An Ideal Wife (17 page)

“I call you when nid trunk again,” she said over her shoulder. “And I ready to tich iron. You come to house. Sean tell you, I best ironer. Better ironer than stripper, and I very good stripper.”

“Great,” I managed to say as she strode out of the car park. After making sure my car was locked, I went back to the office and sat down heavily at my desk. I was out of plans. I was out of ideas. And now I had a trunk to look after.

My mobile started to vibrate, and I pulled it out of my pocket—it was a text message. As soon as I looked at it, my heart sank. It was from Hugh Barter.
Sweetie, wonder if we can catch up some time? I’ve got a favor I need to ask you. Call me, H
.

I stared at it for a few seconds, my heart sinking. Now? Hugh
was texting me now? What next? What else could possibly go wrong?

“Ah, Ms. Wild Wainwright, was that a friend of yours? Or was that part of your work in the community?” I looked up to see Eric bearing down on me, a snide expression on his face.

“Ivana?” I asked in a slightly strangled voice. “No, she’s a friend.” I swallowed uncomfortably. “Listen, Eric, about this paperwork. I know you said you need it by the end of today, but is there any way at all that I could maybe have an extension?”

“I’m sorry, but no,” he said, evidently not sorry at all. “We all have to work within our relative timetables. I’m sure you don’t miss your clients’ deadlines, do you?”

“No,” I said tightly. “No, I don’t suppose I do.” I felt tired. Exhausted. I felt like running away and pretending he didn’t exist. But instead, I made a decision. Plan D. I was going to Wiltshire.

IT WASN’T THAT I WANTED to go all the way down to Wiltshire. I had plenty of better things to do, not least of which was visiting Max in the hospital. But it was, as far as I could make out, the only way open to me. In one fell swoop I would talk Mum into calling Chester, making up with him, and getting him to delay the audit, and I could stash Ivana’s trunk somewhere. Of course, I would also have to listen to Mum tell me all about her new friends on Facebook, complain about Chester, and ask my opinion on the minutiae of her wedding arrangements, but I figured that was a small price to pay. As Max said, the audit had to go well, and for it to go well, I needed time to put together a file of policies. In a week, I could get the paperwork together, Max would be out of the hospital, and everything would be okay again.

I picked up my phone to call Mum and give her the good news, then saw Eric approaching and put it down again. Quickly, I darted over to the reception desk, where Gillie was eating a packet of Maltesers.

“Want one?” she offered.

“No thanks,” I said, scrutinizing her face briefly for signs of alcohol or drug addiction, then shaking myself. “I just need to use the phone, if that’s okay?”

“Sure,” Gillie said, frowning. “But why not use …” Her eyes
flickered over to my desk; Eric was right next to it, leaning over Caroline’s desk and shooting me furtive glances. “Ah, I see what you mean,” she said quickly. “Here, go right ahead.”

I took the phone and dialed my mother’s number. Or, rather, my number. It rang a few times. “Hello?”

I started slightly. It wasn’t Mum. It was a man. A man whose voice I didn’t recognize. “Hello?” he repeated.

“Who’s this?” I asked cautiously.

“Who’s this?” the man replied, equally suspiciously.

I frowned uncertainly. “Is Esther there?” I asked.

“Who’s asking?” the man responded.

“Her daughter is asking,” I said, my voice taking on a rather shrill tone. “And the owner of the house. Can you tell me to whom I am speaking, please?”

“Her daughter?—” The line went dead, and I stared at the phone uncertainly.

“That was weird,” I said, to no one in particular.

“What was?” Gillie asked.

“There was a … a man.”

“A man?” Gillie’s eyes lit up. “Where? What man?”

Ignoring her question, I frowned and pressed redial. The phone rang for some time, then Mum picked up.

“Mum?” I said, relieved. “I called just a second ago and this man picked up and was really weird. Who was it?”

