# The Doll House: A gripping debut psychological thriller with a killer twist!

Phoebe Morgan

** The #1 eBook bestseller! **‘A spine-chilling tale that makes you realise how little you ever know anyone!’ The Sun‘A real page turner, I loved this story.’ B A Paris, author of Behind Closed Doors‘Tense, suspenseful and unsettling!’ Lisa Hall, author of Between You and MeYou never know who’s watching…Corinne’s life might look perfect on the outside, but after three failed IVF attempts it’s her last chance to have a baby. And when she finds a tiny part of a doll house outside her flat, it feels as if it’s a sign.But as more pieces begin to turn up, Corinne realises that they are far too familiar. Someone knows about the miniature rocking horse and the little doll with its red velvet dress. Someone has been inside her house…How does the stranger know so much about her life? How long have they been watching? And what are they waiting for…?A gripping debut psychological thriller with a twist you won’t see coming. Perfect for fans of I See You and The Widow.Praise for The Doll House:‘A real page turner, I loved this story.’ B A Paris, author of Behind Closed Doors‘Unnerving and spine-chilling in its sentiment.’ Mel Sherratt, million copy bestseller.‘Deliciously creepy, genuinely unnerving and incredibly confident, The Doll House is the stellar first outing of a major new voice.’ Catherine Ryan Howard, author of Distress Signals‘Tense, suspenseful and unsettling… Phoebe Morgan is one to watch!’ Lisa Hall, author of Between You and Me‘Unsettling, insightful, evocative and poignant, Morgan's writing is both delicate and devastating. will haunt the reader long after the pages are closed.’ Helen Fields, author of Perfect Remains‘A brilliantly creepy and insightfully written debut. I tore through it.’ Gillian McAllister, Sunday Times bestselling author‘Atmospheric, dark and haunting, I could not put this book down.’ Caroline Mitchell, USA Today bestselling author'Totally engrossing from start to finish. A clever, clever book.' Amanda Robson, author of Obsession

You never know who’s watching…

Corinne’s life might look perfect on the outside, but after three failed IVF attempts it’s her last chance to have a baby. And when she finds a tiny part of a doll house outside her flat, it feels as if it’s a sign.

But as more pieces begin to turn up, Corinne realises that they are far too familiar. Someone knows about the miniature rocking horse and the little doll with its red velvet dress. Someone has been inside her house…

How does the stranger know so much about her life? How long have they been watching? And what are they waiting for…?

A gripping debut psychological thriller with a twist you won’t see coming. Perfect for fans of I See You and The Widow.

The Doll House

Phoebe Morgan


ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Then

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Epilogue

Extract

Endpages

Copyright

PHOEBE MORGAN is an author and editor. She studied English at Leeds University after growing up in the Suffolk countryside. She has previously worked as a journalist and now edits crime and women’s fiction for a publishing house during the day, and writes her own books in the evenings. She lives in London and you can follow her on Twitter @Phoebe_A_Morgan. The Doll House is her debut novel.

This book would not exist without the support, encouragement and ideas of my agent Camilla Wray at Darley Anderson, who never stopped believing in me and whose editorial help was invaluable. Similar thanks go to Celine Kelly, whose incredible insight is very much appreciated. Thanks too to Naomi Perry, who did a stellar job of looking after me last year during Camilla’s maternity leave – I finally found someone who shares my love of red pandas! The whole team at Darley Anderson are superstars and I’m lucky to be on their books.

A huge thank you to my wonderful editor Charlotte Mursell, who has made this process so smooth and enjoyable for me, and who is a great champion of all her HarperCollins books. Thank you to Victoria Oundjian and Lucy Gilmour at HQ for taking a chance on my book; I am so grateful. Thank you to Anna Sikorska for designing such a wonderfully creepy cover and for being the one to put my name onto a book jacket, which has always been my dream. Thank you to Alex Silcox for a great copy-edit and for catching all the things I missed, and thanks to all at HQ; you are all wonderful and I’m very proud to be published by you.

I feel lucky to know such talented, creative publishing professionals, but even luckier to call these people friends: special thanks go to the brilliant Helena Sheffield for your work with the bloggers and your friendship – you always go above and beyond. Thank you to the beautiful Sabah Khan who organised publicity for the book, I owe you a LOT of rainbow coloured flowers. Thank you to Eloise Wood for reading a draft of this book and being a constant supporter and an excellent advice-giver too.

Thank you to the Doomsday Writers – you know who you are and I couldn’t have done it without you, and I hope I never have to. Thank you to the kind authors who have read and quoted for my book, and to Kate Ellis, Kate Stephenson and Natasha Harding for your support too.

Thank you to Donald Winchester, who was one of the first agents to show interest in my writing, and to all of Team Avon and Helen Huthwaite at HarperCollins, the best bunch of colleagues anyone could ask for who publish amazing books with incredible passion and make my day job such a pleasure.

Thank you to my girlfriends for your encouragement and enthusiasm throughout this process; I promise never to put you in a crime book unless you come out on top.

Thank you to Alex for being my voice of reason, and for keeping me calm when I think I can’t write at all. You are an amazing supporter and I love you.

And finally, the biggest thank you to my family – to my brothers Owen and Fergus for reading countless drafts and answering all my incessant WhatsApps – you are my favourite people on the planet. Thank you to my dad for building me a doll house, then reliably informing me which parts of the book made no sense (especially geographically – not my strong point) and for putting me in touch with helpful people too who know more about architecture than I do. Thank you to my lovely grandma for digging out my old short stories, encouraging me and making me smile. And finally thank you to my mum; there are no words for how much you have championed me and this book and I love you so much and am so grateful. Thank you.

To my family, for not being like this one.

Then

‘Can we go now?’

I am tugging on Mummy’s coat, my fingers clutching the thin black fabric of it as though it is a life raft. Mummy’s eyes don’t move; her gaze doesn’t falter. It is as if I have not spoken at all.

Minutes pass. I begin to cry, small, quiet sobs that choke in my throat, sting my cheeks in the wind. Mummy takes no notice. I push my palms into my eyes, blotting out the last remnants of light in the shadowy garden around us. The darkness continues to fall, but still Mummy stares, glassy-eyed. She doesn’t comfort me. She just stares. I bite down hard into the flesh of my cheek, harder and harder until I can taste a little bit of blood on my tongue.

I’m trying to be quiet, trying not to make a sound. Mummy tells me that I shouldn’t complain, that we’re just playing the game. But it’s too cold tonight, and I’m hungry. The chocolate bar I had at school is swirling around in my stomach. I don’t think I’ll get anything else tonight, not if we don’t see them soon.

In the winter time it’s always cold like this, but Mummy never lets us leave. In the summer time it’s better, sometimes the game is almost fun. The garden is the best part, I like the way the grass feels against my knees, and the way the hole in the fence fits me perfectly, like it’s been built just for me. I’m really good at getting through it now, I never even snag my clothes any more. I’m almost perfect.

Now though it’s freezing and my hands are red, they burn like they’re set on fire. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut and pretend that it’s summer time, all nice and warm, and that I can feel the rays of sun on my back from where I’m hiding. In summer I get to see animals. They have rabbits in cages but I don’t go near those any more. One time I did, I crept right up to the cage and put my fingers through the gap, touched one of the bunnies on his little soft nose. But when Mummy realised, she got very angry, she said I had to stay back in the shadows. She says the bunnies don’t belong to us. So I don’t see them any more, but I do get to see the little hedgehog that lives near the fence, and all the creepy-crawlies; the worms and the beetles that Mummy says I oughtn’t to touch. I do touch, though. I push my fingers into the dirt and pick them up, lay the worms flat on my hand and watch them wriggle. I don’t think they mind. It’s nice to have things to play with. I’m usually by myself.

Mummy suddenly leans forward, grabs my frozen hand in hers. I can feel the bones of her hand against mine, clutching me tight. It hurts.

‘Do you see them?’ she says, and I open up my eyes, blink in the darkness. It’s almost fully dark now but I look at the golden window, and I do see them. I see them all. My heart begins to thud.

[1]

Now

13 January 2017

London

Corinne

The house is huge. It sits like a broken sandcastle in the middle of the lawn, strangely out of place amongst the remnants of construction, discarded hats and polystyrene cups left by over-caffeinated builders. I cling to Dominic’s hand as we pick our way through the site. Two fold-up chairs are positioned mid-way across the lawn, their silver legs wet with cold condensation.

‘Dominic? You’re here early!’ A man is striding towards us, hand outstretched. I let go of Dominic and step backwards, feel the immediate rush of anxiety as we disengage.

‘You must be Warren.’ Dom smiles, reaching out to grasp the bigger man’s hand in his own. ‘This is my girlfriend, Corinne Hawes.’ He propels me forward slightly with his left hand. ‘She’s got the day off work so I thought I’d bring her along with me. Got a keen eye for a story too, so she might be of use!’

Neither of these things are exactly true. Dominic is a journalist; it’s easy to twist the truth, blur the lines. He’s good at it.

‘Thanks for coming down,’ Warren is saying, his voice loud and fast. ‘We really appreciate the coverage.’ Spittle connects the fleshy pouches of his lips, hangs horribly before separating itself into two sticky drops. He is moving as fast as he speaks, leading us both towards the house, raising a hand to builders as they walk past. The closer we get to the building, the worse I feel. It looms over us, white in the winter sun. There is something strange about it, something sad. It looks ruined. Forgotten.

‘So, Dominic, Dom, can I call you Dom?’ Warren continues without bothering to wait for an answer. ‘Dom, the thing is, this building is going to be a beauty by the time we’re finished with it. Yeah, it needs a bit of TLC, but that’s what we’re here for.’ He looks at me suddenly and winks. I recoil. He reminds me of Dom’s colleague Andy, the one who spent the entire Christmas party staring down my blouse, his eyes finding the gaps between the buttons on my chest. The memory makes me shudder. That man has never liked me since.

‘Shall we start off with a few questions, I’ll tell you what you need to know? Then you can take a few snaps, I know what you paparazzi are like!’ Warren laughs. I want to catch Dominic’s eye, share the horror of Warren together, but he’s scribbling in his notebook, little squiggles of grey against the white page.

We sit down at the chairs, I feel the wetness of the cold plastic seep through my jeans. The sun hits my eyes and I close them momentarily; they feel dry, the tear ducts emptied. Dom made me come with him today, told me I needed to get out of the flat. He said a week is long enough. He’s right, I know he is. I just can’t bear the fact that we’ve failed again, that another round of IVF has led to nothing. I feel empty.

‘Our readers love a good backstory,’ Dominic continues, and I find a glimmer of peace in the familiar rise and fall of his voice. ‘Especially with a building as beautiful as this.’

‘Well, let’s see,’ Warren says. ‘Carlington House – this is what’s left of it – was originally built back in 1792. It was designed by a guy named Robert Parler—’

Something shifts slightly in my brain, a bell of recognition.

‘I know Robert Parler,’ I say. ‘Well, not know him, of course. I mean I know of him; my dad told me.’

Dom smiles at me, his eyes flashing over the notepad.

‘Corinne’s dad was an architect too,’ he tells Warren, and I feel that familiar sucker-punch at the use of the past tense. It’s coming up to a year since Dad died. I miss him every single day. I miss him more than anyone thinks. I’m grateful to Dom for not saying Dad’s name – Warren will no doubt have heard of him and I don’t want to have to hear him start to suck up to me. People do that when they realise who my father was – one of the most well-known architects in London, famous in the industry and beyond. But it hurts to talk about him, and I feel fragile today, as though I’m made of glass that might shatter at any second.

‘Got yourself a smart little lady here, Dom!’ Warren grins. His teeth are too big for his mouth; I spy a piece of greenery stuck in his gums. ‘So, Parler does a grand job with Carlington and it passes through the hands of local landowners, the few that were wealthy enough. But then the Blitz rolls around, and we suffer some pretty major damage. Family living in it at the time, the littlest of their kiddies is found under the rubble nearly three months later. Three months, can you believe. Tragedy.’

Warren shakes his head, presses on gleefully. I picture tiny bones, birdlike under the aftermath of a bomb.

‘So, the thing is, the place never had the chance to shine until years later, must’ve been around twenty years ago.’ He pauses, stares for a moment at the house before us. I follow his gaze; there is a sudden movement, a shower of white dust spills from the collapsing roof. A trio of rooks fly out from the left-hand corner, shooting into the light, their spidery legs trailing behind them like stray threads in the ashy grey sky. One of them calls out, fleetingly, a short sharp cry that echoes in my chest.

‘Anyway, eventually someone spotted its potential. Employed a whole new round of builders, started work again. By that time, it was owned by the de Bonnier family, you know, they were a big deal in the jewellery business? Very wealthy back then.’ Warren sucks his teeth and raises his eyebrows at me.

Dominic, in the midst of writing, pauses and looks up. ‘You’ve not been at this twenty years though, surely?’

‘Of course not, Dom, of course not.’ Warren laughs. ‘My men are quicker than that! No, the de Bonniers hired a new company, started to do the place up. Made some good progress—’

‘So what happened?’ Dominic leans forward. His breath mists the air; I watch the cloudy white of it disappear into nothingness.

‘Whole thing got abandoned.’

‘Abandoned?’

‘Yep. Story goes that some pretty deep shit went down between the de Bonniers and the architect firm. All turned a bit nasty. Lot of money lost, from what I understand. That’s what it always comes down to, isn’t it? Money.’ He waves a large hand in the air, it comes dangerously close to my shoulder.

‘So then of course, lucky us, we manage to wangle the deal and get the go-ahead to renovate. One of my biggest commissions so far, Dom, pays for the kids’ school fees, that’s what I always say. You guys got kids? Bloody rip-off these days. My missus says the little buggers are bleeding us dry.’

He turns his head towards me, I feel the heat rise in my face as his eyes meet mine. How can he say that? Doesn’t he know how lucky he is?

‘What kind of trouble went down?’ Dominic asks, saving me from answering his question.

‘Oh,’ Warren wafts a hand airily. ‘It was all a bit hush hush—’ I receive another wink ‘—I’m sure we can find out for you though! But isn’t that more your department?’ He laughs, the criticism veiled.

Dominic inclines his head. I sense his annoyance and my heart beats a little bit faster.

‘So who owns the house now?’

‘Oh, it’s being sold,’ Warren says. ‘Woman who owns it can’t afford to keep it, that’s why it’s in the state it’s in. Been left to rot, really. But someone’s finally come forward to buy it, pumped a load of money in – not that I care where the money’s coming from, as long as it’s coming!’

Dominic winces. ‘Right, right.’

Warren grins at me. ‘I can show you the house, if you like. Any excuse to show off our work, that’s what I always say.’

