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

‘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.