The Perfect House Read online

  About the Author

  R.P. BOLTON lives in Manchester with her partner, son and three lively rescue dogs. When she’s not reading, writing or walking the dogs, she’ll be at the gym, a concert or indulging in her passion for nature. The Perfect House is her debut thriller.

  Visit R.P. Bolton online at rpbolton.com or on Twitter @RachintheFax.

  The Perfect House

  R.P. BOLTON

  HQ

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  1st Floor, Watermarque Building, Ringsend Road

  Dublin 4, Ireland

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2021

  Copyright © R.P. Bolton 2021

  R.P. Bolton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  E-book Edition © September 2021 ISBN: 9780008503772

  Version: 2021-08-23

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  1. Now

  2. Now

  3. Now

  4. Now

  5. Now

  6. Now

  7. Now

  8. Now

  9. Then

  10. Now

  11. Now

  12. Now

  13. Now

  14. Now

  15. Now

  16. Now

  17. Then

  18. Now

  19. Now

  20. Now

  21. Now

  22. Now

  23. Then

  24. Now

  25. Now

  26. Now

  27. Now

  28. Then

  29. Now

  30. Now

  31. Now

  32. Now

  33. Now

  34. Then

  35. Now

  36. Now

  37. Now

  38. Now

  39. Now

  40. Then

  41. Now

  42. Now

  43. Then

  44. Now

  45. Then

  46. Now

  47. Now

  48. Then

  49. Now

  50. Then

  51. Now

  52. Now

  53. Now

  54. Now

  55. Now

  56. Now

  57. Now

  58. Now

  59. Now

  60. Then

  61. Now

  62. Then

  63. Now

  64. Then

  65. Now

  66. Then

  67. Now

  68. Now

  69. Now

  70. Now

  71. Then

  72. Now

  73. Then

  74. Now

  75. Now

  76. Now

  Six months later

  Acknowledgements

  Letter to the reader

  Dear Reader …

  Keep Reading …

  About the Publisher

  For Tim and Christian

  Mary, Mary,

  Quite contrary

  Prologue

  A strip of light wakes her. The banister creaks. She knows what this means: he is back. Holding the tiny bundle close to her chest, she pulls the blanket over her head. Perhaps this time the cocoon of wool will fool him into believing the room is empty.

  It never does.

  The bolts are drawn and there is breathing, laboured from the climb. Smells of alcohol and damp earth.

  Peering through the weave in the blanket, she sees him silhouetted in the doorway. His disgust crawls across her, but she won’t be ashamed. She won’t.

  ‘Be a good girl, Mary,’ her father says.

  1. Now

  It was fate.

  Or luck. Something like that anyway because after eight hours of soul-siphoning tedium in the offices of Craftmags Ltd, Ellie Wight wasn’t thinking about estate agents or house hunting or property auctions. Truthfully, she wasn’t thinking about anything except getting home and taking her bra off. But as soon as she stepped outside, the Manchester heavens opened.

  Rummaging through her bag for her umbrella, she ducked into the doorway of a nearby office block. A second later, some guy with skin as grey as his suit skulked in beside her, cupping his hands around a lighter. He glanced down at her belly and, with an I-don’t-give-a-shit shrug, sparked up. The billowing smoke followed her into the rain and almost to the next doorway, the entrance to Raja Property Services.

  ‘And that’s when I saw it,’ she told her mum over FaceTime when she finally got home. ‘Right there in the window. The perfect house.’

  Carol leaned forward to top up her glass and Ellie suddenly yearned for the Spanish sunset lighting up the screen. For a large, chilled Pinot Grigio of her own. And for her mum to not live a plane ride away.

  ‘That certainly sounds like fate to me,’ Carol said. ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘Perfect. Three bedrooms, garden. Look.’

  Pushing her glasses to the tip of her nose, her mum peered at the printout Ellie held to the phone. ‘It’s too fuzzy – you’ll have to send me a link. When did you say the auction was?’

  ‘Next Monday.’

  Laying the A4 sheet on the bed, Ellie tried to keep her voice this side of no-big-deal. Even so, her mum’s eyebrows shot off the screen.

  ‘Can you afford it?’

  ‘Just about. I’ve got Dad’s money plus the deposit from the flat and we’ve saved loads living with Howard.’

  Right on cue, the grotesque sound of Tom’s dad revving his throat filtered through the floorboards. Ellie breathed out slowly.

  ‘The baby needs a proper home.’

  ‘I know, love,’ Carol said. ‘But an auction? You won’t know what you’re getting till it’s too late.’

  ‘I’ve booked a viewing for tomorrow and downloaded the pack with all the legal stuff in.’

  Her mum frowned. ‘How are you going to cope with a new baby and a house?’

  ‘You know Tom loves a challenge. We’ll manage.’

  ‘If it weren’t for this bloody thing’ – Carol tapped the metal frame encasing her leg from toe to knee – ‘I’d come with you.’

  ‘When are the pins coming out?’