We are treated to a few statistics on Warren’s builders before we all stand up and Dominic takes a couple of photos. I close my eyes when the camera flashes; I hate cameras. Dad always said he hated them too, but I don’t think he did. He loved the attention, the limelight he used to get in London whenever he unveiled a new design. Flash. Flash. Dominic sees me wincing and touches my hair, asking if I’m all right, and I force myself to smile at him. The house surrounds us. I feel like it’s watching me.

Warren leads us both around the back, to where a hole in the wall gapes brutally, exposing the half-finished rooms inside. I remove a mitten and run my hand over the sturdy stone, enjoying the cold sensation. It is an off-white colour, argent grey, I think, the paint number popping into my head, an old habit from my first gallery days. A spider drifts downwards, its legs moving quickly like tiny knitting needles, spinning itself towards the soft padding of my outstretched arm. Drops of water glisten on its silvery web.

As we wander through the garden, around the crumbling walls, I feel the building enveloping me, touching me with its feelers, pulling me in. Cold fronds of air creep towards me from the dark holes where the windows should be. I stare up at the highest window, wondering who lived here, what secrets this house has held. As I turn away I see it – a flash in the darkness, a white movement. A face. There’s a face in the blackness, ghostly pale. I can see it.

I scream, put a hand to my chest and stumble backwards, my heart thudding.

‘No!’ I am saying, the words bursting out of my mouth before I can stop them. ‘No!’

‘Ssh, Corinne, ssh now, it’s all right.’ Dominic is there, holding me, telling me to calm down, it’s just him, just the flash of his camera. Nothing to see. There is nobody there. He holds me against his chest and I take deep breaths, my legs shaking, cheeks flushing as Warren stares at me. My heart is thudding uncomfortably. I can’t keep doing this, living on my nerves, panicking at nothing. Dom continues to stroke my hair and tell me everything is fine, and I know he’s right but I can’t help it, I keep picturing the sight: a face at the window, looking out at me, staring straight into my eyes.

*

I run a bath that evening while Dominic goes to buy dinner for us both. My discarded boots sit by the radiator, their insides stuffed with old newspaper. We always have far too much of it; Dominic keeps his old copies of the Herald stacked up in the hallway.

I sit on the side of the bathtub, my legs cold against the white enamel, and turn the page of a book called Taking Charge of Your Fertility. I’m trying not to think about earlier, the way I panicked at the house. It’s not good for me, these bursts of irrationality. Dom thinks it’s to do with my dad, the shock of his death. He’s said as much too.

I flip the book in my hands over. It has a picture of a serious-looking woman on the back and a photograph of a baby in a pushchair on the inside jacket flap. I have been hiding the book from Dominic since I bought it on Amazon. I’m embarrassed by it, I suppose, because actually I don’t really believe in any of this stuff, never have.

I saw the fertility book in Waterstones the other day and found myself hovering, looking around to see if anyone was watching me research ways to have children the way other people look up hobbies. I picked the book up, started to carry it to the counter, but the woman in the queue looked at me sympathetically when she saw what I was holding. I left the shop in a hurry, cheeks flaming, unable to bear her pity, but that night I found myself on the computer with my purse open beside me, typing in my bank security details and our address.

I have forgotten that I am running a bath until I feel the ends of my dressing gown getting wet against my skin. The water has reached the rim of the tub and is threatening to overflow. Swearing, I reach for the tap and turn it off, plunging my hand down into the wet heat to release the plug. The book falls from my lap onto the floor, landing with a dull thud.

Once the bath water has resigned itself to an acceptable level, I undress, my dressing gown pooling on the floor. My stomach is flat, white. I imagine it stretched out in front of me, like Ashley’s was with Holly, and the hairs on my body stand up against the cold air, only relaxing as I slide into the hot water. I put my shoulders back against the enamel, feel the points of my shoulder blades flinch at the sensation. I lean down to pick up the book. I should be more open-minded. Perhaps it will work. After all, I am fast running out of options.

Around me, the water goes cold but I stay in the bath, letting my body relax. I used to have baths when I was a little girl, I’ve always preferred them to showers. Images of Carlington House keep surfacing in my mind; the way I screamed, the darkness of the windows. I need to get a grip. I’ve always been a bit like this. When I was a little girl, I was always thinking I saw faces, ghosts in the dark. There was never anyone there. Dad used to say I had an overactive imagination. ‘Seeing the spooks again, Corinne?’ He’d laugh, ruffle my hair. He thought it was funny, but actually it made me feel scared. Still. I’m an adult now, I ought to know better.

My mobile rings twice, a sharp trill followed by a thudding vibration that echoes through the silent flat, but I don’t want to get out of the water just yet. It’s probably my sister. As the sound of the phone begins again, I give up and sink my head under the water, enjoying the cold rush enveloping me, my hair floating up and around me like a dark halo.

The next thing I know, Dominic is shouting, his hands are underneath my armpits, slipping and sliding, and there is water splashing everywhere. The bath mat is bristly under my feet and the towel as he rubs it over me is rough. My teeth are chattering and my fingertips are prune-like. He has pulled the plug and the water is draining out, forming rivulets around the sides of the sodden paperback lying on the floor of the tub.

‘Jesus Christ, Corinne,’ Dominic says, and his voice is shaky.

I blink, focus on his hands as they wrap my dressing gown around me. I can’t quite work out why he’s so worked up. Did I close my eyes in the bath?

Dominic is still staring at me, shaking his head from side to side. There is a funny gasping sound that I realise is coming from me. I need to think of something to say.

‘Did you pick up the dinner?’

[2]

13 January 2017

London

Ashley

Ashley shifts her daughter from one hip to the other so that she can bend to pick up the mail on the doormat. Holly lets out a cry, a short, sharp sound followed by a wail that makes the muscles in Ashley’s shoulders clench. Every bone in her body is aching. Her hands clasp Holly’s warm body to her own; her daughter’s soft, downy hair brushes against her chest and she feels the familiar aching thud in her breasts. Please, not now.

She feels exhausted; even on days when she’s not at the café it’s as though she’s on a never-ending treadmill of nappies and tantrums, homework and school runs. It’s not as if James is around to help her; her husband has been staying at the office later and later, leaving early each morning before the children are even out of bed. He is pulling the sheets back usually around the time that Ashley is starting to drift off to sleep, having spent the night rocking Holly, trying to calm her red little body as she screams. She has never known anything like it; her third child is by far the most unsettled of the three. It has been nine months and still Holly refuses to sleep through the night; if anything she is getting worse. Ashley doesn’t think it’s normal. James stopped waking up at around the four-month mark, has been sleeping lately as though he is dead to the world. She doesn’t know how he manages it.

Ashley had woken yesterday to find his side of the bed empty and the sound of the tap running in their bathroom. She had put her hand to the space beside her, sat there mutely as her husband gave her a brief kiss on the cheek and headed out the door. As he had leaned close to her, Ashley had had to fight the urge to grip his shirt, force him to stay with her. She hadn’t, of course, she had let him go. Then she had been up, bringing Benji a glass of orange juice, placing Holly in her high chair, making coffee for her teenage daughter Lucy. On the treadmill for another day.

Working a few shifts a week at Colours café is her one respite, her only time when she is no longer a tired mother or a wife, she is simply a waitress. James had laughed at her when she decided to start working at the little café on Barnes Common, with the ice creams and the till and the tourists. He had been amazed when she insisted on continuing work a few months after having Holly, strapping her daughter carefully into the car and driving her across the common to their childminder.

‘You don’t need to now, honey,’ he used to say, before giving her little pep talks on the latest figures of eReader sales, on how well his company was doing. She knows they don’t need the money any more. But the waitressing isn’t for the money – most days she even forgets to pick up the little tip jar that sits at the edge of the counter, ignores the dirty metal coins inside as though they are nothing more than the empty pistachio shells that Lucy leaves in salty piles around the house. Ashley has always been happy to give up her publishing career for her children, but she craves this small contact with the outside world. The easy days at the café give her insights into other people’s lives, a chance to be in an adult environment. Just a few times a week, when she becomes someone else, someone simple, leaves her daughter in the capable hands of June at number 43 and walks back to her car alone, her arms deliciously light, weightless. It isn’t about the money.

June has been a godsend to Ashley in the last six months. A retired schoolteacher, she had been recommended to them a couple of months after Holly was born. Neither of them had been coping very well and the offer of a childminder seemed like a golden ticket, a chance opportunity that might never come again. Neither Benji nor Lucy had ever had a babysitter. Ashley had stayed at home all hours of the day and night, playing endless games of peek-a-boo and living her life on a vicious cycle of nappies and tears. Not that she’d minded at the time, not really, but now that she is older she finds her mind wandering, her energy limited. To be able to work in the café is bliss.

June is unwaveringly kind, and Ashley is overwhelmingly grateful to her for stepping in a few days a week. As far as she knows, the woman lives completely alone, has never had children of her own. Ashley can sense the sadness there, is happy to see the joy in June’s eyes when she drops off Holly. Yes, June really has been a blessing.

Ashley has thought about asking Corinne to mind Holly, but she has the gallery, and besides, Ashley doesn’t want it to upset her. Her sister’s emotions are so close to the surface at the moment, spending all day looking after someone else’s child rather than her own might have been too much.

It took Ashley seconds to make the decision last week. When Corinne had called with the doctor’s news Ashley had gone straight to her laptop and transferred her sister the money for her final round of IVF, thousands of pounds gone with a wiggle of the mouse. Still, it’s for the best. The money would only have been accumulating dust in their joint account. She hasn’t told James yet, has barely had the chance. She can hardly tell him at midnight, when she is half asleep, trying to catch one of her half-hour bursts between the baby’s cries and he rolls into bed next to her, pulls her towards him in the dark and wraps his arms round her stomach. There never seems to be the time.

‘Are you worried?’ her friend Megan had asked her last week. They had been sitting outside Colours café, taking a break from their waitressing duties, huddled against the cold with a pair of creamy hot chocolates.

‘Am I worried?’ Ashley had repeated the question out loud, the words misting the January air.

Megan had nodded, pushed her strawberry blonde hair behind her ears, tucked the ends underneath her purple wool hat.

‘About what?’ Ashley knew what her friend meant, had pretended not to.

‘Well, you know.’ To her credit, Megan had had the grace to look slightly uncomfortable. ‘Why do you think he’s staying late so much?’

‘He’s working, Megan,’ Ashley had told her, and they had finished their drinks in silence, drunk them too fast so that the cocoa burned the top of Ashley’s mouth and scorched the taste buds off her tongue. Megan had apologised later, put her arm around Ashley as they stood behind the counter together.

‘Ignore me,’ she said, ‘I haven’t had any faith in men since Simon left. James is one of the good ones. Don’t worry.’

Ashley had squeezed her friend back, allowed herself the warm flood of relief. The feeling hadn’t lasted. The hot chocolate she’d had coated her mouth, she felt the thick sweetness of it on her tongue, looked down at herself in shame and felt the bulge of her stomach, the way it pressed against her jeans since having Holly. It never used to.

In the kitchen, Ashley sets Holly down in her high chair, humming to her until she begins to quieten down. Holly’s chubby hands reach out for the wooden spoon on the work surface and Ashley hands it to her obligingly, closes her ears to the noise of the daily drumbeat beginning, the sound of her baby hitting the spoon on the table. She begins to sift through the pile of mail, catches the edge of her finger on an envelope and closes her eyes briefly as a slit appears in her flesh. She is so tired; as she squeezes her hand she thinks momentarily how nice it would be to sink onto the sofa and blot everything out, just for an hour, just for five minutes. Three children have knocked the wind completely out of her sails. She thinks of herself as a child, and wonders at how well behaved she was. She and Corinne were good as gold, would spend hours sitting cross-legged in front of the big doll house their dad had made, playing endless games of families in the light of the big French windows that overlooked their garden, the sprawling green jungle that was home for so many years.

At fifteen, Ashley would never have spoken to her dad the way Lucy sometimes talks to James. She would never have wanted to let him down – the disappointment in his eyes if she came home with a less than perfect grade was always heartbreaking, though he’d always pull her into his arms and tell her it didn’t matter. By contrast, Lucy can be so insolent, the harsh words fly out of her mouth like bullets. She apologises, of course, most of the time. Ashley has seen her curl up next to James, rest her head against his shoulder, put on her pink piggy socks so that she looks like a ten-year-old again. With Ashley she is closed off, on guard. Perhaps it’s just a phase. Her friend Aoife’s daughter had come home the other night with a shoe missing, vomiting up vodka in horrible swirls of sick. At least they are not there yet.

Ashley checks her watch. Ten to five. Her eyes meet Holly’s, as though her daughter will speak to her, will offer some advice. Instead she smiles, a big, round-cheeked smile that makes Ashley’s heart melt. Neither of them blink and the moment stretches out, and, just for a second, Ashley feels the rush of love, the energy she used to have. It is all worth it, the exhaustion, it is worth it for this. These moments. Then Holly’s eyelids swoop down to cover her eyes and the moment is gone, lost. The kitchen is humming with everything still to do. Ashley has to pick Lucy up from the school bus in ten minutes, which leaves her about forty-five seconds to spoon some coffee granules into her mouth. She doesn’t bother with the kettle and water ritual any more, there never seems to be time. Still, she’d never eat granules in front of James; it feels shameful, like a dirty secret. As she unscrews the jar of the coffee, the phone begins to ring; Ashley reaches for it automatically, using her other hand to dip a spoon into the brown granules.

‘Hello?’

There is a silence on the other end of the line. Ashley listens, straining to hear. Being a mother always gives telephone calls a new level of anxiety: the children, the children, the children.

‘This is Ashley?’ she tries again but there is still nothing, just the steady sound of the house around her, the receiver pressed to her ear. Behind her, Holly gurgles, she hears the sound of a spoon hitting the floor. Ashley thinks of her husband, wonders where he is, who he is with, what he is doing right this second. There was a time when the only place he’d ever be was right next to her. She puts the phone down, crunches the coffee between her teeth. The taste is bitter in her mouth.

[3]

London

Corinne

‘Are you sure you’re going to be all right?’ Dominic calls from the kitchen. He is standing at the sink, eating a plum for breakfast. The juice drips down his fingers, yellow rivulets running into the silver basin. I reach for my hand cream, rub it into the crevices of my palms, inhale the soft sweet smell of it.

‘Yes. Yes, Dom, of course.’

‘And you’re going to the gallery today? D’you feel up to it?’

‘Of course. Dominic, I’m not ill.’

He turns on the tap, rinses his fingers and shakes them dry. ‘OK. Sorry. So we’ll meet after work at the clinic, yes?’

I nod, he reaches for me and I lean forward to kiss him. He’s dressed for work and he smells lovely; clean and fresh.

‘Yes, sounds good. What are you working on at the paper today?’

