The Perfect House Read online

  The answer appeared as she drifted into sleep: even if she had dreamed the woman in black, that didn’t explain the mud on the blanket.

  Or how it had ended up on the floor.

  7. Now

  ‘I should really be carrying you over the threshold,’ Tom said, opening the passenger door. ‘But we can save that for another day.’

  He hooked his arm under hers and she leaned gratefully into him as she climbed out, wincing at the pull on her incision which was still tender from the wound infection. Outside, the cool Moss Lane air washed the lingering traces of hospital dinners and antiseptic from her nostrils.

  ‘It’s so good to finally have the pair of you home,’ Tom continued, easing the baby from the car seat with meticulous care.

  ‘Hear that, Trinity?’ Ellie said, her eyes taking in the whole of number six. ‘We’re home.’

  Although the exterior hadn’t changed much since she’d last seen it, the porch had been swept clean. Welcoming light spilled from the hallway as Tom unlocked the front door and, with one hand on the small of Ellie’s back and the other cradling the baby against his chest, ushered them inside.

  ‘Do you want to look round?’ he said, dropping his keys into the wicker basket on the windowsill. ‘Or have a cuppa first?’

  Patches of drying plaster in the hall and the dark stains under Tom’s eyes testified to long hours of graft since they’d completed on the house only a couple of weeks earlier. The hall smelled of deep cleaning and, in the kitchen the old-fashioned tiles and cupboards gleamed. No wonder he’d looked so exhausted every time he came to the hospital.

  ‘Tea, please,’ she said. He lowered Trinity into the baby bouncer. Nestled in the elephant-printed fabric, she seemed impossibly tiny and, removed from the safety of the hospital, entirely vulnerable.

  Vulnerable. Jesus. The thought weakened Ellie’s knees and she sat heavily.

  Tom boiled the kettle, chatting on about the work he and Howard had planned for the house. Meanwhile, Ellie took a deep breath, rested her forearms on the table she’d inherited when Mum moved to Spain.

  Back when she was a kid, this kitchen table had been a place to eat, talk, play and occasionally argue with Mum and Dad. In the Northern Quarter flat, the familiar wood became a dumping ground for junk mail and Tesco bags. But now future meals and board games and homework beckoned, right here under her elbows. The table represented family.

  Tom put the steaming mug on a coaster. ‘Should be champagne, really.’

  The tears came without warning and she blinked them away. ‘You realise I’m crying because I’m so happy?’

  ‘I do make an incredible cuppa,’ he replied, deadpan, and held his own mug in the air. ‘Cheers. To us.’

  ‘To us,’ she echoed over the clink. ‘I can’t believe how much you’ve done already.’

  ‘Most of it was Dad. We would’ve done more, but there were a few …’ he twisted his mouth to one side ‘… unexpected jobs that cropped up and needed sorting first.’

  ‘But this. It’s like new.’

  ‘Original Seventies joinery. Built to last. Unlike the …’ he pointed at the lino, greyed out by years of foot traffic. ‘We could get some cheap laminate for the time being if you like.’

  Despite selling her car and parental handouts, their joint account, never exactly healthy, had slipped into a terminal decline.

  ‘Let’s wait and do it properly when we can afford it.’

  Above Mosswood, the setting sun pinkened the sky. Crows cawed and flapped their ragged wings on their way to roost.

  ‘Have you got used to the view yet?’

  ‘I’ll never get used to that view,’ he replied, placing a hand on either side of the sink. ‘I keep having to pinch myself.’

  ‘Even though we’ll be living off beans on toast for the next ten years?’

  ‘Luckily, I love beans on toast,’ he said. He drained his tea and picked up the baby. ‘Anyway, me and Dad didn’t want to do too much decorating without your say-so, but we have done one thing. Do you think you can manage the stairs?’

  The paint on the banister had worn away in patches, revealing the wood underneath. It creaked when she grabbed it. Less than a year ago, she could run 5k without breaking a sweat and now she was panting over a few stairs?

  Pregnancy had given her new respect for her body. And fed up as she was of elastic-waist jeans and tent tops, she had no issues with the nine months on, nine months off rule. But energy, strength and effortless stair-climbing? Those she missed. Wiping her palms surreptitiously on her thighs, she reached Tom standing in the doorway of the front bedroom. He shielded the baby’s eyes.