  ‘Depends on when they can operate again. Hopefully before your due date.’ She smiled and lifted the wine glass. ‘Uppermoss Park is near that house. Me and Dad used to take you when you were little. Do you remember feeding the ducks?’

  Ellie had her mouth open to say Yes, I do when Roger, her mum’s partner, interrupted from the depths of the villa.

  ‘Carol? I’m dishing up.’

  ‘I’m on the
phone, Rog. Won’t be a mo.’

  She returned to the screen. ‘Before I let you go, I’ve ordered flowers for Anita and David for next Tuesday. You haven’t forgotten, have you?’

  The anniversary. Her heart thudded.

  ‘Because they love hearing from you,’ Carol added. ‘And it’ll be ten years this time, remember.’

  Did she seriously think Ellie could forget?

  ‘Ten years,’ Carol repeated quietly. ‘Poor Mia. Poor family. I don’t know how they’ve kept—’

  ‘I’m bringing it out now,’ Roger shouted.

  ‘Lovely,’ her mum called before adding in an undertone, ‘His first paella, bless him. Can I ring you later?’

  ‘Sure.’ Ellie plucked at the duvet cover. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  Yet.

  They said goodbye: her mum to eat seafood in the Majorcan warmth and Ellie to sit like an overgrown teenager in Tom’s childhood bedroom.

  The bed protested as she straightened her aching legs. God, she missed their old apartment. Living in a converted mill in the Northern Quarter could be noisy and cramped, but at least when the front door closed, it was just the two of them.

  Although they hadn’t officially been trying for a baby, they hadn’t exactly not been either and with two about to become three, suddenly the flat was all wrong. So it made sense when Tom suggested moving in with his dad to save money. Of course she should be grateful to Howard. She was grateful. But right now, her gratitude had thinned to the point of transparency.

  Downstairs, Howard coughed again. Ellie stared at the ceiling and breathing-techniqued the hell out of her irritation.

  No way could they bring the baby up here.

  An ache gripped her skull. And why did her mum have to mention the anniversary?

  Don’t think about it.

  She shifted a little straighter and the movement rustled the printout. The only photo was a small image of the front of the house, but she had read the blurb so many times she had no trouble conjuring up the interior.

  ‘For Sale by Auction. An incredible opportunity to buy a family home in the sought-after location of Uppermoss near Stockfield. One reception, separate kitchen/diner, three bedrooms, storage attic and extensive gardens to front and rear.’

  It had to be fate that had led her to the Holy Grail of first-time buyers: ‘Affordable’ in a ‘sought-after’ location. Every ‘affordable’ three-bed currently on Rightmove was in an area she was too scared to drive through, let alone live in.

  But the cherry on the icing of the cake was that the house backed on to Mosswood. A pocket of protected woodland that had survived decades of developers nibbling away at the edges. Something about trees had tapped into her recent desire to build a life away from taxi ranks and takeaways. Food cravings, well, they were a given. But nature cravings? Completely out of the blue. Green. Whatever. One minute, she was urban to the bone; the next, she’d gone off city life as completely as coffee.

  She stroked gentle circles on the mound of her belly.

  ‘This is for you, baby girl,’ she whispered. ‘Me and Daddy are going to give you the best life. Parents who love you, a beautiful home, space, fresh air, a garden to explore. We’ll—’

  A fusillade of coughs rattled through the floorboards and Ellie bunched the pillow around both ears.

  Bollocks to affordable.

  She didn’t want that house, she needed it.

  She was still awake when Tom crept up the stairs, exceeding his overtime yet again.

  ‘How was work?’ she murmured, squinting in the glare of the bedside lamp.

  ‘Not stopped all day.’

  ‘Did you see my text about the house?’ She shuffled towards him in small, effortful movements, unable to stop a grunt escaping her lips. Taking pity, Tom kissed her on the forehead.

  ‘Yeah, I didn’t get chance to check the link though.’ The last syllable disappeared in a yawn.

  ‘Never mind. We’ve got a viewing at nine tomorrow.’

  Tom groaned. ‘I’m on earlies, love.’

  ‘But we have to. This is Uppermoss village, Tom. Size, location, price … it’s too good to be true.’ She wrapped her feet around his, pulling him close. ‘We can’t let it slip through our fingers.’

  ‘We can’t let my job slip through our fingers.’

  ‘Go in a bit later. Please? You can’t hang about on a property like this.’

  He sighed. ‘I guess they owe me for staying late tonight.’

  With her lips pressed against his arm, the words were muffled. ‘Thank you. I promise you’re going to love it.’

  ‘You might not love it.’ He leaned across to turn off the light. ‘I mean it, Els, don’t get your hopes up. You said it yourself: at that price, it’s too good to be true.’

  He kissed her, dropped on the pillow and within seconds, his breathing slowed and deepened. But Ellie’s mind refused to switch off. She watched blue lights sweep over the boxes stacked against the walls. Trinity squirmed in her belly while the estate agent’s blurb looped in her mind.

  Affordable. Semi-rural. Family home.

  Tom snored gently and Ellie hooked her little finger around his.