He sighs. ‘Alison’s really on my case at the moment. She’s insisting I get on with the Carlington House piece, says she’s being hassled a lot by the owner. Cool place though, didn’t you think?’

I stare at him. ‘I thought it was kind of scary.’

Dominic smiles. ‘Maybe a bit creepy. Weird to think of it abandoned for so long. I’m hoping there’ll be time to start writing it up today. I’ve got a bit of a backlog at the moment, what with . . .’ He tails off.

I feel a flash of guilt. ‘I know, time off. I’m sorry, I’m OK today. Promise!’

He shakes his head, folds his arms around me again, even though the clock is now showing nearly a quarter to eight and he’s going to be late.

‘Don’t ever apologise to me, Corinne,’ he says, the words urgent in my ear, his breath warm on my cheek.

We straighten up. There is a loud banging sound upstairs, the familiar noise of an electric drill gearing up. The people above us are extending their flat, I don’t know what they’re doing up there, they’ve been messing around for weeks.

‘The fun continues,’ Dominic says, rolling his eyes at me. ‘I wonder whether they’ll ever actually complete?’

‘Go, go!’ I say, and I adjust his blue tie, touch his chest. I don’t really want him to, I don’t want him to leave me on my own. He picks up a cooling cup of coffee from the counter, drains it and leaves the flat; the door bounces noisily on the hinges behind him as it always does, far too loud. The neighbours have complained several times, we ought to fix it.

After he’s gone, I go back into our bedroom. I’ve got to get better at being by myself. My dad used to say being able to be alone is a skill; he told me his alone time was precious to him, something he cultivated in spite of all the parties and the attention, the people who wanted to know his name, where he got his ideas from, what project he was working on next. We used to have a photo of him propped up on the windowsill in the dining room – in it he’s surrounded by people, his dark eyes flashing. He looks like he’s in his element, but one night when I was a teenager he told me that all he’d wanted to do that night was be alone, away from the frenzy. I never would have guessed.

I take a deep breath. Perhaps I can find my element too, perhaps being alone is something I can learn to enjoy. The bedroom feels so quiet and still. The bed is made; Dom is good at things like that. He says we have to try to keep the flat tidy with it being so small. It is tiny, nestled in the tangle of streets between Finsbury Park and Crouch End, a two-room affair with a little bathroom leading off the kitchen. I love it; it’s minuscule, miniature, fit for a pair of dolls.

I go to my drawers, the insides pretty with the embroidered linings that Ashley made for me. In the bottom drawer, a clump of black tights lies in wait, flecked with tiny specks of white tissue. The nylon feels dry and rubbery. I think about untangling the blackness and drawing the material over my legs, getting on the Tube and going to work, and all of a sudden the idea seems overwhelming.

I sit down, hugging my knees to my chest. The flat always feels even smaller when I am on my own, I don’t know why. The absence of a child seems worse. I stare at the painting above the clock, the first picture I ever commissioned for the gallery. I brought it home three years ago, hung it proudly in the flat. The blue waves of the ocean, the bright red of a ship. It’s beautiful. I used to love it, the way the thick paint glistened on the canvas, the hint of sunlight dappling the left corner. Aurora yellow, cadmium red. I know all the paint names, or I did. I used to recite them to Dominic when I got my first gallery job, spent hours hunched over the colour chart, making sure I didn’t forget. That was a long time ago now.

My gaze shifts from the painting to the clock below and, as I watch, the crimson figures (geranium lake, paint number 405) flicker, rearrange themselves into new numbers, and that’s when I realise that I have been sitting by the pile of black nylon for almost forty-five minutes.

It’s too late to go to work now. I don’t know where the time has gone. The hormones I am taking make me feel dopey, a wasp in a honey-jar. When I call the gallery, Marjorie sounds irritated and I feel bad. I’ll go tomorrow, definitely.

I get back into bed, lie still for a while, listening to the sound of rain beginning outside, the steady drip drip drip of the pipe on the roof. The builders upstairs seem to have stopped for a bit, the quiet is nice. When I was little I used to go up to Dad’s office and listen to the way the rain spattered on the skylight, hammered down hard so that it bounced off the glass. It used to make me feel safe, because the rain was outside and I was inside. It couldn’t get to me.

There is a sudden sound, a little thud that makes me jump, and I feel my body stiffen, the muscles in my legs tense slightly under the sheets. You’re too jumpy, Corinne, Dominic always says. You exhaust yourself with nerves. He’s right about the exhaustion. I’m not sure I can help the nerves.

Eventually, I start to need the bathroom, so I ease myself out of bed, go out into the hallway. I’ve got to pull myself together, I know I have. I take a deep breath, peer at my reflection in the mirror. I need to keep hoping, I can’t give up.

The tiles are freezing on my bare feet. The hallway is draughty; the front door has sprung slightly ajar. Occasionally it refuses to close properly; I’ve told Dom to fix it time and time again. I frown, step over a pile of yellowing newspapers, push my shoulder against it to make it jam shut, but it won’t. I open the door again and try harder, but something is bouncing it back. I crouch down. Something is stopping the door from closing; something small jammed in the frame. I stare at it for a few seconds and then it comes to me; I know exactly what this looks like.

I bend down, pick up the small object, hold it carefully between my cold hands. Flecks of auburn paint flake off onto my skin, lying on my hands like specks of blood. How strange. It’s a little chimney pot. It looks like the chimneys we had on our doll house when we were little, on the big pink house Dad built for us.

I stand there at the doorway, clutching the little chimney, and a small smile comes to my lips as I remember.

It was no ordinary doll house. Nothing Dad did was ordinary – I remember one of his clients telling him that over lunch, him regaling us with the story that evening, his eyes glowing with pride. ‘Nothing by halves,’ he always said, and he was always true to his word. Our doll house was almost a metre high, with pink walls and a blue painted door, a red-slated roof and four big brown chimney pots made of real terracotta. Each of the rooms was tiny, compact, perfectly formed. Dad was obsessed with buildings, and he’d spent months working on this one, a little replica of our real home that Ashley and I could play with. Whenever Mum would tell him to come to bed, rest his eyes for a bit, he’d shake his head. ‘It’s a challenge,’ he used to say, ‘and there’s nothing better for you than that. I’ve got to get it right.’

He knelt on the floor with us on Christmas Day and showed us how it worked; the intricacies of the rooms and the stairways and the loft, and even when Mum came out with the Christmas pudding I wasn’t drawn away. I became obsessed with finding miniature furniture, little rugs, curtains that I cut out painstakingly from scraps of white material I found in my mother’s sewing box. And the dolls. Oh, the dolls. Dad brought them home for us, one by one, beautiful, smartly dressed figures that we positioned in the house: a long-skirted mother cooking in the kitchen, a baby in the miniature cradle, a father sitting in the little pink armchair stuffed with real feathers. Every time he went away for work he’d come back with another one. He got some of them from abroad, bringing them carefully wrapped in scarlet tissue paper to protect the china, regaling us with tales of the countries he’d been to as we pulled open the presents. His work took him further than any of us had ever been.

I haven’t thought of the doll house properly for years, had always assumed Mum had put it in her attic with the rest of our childhood things. A lump fills my throat.

I bring the chimney pot up to eye level, twist it around so that I can see it from all sides. It is as tall as the length of my hand and as wide as my palm. As I stand in our doorway, I feel a pair of eyes on me and raise my gaze. A young woman is watching me, a dark-haired toddler in her arms, an empty pushchair at her side. I blush, pull my dressing gown more tightly around me, suddenly aware of my bare feet, the untamed hairs on my legs.

‘Sorry!’ she says. ‘I just wondered if you were OK? You looked a bit upset.’

‘Oh!’ I say. ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine, thank you. Just had something in the mail.’ I smile at her, trying not to notice the way her child is clinging to her chest, its little hands clutching at her hair. She strokes its head absent-mindedly. She hardly looks old enough to have a baby; I hope she knows how lucky she is. God, of course she does. What’s the matter with me?

‘I’m Gilly,’ she tells me, ‘I’ve just moved in.’ She gestures behind her to where the door to her flat hangs open and I see boxes, the edge of a packing crate.

‘Welcome to the building,’ I say, and she laughs. Something about the sound of it is familiar, as though I have heard it somewhere before. The way she gasps slightly, as though she hasn’t quite enough breath to properly let go. She’s smiling at me.

‘Thank you, it’s been a bit of a rocky ride so far but we’re hoping to settle in here.’

‘Is it just you and the baby?’ I ask her.

She nods, looks down. ‘Just me and the kiddy. Do you have any little horrors?’

I flinch, clutch the chimney pot tighter to my chest.

‘No,’ I say. ‘No I don’t. It was nice to meet you, Gilly.’ She looks a bit taken aback but I try not to mind. I step back inside our flat and close the door. I can’t be friends with another mother, I just can’t. It’s too painful. The gasping sound of her laugh niggles at me. I’m sure I’ve heard someone laugh like that before but I can’t think where – the thought slips away from me like the string of a kite that I can’t quite grab hold of.

Inside, I prop the chimney pot on the table. I know it can’t really be from the doll house, but it does look almost identical to what I remember, and even though the rational side of my brain knows it must be something else, it feels almost like it is a sign, a little spark of hope, a reminder of why I put myself through this every time. I want to cling to it, to cling to something. It’s as if this being here is a message from Dad, telling me not to give up hope. I have wanted a family since I was a little girl. It will happen. I have to believe.

*

Later on, I leave to meet Dominic at the fertility clinic. As I dressed, I put the chimney pot into my pocket, gave it a lucky pat before I left the house. I can feel it bumping slightly against my hip bone; I like it, it feels like a little talisman, a good luck charm. If I do have a daughter I could dig out the doll house, give it to her as a present. One day. I feel bad for being abrupt with Gilly this morning. I know she can’t help having kids, I know I can’t behave like that. Maybe I’ll knock on her door later, apologise.

Outside it is freezing. Minus two, the radio said. Strings of Christmas lights are still dotted around, twinkling stubbornly, even though it’s past the deadline of the sixth. I can see my breath, misty particles floating in the air, glowing under the street lamps. It is already dark even though it has only just gone five-thirty. Despite the weather, I feel a little glow inside me, a swell of hope from the chimney pot cocooned in my coat.

I’m walking along the pavement by the park, past the playground, the empty swings hanging loosely in the darkness. Resting for the evening. A car speeds past, its headlights illuminate the tall, spiked tops of the park railings and I give a little gasp; someone is there, right beside me, I see a face hidden in the railings amongst the dark. My breath catches in my throat. Oh, God. I can’t breathe.

Then the headlights swing by, the golden light throwing itself over me and I exhale; it’s just the shadowy figure of a dog-walker, hurrying along towards the park exit and the gaping steps of the Underground. It’s nothing, it’s nobody. It never is.

I put my head down and keep walking, focusing on my feet clad in their little black boots. My heart rate returns to normal, I can feel my body calming down. I’m used to the feelings now – the immediate rush of anxiety followed by the weak-kneed relief. The cycle of it all.

It is a relief to see the double doors of the clinic glowing ahead of me. Dominic is waiting inside, looking at his watch, wearing the sky-blue scarf I bought him last Christmas. He looks so handsome. As I stare at him through the glass, I remember the times we used to meet after work, back when we first met; I’d sneak out early to see him, desperate to be in his arms. It was so exciting; it was like a drug. Somewhere along the way we lost that excitement, between the endless rounds of IVF and the money flowing out of our bank account like water through a sieve.

I walk a little faster, eager to get to him, to feel his arms around me. I slip my left glove off as I go, run my fingers over the tiny chimney. As I enter, a couple push past me, hurrying through the door, and I catch a glimpse of young, bright eyes, hopeful red lips chapped with cold. An elderly woman follows them out, walking quickly with a slight hobble, grey hair falling across her face. She looks like a grandmother, a grandmother in waiting.

In the entrance room of the clinic we hug hello, I feel the relief of Dominic around me. We might not have the excitement, but we’ve still got each other.

‘You OK?’ he asks. ‘Good day?’

I smile at him reassuringly and almost tell him about finding the chimney, but something stops me. I know he’ll think I’m being silly. He thinks I cling on to the past a bit too much, to memories of Dad. So instead I say nothing, I feel for the chimney pot in the pocket of my coat and tell Dominic that my day has been fine.

‘Miss Hawes?’ The nurse appears and gestures to me. Dominic puts an arm around me as we enter a little side room. We sit down together on the green chairs, our thighs touching.

‘IVF treatment can be a difficult process, Miss Hawes.’ The nurse is smiling kindly at me. ‘Corinne? Sometimes it helps to chat to others who are going through the process. We do have a support group that meets once a month? Would you and Dominic be interested?’

The nurse is looking at me expectantly, her face open, eyes wide. She means well, I know, so I smile back at her, even though tonight I will have more hormones pushed into me, will wince as Dominic injects me with bromocriptine, clomifene, fertinex. We can both recite the drugs as though they are our times tables.

‘I think we’re OK, actually. But thank you,’ I tell the nurse, and then we start going through it again, planning the insemination. I force myself to keep cheerful, keep hoping, and I squeeze my hands around the little chimney pot in my pocket and imagine my dad smiling at me, telling me this is just another challenge. It makes me feel better, and I close my eyes and I wish and I wish and I wish.

Then

The windows of the car are misting up. Mummy has turned off her headlights so that our car sits in the darkness, hidden on the tree-lined street. Now that I’m almost eight, she talks to me more. She says if we’re lucky though, the next time it’s very cold winter time we might be able to get out of the car and go into the house. She says she’s not sure yet, she’ll have to let me know. I like talking to her, it’s the best thing, except for I can’t talk to her on her quiet days, because she hardly says a thing. On those days I have to talk to myself, make up the voices in my head, pretend there is someone else who will chat to me. Really I know it’s just me but sometimes I can trick myself. I can pretend.

I’m seven nearly eight, I’m getting big, and I know I’m getting taller because on the nights when we sleep in the car my legs hurt more. They’re hurting now, it’s harder to scrunch them up small in the passenger seat. I draw shapes on the car window, circles and diamonds and swirly lines that tangle into great messy scribbles. I am bored. I want to go home. We have been here for hours.

‘I’m hungry, Mummy.’ I am hungry, my stomach is growling like a lion. There has been no food all day. Sometimes Mummy forgets. When there is no reply, I pull on Mummy’s sleeve and eventually she gives me a bar of chocolate, squashed and warm but whole, bright in its wrapper. Yum. Just as I’m about to eat it, I am jerked forwards; the car is moving, we are on our way. Mummy is pressing her foot to the floor, glancing into the rear-view mirror, her eyes alive again. She still hasn’t put the headlights on. The chocolate tastes old and a bit stale, but I don’t mind, I eat it anyway. It’s gone too quickly. I want more.