  ‘Surprise!’

  And it was. From the palm-print curtains to the jungle animal lightshade, somehow he had delved inside her mind and plucked out the dream nursery.

  ‘Oh, Tom, it’s perfect,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve set the Moses basket up in our room,’ he continued, ‘but I thought it’d be nice to have all her things together, even while she’s in with us.’

  ‘I love it.’

  Ellie stroked the giant panda Jess had sent; peeked into the basket on the changing table that Tom had filled with reusable wipes. Opening each drawer released a fresh lavender scent from orderly rows of vests, tights and onesies. Her toes dug into the soft pile of new carpet and she ran her fingers along the shelves built in the chimney-breast alcoves. Shelves that would soon be filled with books and toys.

  Trinity flung out her arms and gurgled.

  ‘She loves it too!’ Ellie said in wonder.

  Tom sniffed tentatively. ‘Or maybe …’

  He laid her on the changing mat and undid the poppers of her onesie. The air no longer smelled of lavender.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Tom muttered, frowning at the contents of the nappy. ‘Is it supposed to be that colour?’

  Ellie handed him the wipes. Above the changing table hung framed family photos, and she smiled sadly at grandparents Trinity would never meet keeping watch over her.

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t want pink and fluffy,’ he continued, balling up the dirty nappy and dropping it in the bucket. ‘Your mum told me to check out your Pinterest board for ideas. Which reminds me.’ He pointed at a box under the window. ‘She sent us this.’

  Ellie took the baby while he lowered the blackout blind and plugged the light in. One click and a soft glow filled the room. Another and it revolved, dappling the walls in a soft kaleidoscope of light. ‘And there’s more. It’s a night-light, disco light and also …’ soft piano music played ‘… singer of lullabies. Good, eh?’

  The ache of missing her mum sharpened to acute misery. She kissed Trinity’s soft scalp and the baby wriggled and flexed her fingers.

  ‘Lion,’ Tom said and pointed to the squares on the wallpaper border. ‘Giraffe. Elephant.’

  The baby’s face crumpled, as did her dad’s, his dismay so palpable Ellie couldn’t help but laugh.

  ‘Don’t worry, she’s just hungry,’ she said, already unfastening her bra.

  ‘Give me a shout if you need anything,’ he said. ‘I’ll unpack your stuff.’

  The nursing chair she’d bagged on eBay stood in the corner by the window. She settled into it as ‘Twinkle Twinkle’ segued into ‘Oranges and Lemons’, triggering a memory of running under her primary schoolmates’ arms in the playground. Here comes the candle to light you to bed.

  She cupped the baby’s silken skull, fragile as glass, in one hand. The greedy mouth clamped on and tears tingled the back of Ellie’s nose. Honestly, whoever decreed this the most natural thing in the world had to have nipples of granite.

  After a few minutes, she switched sides and the pain eased. The sucking slowed in a dribble of milky bubbles and when she patted Trinity’s back, she was rewarded with a thunderous burp. But Ellie’s grin turned to a frown over the baby’s shoulder.

  ‘Tom!’ she called.

  Pulling dirty clothes from the hospital holdall, he emerged from their bedroom.r />
  ‘That mark on the floor,’ she said. ‘Is there a leak?’

  With Trinity wedged against her chest, she nodded in the direction of a large stain on the carpet. It was roughly rectangular and longer than the cot.

  While he held the wooden cot rail and knelt, knees clicking, to press his palm down, Ellie mentally ran through the layout of the house. Lounge, front bedroom, overlooking the road.

  ‘Remember that damp patch downstairs when we viewed?’

  He sniffed his fingertips. Shrugged. ‘It’s definitely not wet.’

  ‘Can you see the mark though?’

  He examined his palm and stood back with a shake of his head.

  ‘No, and there can’t be anything. The boards are new; the carpet was only fitted yesterday. Why don’t I …?’

  He clicked the main light on. Shadows shifted and rearranged in the sudden glare.

  ‘Better?’

  She cocked her head and scrutinised the floor. No dirty marks, just dim lighting on the springy pile of a new carpet.

  ‘Better,’ she agreed, relieved.

  Trinity wriggled and yawned, revealing an expanse of pink gum and milk-streaked tongue.