“Darling!” She sounded strange. “Darling, I—”

“He hung up on me. Is he doing some work for you or something? Because you shouldn’t let people answer the phone unless they—”

“I … Actually, I can’t really talk now,” Mum cut in. She sounded nervous. Worried.

“What do you mean, you can’t talk?”

“I mean … darling, I have to go.”

“You have to go? Where? You’re scaring me, Mum.”

“Really?” Mum said, her voice shaking slightly. “Well, there’s no reason to … No reason at all …”

“No reason to what?” I asked, my hand gripping the receiver rather more tightly than before.

“Well, lovely talking to you, Shona,” Mum said suddenly, her voice taking on a very different, bright tone. “And we must get together some time. Perhaps lunch?”

“Shona? Mum, who the hell is Shona?”

“Next week sounds lovely. Good-bye, Shona.”

The line went dead again, and I didn’t move for a few seconds. This wasn’t just a bit strange; it was downright weird. Ominous weird. Mum sounded … scared. Yes, that was the word. She was scared. Why the hell was she calling me Shona? What was that all about? And who was the man?

“Everything okay?” Gillie asked me.

I shook my head slowly. “I don’t know,” I said. “There’s someone in my mother’s house. She was really strange on the phone. Then she said it wasn’t a good time and hung up.”

“Maybe she was having sex,” Gillie suggested. “I mean, that’s not a great time to be talking on the phone, is it?”

I frowned. “She wasn’t having sex. Her fiancé is in America.” Gillie raised an eyebrow. “And she isn’t having an affair,” I said stiffly. “He left only a few days ago. They’re getting married soon. Anyway, she called me Shona. Why would she call me Shona? I don’t even know anyone called Shona.”

“Shona,” Gillie said thoughtfully. Then her eyes lit up. “Maybe she’s being kept hostage,” she said excitedly. “Maybe that man’s got a gun to her head and is forcing her to pretend everything’s okay. That’s why she called you Shona—it’s what hostages do in Iraq. They write their confessions with spelling mistakes so people will know they did it under duress.”

I looked at Gillie uncertainly. “Don’t be ridiculous. And why do you know so much about hostages?”

She shrugged. “You date a lot of men, you kind of absorb stuff. A guy I dated a while back worked for an insurance company that acted in kidnap situations. Of course, he told me that he was involved in all that stuff—you know, like Russell Crowe in
Proof of Life
. Turns out he just worked for the call center. Story of my life …”

“Well, she hasn’t been. Kidnapped, I mean,” I said sternly. Then I frowned again. “Although she has gone on Facebook recently. You don’t think she—”

“What, attracted some weird stalker? Oh God, definitely,” Gillie said, as though it was absolutely obvious. “The Internet’s full of weirdos. He’s probably got her tied up or something.”

“Or there’s another, perfectly reasonable explanation,” I said, pressing redial again.

The phone rang. Then someone picked it up. “No!” I heard Mum cry, and the line went dead again. I looked at Gillie, wide-eyed, then put the phone down, grabbed my bag, and ran to the car.

“Perfectly good explanation,” I muttered to myself as I did my best to speed down the motorway. But who was I kidding? The more I thought about it, the more my imagination ran wild. She’d tried to tell me about Facebook and I’d cut her off, and now she was probably being tortured by some homicidal maniac or something.

I put my foot on the gas. I hadn’t had Mum for most of my life, had met her only a few months before I married Max. And I wasn’t going to lose her now. No, I was going to save her from whatever that monster was doing. I was going to protect her.

By the time I finally pulled in to Grace’s drive, my blood pressure was at an all-time high—even the sight of the house, which usually lifted my spirits immeasurably, didn’t slow my heartbeat.
It was the most beautiful house in the world: crumbling yellow brick and stone, large windows with faded curtains. It was the sort of house you could imagine full of guests at Christmas, with children outside building snowmen and adults getting slightly tipsy on sherry and mulled wine. But today it wasn’t filled with guests; it was filled with danger.

