Elisabeth Carpenter - 11 Missed Calls - A gripping psychological thriller that will have you on the edge of your seat

Jack’s parents moved away so long ago – Sophie has only met them six times. They think it’s enough to send my daughter ten pounds in a card for her birthday and Christmas.

I think because Jack isn’t close to his parents, there’s no love lost between him and my dad. When he’s drunk, Jack often ponders out loud whether my dad had anything to do with my mother’s disappearance, and rolls off the possible ways in which it could have happened.

‘Why else,’ he said one night, ‘would he end up married to Debbie’s best friend?’

I switch off when he starts talking like that. He has stopped saying sorry about it in the morning – if he remembers saying it at all. I console myself that he’s only so boorish when he’s had a drink.

‘Dad … well, Monica … got an email from someone saying they’re my mother,’ I said to him when he got in last night. I was sitting at the kitchen table – the champagne, which had long gone flat, still in three glasses.

‘Is that why you’ve taken to drink?’ he said, shrugging off his suit jacket and hanging it on the back of a chair.

‘It’s not funny,’ I said.

I thought he would be more surprised. It was like his mind was elsewhere.

He grabbed the glass with the most wine in, and downed half of it. He winced.

‘It’s flat.’ He pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Do you think it’s really her? It can’t be, surely. It must be some lunatic wanting a bit of attention.’

‘I’ve no idea if it is or isn’t. How would I know that?’

Jack raised his eyebrows. He hates anything that borders on histrionic.

‘If it is,’ I said, ‘then it means she left us … That she left me.’

I saw the briefest flicker of irritation on his face. He gets like that when I talk about Debbie in that way. He hates people with a poor me attitude. It’s bad enough that I have a fear of swimming pools and spiders. I don’t want to be a victim. I have tried to overcome that feeling all my life.

He pulled off his tie, in the way he always does: wrenching it off with one hand, while grimacing as though he were being strangled. Who’s the victim now, eh? I thought to myself.

‘What a day,’ he said, as usual. ‘Have you got a copy of the email?’

‘Yes. Dad gave me and Robert a print-out. I wonder if we could trace the email address. Do you think I should ring Leo?’

‘Will he care?’

‘Course he’ll care … he grew up with us. At least, until I was ten.’

‘Sharing a bedroom with your brother would make anyone want to flee the country.’

I don’t laugh.

‘I’ll look at the email later,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a really long day. Is there anything in for tea?’

I looked at him for a few seconds, waiting for him to realise. But he didn’t. Sophie had claimed the balloon my dad gave me; it was floating from her bedpost. My cards were on top of the fridge, but Jack hadn’t noticed them.

I stood.

‘I’m going to bed,’ I said. ‘There’s a new volunteer starting tomorrow.’

He snorted. ‘Ah, the ex-con. And on a Sunday as well.’ He made the sign of the cross with his left hand. ‘Lock up your handbag.’

‘Yes, very funny,’ I said as I walked towards the door. ‘It’s part of the offender-rehabilitation programme Isobel’s been going on about.’

His chair scraped on the stone floor as he stood.

‘Guess I’ll just stick a pizza in the oven then.’

I tried to stomp up the stairs, but failed in bare feet. Happy sodding Birthday, Anna .

I look at him next to me in bed now, jealous of his ability to sleep soundly at this hour. He’s never had anything big to worry about. It’s 3.45 a.m. If I get up now, I’ll be a wreck later, but I can’t lie here with only my thoughts.

I manage to avoid all the creaking floorboards and make it quietly downstairs to the kitchen. The ticking of the clock is too loud. On the table, Jack’s plate is covered with pizza crusts, and crumbs litter the floor under the chair.

The three wine glasses are now empty. Why the hell did he want to drink flat champagne? I go to the fridge to count the bottles of beer left: there were six, and now there are none. No wonder he’s sleeping so soundly. I don’t know why he’s drinking so much when he’s looking after Sophie tomorrow. He’s usually the sensible one.

I sit opposite his empty chair. It’s wearing the jacket that Jack was earlier. His right pocket is slightly open, and the top of his wallet is peeking out.

Before I know it, I’m out of my seat.

The wallet slips out of Jack’s pocket so easily, it’s like it was waiting for me. Inside is a picture of Sophie and me. It’s old – from Sophie’s first birthday. I look quite together in the photo, which is surprising considering what I was going through. There are some receipts – the usual expenses he claims: newspapers, dinner. I scan the food he ate at lunchtime yesterday: steak, crème brûlée, and one small glass of pinot noir. Only one meal, but quite an extravagant one – on my birthday. I almost give up searching, but I feel like I am missing something.

There is a compartment I’ve not noticed before: to the side and underneath his cards. I wedge my fingers inside it. There’s something there. I grasp it, using my fingers as tweezers, and pull it out.

It’s a note. The paper is blue, with black lines – like the old-fashioned Basildon Bond writing pad my grandmother used. The creases are crisp; it’s not been read many times. I unfold it and look straight to the name at the bottom: Francesca.

I read the rest of the letter.

This woman definitely knows my husband.

Debbie

Peter’s holding Annie while I pack. I almost don’t want to leave the hospital. With Bobby, I wanted to go home straight away, but regretted it as soon as I got back.

Ever since I gave birth to him, I’ve been scared that I’ll die any minute. I go to bed and, most nights, I think I won’t wake up. Sometimes I’m exhausted, but when my mind feels sleep begin – it’s like I’m slipping from life, and I’m jolted awake. I can’t sleep for hours after.

At least in hospital I’m safe. Plus, people give you food to eat, and you don’t have to worry about housework. As much as Peter said he’d become one of these New Men who help tidy up and change nappies, it didn’t happen. Now I know what’s waiting for me when I get home.

I had a little routine here. I got to know Stacy in the next bed. Actually … know is exaggerating it a bit. We watched Coronation Street together, and both our babies decided to sleep through it, which was a miracle in itself. Stacy couldn’t get over Bet Lynch being in the Rovers when it was on fire. I told her that it’s not real life, but she was having none of it. I put a cushion between us when she said she fancied Brian Tilsley – it still gives me shivers thinking about it.

‘Was it horrible spending the whole of your birthday in hospital?’ says Peter.

‘It wasn’t too bad,’ I say.

I smile at him, so he’ll probably think it’s because of Annie that I didn’t mind, because she’s enough of a present. He gives me a smile back. He thinks he can read my mind. I look at him and he’s the same lovely-looking man I’ve been with for years. I love him. Why are my thoughts telling me different? It’s like they’re betraying me.

I zip up my suitcase; the clothes inside’ll smell of hospital when I open it up. I’ll probably feel sentimental about it.

‘It’s too warm in here,’ I say.

He smiles again. Perhaps he likes the fact I’m suffering for our child – even after being pregnant and giving birth. Perhaps he’s right. It was a relatively quick labour – I’ve not endured enough to deserve the life I’ll go back to: swanning about the house all day watching Sons and Daughters , The Sullivans , and all the other soaps he reckons I watched during those long weeks when my maternity leave started.