  Tom brushed fluff from his jeans. ‘What do you want to do now? Eat?’

  ‘Honestly, I would love a bath.’

  Tom lifted something from the shelf.

  ‘OK, I’ll do dinner, you have a bath and we can test the baby monitor out. The guys at the station had a whip-round for it.’

  One tap and the object in his hand illuminated with a colour view of the entire room. Two parent heads, changing table, cot. Another tap, and the baby’s head filled the screen.

  Ellie looked from TV-Trinity to actual Trinity and back again.

  ‘That is such a clear picture. Where’s the camera?’

  ‘It’ll be clearer once we’ve got Wi-Fi.’ He nodded at a white box by the chimney breast and circled his fingertip. A green bead of light appeared and a lens swivelled like an eyeball.

  ‘The sound is just as clear. You can hear and talk to her from anywhere in the house.’

  ‘Fancy.’

  ‘I know. If NASA did baby monitors, right?’

  Ellie shook her head and said regretfully, ‘But we can’t leave her on her own, even with that. Sorry. You’ll have to take her down with you.’

  ‘Good point,’ Tom said, scooping the baby up and speaking into her face. ‘Are you going to listen to the footy with Dad? Are you?’

  Time had stopped circa 1985 in the bathroom. With a heartfelt ‘Ugh!’ she inched back the pink shower curtain. Speckled with black mould, it was one of those old flimsy things that would smother you given half a chance. She’d order a new one tonight. The water trickled out of the taps, but at least it was hot.

  Tom hadn’t got far with their bedroom. Their bed stood on bare floorboards with the stand for the Moses basket at the foot. Work clothes hung on a clothes rail and the rest were still packed in suitcases. She selected fresh pyjamas and returned to have another look at the nursery. talkSPORT played through the baby monitor and she smiled, listening to Tom explain to Trinity why the pundit didn’t have a clue.

  While the bathwater trickled laconically, she rearranged the wipes and double-checked the nappy supply. Pastel light swirled over the walls and a male vocalist sang ‘Hush Little Baby’. She opened the top drawer and grabbed a handful of Trinity’s dainty vests, smoothed out non-existent creases and folded as the chop of vegetables downstairs gave way to the sizzle of oil. Shame she couldn’t sleep in here yet, but the guidelines said six months with parents and—

  ‘Major Tom calling mother ship. Can you hear me, mother ship?’

  The disembodied voice sounded as if he were standing right beside her. She clutched her chest.

  ‘Loud and clear, Major Tom. God, I nearly had a heart attack.’

  ‘Sorry, I meant to tell you, you can download the monitor app to your phone. Give us a wave.’

  The green-lit eyeball swivelled and she stuck her tongue out at it. ‘What about privacy? I could’ve been up to anything.’

  Adopting a TV voice, he intoned, ‘Day 1 in the Hartley-Wight household and does Ellie have something to hide?’

  Stuffing a pair of woolly tights in the drawer, she replied, ‘You don’t know the half of it, mate.’

  ‘I solemnly swear I will never spy on you,’ Tom said. ‘Now, are you getting in the bath?’

  When she turned to switch the light off, she paused, one hand on the doorframe. The stain under the cot had returned and, if anything, had grown wider and longer. She blinked, hard. Looked again.

  No, not a stain. Fluffy pile on a new carpet. Tomorrow, she would find where Tom had hidden the hoover and deal with it.

  The bathroom was filled with steam and the bath half-full. She undid her jeans and gingerly shucked them off. Lowering herself into the bath took some effort, but she sank gratefully under the bubbles, feeling her limbs relax. Home.

  When she emerged, she pushed the wet hair from her eyes and groped for the towel to wipe her face. How lovely of Tom and Howard to finish the nursery. And exactly how she would have done it herself. Thoughtful, too, not to get too stuck into the rest of the house so she could be involved. Maybe money was too tight to get everything done straightaway, but stripping the layers of wallpaper? Well, that was one job she could do. Then what? Easy fixes first: white paint job, sand the boards, rugs from IKEA, blinds, a light fitting from the twenty-first century. Eyes closed, she grinned and slid under the water, picturing the ‘Before’ and ‘After’ images she’d post of herself, the fireplace and a mighty sledgehammer.