I parked the car as quickly as I could, then hesitated. If there was some crazed stalker in the house, leaving my car here might not be the most sensible thing to do. He’d see it out the window. He’d be waiting for me when I got inside. With a gun. Or a knife. Or …

Quickly, I nipped back to the car and reversed out of the drive as quietly as I could, parking on the street instead. Then, slipping between the trees that separated the plot of my house from the house next door (or, rather, the estate next door—there was a house somewhere, but it was acres away and I’d never actually seen it), I made my way toward the back door, thanking my lucky stars for the serendipitous whim that had made me bring my full set of keys instead of only the front door one.

From where I was, the house looked pretty much as it had the last time I was here. No sign of a break-in. Then again, he’d probably seemed like a nice guy; I’d heard that homicidal maniacs could turn on the charm when they wanted to. I should have warned Mum about the Internet, should have stopped her from going on Facebook without proper guidance. It was all my fault. I was the worst daughter in the world.

Holding my breath, I took out my key and opened the door. It squeaked just slightly, but I managed to get in. Then I started to tiptoe down the hall. I had no idea what I was going to do, I realized, as I made my way toward the kitchen. After all, I was on my own, unarmed, and no one even knew I was here. To be honest, my planning hadn’t been that great. If I were watching myself in a movie, I’d be screaming at my character not to be so completely
stupid, to get the hell out of there and call the police. But what would I say? That my mother had called me Shona? That there was a strange man in the house? The police would laugh. They’d say she was probably having an affair.

I continued to creep down the hallway, wincing every time the floorboards creaked as I passed the old, dark furniture, old paintings, old drapes … old everything, actually. I’d brought Helen here soon after I inherited the house, and she oohed and aahed about the potential, telling me which walls I should knock down and how newer, brighter furniture would make it seem a hundred times lighter, but somehow I kind of liked the “old”ness. Although right now I was regretting not putting down some rugs.

I heard voices and stopped dead. They were coming from the kitchen. Desperately, I looked around for something, anything, with which to arm myself. My eyes lit upon a suit of armor in the main hall; next to it was an ax. Checking that no one was watching, I picked it up. It was far lighter than I’d imagined—probably just for show, I realized. But that didn’t matter. The man in the kitchen wouldn’t know that. Tentatively, I approached the kitchen door. Was I going to walk in on a torture scene? Was I going to be snatched, tied up, and thrown in a cellar?

Slowly, nervously, I reached out and turned the handle, cracking the door open so that I could peek inside. And then I froze. A man was in there. He had blond-gray hair and he was sitting at the table holding a knife. The hairs on the back of my neck were standing up as I inched forward. What kind of monster was he? And where was my mother? I scanned the room desperately as my stomach clenched in fear. Up until now I’d been hoping that I was wrong, that I was freaking out over nothing. But this wasn’t nothing. This was very real. Too real.

I pushed the door just a tiny bit more, but as I did so I stumbled, dropping my car key to the floor with a loud clang. I started to sweat profusely, and then I heard something.

“Lawrence, was that you?”

It was my mother. I heard footsteps and ducked back. Through a crack in the door I watched my mother emerge from the pantry. “Lawrence, did you hear what I just said? I think I heard someone moving around.”

The man looked up and grinned at her. “Est, this is a creaky old house. There are noises everywhere—that’s part of its charm. Stop being silly and eat some cheese with me.”

I stared at him.
Est?
That was a bit familiar for a kidnapper, wasn’t it?

He pulled back a chair and Mum sat down. “I really shouldn’t,” she said, taking a piece from the knife in his hand. “Very fattening. But very delicious. You’re sure you didn’t hear anything?”

“Not a thing,” Lawrence said.

Mum sighed. “Must have imagined it, I suppose. I’m still not used to this house.”

“And this is her house? Jessica’s? I can’t wait to meet her. Can’t wait to tell her everything.”

“Everything?” Mum looked at him nervously. “The thing is, Lawrence, dear, I’m not sure your version of
everything
and mine—”

“I’m excited,” Lawrence cut in, his eyes shining. “I want her to know. I want everyone to know.”