The car is moving very fast; the chocolate whooshes around in my stomach and I begin to feel sick. We bend in and out of streets, faster and faster, until suddenly we are stopping, Mummy is slamming her foot onto the brakes and our little car is screeching to a halt. Outside the world has become very dark, I can just about see the tiny silver stars if I tilt my head back all the way and look out of the window. The dashboard lights glow; their green and orange lines form a face in the reflection and I jump, startled by the way the features leap out at me. That finally gets Mummy’s attention.

‘What is it? Do you see him?’

‘I see a face,’ I say, and Mummy leans over me, right across my lap so that I can smell her hair, the strange sour scent of her skin. I hate the way my mother smells now. The girls at school tease me for it, they say that it’s because she doesn’t wash. I wash myself, I run myself baths in our little flat, fill the tub up until the water runs cold. I sit in them for ages, wishing I could be a mermaid and live underwater. I don’t like the flat, I want to move back to the big house but Mummy says we can’t. All our money is gone. The bad man took it.

[4]

### London. Ashley

James still isn’t home. Ashley has put Holly and Benji to bed and Lucy has stomped upstairs with her headphones in. The door to her room is permanently closed these days; Ashley knocked about an hour ago but got no response. Her fifteen-year-old daughter is surgically attached to her phone, the little buzz of it vibrates through the house, tailing her around.

She is in the kitchen, pretending to watch television, but her mind is on the big clock on the wall and all she can hear is the second hand moving, tick tick tick, and all she can think about is James, and why isn’t he home yet.

The phone bill came in today. Ashley went through it late at night with a glass of red wine, hating herself all the way through. It was because of what Megan said, how she looked when they were sitting outside Colours. It made Ashley doubt herself. There have been three silent calls, now. Not a lot by anyone’s standards, but two have been late at night, and she can’t help but wish that just for once, James would be here, and she’d be able to ask him, she’d be able to see his face. Looking at the bill, Ashley tried to pinpoint the times of the calls, but all that shows up is private number. Obviously. Still, she has kept the records, stashed them in the drawer in the kitchen, the one that houses Benji’s school projects and the million phone chargers that this family seems to need.

It isn’t that she doesn’t trust him. It isn’t that at all. They’ve been married for almost sixteen years; Ashley knows him almost as well as she knows her sister. As well as she knows herself. It’s just that there have been a lot of late nights, and he hasn’t given her any explanations. She tries to think back, runs her mind over the last few months. When did his late nights begin? He was here when Holly was born, of course he was, he was up in the night with her for weeks on end while their newborn rocked and raged. The months afterwards are a blur, a sleepless, messy stream of tasks. At some point, they stopped doing them together.

Ashley takes a gulp of wine. Her fingers have left misty prints on the glass in her hand; she stares at them in the light of the kitchen. The gold band of her wedding ring glints and a shiver goes through her. What if it is a woman calling the house? They have all read the stories. If you’ve got a group of girlfriends, you’re bound to know someone whose husband ran off with the secretary, someone who came home one day to find him in bed with the office floozy. Someone who let themselves go, became wrapped up in the children, looked the other way when her husband strayed. Ashley just never considered that it would happen to her.

God, listen to herself! She must stop this. She doesn’t think he’s having an affair, of course she doesn’t. Not really, not deep down. She just feels unsettled, she feels that there’s something not right, something that he’s not telling her. And she hates it.

Ashley picks up a magazine from the side, flips through the pages to distract herself. The women in it are young, glossy. She thinks of her own eye cream sitting in the fridge. She’d given in, bought the anti-ageing stuff that her friend Aoife had raved about. Corinne had laughed at her, told her not to be so silly. She isn’t being silly, she’s being realistic. She’s got four years on her sister, perhaps when Corinne gets to her age she’ll be buying eye cream herself. She turns another page, winces at the bright pink heading. New year, new you! Should she be doing a January diet? She puts a hand in the waistband of her jeans, feels the indents the zips have left in her flesh. She doesn’t know how other people do it, pop kids out then spring back to size. She’s never been able to manage it, but perhaps she isn’t trying hard enough.

She ought to give Corinne a call. Her insemination is coming up. Insemination. When Corinne first started the fertility treatments the word had made Ashley uncomfortable, conjured up grotesque images of cows and oversized pipettes. Now it trips off the tongue as easily as a hair appointment. Ashley sighs. Corinne has had to go through the process more times than anyone should have to bear. It makes Ashley’s heart hurt. When Holly was born, Corinne had come to the hospital room, bearing a huge bunch of yellow balloons and a smile that looked as though it might crack at any minute. They had sat together on the bed, staring at Holly as she nuzzled Ashley’s chest, nudged for the nipple. Ashley had pretended not to notice the tears in her sister’s eyes, knew Corinne wouldn’t want her to see.

Yes, she needs to call Corinne. While she’s at it she should ring her mother too; Ashley worries about her, all alone in Kent, rattling around like a penny in a jar. Mathilde moved last year, barely two months after their dad died, said she couldn’t face being there, surrounded by all his things. They had packed up the Hampstead house together, boxing things up, making endless trips to the charity shops, clearing room after room until at last the big house was empty, full of nothing but dustballs clinging to the floorboards. Ashley had stood for a moment in their old living room, her hand on the light switch, staring at the bare walls, the stripped shelves, the blank windows. Then she had snapped off the switch and closed the door, blinked back the tears that threatened to fall.

Mathilde was installed in her new place quickly, a small house in Kent with a gravel drive and double-glazing. It is better for her, really. Ashley should go and see her, take the children. If James can spare the time.

Ashley looks at the clock again. Ten to ten. Holly will wake up at about eleven, no doubt. Then again at twelve, one if she’s lucky. She has finished the wine so she stands up, pours herself another, fills it to the rim. Her hand is shaking slightly and a droplet of wine hits the work surface, spreads rapidly across the wood. Ashley reaches for the sponge and, as she does so, the phone begins to ring. Ashley stares at it as though it’s a bomb; the little red light flashing again and again. Then she remembers the children, sleeping upstairs, and she reaches for it, taking a big gulp of wine as she does so.

This time there’s breathing. Quite loud, as though the person on the other end of the line might be out of breath. Ashley’s mind pictures a horrible host of possibilities; women flash through her head in various states of undress, bosoms out, taut stomachs, lips pressed to the phone, wanting her husband. Stop it, Ashley, she thinks to herself, and she takes another sip of wine and says:

‘Who is this, please?’

No answer. The breathing increases in tempo, and as Ashley listens, she thinks she can hear a sort of rattle, as if the person on the other end of the line is ill, or elderly. Perhaps it really is a wrong number. She is about to speak again when the line goes dead, and at that moment James walks through the door, his briefcase in his hand.

‘You’re so late,’ Ashley says, and he immediately looks guilty. She feels sick. ‘Where have you been?’

‘I’m just working, Ash,’ he tells her, and he comes forward, takes the wine glass and the phone from her hand, puts his arms around her waist. He nuzzles her neck. ‘Mmm, you smell nice. Did I buy you that perfume?’

For a second she tenses, imagining the weight around her stomach, the soft cushion of her skin. She shouldn’t have had the wine. He leans towards her, kisses her quickly on the mouth. She puts her hands to the back of his neck, feels the tiny hairs prickle beneath her fingers.

‘You’re always working, James,’ she says, and she pulls back from him, looks into his eyes. They are grey, flecked with brown around the edges. She loves his eyes. ‘Is everything all right?’

He isn’t meeting her eyes. He runs a hand through his hair, the brown curls spring up beneath his fingers. He looks so like their son when he does this, the gesture makes Ashley’s chest tighten, just a little.

‘Everything’s fine, Ash,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry, I’m really tired. Did Holly go down OK tonight?’

Ashley nods. ‘Yes. But, James—’

‘Can we go to bed? Please?’ He interrupts her, and she swallows. She stares at him, at the bags underneath his eyes, the wrinkles that are forming around his temples.

‘Of course we can,’ she says, and he looks so relieved that she can’t face telling him about the phone calls, not just now. They troop upstairs to where the children are softly snoring. Holly’s bedroom door is ajar, the end of her cot just visible. Ashley tiptoes past, holding her breath, but James forgets and the sound of his shoes on the floorboards cuts through the quiet.

‘James!’

There is a pause. Three, two, one – the sound of Holly’s cry spills into the corridor, as if on cue. As she goes to her daughter, Ashley catches sight of herself in the wall mirror. Her lips are dark red, stained with the wine.

[5]

London

Dominic

Dominic sits at his desk in the newsroom, gulps down his slightly burned tasting coffee as he prepares to start writing up his copy. He thinks of Corinne shading her eyes as she stared at Carlington House yesterday, of her small hands running over the derelict white walls. She was thinking about her dad, he knows she was. Richard looms as large in death as he did in life.

As he types up his notes, Dominic grits his teeth, remembering the way Warren leered at Corinne. He probably shouldn’t have brought her along, but he hasn’t wanted to leave her alone much since the doctor called. He pictures her lying in the bath, her eyes shut, the water cold. A shiver goes down his spine and he shakes himself slightly, pushes the thought away. She’ll be all right, he knows she will. This is just a setback.

He works quietly until lunchtime, when a hand comes down, claps him on the shoulder. Andy, the court reporter, is grinning down at him, Cheshire cat-like.

‘Stop slaving away over property stuff, Dom. I want you to meet Erin.’ He gestures to a young-looking blonde girl standing beside him, who is holding her hands behind her back nervously. ‘She started last week, while you were away. Erin, this is Dom.’

Dominic stands and shakes hands with Erin, noticing as he does so that he has a large black ink spot on his thumb, brilliant against the smooth white of his skin.

‘Sorry.’ He laughs, rubs at it with the fingers of his other hand. ‘Comes with the territory, I suppose. Good to meet you!’

Erin smiles back. ‘It’s lovely to meet you, Dominic,’ she says. ‘I hope you don’t mind but Andy said you guys were going for lunch together – is it all right if I join you? I’ve only just started and I don’t know the area yet.’

Behind Erin’s back, Andy winks at him and Dominic nods quickly.

‘Sure, of course.’ There’s no point protesting. Erin is Andy’s usual type; he has a big thing for blondes. In the five years that Dominic has known him he has never stayed with a woman for more than six months.

Dominic swings his chair around, pulls his jacket off the seat behind him and shrugs it over his shoulders. The three of them make their way through the newsroom to the lifts.

‘What’ve you been working on this morning, Erin?’ Dominic asks.

‘God, it’s a horrible court case. Mother accused of neglect. Claudia Winters?’

The image immediately flashes into Dominic’s mind: a small woman, dark hair tied back off her neck, hand raised to shield herself from the lights of the media. She has been all over the papers. Extreme neglect leading to infant mortality. He swallows.

‘See, this is exactly why I became a features man!’

‘I know,’ Erin says, ‘It’s not a nice one to start with. In at the deep end!’

They step into the lift together.

‘How you finding it here so far?’ he asks.

‘Good, good, you know, still settling in. Everybody seems friendly.’

‘Oh, yeah? Where have you come from?’

‘Oh, I grew up in Suffolk if you know it, over by the coast.’

‘Bit of a change from Finchley Road,’ Dominic says. ‘Lot less stabbings, I bet, although we’d all be out of a job without them.’

‘Right.’ She nods. ‘I’m living in Tooting now, though, just got a flat.’ She laughs. ‘It’s in serious need of decoration, bit of a shit-hole actually. Tooting seems a bit dodgy so far! Or maybe I just notice it more cos of the job. I’m still getting to grips with it all!’

‘Takes a while,’ Dominic says. ‘You’ll get there!’

They have reached the ground floor; he fumbles for his lanyard in his pocket but Andy dangles his own in front of his eyes.

‘Honestly, mate, what are you like.’ He grins at Erin, opens the door for her and guides her through, his large hand on her back. Dominic rolls his eyes and follows the pair of them out onto the high road. He can already tell what Andy is thinking, almost see the cogs turning in his brain. He never takes long to make his moves.

*

They make their way to the pub on the corner, the Hare and Hound. An abandoned Christmas tree sits outside it, next to a pile of empty beer cans. Pine needles blow along the pavement, dry and brown.

The three of them chat about Andy’s court case. It’s a drug deal; he says that today was the sentencing, he watched a nineteen-year-old girl go down for twenty years. Dominic shivers – he has always hated sentencings, hated seeing the look on people’s faces when the enormity of what they’d done would crash down on them. Always too late, of course. Half the kids he went to school with are behind bars now.

‘I hate sentencings, actually,’ Erin says. ‘So final, aren’t they? Imagine being locked away like that. God, it would be awful.’

Dominic looks at her. She really is very young; she can’t be more than a few years older than nineteen herself, mid-twenties at the most. It will still take a while for the edges to form. He’s surprised they’ve started her on the Winters case, it’s a high-profile job.

‘Well, prisons are hardly prisons any more, are they?’ Andy says. ‘It’s not as if they’re off to Bedlam. Most of them have gyms attached.’

‘I think gyms is a bit of an exaggeration,’ Dominic says.

‘Do you do any court stuff, Dominic?’ Erin asks him. ‘Or do you stick to the features?’

‘I’m a features man,’ Dominic says, ‘I used to cover the court stories too, but it got a bit much. I just found it a bit depressing, really. All that horror. All those wasted lives.’

He looks down, feeling suddenly embarrassed, but Erin nods sympathetically.

‘I know exactly what you mean. It gets you down, doesn’t it?’

Andy interrupts, flexes his knuckles on the table. He’s a big guy; Dominic can see the tendons in his arm straining.

‘So, Dom, how’s Corinne doing?’

Dominic shifts in his chair, pretending to be engrossed in a remaining chip congealed on his plate.

‘She’s . . . she’s doing OK, man,’ he says, although he is not sure that it’s completely the truth.

‘Corinne is my girlfriend,’ he tells Erin.

‘Beautiful name – unusual. Is that after anyone? Grandmother, or anything?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Dominic says. He doesn’t actually know, has never thought of it.

‘Well, it’s lovely,’ Erin says. ‘Have you been together long?’

‘A while, haven’t you, Dom?’ Andy says, grinning at him. ‘They’re joined at the hip.’ His chair has moved closer to Erin’s, the tip of his elbow grazes her water glass as he spreads his arms across the table. Dom is reminded of an animal, a monkey asserting his territory. He’s no idea why Andy bothers.

‘Yeah, years now actually. She’s great. We’re very—’ he bobs his head, awkwardly ‘—very happy.’

‘Most of the time,’ Andy says. Dominic ignores him.

‘What does she do?’ Erin says, and Dominic feels grateful to her for changing the subject.