  Six Moss Lane was going to be theirs.

  She could feel it.

  2. Now

  According to the satnav, Moss Lane was a forty-minute drive taking them past Stockfield, the town where Ellie spent her childhood. Away from the bypass, the traffic thinned to an occasional car flickering past hedgerows and flat green fields dotted with sheep and cows. It was one of those days when the weather can’t decide between summer or autumn and through the Mini’s windscreen, the sky arced a cool watercolour blue.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Tom said.

  She murmured in agreement. If they lived here, away from the pollution of the city, she could breathe. The baby could breathe. Speaking of which … She straightened to relieve the pressure of tiny feet on her lungs.

  ‘You OK?’ Tom laid his hand on her thigh.

  She screwed her face up. ‘Backache. Heartburn. The usual.’

  At the last antenatal clinic, the nurse had frowned at the number on the scale before flicking her eyes critically over Ellie’s body.

  ‘We recommend a one- or two-kilo gain a month at most. But I think you’ve gone slightly over.’ Pause. ‘Again.’

  Well, no shit, Nurse Sherlock. Seriously, did the woman think she didn’t own a mirror, or toes she hadn’t seen for weeks? What Sister Obvious failed to recommend, however, were strategies for controlling uncontrollable hunger. Hunger that dispatched Tom to the twenty-four-hour garage at all hours. Even picturing that family-sized Dairy Milk set her stomach rumbling a rebellious duet with the satnav’s calm directions.

  In half a mile, turn right.

  Tom glanced up from his phone. ‘That’s not bad, you know. Should be a pretty straightforward run to work for both of us.’

  Ellie clicked the indicator and drove down a sheltered lane lined with high hedges until the sign came into view:

  Private Road. Entry for Residents and Their Guests Only.

  Stones spat out from under the tyres and she skirted a pothole. As the car bumped along, she lusted over the detached Edwardian villas lining both sides of the peaceful cul-de-sac. Beautiful, ornate, in-my-dreams-but-not-on-my-wages houses. Number 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 …

  Your destination, 6 Moss Lane, is on the left.

  Her heart soared. The photo hadn’t lied.

  ‘Oh God, it is perfect,’ she breathed.

  Peering through a huddle of dark conifers, she saw the well-proportioned house from the brochure: three good-sized windows and a small porch in an off-white façade, like a kid’s drawing of the perfect family home. Set back from the road, number six sat modestly alongside the Gatsby-esque elegance of its neighbours. But it was miles better than any other property they’d considered, and she had been scouring the internet for months.

  ‘Can’t knock the location,’ Tom said, opening the passenger d
oor.

  Scents of earth and pine filled her senses. Cool, pure air soothed the pulsing in her head and she breathed easily for the first time all day. Even the baby seemed to sense a change, shifting her position to relieve the pressure on Ellie’s ribs.

  From the greened fence to the knee-high weeds lining the driveway, nature had staked her claim on the land. The ancient trees of Mosswood were visible above the roofline and also off to one side, cocooning the house in soothing green. Not a chicken shop or taxi rank in sight. In fact, no other cars were parked and it was almost nine …

  ‘Where’s the estate agent?’ Tom said, reading her mind.

  Moss clung to the gatepost, and she picked at the spongy fronds and looked back down the silent street.

  ‘We’re a bit early. I can give him a call.’

  Tom’s phone shrilled.

  ‘Work. Sorry, I need to …’ His voice carried as he walked up the road. ‘Hey, Tanya, what’s up?’

  Digging a crumb of soil from her thumbnail, Ellie took a step forward. They had an appointment, so it wouldn’t be trespassing. Not technically.

  A gust of wind shook the leaves into whispers, whipping a lock of hair across her eyes, and she fished for a bobble in her cardigan pocket. When she looked up again, a woman had emerged from the passage at the side of the house.

  Ellie held her hand out. ‘Hello, Ellie Wight and Tom Hartley. We’ve got an appointment to view.’

  If the woman heard, she made no sign. Instead, she continued staring at a point in the distance. Her grey-black hair was scraped into a tight updo and the shapeless black dress and scuffed shoes didn’t exactly say ‘meeting a client’. When she drew level, she ignored Ellie’s outstretched hand and, with an expression like she’d just sat on a hedgehog, sailed on past.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Ellie said, taken aback.

  But the stranger didn’t bat an eyelid, and continued heading towards Tom, who was talking animatedly into his phone at the end of the street. Despite the strengthening breeze, the woman’s helmet hairstyle remained rigidly in place.

  Potential buyer cold-shouldering the competition?

  The owner, pissed off at being forced to sell?

  Rude.

  Still, maybe it would be better to wait for the estate agent. Leaning against the fence, Ellie rotated one puffy ankle then the other, scrolling though emails she couldn’t be bothered to open yesterday. Deadlines, queries, someone’s leaving do. A passive-aggressive rant Joan the Moan, her line manager, had cc’d her in on. With a sigh, she tipped her face to the watery sunshine, feeling the soft air caress her skin. Truly, maternity leave could not start soon enough.