Phoebe Morgan - The Doll House - A gripping debut psychological thriller with a killer twist!

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.