‘She works in a gallery,’ Dominic says. ‘Over in Islington. They do really well, a lot of nice pieces. She’s very arty, talented, that sort of thing.’

‘Do you live in Islington then?’

‘No, we’re Crouch End way,’ he tells her, ‘closer to the rough side.’

Erin sighs, dramatically. ‘An art gallery though, wow. I always wished I could draw. The best I can manage is stick people.’

‘Stick people, hey?’ Andy asks. ‘I like stick people.’

‘Maybe I’ll draw you some sometime.’ There is a note of flirtation in her voice.

Dominic looks away from them both, traces a pattern on the tabletop. A bored looking waitress who is hovering around behind the bar calls over to them.

‘Can I get you anything else?’

‘Just the bill, please,’ Dominic says. He doesn’t need to watch Andy start to make his moves. What right does he have to comment on Corinne? Just because she wasn’t taken in by him at the Christmas party, wasn’t won over by his charms like the rest of the female population, he seems to have got it into his head that Dominic is making a mistake. Well, he isn’t.

They head outside, back to the office. Erin is going back to court after a quick briefing with the boss on the Claudia Winters case.

‘She just doesn’t seem to show any remorse, that’s the thing,’ she is saying. ‘I mean, her daughter ended up dead! And Claudia sits in the courtroom like she’s not even listening, like she’s in another world. It’s mad.’

Dominic nods. ‘She’s quite ill though, isn’t she? I read somewhere that she had post-partum depression.’

Erin nods. ‘Yes, but how far can you take that, you know? The blame has to fall somewhere.’

They reach the office. Andy holds the door open for them both. He places a hand on Erin’s back as she enters the building and Dominic rolls his eyes. Poor girl. God knows he wouldn’t want Andy homing in on Corinne. As a mate he’s all right, but with women . . . Dominic rubs a hand through his hair and follows them into the newsroom, the clatter of keys quickly surrounding them, swallowing him up.

[6]

London

Corinne

I gave in and showed Dom the chimney pot when I got home from the gallery yesterday. But I was right – he didn’t really understand.

‘You know it’s just a piece of pot, babe?’ he said, and I could tell he wasn’t properly paying attention because he was still focused on the news, reading the headlines as they streamed across the bottom of the TV. They were showing footage of that awful woman on trial for the death of her daughter – Claudia Winters. I don’t understand how anyone could ever hurt their child. Anyone lucky enough to have one in the first place. There were pictures of her as she came out of the court room, the paparazzi lights in her face. Her head was bent. You couldn’t see her eyes. The sight of her hunched body made me shiver.

Dom had his laptop out on his knee, he was meant to be writing notes on the property piece, the house we went to together. I dreamed about it last night, I dreamed I was trapped inside and when I woke up I was sweating, a cold sweat that drenched the sheets. I wish he’d write about something else.

‘Yes, of course,’ I said, ‘but it looks so similar, it’s weird. You’d have to see the doll house to know what I mean, I’ll show it to you. I feel like it’s a sign, Dom, like it’s Dad reminding me that things will be all right.’

Dominic rolled his eyes as I knew he would, grabbed the end of my socked foot and wiggled it.

‘Maybe.’

I smiled at him, put the chimney on the dresser, next to the photograph of my dad and my old set of paints.

I haven’t seen Gilly today, I looked for her as I got home, checked to see if she was in. I’ve been trying to think why she sounded familiar, it’s annoying me. But the front door was closed and I couldn’t hear anything. I might knock tomorrow. I ought to be friendly.

When we went to bed, I lay awake for ages, burrowed my face into Dominic’s back, breathing in his warm smell. My feet were cold so I pressed them up against his. It was only then I remembered that I needed to remind him to get the front door fixed. I’m sick of the draught in this flat.

I drifted off around two, and then when I woke up later I felt surprisingly strong and positive, as though a little window had opened in my head. The little chimney pot feels like the first sign of hope in a year, this horrible time since Dad died and the IVF all started.

So, I’m not going to let anything upset me today. I’m going to work, and I’m going to be productive. I make Dominic a nice filter coffee and get myself ready to go, choosing my clothes carefully. A red jumper, my purple earrings. Crimson coat. Triumphant colours. I knock on Gilly’s door before I go to work; this time she’s in, I can hear the child crying.

‘Hi!’ I say. ‘It’s Corinne, I live a number twenty.’ I point at my front door and she nods, smiles. She looks a tiny bit guarded but I can’t really blame her.

‘I just wanted to apologise if I seemed a bit blunt the other day,’ I say. ‘I’m actually . . .’ I spread my hands. I may as well just tell her. ‘I’m actually trying for a baby at the moment and it’s been a bit . . .tough so, so I reacted a bit weirdly when you mentioned kids. That’s all. I’m so sorry!’

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Thank you for dropping by – please don’t worry! I thought I might have offended you! I’m sorry to hear it’s been rough. You’ll get there.’

Her little boy crawls up to her, grips her skirt and looks up at me with big eyes. I swallow.

‘Who’s this?’

‘This is Tommy,’ she says, and she puts a hand on his head, ruffles his dark curls. The gesture gives me the same flicker of familiarity as her laugh did before, but the recognition is gone as quickly as it came. ‘He’s almost two. Listen, Corinne, it’d be lovely to chat some time, why don’t you pop round for a cup of tea one night? It’d be lovely to see you.’

I take a deep breath. Gilly’s face is kind, her eyes are warm and there is something hopeful in her gaze. I can cope with this. I can be friends with a mum.

‘That would be lovely,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’

We say our goodbyes, I wave at Tommy and walk off down the corridor, feeling absurdly proud of myself. I did it! She was lovely! I was lovely! It’d be nice to have a friend in the building; it’d mean I don’t have to be on my own when Dom has to work. Besides, she could probably use a friend – it must be hard being a single mum at her age. Not that I wouldn’t swap with her in a heartbeat.

At the gallery, it’s freezing cold; our heating has broken and the pipes are frozen solid. Marjorie is refusing to close so I line up storage heaters and put them up to full power, brushing the dust off the bars with my gloved hands. I hum to myself, ignoring Marjorie’s grumpy huffs. My appointment is this afternoon, and there’s nothing to say that this time won’t work, that we might finally get lucky. I have to believe.

My positivity floods through into my work and I sell an expensive painting to a businessman who wants to impress his wife, and a set of prints to a young girl who tells me she’s just moved to South London, is redecorating her new flat.

‘These are so cute!’ she says, her voice bright and bubbly. She’s very pretty, and blonde, and even though I am wearing my triumphant clothes I feel a tiny bit put out by her vivacity. Still, she buys the prints and I write down the sale, watching the numbers add up. It’s my best day for a while and I sit a little straighter at the till, smiling at the shoppers as they browse against the thick waves of air being pumped out by the heaters. The gallery is only two rooms so it can look quite full on busy days like this.

At lunchtime I call Ashley from my desk. I’m keen to tell her about the chimney pot, see what she thinks. Maybe Mum has the doll house up in the attic; it would be fun to get it out when we’re next visiting, show Lucy as well. I bet she’d love it. My sister answers quickly, sounding a bit out of breath as she always does these days.

‘Hey, Ash,’ I say. ‘How’s it going? You OK?’

I can hear the whirr of their dishwasher in the background. She sounds tired.

‘I’m fine,’ she says, then, ‘Oh, shit! Hang on.’

‘What’s matter?’

There’s a scuffling sound before she comes back on the line.

‘Sorry, sorry. Benji keeps putting his crayons in the dishwasher and jamming it all up.’ She sighs. ‘I think he thinks I find it funny. He doesn’t listen when I tell him to stop.’

‘Get James to have a word,’ I tell her. ‘Lay down the law and all that.’

She snorts. ‘Yeah, right. James is hardly ever here at the moment.’

I can hear something in her voice, as though there’s something she’s not saying.

‘What d’you mean?’

She sighs. ‘He’s always at work, Cor. Like, always. I barely see him. He gets home from the office after ten at night, by which point I’ve usually worked myself up into a temper and gone to bed. It’s getting worse and worse.’

Her voice breaks a little and instantly I feel bad.

‘Oh, Ash, hey, come on. I’m sure he’s just got a lot on. Is it a busy time of year, the post-Christmas rush or something? Is that a thing?’

She half laughs. ‘I don’t know, yeah maybe. I never really worked on the digital side of things like he does. But I just – I just feel like there’s something more going on, Cor. Like there’s something he isn’t telling me.’

There is a beat between us. I know what she’s thinking, but I don’t think James is the type somehow. He’s not the kind of guy to mess around.

‘I had a phone call the other night too,’ she says then. ‘No one on the other end. James wasn’t in, it must have been after ten. Second one in three days.’ She gives a strained little laugh, and I know she’s trying to reassure herself.

‘Don’t be silly,’ I tell her. ‘It’ll be nothing to worry about. James is obsessed with you.’

There’s a small silence, I can hear her exhale.

‘Was obsessed, maybe,’ Ashley says. ‘These days he hardly notices me. Or the children. The other night Benji cried when I put him to bed. I think he prefers it when James does it. Says he’s better at the story voices.’

‘Ash, James works hard for you all. Seriously, you have nothing to worry about. Maybe the call’s from abroad? You know, some stupid call centre or something that can’t connect. Happens all the time.’ I try to reassure her but I can hear the doubt in her voice.

‘Maybe.’

‘Seriously, Ash. Don’t jump to conclusions.’

I can hear her moving what sounds like plates and mugs around, the clatter of the china.

‘Hey,’ I say, ready to distract her. ‘D’you remember our doll house, Ash?’

‘Of course! God, we loved that house. You especially! I don’t know how Dad put up with us, making him play for hours at a time like that. I don’t know any men who’d do that these days. Certainly not James, although I don’t think Lucy’s really the dolls type anyway. Not that I can work out what type she is at the moment.’ She pauses. ‘What made you think of that, anyway?’

‘So, this is going to sound crazy,’ I say, ‘but I found something the other day, just outside the door of the flat – it was exactly like one of the chimney pots that Dad built. I mean, it was probably something left over from the building work upstairs, but it made me smile – it looked so similar!’

‘How funny,’ Ashley says. ‘I do that sometimes too. The strangest things will remind me of Dad – definitely buildings, anything like that – but other stuff, as well. Last week someone at the café ordered a hot chocolate and the way they ate their flake was just like he used to, all around the edges like a hamster. Funny.’

There is a pause.

‘I can’t believe it’ll be a year in March,’ Ashley says. ‘Doesn’t feel like it, does it? Almost a whole year since he died.’

I swallow. It’s been a long year.

‘We should visit Mum soon,’ Ashley says, echoing my thoughts. ‘She called me the other day and I feel bad; we haven’t been for ages, I—Holly – no! Put that down!’ Another pause and then she is back. ‘God, sorry. She went for the fork.’

‘We could go this weekend?’ I tell her, trying not to picture her kitchen, the baby in the high chair, Holly’s beautiful big eyes. ‘Dom isn’t working. Can you bring James along too?’

She hesitates. ‘I hope so. I mean – yes, yes, of course he’ll come. Hey –’ She clears her throat. I imagine her giving herself a little shake. ‘You will let me know how you get on this afternoon at the hospital, won’t you? Keep me posted? And we’ll go to Mum’s at the weekend.’

I nod, before remembering she can’t see me.

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you, Cor?’ she says. I hesitate. I know she’s only being kind. I can’t tell her that having her next to me makes it worse, having her fertile body beside me in a hospital makes me feel like I’m going to drown in grief and jealousy. I can’t ever tell her how much it hurts seeing baby Holly, although sometimes I worry that she guesses.

‘No,’ I say. ‘Thanks, Ash but don’t worry, honestly. I’ll let you know how I get on. Promise. I love you, Ash. Most in the world.’

We hang up. ‘Most in the world’ is what Dad always used to say.

The afternoon is quieter. At around three o’clock I remind Marjorie that I need to leave early for the hospital.

‘Can you just run and get us some more milk before you leave,’ Marjorie instructs me. ‘We’ve got a buyer coming in this afternoon for a meeting. I can’t give him water.’

I force myself not to snap; she’s always asking me to do things at the last minute.

‘Sure.’ I smile. Positive, positive.

In the off-licence there’s a queue so I grab the milk and line up. I’ve got an hour until I need to meet Dominic at the hospital. The queue moves slowly forward; there’s an old lady at the front, fumbling with her basket. The cashier catches my eye and rolls her own in apology.

As I push open the gallery’s glass door, I notice the old lady a few shops down, staring through the window. She looks so lonely I feel a pang or sympathy, no, more than that, understanding. It’s how I imagine I must look to the world sometimes, when the days are really bad. After the second round of IVF failed I used to wander around during my lunch hours, staring into space, no idea where I was going. She looks a bit like that.

I’m so distracted by her that as I walk across the polished wooden floor to my desk I don’t see anything different at first. My desk is really the till and there are always things scattered around the computer and keypad; pens, Post-it notes, receipts and tags. But my eyes pick up on the object before my brain does, they linger on it, notice how it is laid across my keypad, carefully, deliberately.

This time the recognition is faster, the image pops straight into my head. It is small and blue, exactly as I remembered. A little door, broken off from its hinges, the edges of it sharp and splintered. I pause, look around the gallery. It is empty; the paintings stare back at me blankly, giving nothing away. My heart quickens in my chest and I pick up the door, lift it gently as though it might break. The wood is cold and slightly damp in my fingers, as if it has been out in the rain. The tiny golden handle is still there, glinting under the soft lighting of the gallery. It winks up at me as I stand at my desk, the milk forgotten on the side. I can remember Dad fixing it on, showing me how it actually turned on its axis so that the dolls could use it. I’d been delighted, had spent hours walking them through the door, into the house and back out again. In and out, in and out. That’s what I did.

Marjorie comes in, frowns at me when she sees the milk abandoned.

‘Has anyone been in here, Marjorie?’ I ask her. My voice is a bit too high and my fingers are shaking slightly around the tiny door. It looks suddenly forlorn, as if it might have been torn from the hinges pretty roughly. I can’t help it; I feel a tiny bit spooked.

‘No,’ she tells me. ‘Don’t think so in the last ten minutes. Why, who were you expecting?’

I’m too thrown to reply. How could this even get here? I think of the chimney pot at home. I must be wrong. It must be a coincidence. I haven’t seen the house in years, we don’t even know where it is. I’m imagining things, the way I do when I’m anxious. Marjorie is staring at me and I realise that I’m shaking my head; over and over from side to side as though trying to dislodge my thoughts.

‘Oh, nobody,’ I tell her. ‘I’m not expecting anyone.’ I put my hand to my forehead; it is clammy despite the cold. My brain is scrambling, filled with thoughts of Dad, of us sitting with the doll house, the door opening and closing. In my mind a parade of dolls come in and out, their dresses swishing between my fingers. Their faces are hidden beneath great swathes of hair.

