, but now I know that’s not true. Cold hard facts are twice as damaging and harder to ignore.

Chrissy.

Her betrayal shouldn’t hurt as much as Matt’s, but they are tangled together and impossible to
separate. The pain is physical; I wrap my arms around my middle as though soothing a stomach ache. My head throbs with the effort of not crying as I fish the door key from my pocket where it had slipped under my mobile phone. No matter what happens inside I’m going to take a photo of Chrissy. Proof of life.

Something is different. At first I can’t quite put my finger on it, and I
don’t think it’s the fact the bedroom curtains are still closed. The door is still glossy black. The stainless steel number thirteen screwed to the brickwork. Unlucky for some. Unlucky for me. Something is prickling at me, but I tell myself it’s just because I feel uncomfortable – though I shouldn’t. The house is still half mine. I’ve every right to be here. Glancing over my shoulder, as though I
am doing something wrong, I poke the key towards the lock.

It won’t go in. I try again, thinking it’s because my hand is trembling, but then I realise.

The lock is shiny and new, rendering the key in my hand useless.

Keeping me out.

Or keeping someone else in.

Involuntarily, I shiver.

A sense of someone watching me.

Movement.

Footsteps.

A voice whispering my name.

‘Ali.’ Mr Henderson says gently again as I spin around on the step to face him. ‘I didn’t want to startle you. Is everything okay? You’re really pale. Where’s your car?’

‘It’s…’ I gesture vaguely with my hand down the street. ‘Matt’s changed the locks.’

‘Yes. He
said he bent the key. Did you need something? He’s gone out. I’m not sure when he’ll be back.’

‘I can’t wait. I’ve a hospital appointment. I wanted to pick up my passport. I’m thinking of booking a holiday and I’m not sure how long it’s valid for.’ I keep my voice low, all the time glancing at the windows for signs of movement.

‘Oh, I am pleased. A break will do you the world of
good. I’ve been so worried about you.’

‘Thanks.’ As we speak I’m inching close to the gate. ‘I must go anyway.’ I turn, hiding my face before he can see how quickly my smile slips away. I’m just stepping out of the garden when he calls: ‘He left a spare key with me. If it’s important you get in now?’

‘That would be great, thanks.’ I don’t hesitate for a second. ‘It is important.
You could say it’s life and death,’ I say as quietly as I can.

And this time when I flash him a smile, it’s genuine.

Inside, I leave my shoes on the doormat; only this time it’s not fear of traipsing mud through the house, it’s fear of being heard. The house smells different somehow. Stale. Unhappy or perhaps it is only me who is unhappy. Still, it is nothing like the freshness
of Chrissy’s house and I feel slightly relieved she hasn’t yet put her stamp on the home I still think of as mine. I had only been living with her for two days when I had arrived home after walking Branwell on the beach, his shaggy fur sea-salt damp. Chrissy had cracked open windows and I had realised just how foul the stench of wet dog must be when you’re not used to pets. The next day there
were plug-in air fresheners in every socket, hissing out vanilla at regular intervals, but still she’d have to cover her nose with her sleeve as Branwell fired off one of his after dinner farts – ‘typical man’ – and at the time I thought how intrusive it must be for her sharing her space, oblivious to the fact she was planning on taking mine.

The lounge is to my left. I push open the door,
my heart leaping into my mouth when it momentarily sticks, and instantly I think Chrissy is pushing it from the other side, but it is only the thick pile catching. The brown we’d chosen to mask grubby paw prints and hide the stains we hoped our future children would inadvertently leave. The clock above the fireplace fills the silence with its ticking, and it’s funny but, while I lived here, I
never noticed it making a noise before. The black glossy coffee table we’d chosen from Ikea is covered in a thick layer of neglect, as though this room is unused. No tracks in the dust where Matt rests his feet as he slumps on the sofa after dinner; I’d have been snuggled against him once. I wonder whether they spend all their time in bed.

We’ve never been big on possessions, Matt caring
more about gadgets than cushions and me still having my dad’s arrest intertwined with my desire for wanting material things, but a quick scan of the room tells me a few items are missing. The photo of us in a solid silver frame, holding an eight-week-old Branwell up to the camera like a trophy, has gone, and I suppose it’s only natural Matt is removing traces of the wife he no longer wants, but
it still hurts nonetheless.

Back out into the hallway, I bypass the toilet and head into the kitchen. The hooks which suspended the cast iron pans over the hob are empty. As is the cabinet that housed our honeymoon green glasses. The work surfaces are tidy. Ordered. Not like Matt at all. Usually his idea of clearing up is to stack things on the work surface above the dishwasher hoping someone
else – me – will take care of it. That’s not entirely fair though. Often we’ve stood side by side, chopping, stir-frying, chatting about our days.

Focus.

Where is Chrissy?

I open cupboards, as though she might spring out, but it’s an avoidance tactic. The bedroom curtains have remained closed for a reason. Hiding someone who doesn’t want to be seen.

Common sense tells
me to leave the house. The lengths Matt and Chrissy have gone to make them unpredictable. Dangerous. The bruises on my arm. The lump on my head. Who knows how far they will go? But even as I head towards the front door I remember that airless room in the station, the whirring of the tape recording my answers to PC Hunter’s barking questions, and I know that I cannot leave. My foot rests on the
bottom stair, my fingers grip the bannister. I begin to climb, treading lightly. Every creak of floorboard is magnified in the silence. I wait for the bedroom door to squeak open. For Chrissy to hurl herself towards me, but there’s nothing.

To my surprise, our wedding photos still line the landing. We’re signing the register. Cutting the cake, the icing version of us balanced precariously
on top, meringue dress and wonky top hat. I allow myself a moment of missing him. Once, we had something solid, something good. It was as though we melded into something new when we were together. Something better.