  As the gentle splashes of the bathwater quietened, she became aware of music. The night-light in the nursery played the first notes of … what was it called? ‘Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary’, that was it. Even as she thought it, a less harmonious sound drowned out the music: the baby was crying. Ellie’s breasts immediately tingled. She raised her eyes to the ceiling in disbelief. How greedy could a kid be? She must have had five pints already.

  The volume increased and she felt a flicker of irritation. Why had Tom brought her back up to the nursery?

  ‘Coming,’ she said through the wall. She dried herself quickly and dragged on her pyjamas.

  Out on the landing, the crying escalated beyond Trinity’s usual cat-like sounds. Hairs prickled on the back of Ellie’s neck. What the hell? This was nothing like Trinity’s mewling demands. This was loud. Urgent. This was a cry of pain.

  8. Now

  She pushed the nursery door. Nothing happened. She pushed again, this time braced against the wood and rattling the handle. The door still refused to budge.

  ‘Tom!’ she shouted in rising panic towards the stairs. ‘Get up here.’

  How could this be happening? Surely she’d left it open. She yanked the handle. Or tried to. The mechanism clicked and shifted. The baby’s wailing pierced the unyielding wood.

  Ellie shoved again, ignoring the warning stab in her still-healing belly. Nothing. She may as well have been trying to smash through the wall.

  ‘Tom!’

  She could hear him blithely singing along to a radio jingle. How could he ignore the cries filling the house?

  Fighting to control her hysteria, she placed her mouth against the cold wood.

  ‘It’s all right, baby. Mummy’s coming.’

  She threw her full weight at the door again, sending shock waves from her shoulder to her fingertips. It flew open and she stumbled inside, panting. Just as the crying stopped dead.

  Ellie stared. The cot was empty. The room was silent under a constellation of projected stars.

  Then the final notes of ‘Mary, Mary’ broke the suspended hush. Pain radiated down her arm and the incision across her belly burned.

  ‘Tom!’ she shouted, and this time he heard.

  He stood at the bottom of the stairs, holding a steaming pan. ‘What’s up, love?’

  ‘Where’s the baby?’ she said.

  He p
ut his finger to his lips and pointed back into the kitchen. ‘Don’t wake her up.’

  In the Moses basket, Trinity lay like the poster child for peaceful slumber. Her face read ‘Do not disturb’. Her chest rose and fell in regular rhythm. Her forehead wasn’t hot, wasn’t cold. Ellie put her cheek to the baby’s mouth and felt the reassuring tickle of even breaths.

  Tom returned to the sink and drained noodles through the colander.

  ‘Was she crying?’ Ellie said.

  ‘More grizzling than crying, but then she just nodded off. How was your bath?’ He tipped the steaming noodles into mismatched bowls.

  Ellie chewed the inside of her cheek. ‘It sounded like she was in the nursery, crying. Really crying.’

  ‘You must have heard her through the baby monitor. Maybe we should adjust the volume.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said, keeping one hand resting lightly on the basket.

  ‘Are you ready to eat?’

  He eased the cap off a beer bottle and took a long swallow.

  ‘Yeah, it smells great,’ she said, but her appetite evaporated as he put the dishes on the table and sat down.

  ‘Make the most of it,’ Tom said, curling noodles around his fork. Drops of pale green sauce spattered on the table. ‘We’re back on the beans tomorrow.’

  She prodded a sliver of broccoli. ‘So, I tried to get in, but the nursery door wouldn’t open.’

  ‘It’ll be catching on the new carpet. I’ll get Dad to plane the bottom.’

  ‘But it was so scary. She could have been ill, really ill, and I couldn’t get in. It was completely stuck.’

  ‘Well, she wasn’t actually in there,’ he pointed out. ‘But I’ll do the hinges with some WD-40 as well. Speaking of doors, the woman at number five dropped our house keys round the other day. She’s been keeping an eye on the place, apparently.’

  Ah. Miserable woman in black.

  ‘Hair tied up in one of those …?’ She mimed a Princess Anne updo. ‘Unbelievably rude? She’s the one I saw when we came here with the agent. Remember?’

  Tom’s forehead crinkled. ‘Not this one. She’s got short hair, blonde-ish, friendly. Like the TV cake woman.’