‘Corinne?’

‘Sorry.’ I take a deep breath. I need to pull myself together, get to the hospital on time. I make a big effort, force myself to push the thoughts of the past to the back of my mind. I pull open my desk drawer and place the little door inside, closing it into the darkness. There.

Then an idea occurs to me. I could find it. I could look for the doll house at Mum’s this weekend. That way I’ll know, I’ll be certain that it’s my imagination and nothing else. Besides, what else could it be?

*

Dominic is shaking his head. I walked to meet him at University College Hospital along the back roads, and now we’re sitting in the waiting room, ready for the appointment. I’ve just finished telling him about the little door on my desk.

‘I felt as though the chimney pot was a nice reminder,’ I say. ‘I know that sounds odd but I liked it, it was like a little good luck charm. But it’s weird to find the door as well. Don’t you think? Are you listening, Dom?’ I tug on his arm, feeling like a child.

He doesn’t believe me anyway, I can tell.

‘Are you sure, Cor?’ he says, frowning at me. ‘I mean, seriously, why would it be there? It’s probably just something Marjorie’s left lying around. Come on!’ He pulls me towards him, puts an arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze.

‘I know you’re feeling stressed out. You’ll feel better when this is over, you know you will. We can go to Jubilee Café and get you a cup of mint tea. I think you’re probably just projecting a bit, you’re thinking about your childhood because of everything we’re going through, and because the anniversary is coming up. That’s all it’ll be. All right?’

I smile at him uncertainly, pull out my hand cream and massage my hands, watching the cream absorb itself into the cracks. I try to stop thinking about the sight of the little door, try not to imagine it now, sitting in my desk drawer, pulsing quietly in the dark like a heartbeat. I might bring it home from work tomorrow, show it to Ashley at the weekend.

The nurse comes to get us and it is time. The insemination. My leg muscles contract, tighten in anticipation of the soreness. Funny how the memory of that goes away. Even if it is painful, I can always go again. I feel a surge of excitement as we walk down the corridor, and Dominic squeezes my hand. This could be it. This might be my chance to have a child, this might be the time that everything works, my body co-operates and it all slots into place like perfect clockwork. I can be a good mother. I just need the chance. I think of myself placing dolls in their cradles, rocking them gently to sleep in the miniature bedrooms of the house. The little blue door opening and closing, trapping them inside. I’d do anything to have a child of my own. Anything.

Then

Today’s a bad day. Mummy didn’t seem to want to get out of bed this morning, so I had to go to school without breakfast. All that was left in the cupboard was her jar of pills, but she says she isn’t taking those ones any more. They looked almost like they could be sweets and I was so hungry I almost ate one, but there was a big sticky label saying not to and anyway the top was really hard to open. So I had nothing.

In Maths, my stomach growls and Toby Newton laughs at me.

‘Poor little rich girl,’ he says, and I don’t understand what he means. It happens a lot after that though, as though it’s catching on, spreading like a disease through the school. They hiss it at me in the corridors, whisper it as I walk past. I’ve started to just keep my head down, focus on my shoes. I need new ones. I’m not a rich girl, I want to say. Rich girls have shoes without holes.

Mummy says she’ll buy me some, when she’s feeling better. On the way home today my feet got wet, the puddles soaked through into my socks. When I get home she wants to go straight away, she says we’re going to do an all-nighter. I don’t want to go. Not tonight.

But she makes me. We get in the car and drive until we’re outside, and then we go round the back and hunch down in the usual place. There are lots of stars tonight; I start to count them, and for a while Mummy tells me their names but then the lights in the house go on and she stops talking to me because she’s listening for them. After a while I give up trying to talk to her and just listen too. Usually I get distracted, by the creepy-crawlies or the scabs on my knees but today I sit further forward, right up next to Mum. Her breathing is fast; she’s pointing at something.

‘Do you see it?’

My eyes hurt from straining so hard but I stare at where she’s looking and I do see it. My insides curl up and I have to look away. After a while, Mummy takes my hand in hers and strokes it, she pulls me close to her and gives me a little cuddle. It helps.

It’s been Mummy and me ever since I was born. I think that’s why Mummy is sad, and it makes me feel guilty. I try to be good, to do everything she wants. I go with her everywhere and watch when she tells me to watch and listen when she tells me to listen. But it doesn’t make her happy. Some of the time it makes her angry, and most of the time it just makes her sad. Then I get sad too, and sometimes I feel cross because I just want her to be like the other mothers, all smiley and happy and like a normal mummy.

But we haven’t got a normal family. Not any more. Mummy says we were going to have but that it got taken away. Someone else got it instead. When she says that it gives me a funny feeling inside, it makes me want to pull on the ends of my hair until the strands come out and it hurts a little bit. I did that a lot when I was younger but Mummy said I had to stop or I’d never be able to plait my hair like they do. I stopped after that, because their hair is lovely, it’s the thing I’m most jealous of right now. I’ve seen them plait it through the upstairs window, I think they do it before they go to bed.

[7]

Kent

Ashley

Ashley gently shakes her son awake. The roads to her mother’s house were horribly busy, and she has done all the driving. James is not here. She slips a hand into her cardigan pocket and brings out her mobile; has he even called yet? But of course, there isn’t any reception at the house. Never has been. She’d bet on the fact that he hasn’t rang anyway. Ashley sighs. She’s eaten Minstrels all the way to Kent, dipping into the bag proffered by Benji. No wonder James isn’t here; he probably doesn’t want to be stuck with a fatso like her.

Ashley shoves her phone away, takes a deep breath and gently kisses Benji’s still-closed eyelids. She’ll have to put James to the back of her mind, but it’s hard. Beside Benji, Holly stirs in her car seat. Her little fists are clenched by her sides. They have had to stop three times on the way, once to change her nappy, once to buy Lucy a magazine and once to get Benji the Minstrels. Every stop has been a struggle. Lucy has been quiet and unhelpful, Ashley is hot and tired from juggling all three children on her own. Without James.

Every time Ashley thinks of it she gets a little spurt of anger. She had pleaded with him to come but he had been resolute.

‘Ash, I have to be in the office on Saturday morning. I’m sorry, I know it’s not ideal but . . .’ He had tailed off, looked down at the floor. Lucy had come into the kitchen moaning about her shoes (‘Where are they, Mum? I left them in the hallway. Why do you always move everything?’) and the moment had gone, slipped away from Ashley like sand through her fingers.

‘I’ll meet you there, I promise,’ James had murmured, planting a brief kiss on her forehead. She had reached for him, brushed the ends of his shirt as the jangle of his mobile pulled him into the next room. He had pressed it tight against his ear, turned his mouth away from her so that she couldn’t hear what he was saying, or who was on the phone. She’d watched the back of his head through the glass window in the door frame, the way the muscles in the back of his neck stood tense and alert.

At least this weekend is an excuse to get away from the house. Ashley is not sure how many more nights sitting alone in front of the TV she can take, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock, waiting for Holly to start crying again. Lately, when Benji and Holly are sleeping upstairs and Lucy has retreated to her room, Ashley finds herself at a loss – not that there isn’t anything to do, there is always washing to be done, surfaces to be wiped – but she finds herself alone, left with nobody to talk to. When this happens, she realises what is happening – she is missing her husband. Even in the marital home they have shared for years, Ashley is missing the man she married.

And she wants to know where he is. She has come to dread the little pangs of anxiety that ripple through her every time the phone rings, the places her imagination jumps to. There had been another call late last night, the needling sound of her mobile this time, jolting her awake just as she dozed off, alone in the double bed. She had stared at the screen. Unknown number. Sitting upright in bed, Ashley had pressed the phone to her ear. She’d said nothing, didn’t want whoever it was to have the satisfaction of hearing her voice. After a few seconds of silence, she’d pressed end call, buried the little phone deep underneath the pillows, laid back down in the bed. In the morning the phone had been placed neatly back on their nightstand; James had smiled at her.

‘You shouldn’t sleep with it under your head. I moved it for you.’ She had nodded, watched him leave the room, go straight upstairs to his office even though it was first thing in the morning and the children were all clamouring for breakfast.

His absences have shown no signs of stopping. She knows she ought to confront him but something is making her wait. She supposes it is hope; hope that she is getting things out of proportion, is misreading the signs. Once it’s out there, she will have to deal with it. But how much longer can this go on? How can he not see how much she needs him?

When they reach Sevenoaks, Ashley hugs her mother tightly. She can feel Mathilde’s bones through her top, is shocked by how skinny she has become. Ashley worries that her mum spends too much time alone. Even though the house is small it still seems too big for one person; Ashley is taken aback by the emptiness of it each time they come. And the gap her dad has left in the family looms larger whenever the three of them are together.

‘It’s so good to see you, Mum.’ It is; she smiles at her mother, breathes in her familiar scent of cleaning products and freesias. Mathilde reaches for Holly, buries her face in her neck.

‘How is our little one? Oh, your grandad would have loved you so much.’

Ashley feels a twist of sadness. When Holly was born, a part of her had wanted her to be a boy, another Richard. The letters of her father’s name had hovered around her head in the terrible weeks between his death and Holly’s birth, as though waiting to latch on to something else, to reassign themselves. But Holly is Holly. And her father is gone. He would have loved her to distraction. Ashley knows he would.

Benji runs forward into the house, screaming excitedly for Dominic. Lucy follows, the white buds of her earphones trailing after her, her mobile buzzing in her hands.

Corinne is curled up like a cat on the living room sofa, her dark hair tied back from her face, fiddling with the gold bracelet on her wrist. She’s wearing jeans and a pale blue jumper, she looks somehow younger than her thirty-four years. Dominic is by her side. He grins at Ashley.

‘Great to see you, Ash!’ He pulls her into a hug and she embraces him warmly. She has always liked Dominic, he is so down-to-earth, good for her sister. Ashley leans down to kiss Corinne, cupping her face in both her hands affectionately. Her sister looks thin; as Ashley hugs her, she feels Corinne’s body jerk slightly, as though she is nervous.

‘Hi, Ash. Where’s James?’ Corinne asks.

Ashley’s face flushes slightly, she feels suddenly alone in the crowded room. ‘He’s working, coming down tomorrow,’ she says, keeping her voice light. ‘We drove all the way. Well, I did, no “we” about it. I’ve had more takeaway coffees than I care to think about and the car’s covered in Minstrels.’

Dominic laughs and is interrupted by a small body hitting his knees.

‘Benji, my little man!’ He swings him upwards; Benji giggles delightedly and launches into a description of the book he is reading at school, which is all about space. Ashley has heard more talk about the solar system in the last two weeks than she has about anything else.

‘There are loads and loads of planets, and stars, and even things called black holes that suck things up!’ Benji announces proudly.

‘I’m not sure they actually suck things up, Ben,’ Dominic says.

Ashley smiles wryly at him and sits down next to Corinne, who is pulling at a stray thread on the sofa, worrying the cotton until it snaps.

‘How are you, Cor?’

‘Yeah, I’m OK,’ Corinne says. She circles her gold bracelet around her wrist. ‘Where’s the baby?’

‘With Mum. She’s changing her nappy for me, bless her.’

There is a pause. Ashley clears her throat. ‘Work good?’

Corinne hesitates. ‘I wanted to talk to you,’ she says. She glances around the room. The expression on her face is odd. Ashley nods, surprised at the sudden tension.

‘Do you remember I told you about the little chimney pot? That looked like it came from the doll house?’

Ashley nods, frowns. ‘Yes. Did you hang on to it?’

‘Yes,’ Corinne says. ‘But . . . but I also found something else, the other day.’ She takes a breath and looks over at Dominic, lowering her voice. ‘Ashley, I found the little door, the front door of the house. It was on my desk at work.’

There is a silence. Ashley reaches up, rubs her own shoulder blades, feeling how tight the muscles are. She’d love a massage. James used to massage her shoulders when he got home from work, sit her down at the kitchen table and knead her shoulders gently, trace words across her back that she had to try to guess. That hasn’t happened in a while.

Benji crashes into the sides of her legs and Ashley puts out a hand to him absent-mindedly. She shouldn’t have let him have sweets in the car, he will be buzzing for hours.

‘Ash?’ Corinne is looking at her.

‘Sorry, sorry. You found a door?’ She repeats her sister’s words, stalling for time. ‘What did it look like?’

Corinne reaches down, rummages in the brown handbag sitting by her feet. Ashley stares as she pulls a small piece of wood from her bag. It is painted blue, with a little gold piece sticking out of it, what looks like the remainder of an old nail. Corinne holds it in her palm, flat against her skin. Ashley blinks.

‘What do you think? It’s exactly the same as the door that Dad made. Don’t you remember it?’

Ashley stares at the object for a few seconds. Is she missing something? It looks like a piece of wood that is probably full of splinters; best not let Benji near it. Corinne is still staring at her expectantly; she closes her eyes, tries to think. If she is honest, the details of their doll house have long slipped away from her, overtaken by the hundreds of toys she has bought her own children over the years, hours and hours spent in hellish department stores every Christmas.

‘I mean . . . I don’t really think it looks familiar, Cor, to be truthful,’ Ashley says. Her sister pauses.

‘You don’t?’

‘Well . . . it looks to me like a piece of wood. Why would it be from our doll house? Neither of us have seen that in years. I mean, I suppose it might look similar? I can’t properly remember. Benji! Will you stop!’

Her son is tugging on the sleeve of her cardigan, anxious for attention. His little face crumples when she snaps at him and she instantly feels terrible. Corinne doesn’t say anything, closes her hand around the object and puts it back into her handbag. Ashley wishes for the fiftieth time that James were here.

She tries to change the subject.

‘How did you get on at the hospital? What did they say? That’s what I want to know!’

Corinne lights up. ‘It went well! God, I can’t thank you enough. We will pay you back, you know that right?’

Ashley waves a hand. ‘Stop, please. I’m more than happy to give it to you. We aren’t using it for anything.’ She grips her sister’s hand. ‘I’m keeping everything crossed for you. It’s going to work this time, I know it is.’

‘Mummmm.’ Benji is back, hopping from foot to foot in impatience.

‘Come on,’ Ashley says to her sister. ‘Come find Lucy, she’s been dying to see you.’ She stands, grabs Benji by the hand and gestures to Corinne to come into the kitchen, where Lucy is sitting at the table with her grandmother, their heads huddled together. Beside them, Holly is happily blowing bubbles, the saliva forming domes around her rosebud mouth. Ashley smiles at the sight of them.

‘I can’t understand this, my dear,’ Mathilde is saying, bent forward over Lucy’s iPhone. ‘What does this mean? How did you do that?’ Lucy is laughing, explaining something to her and Mathilde is shaking her head in bemusement.