There’s a candid shot of Matt whispering in my ear. I’m throwing my head back in laughter. I wish I could remember what he said. Something rude most likely. My hair, shimmering
blonde under the bright summer sun, is sprinkled with confetti. Blonde like Chrissy. At least he has a type. The sight of the yellow roses in my bouquet eradicates my sentimentality entirely.
Enjoy the date bitch.
Matt must have purposefully chosen a card adorned with yellow roses to go with the flowers he left on my doorstep. I should have figured it all out sooner.

Angry now, I take the
last three strides to the bedroom and press my cheek to the door, imagining Chrissy doing the same on the other side. There’s no sound of movement, of breathing. All I can hear is a whooshing noise, the same as I did on our honeymoon when Matt held a conch shell up to my ear, waves roaring, hot sand burning the soles of my feet.

I grip the handle, my palm slick with sweat. Slowly I push
the door.

I can’t help crying out when I see what is inside.

Our bedroom. It’s almost incomprehensible that once this was the place I thought I was safe. This was the place I thought I was loved. It’s a mess. The floor littered with moving boxes. I yank open the curtains. Dust motes spin as though happy to see daylight.

What is
going on?

‘Having a clear out,’ Matt had said when he offered me the green glasses, but this is more than a clear out. The boxes are crammed with his clothes. The contents of the loft. Our spindly Christmas tree we vowed to replace each year in the sales as we wrapped tinsel around its threadbare branches, but never did. The string of pumpkin lights we’d hang outside the porch on Halloween.

He’s moving. Leaving. My heart cracks that little bit more as I rifle through the rest of the boxes, seeing what he is taking, what he has discarded in the way he discarded me. Is that their plan, to frame me for a murder I didn’t commit and run away? Move abroad? The thought of Chrissy causes me to look around the room. Where is she hiding? Every sense is on high alert.

The roar
of a motorbike revving in the street outside sounds like it’s next to me. I take a step towards our floor-to-ceiling built-in wardrobes, picturing Chrissy hiding behind the door with a knife, a gun. My imagination gallops, until I convince myself this piece of MDF painted glossy white is all that separates me and imminent death. Despite this I take another step, until I’m touching the handle, filling
my air with lungs before flinging open the door. There is nothing but space. Empty wire hangers dangling from the rail.

A quick check of my watch tells me I haven’t got much time left before Matt comes home. He never walks Branwell for longer than thirty minutes in the rain and I’ve already been here for forty-five. I hurry to the spare room we’d once earmarked for a nursery. A single airbed
and a sleeping bag are on the floor . A pillow still indented with the shape of a head. Who is sleeping here? Why would Chrissy not be sharing his bed? Where is she? I’d been so certain she’d be here, but I’ve searched everywhere.

And then I hear a noise from downstairs and remember I haven’t. I didn’t look in the toilet.

Every shift of the stairs beneath my feet, every creak is
deafening, even above the sound of my heart punching against my ribs. Sweat is beading on my brow as I press my ear against the cloakroom door.

Silence.

In my head I count to three before I throw the door wide, jumping back, hands raised to protect myself.

There is nobody there.

Leaning against the wall, body weak with relief, I notice that the postman has dropped the
mail through the letterbox and that would account for the noise. Automatically I crouch and scoop up the envelopes, shuffling through the letters. It’s mainly junk: a flyer for the new Indian that delivers, a voucher offering twenty per cent off vertical blinds, an A5 sheet advertising guttering clearing and a couple of what looks like marketing mailshots for Matt. In the kitchen I drop them on
top of the paperwork that is always heaped next to the toaster.

I can’t help noticing that Matt hasn’t opened the post for ages, and I start to rifle through the pile to see if there’s anything for me he hasn’t passed on. Among the thin brown envelopes is a thick cream one stamped ‘Markstone Insurance’. It’s not a company I’m familiar with and I can’t help holding it to the light to see
what’s inside. Nothing is visible. Curiosity overcomes me and gently I lift the flap of the envelope. Once open I pull out the letter and document inside and begin to read. The words spring at me from the page. I sit heavily on a stool, feeling as though all the air has been knocked out of me. I screw up my eyes, taking three deep breaths before I read again, as though that somehow can have made
a difference. As though the letter will now say something entirely different. It doesn’t.

Four months ago, despite our separation or perhaps because of it, Matt had taken out a joint life insurance policy on us both. He must have forged my signature. If I die Matt stands to inherit a million pounds. The floor rushes towards me and I put my head between my knees, swallowing the bile that
has risen in my throat.

My thoughts rage. Despite the letter I am holding in my hand I find it unfathomable Matt would ever hurt me. My disbelief is fuelled by denial but it’s all interwoven with strands of doubt despite him being the one who pushed me away, refused to see a counsellor, packed our marriage in a storage box, tightly nailing on the lid. I scan through the policy in my hand.
One million. Enough for a brand new life.

For two.

Was I meant to die that night and when I didn’t they thought they’d torment me, send me the antidepressants hoping I’d finish the job myself?

The sound of an engine outside pulls me to my feet. The slamming of a car door. Without waiting to see if it’s Matt I slide open the patio doors before running across the rain-damp lawn,
my socks sodden. I slip out of the back gate. I can’t see him. The man who vowed to honour and protect me. Now a stranger who has put a value on the wife he no longer loves.

I’m still holding the letter in my hands. I won’t let him get away with it. I won’t.

But he’ll know as he pushes open the front door. Stumbles over my shoes on the doormat. He’ll know I was there.

Frightened
I throw a glance over my shoulder, as my wet feet slap against concrete sending shockwaves of pain shooting through my shins, almost expecting him to be right behind me.

Tick tock.

I’m running out of time.