‘These gadgets! I don’t know, it all seems very odd to me. Why don’t you just talk to people in real life? What’s wrong with that?’

‘I do, Grandma!’ Lucy rolls her eyes. ‘This is different, it’s more fun. Look—’

They both glance up as Ashley and Corinne enter the room and Lucy grins at her auntie. Ashley feels a pang as Corinne greets her daughter. They have none of the tension that exists whenever Ashley tries to connect with Lucy. Corinne is wonderful with her.

‘What you looking at, Luce?’ she asks.

‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ her daughter says, immediately flicking her eyes back down to her phone. Ashley tries to ignore the hurt that blooms in her chest.

‘Instagram?’ Corinne asks. Ashley blinks. She wouldn’t know Instagram if it slapped her in the face. Her sister has pulled up a chair next to Lucy and is peering over her shoulder, swiping the little touch screen and giggling at something on the phone. Ashley sighs. Even though there is only four years between her and Corinne, she suddenly feels very old.

Her mother shrugs her shoulders at her.

‘They’ve lost me. Come on.’ She puts a hand on Ashley’s shoulder. ‘Help me start the dinner. Where’s that husband of yours? Not working again?’

[8]

Kent

Corinne

Maybe Ashley is right. Perhaps it’s nothing to do with the doll house at all. I keep telling myself that as we eat our dinner, spooning great chunks of meaty lasagne into our mouths. Benji has spilled his orange squash; I can see tears forming in his eyes, his cheeks puffing out with the delicious fat of small children. They’ve put Holly down upstairs, in the little cot at the end of the double bed. She looks like she’s grown again; every time I see her she is more and more alive, more and more of a person. It’s amazing to watch. Amazing and heart-breaking all at the same time. I don’t see the children as much as I ought to; I know I could make the hour and a bit journey to Barnes more often than I do, but seeing them is always so bittersweet for me, even though I love them all to bits. It hurts that they aren’t mine.

Mum’s fussing around us all; she is constantly reaching for a J-cloth, her yellow rubber gloves, mopping up imaginary dirt. She doesn’t know what to do with herself any more, without Dad. The sight of her fussing makes me want to cry. I squeeze her arm.

‘Sit down, Mum,’ I say. ‘This is really delicious. Enjoy it with us.’ She looks at me and I smile encouragingly. In the last year, she has looked older every time I’ve seen her, has shrunken into herself like a creature retreating to its shell. Gone is the woman Dad used to call his princess, replaced by a fading shadow. I remember the way he used to look at her; like she wasn’t real, like he couldn’t believe his luck. Whenever he used to get back from an evening in the city she would light up at the sound of his key in the door and the minute he saw her he would circle his arms around her waist and nuzzle his face into her hair. It made Ashley and I giggle and blush behind our hands. ‘All I’ve wanted to do all night is be home with my princess,’ he’d say, and Mum would roll her eyes, tap him on the arm. (‘Your father loves being centre of attention,’ she told me once. ‘He needs it, it’s his fuel.’ Secretly I always thought she was wrong – what Dad needed the most was us.)

Mum smiles back at me, the lines around her eyes deepening. Her hands twist a tea towel back and forth, the cotton catching on her dry hands. The only thing she seems to love now is seeing the children; her face lights up whenever Lucy and Benji are around, and she cuddles Holly so tightly sometimes I’m scared she might break.

‘Mum,’ I say when she’s finally sat down, the tea towel to one side. ‘I wanted to ask you something.’

She looks at me, her brown eyes slightly rheumy over the rim of her glass. I’m not drinking, but Ashley and Mum are sharing a bottle of white. Lucy has been angling for a glass for a while but Ashley hasn’t given in yet. Lucy keeps taking pictures of our meal, adding retro filters, zooming in on the flowers on the table to take a close-up. She holds up her iPhone proudly, shows me the photos each time; it makes me laugh as she tries to make Mum’s lasagne look arty.

‘I wanted to ask about Dad’s things,’ I say to Mum, ‘I’ve been wondering what happened to them all.’ I can feel Ashley and Dom looking at me but I push on, ignoring them. ‘And I’ve been thinking a lot about the doll house we had, you know, the one he made for us. Do you know where it might be?’

There’s a pause. I hear the scrape of cutlery on plates, but apart from that the room seems to take on a strange kind of silence which I could be imagining.

‘They’re all in the loft, my love,’ Mum says then, and she smiles at me, a quick, nervous smile. ‘The doll house is upstairs. It’s packed away, though, so it’s tricky to get to. You didn’t need it for something, did you?’

‘No, no,’ I say, because she looks panicked, her face is sort of blotchy and I don’t want to make her worry. She seems so frail; although she’s only pushing sixty-five, her hair is completely grey now and her hands are wrinkled, dotted with brown liver spots. Dad’s death has aged her; I know it has. I suppose it’s aged us all in way.

‘Did you know that one day we’re all going to be sucked into a black hole?’ Benji has stopped crying and is holding a piece of lasagne aloft, speared on his fork in front of his face. He zooms the pasta around, dances it in front of Dominic’s eyes.

‘Black hole, black holeeee,’ he cries, and obediently Dom opens his mouth and eats the forkful, his cheeks bulging slightly with the effort. Benji laughs, and everybody’s attention is focused on him, but I look over at my mother, who is looking down at her plate, picking at her fingers, pulling at the skin of a hangnail so that the flesh around her nails shines red in the overhead lamp. She’s lost in a world of her own, and I can’t help but feel that there’s something she isn’t saying.

*

The house is quiet. Holly has been crying but she is silent now, her wails extinguished by Ashley’s gentle voice. Dominic is sleeping beside me, his mouth partially open. The sound of him snoring fills the room. Carefully, I ease myself away, lift up the corner of the duvet. I’m going up to the loft. I’ve got to find out, I’ve got to just check.

There is a thin sliver of light emanating from Lucy’s bedroom. I pause on the landing, catch sight of myself in the mirror, dressed in my old navy pyjamas that Dom bought me last year. My hair is standing on end. Dad used to call me his little scrubbing brush, he’d put his hand on my head and rub my hair until it puffed up like bristles.

The loft is at the end of the corridor. I walk carefully and quietly, trying not to wake Holly up, my feet tightening against the cold wooden boards. At the little stairway that leads up to the loft, I clamber upwards to the door, my mobile clutched in my hand, ready to activate the flashlight function.

The first thing that strikes me is how much junk my mother keeps up here; piles and piles of our old things, schoolbooks belonging to Ashley, boxes of clothes bursting at the sides. I can see the purple trail of my old tie-dye trousers poking out from behind a ream of Sellotape, catch sight of a box containing what looks like our old art work. Misshapen clay lumps gleam in the dark.

My eyes begin to adjust to the darkness, and I make out more and more of my things, stacks upon stacks of boxes with my name on, boxes with Ashley’s name on. I reach for one of mine; pull off the masking tape and open it up. Just my old shoes, small pairs of trainers that wouldn’t even fit Benji. I start to open more boxes, another and another. Books, clothes. My old ballet things, a little plastic box full of sparkly nail polish. I was terrible at ballet, pretty good at manicures. There’s a collapsing old art project I made in year four, I don’t know why Mum’s kept it.

I want to find the dolls. Beatrice was my favourite; she wore a red velvet dress and had long brown ringlets. She was beautiful. She must be here somewhere. There is a sudden sound, a scrabbling noise behind the walls, that makes me jump and catch my breath, pressing my hand to my heart. It must be an animal, a rodent hidden in the walls.

As I stare around, something starts to become clear to me. At first I think I must be wrong and I begin to lift things up, push things aside. I find Ashley’s crumpled Brownies outfit, all our Christmas decorations. The red and green baubles glint in the flashlight. Something dislodges itself and a stack of old magazines starts to topple; I peer at them, expecting Dad’s back issues of Architecture Today, but they all look like Mum’s, fading copies of Women and Home. I’m trying to be quiet but my heart is beating a little too fast, my movements becoming quicker, frustrated. I don’t understand it. I must be wrong. Nothing of my father’s is up here.

There are no boxes, none of his clothes. And after a further twenty minutes of searching, there is no doll house anywhere. It is as though it never existed.

[9]

Kent

Ashley

Ashley’s mouth feels dry, fogged with wine. Holly has been surprisingly quiet in the night; she was up at two and again at four, but apart from that she has slept. The silence feels dreamlike, unreal. Ashley reaches across the bed for her mobile. Seven a.m. The numbers stare back at her. There are no missed calls and she feels something inside her loosen, relax a little. She dials the Barnes house. The phone rings and rings.

James doesn’t pick up; she ends the call, lies staring at the blank face of her mobile. Yuck. She needs to brush her teeth.

The bedroom door creaks open and she lifts her head. Her sister enters the room and Ashley immediately scoots over, bunching up the covers under her chin, making room for Corinne. She looks worried, as though she hasn’t slept much.

‘Budge over, will you?’ She glances into the cot. ‘Hol asleep?’

Ashley nods, moves further along the bed, pulling back the duvet to let Corinne in. Her hair tickles Ashley’s shoulder as she wriggles in next to her and they turn towards each other, lying face to face like they used to when they were girls.

‘You all right? It’s really early. I thought you were Benji wanting juice.’

Corinne frowns. ‘It’s the hormones. My schedule’s messed up; I can’t sleep, and when I do, I have nightmares. And I can never get comfortable.’ She sighs, shifts so that her back is to Ashley.

‘Oh, poor you.’ Ashley reaches out and rubs her sister’s back, feeling the proximity of the bones through the skin. When they were small she used to run her palm up and down Corinne’s little spine, count the humps as her sister slept beside her. It was fun sleeping in the same bed, cuddling up like sardines in a tin and drifting off to the sound of their parents chatting downstairs.

‘How’s the gallery going now? Did you get that new commission?’

Corinne rolls over, spreading her arms out until she is flat on her back, staring at the ceiling. She reminds Ashley of a snow angel, the type they used to make in the Hampstead garden when they were children. Their dad had shown them how to throw themselves backwards, spread their arms wide, enjoy the cold thud of the ground beneath them.

‘No. Not yet, anyway. I mean, I hope I do.’

‘Has Marjorie mentioned it?’

Corinne shrugs. ‘On and off. She’s not my biggest fan at the moment. I need to pull my socks up.’ She says the last phrase in a forced matronly voice and they both laugh.

‘There’s a new woman moved into our building,’ Corinne says. ‘Gilly something. Quite young, younger than me. She’s got a little boy, a toddler, she’s on her own.’

Ashley waits.

‘I’m going to try to be friendly to her,’ Corinne says. ‘I have to, don’t I? I can’t be rude to people just because they’ve got what I haven’t.’ She looks as Ashley as though for approval, and Ashley feels a rush of love for her sister.

‘Oh, Cor. Yes, of course you need to try. But don’t beat yourself up. It’s normal that you feel this way, really, it is.’

Corinne nods. ‘I know. But I can’t give into it, I’ve got to keep trying.’

‘You can do it,’ Ashley says. ‘You always were a determined person. Remember when we were little? You wouldn’t take no for an answer.’ She smiles. ‘Dad used to call you his little dictator.’

Corinne laughs. ‘God, I’d forgotten that.’

The alcohol from the night before is making Ashley’s heartbeat fast and irregular.

‘I can’t get hold of James,’ she tells Corinne. ‘I tried him just now and he’s not answering.’ She tries to keep her voice light.

‘Probably asleep. Or already on the way? I thought you said he was coming down anyway?’

‘I did. He’s meant to be. Said he had to work.’

‘Well, then, he’s working! Don’t worry, silly billy.’

Ashley feels a bite of irritation. She swallows down her feelings, picks up her mobile and dials again. The line takes a while to connect and when it does it clicks on to their automatic answering machine.

‘James, Ashley and the children are unavailable to take your call right now. Please leave a message and we’ll call you straight back!’ Her own voice shrills out at her. God, she’s chirpy. She pulls back the covers, swings her legs out of the bed.

‘I should go and check on Benji. Want some tea?’

‘Just hot water, please.’

Ashley stands up. She is gasping for a cup of Earl Grey. At thirty-nine, she can’t drink wine like she used to in her twenties. Not without consequences, anyway. As she leaves the room, Corinne says her name.

‘Ashley?’

Corinne’s voice is high, as though she is unsure of what she is about to say.

‘What’s the matter?’

She turns back towards the bed. Corinne sits up, pulls the quilt tight across her knees. There are bags under her eyes, purple in the dimmed light of the bedroom.

Corinne stares at her for a few seconds as though about to say something, then seems to change her mind.

‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘Nothing. I’ll see you downstairs.’

‘You sure?’

‘I’m sure. Sorry.’

‘OK. Let me know if Hol wakes up, will you? Watch her for me.’

Ashley pulls the door to and goes down the corridor, pausing at the doorway to Benji’s room. She has done this ever since he was born: stop outside his door and listen to the rise and fall of his breathing. She holds her own breath as she listens. God knows what would happen if she couldn’t actually hear him.

Ashley retrieves the tea bags from her mother’s cupboard. She hopes Corinne is all right; her sister is prone to getting things out of proportion, seeing significance in everything even when there is none. She panics easily, always has. The doll house is a typical example. Their dad’s death hit Corinne particularly hard, Ashley knows it did. Perhaps the fertility treatment has brought the feelings to the surface.

She goes over to her mother’s landline and dials her husband again. The phone rings and she is about to give up when James answers, his voice sounding gruff.

‘James? Are you OK?’ A spurt of worry grips her heart and she presses the phone to her ear, listening for another voice in the background. Is there someone there, is there somebody with him?

She waits, counts to three. Perhaps she is imagining it. The phone can distort. She takes a big gulp of tea.

‘Are you coming down today? Everyone wants to see you. We’ll probably go for lunch.’ Ashley can feel herself holding her breath.

James clears his throat and when he speaks his voice sounds more like himself. The energy leaves her suddenly and she has to lean against the counter. What is the matter with her?

‘I’ll be on the next train.’

Ashley remains in the kitchen after they hang up, holding the phone to her chest. Her friend Megan’s voice filters through her ears, Are you worried, Ashley? Ashley, are you worried?

Then

I don’t tell anyone what we do any more. I did once, when I was younger, when I was just little, I wrote about it for my school project. The title was ‘What I Did at the Weekend’. It was in art and design class and the teacher asked us to draw a picture of what we did on our Saturday and Sunday. But it wasn’t just a normal drawing, we were allowed to use all different materials. That means paint and glue and felt tip pen. Mrs Sanderson said I could do whatever I liked and so I picked up all the shoeboxes from the corner of the classroom, the spare ones from when we made bug boxes, and I started to build a house.

I used Sellotape and Pritt Stick (although that didn’t work very well) and I put the boxes one on top of the other, because the house we go to is quite big. Then I added in windows for us to look through and a door, although we aren’t allowed to go through that yet but Mummy says we will one day.

It looked really good, everyone said so, even that boy Toby who is mean to me. So that means it really was good. The teacher asked me if that was my house and I said yes, yes, it is my house, and then I had to go to the toilet and I felt a bit sick because I knew I had told a lie. Mummy says lies are what adults say and I felt scared then because I thought I must be becoming an adult. I don’t think I want to be an adult. They’re not very nice to each other. I wrote down a story to go with the picture, but then when the teacher saw it, she crossed it all out with a big red pen, she said I had to learn the difference between making something up and telling the truth. I was telling the truth though. It’s just that no one believed me.

I told Mummy what had happened and she was cross, she told me that what we do is our special secret and that I haven’t to tell anyone ever again. She didn’t hit me or anything, she never does that, but she looked at me like what I had done was really serious and so I felt frightened. I turned my face against the wall but she spun me round, her hands digging into my shoulders, and she put her face all close to mine and she said that I must never tell anybody because if I do we will get into big trouble, both of us, and especially her and if she is taken away then nobody will look after me at all, because she’s sure as hell the only one doing it now.

‘Sure as hell’ is what she said. I’ve never heard anyone say that before but I don’t like the sound of it. I kept my mouth zipped shut the rest of the night, zip zip zip. Nothing came out of my mouth at all. Next time at school I’m going to say we went to the beach, because that’s what Natasha next to me always does. The teacher will think we’re friends, which is another lie. But at least that won’t make Mummy cross.

Sometimes I think it is all my fault, that I’m not a good enough child for Mummy. That she wants a different one, a better one, a daughter with longer hair or a nicer face. I feel all sad when I think that, and I try extra hard to be good. I don’t complain when we visit the house three nights running, I don’t cry when she forgets to sign my reading book, I don’t make a fuss when the dinner is cold fish fingers again. But none of it makes a difference, she still talks about it all the time, about how badly her life has turned out. She asks the air sometimes, she says, what did I do to deserve this?

Once I asked her if she meant me, deserve me, and then she looked a bit sorry and she gave me a cuddle. She smelled a bit funny but for once I didn’t mind.

‘No,’ she said, ‘That’s not what I mean. I just wanted better for you, that’s all. For both of us. I still do.

I want that too, but I don’t know how we’re going to get it.

[10]

Kent

Corinne

I don’t know why my mother lied, but I do know that the doll house isn’t in the attic. I keep looking at her, trying to catch her eye, but it’s as though she is avoiding me; she is constantly doing something, talking to Ashley, playing games with Benji.

I can’t shake the kernel of worry in my mind, the possibility that the things I’ve found – the chimney and tiny door – really are from the house. That someone has left them both for me to find. What I don’t know is why. It makes no sense. I don’t know why someone would do it, I don’t know who would do it, or what on earth it would mean.

Did Mum throw Dad’s things away without telling us? Maybe they made her too sad. Has she forgotten where they are, is that it? I try to think of the last time I saw his stuff. I remember packing everything away after the funeral, but it is all a bit of a blur. Ashley guided me through most of it, her stomach stretching out before her, walked me past the row of well-wishers as though I was a zombie. It was just before Holly was born. I close my eyes for a second, remembering the sadness of the day. Dad had a mahogany coffin, a wreath of yellow daffodils. Lots of people came – people from the architectural scene, designers, all of them singing his praises. ‘Highest of the high-flyers, your old man,’ one guy said to me, and I felt the praise warm on my skin in spite of my grief.

Mum really struggled; I think of her face, almost hidden by her big black hat. She had been almost completely silent for the whole day. Maybe she did find it too hard keeping his things. Even as I try to rationalise, I can’t shake the feeling that she knows more than she said last night.

‘Corinneeeeee!’ Benji is tapping his fork against my arm. There’s a smear of mashed potato on it but I don’t mind. I ruffle his hair and feel Dominic watching me from across the table. I catch his eye and smile. His cheeks are red from the cold outside and his hair’s a bit messy. He looks gorgeous.

We’re at a pub in the Kent countryside having lunch; it’s all very rural, surrounded by open fields. I keep seeing burly men who look like they’ve come straight from a hunt; it’s a far cry from our tangle of streets in Crouch End.

James arrived about an hour ago. He seems a bit strained and he’s been sipping at the same pint for ages. I watch him lean over to prise Lucy’s fingers away from her mobile phone. I need to remember to thank him for the money.

I spot my chance when he eventually goes to the bar to get more wine for Mum and Ashley.

‘I’ll get you a lemonade, Luce,’ I say. ‘You can Instagram the bubbles.’ I smile at her, ignore her scowl and follow James up to the bar. The barman isn’t looking at us, his attention caught by a pretty blonde girl who’s asking him to mix her a drink. She’s twirling her plait flirtatiously, putting the end to her lips, confident in that way I have never understood or mastered. Her tinkling laugh travels. I touch my own hair self-consciously.

‘James,’ I start, and he turns towards me. His eyes look a bit bloodshot and I smile. ‘Late night?’

‘Me? God no, no, just working, you know how it is. I wanted to come up yesterday but I was just swamped.’

‘Oh, poor you,’ I say. ‘Ashley’s told me great things about the digital world, though, seems like it’s all really taking off. eBooks are all the rage right now.’

He’s not really listening to me; his eyes are scanning the bottles of whisky behind the bar. The barman has finally spotted us and stands waiting, PDQ machine in hand.

‘Pint of Amstel, please, and a bottle of the Merlot,’ James says.

‘And a lemonade,’ I add and the barman nods.

‘Listen, James, I just wanted to say thank you,’ I say quickly. I can feel the heat rising in my face. ‘It’s so kind of you to help us, and I want you to know that we will pay you back, and we are so grateful. It means such a lot to me and it’s our last hope.’

He turns to face me, looks confused. ‘Sorry, Cor . . . you’ve lost me.’

I lower my voice. ‘Well, we went to the hospital last week. For the last round of IVF. And I wanted to thank you for the money you lent us.’ I swallow, praying that I don’t have to repeat myself again.

The barman places a dripping pint in front of us.

‘The money . . . oh right, sorry, Corinne, of course,’ James says, and he reaches out and touches my hand. Thank God for that.

I smile, relieved, and pick up Lucy’s lemonade. As I walk back to the table I think I can feel his eyes on my back, watching me as I weave through the people, past the dwindling fire. I wonder what he is thinking, whether there is any truth in Ashley’s worries. When I look back at the bar though, unable to bear the sensation any more, James has gone, his pint still sitting on the wet wood. I scan the pub, feeling jumpy, but all I see are families engaged in conversation. No one is remotely near me.

I sit down next to Dom, take a big bite of my roast and try to relax. ‘So, Dominic,’ Mum says, ‘tell me, how is the paper going? I’ve been trying to read the online version but our internet wire is terrible here.’

‘You don’t need a wire, Grandma,’ Lucy says, rolling her eyes. ‘I showed you before.’

‘I’m sorry, darling, forgive an old lady,’ Mathilde says. ‘Perhaps you’ll show me again when we’re home?’

Dominic smiles. ‘It’s fine, thanks, going really well,’ he says. ‘I’ve just started work on a property piece – a big Georgian house on the outskirts of London. Massive place! Corinne came to see it with me, didn’t you, Cor?’

I nod. The image of Carlington comes to my mind, the strange atmosphere, the way my hand felt against the stone. The dark windows. The empty rooms. The face at the window. I shiver.

Dominic is still talking.

‘We’re featuring it in the spring property round up. Got the tip-off from a company called Wells and Duggan. Impressive building, or it will be anyway.’ There is a clatter; water spills from Mum’s upturned glass out over the table.

‘Wells and Duggan, did you say?’

Dom nods. ‘Yep, that’s right. Here, let me get you a napkin.’ He reaches out, starts to blot the table.

Ashley leans forward, her wedding ring tapping against the wine glass in her hand. ‘Ooh, sounds wonderful. I love Georgian buildings.’

James reappears suddenly, slides in beside Ashley at the long table. He picks up his beer and takes a long drink, the tendons in his neck stiff. He looks very pale. My sister’s eyes follow his movements, track the liquid as it slides from hand to throat. The blonde girl at the bar laughs again and I see James look at her, see my sister notice.

*

Dominic squeezes my hand as we walk back out to the car park. I’ve just put hand cream on and he laughs.

‘You use too much of that stuff!’

He’s probably right, but I like it. It calms my nerves a bit.

‘OK? Enjoy your chicken?’ he says, and I nod and squeeze him back, his hand warm in my own. I am so lucky to have him. I know he’d never hurt me. But then, I still don’t think James would hurt Ashley.

‘Time for a quick walk? Burn off those roasts?’ Ashley suggests and I nod yes, say I’ll just grab my hat and gloves from out of the car.

‘Can you get me my scarf, please?’ Dom asks, fastened to the spot by Benji, who has hold of his leg and is talking about aliens, and I laugh and catch the keys from him as he throws them across the gravel.

I’m about to open the passenger side when something catches my eye. At first I can’t work out what it is, I think it’s a piece of clothing lying on the bonnet, but when I lean closer it hits me. The shock of it is awful; I recoil from the car, bile rising in my throat.

‘Dominic!’ I shout. ‘Dominic!’

I look over to the group frantically, they’re not paying attention to me. I cry out again, backing away from the car, and Dominic looks up, sees me and begins to come over, breaking into a run when he sees my face.

‘What is it?’ he says. ‘What’s the matter?’

I’m covering my mouth now, I can see passers-by staring at me, families emerging from the pub, making their way to their cars.

‘Look,’ I say. ‘Look!’

Dom steps forward, swears loudly when he sees what is lying on the bonnet of our car.

It is a rabbit. Dead, one of its eyes hanging slightly out of its skull, its mouth open in a frozen scream. The underside of it is matted with blood, its paws lie limply against the bonnet. It looks like it has been hit by a car.

‘Jesus,’ Dominic says. ‘Why the hell is this on the bonnet?’

‘I don’t know!’ I say. ‘I don’t know! I just came to the car and it was here, someone’s put it on our car! It’s horrible, oh God, it’s so horrible.’

‘Slow coaches slow coaches!’ Benji is running towards us, eager to begin the walk, and Dominic puts out an arm to stop him seeing the car. But it is too late.

‘Yuck! What’s happened to that bunny?’ Benji asks, screwing up his face and sticking out his tongue. ‘It’s dead like in science.’

‘Yep, yep it is, mate, OK, but not to worry, be a good lad and run back to your mum now,’ Dominic says. ‘You guys start without us, we’ll catch you up.’

Benji pulls another face, rolls his eyes. ‘Can I look at it?’

Dominic shakes his head. ‘No, mate, come on, go back to Grandma. We’ll be along in a bit. Do us a favour will you and tell them we’re just having a quick chat.’

Benji runs off, skidding his shoes along the gravel of the car park as he goes, making racing car noises. Dominic sighs.

‘What a sick thing to do, put it on the car like that. Poor creature. Leave it to me, I’ll get this cleared up. What a bloody mess.’

I am shaking, my eyes fixed on the poor rabbit’s face, half squashed by the force of whatever hit it.

‘Why our car, Dominic? Why this?’

He shrugs, shakes his head slowly. I don’t know how he can be so calm. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘You didn’t see anyone?’

‘Nobody.’

He grimaces. ‘Could be a practical joke, I suppose, or more likely some local weirdo.’ He glances around the car park. There are a group of men coming towards us, all clad in wellies and waterproof coats, laughing and jostling each other as they make their way into the pub. ‘Or someone protesting – people in the countryside are always against something – the badger cull, fox hunting. The amount of roadkill.’ He puts an arm around me, I am shaking.

‘It’s all right, my love. It won’t be anything personal – think about it, who do we know living out in deepest darkest Kent? No one. Except your mum of course, and somehow I don’t think she’s behind this.’ He smiles at me, trying to make me laugh. ‘Whoever did it was probably too scared to pick one of the fancy BMWs round here. Chose the scruffy car that looked as though its owners weren’t bothered!’ He sniffs. ‘You go on, join your family. Don’t let it upset you, my love. I’ll speak to the landlord of the pub too, report it. I bet you’ll find there’s been a spate of this kind of thing.’

My eyes flit across the car park. There are a couple of other cars: James’s Golf, a little red Mini and a dirty white camper van with the number plate loose. One of the waitresses is emptying a big barrel of bottles in the alley by the pub, the green glass smashing loudly. As I watch, two women come out of the restaurant area, both groaning and holding their stomachs as though they’ve eaten too much. A man with a little terrier holds the door open for them, smiling broadly. They look like mother and daughter.

My heart is beating fast through the thickness of my coat and I try to be logical, keep my gaze away from the poor bunny lying on the car. The sight of its bloodied fur makes my legs feel weak. Dominic is right – nobody knows us in Kent, nobody even knows we’re here.

Dominic has opened up the car, is looking for a plastic bag. The rabbit lies prone in front of us, its stiffening body a dark shape just in front of the windscreen. We used to have rabbits in Hampstead, two pet bunnies. Bertie and Nosie. They belonged to me and Ash.

I put my arms around Dominic, wanting his warmth and security. I don’t want to go on the walk without him. I look back at the car, at the bunny’s splayed legs, the way its skull has smashed in on itself. The poor thing wouldn’t have stood a chance.

[11]

Kent

Ashley

They are walking down the hill from the pub when James pulls Ashley over to one side. They lag back so that the group edge in front of them, Mathilde pushing the pram. Corinne and Dom are still by the pub; Ashley doesn’t know what is taking them so long. James grabs her sleeve and says he’s got to talk to her. Now.

‘Well all right,’ she says, in a joking sort of voice because the Merlot has gone to her head a bit and she’s just happy that he’s here, and they are all together, the five of them; she isn’t on her own, watching TV and waiting for the silent phone to ring.

Ashley tucks her hand inside the pocket of James’s jacket to join his own and puts her face close to his like a mock detective. Perhaps if she pretends as though everything is OK it really will be.

‘What’s up, mister?’ The look on his face is very serious and suddenly she feels a tiny bit sick. She pushes her tongue over her teeth, hoping they’re not stained from the red wine. Her heart begins to thud. Is he going to tell her? Is he going to tell her there’s another woman? Not now. Surely he wouldn’t do it here, in front of the children. Would he?

‘Did you give Corinne and Dominic money?’

There is a pause. Ashley blinks.

‘Well, yes, I lent her money for their final round of IVF. You know they’d run out. I told you, and I wanted to help. Sorry, I should have mentioned it but you’ve been so busy and I didn’t think you’d mind. You don’t, do you?’