I Invited Her In: The new domestic psychological thriller from Sunday Times bestselling author Adele Parks

But everything is different now.

Throughout the day, I keep checking my phone to see if she’s responded to my email at the same time as telling myself she absolutely won’t have. A shiver of excitement skitters through my body when I see her name once again in my inbox and I feel jubilant when I read her reply.

Mel, Angel!

I’d love to visit! Send me your address. I’ll be with you on 22nd Feb.

All love, A

A. Just A. I remember that’s how she’d sign off her notes when we were at uni. Assumptive and intimate all at once. The twenty-second. Thursday. Just three days away. Wow, I’m flattered and excited. She’s coming to see me more or less straight away. A pit-stop in London and then up to see me. I can hardly believe it. Thursday isn’t an ideal evening to have guests – the girls have ballet. Oh well, I suppose they can skip a week. My eyes dart around the hallway where I happened to be standing when I checked my phone for emails. There is a jumble of boots, shoes, sandals and wellingtons tumbling out of an over-full wicker basket in the corner; they look as though they’re making a bid for freedom. We have five coat hooks on the wall, one each. There are about five coats hung and slung on and over each hook. The light grey carpet was a mistake. Who chooses light anything for a family hallway? Well, I did because I saw it in a lifestyle mag and it looked amazing. In all the time we’ve lived here, we’ve never had the carpets cleaned. That’s probably a mistake, too. The paintwork could also do with a freshen up. We’ve got cats – they rub against the walls which, over time, leaves grubby marks. In fact, because of grimy handprints or general wear and tear, most of our rooms look like they’ve been stippled, an effect that hasn’t been popular since the 1980s – and with good reason.

I’d better get to work.

4

Abigail

Abigail was always honest with herself. She’d had enough life experience and counselling to understand and appreciate the value of developing a high level of self-awareness. It was essential to be completely truthful with herself because there was no one else with whom she could ever be completely so. She found people were less enamoured with the truth than they believed themselves to be.

So, as she packed her suitcases, she had to admit he had never lied to her or misled her. Not about the baby thing. He’d always been very clear, laid out his stall. No babies. Not then, not ever. She’d accepted as much, even told herself it was what she wanted, too. She decided to work hard at her career instead. That was fulfilling. Very much so. For a time. Quite some time. But that hadn’t panned out exactly as she’d thought it would. How she deserved it to. A gap had opened up in her life.

She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror, puffy eyed, gaunt. She really needed to pull herself together, put some make-up on. She was likely to be recognised at the airport. She was a face. Someone.

Maybe not a name – people didn’t always remember her name – but certainly a face.

People were forever saying, ‘I know you from somewhere. No, don’t tell me.’ She’d smile, wait a beat and then she would tell them because it got awkward if they really couldn’t place her or, worse still, mistook her for someone who worked in their hair salon, or whatever. That had happened once or twice. So, she’d smartly say, ‘Oh, you’ve probably seen me on TV.’ Although she’d say it in a way that suggested nonchalance, as though she couldn’t think of anything more obvious, more dull, than the fact she worked in TV. Then they’d whoop, or hug her, squirm, self-conscious about their own ordinariness and her extraordinariness. They’d invariably ask for a selfie.

People would kill for a job as a chat-show host, a TV presenter. Admittedly, it was only state-wide TV, not nationwide. Abigail’s show ran in the afternoons, rather than at primetime – breakfast or evenings – but still, people would do anything for that job.

You had to, in fact. Do anything.

And she had. Anything and everything Rob had asked of her.

When Abi arrived in the US, she was seen as nothing more than Rob’s wife: a young, extremely attractive, clever-enough wife. Even if she’d had the combined IQs of all the CEOs of the FTSE 100 she probably wouldn’t have been noticed for anything other than her looks – Rob and Abigail didn’t mix with the sort of people who wanted anything more from women than beauty. They thought she was charming. That’s what they said, often: ‘she’s so cute’, ‘so charming’, ‘so sweet’. It was a good thing that the Americans had always loved British accents. It gave her an edge. Stopped her falling into obscurity. Rob’s colleagues and their wives lapped it up. Say, ‘vite-a-min,’ they’d demand. ‘Say sked-ual – no, say tuh-may-toe.’ And she would. She was doing her job. Cute, charming, sweet corporate wife. Even though it wasn’t the 1950s.

‘Vitamin, schedule, tomato.’

‘Isn’t she just adorable? She should be on TV. Rob, put her on TV,’ they’d say.

They never asked Rob to perform like that, yet they hung on his every word. So, he wrote the scripts, she read them. She didn’t resent that. She loved it. She was grateful when he did as they suggested, when he put her on TV. The higher he rose, the higher she did. It was a mutually beneficial relationship. She was always telling herself as much.

He wrote the script for their private lives with the same autocratic approach, and she regurgitated it. Now, with hindsight, as she scrabbled around his desk drawer to retrieve her passport, she wondered whether she was overly willing to be repressed.

It worked, for quite some time. But then it stopped working because her time ran out. To have had a chance at longevity she would have had to secure an anchor job with one of the five major US broadcast television networks by the time she was thirty. She didn’t manage that. There were younger, thinner, leggier, keener women waiting in the wings. Always. She couldn’t resent it; it was a system she’d played. She’d given it her best shot. It hadn’t panned out. Suck it up.

Rob was doing very well for himself. He was not subject to a time limit; men could get old and stay successful, interesting. At that point, he was concentrating on syndicating out his shows, although her particular show was never picked up. On occasion, she privately wondered how much effort he put into selling it. He often reminded her that it didn’t really matter whether her show got picked up or not – they didn’t need the money and he did need her at home.

Or at least, she liked to think he did.

She’d have had to have been way bigger for the chance to grow old gracefully in front of a TV audience. Katie Couric, Barbara Walters, and Diane Sawyer had been allowed. That was about it. It was her own fault. Sometimes she’d lie awake at night, alone, even though he was sleeping next to her, and she’d admit that she’d never had the necessary commitment to her career. Not one hundred per cent. She’d drawn lines. She had principles. She wouldn’t, for example, appear on TV shows that were solely designed to humiliate people. She hadn’t gone to university to rip the shit out of those with less education, money or fewer chances than she had. She played fairer than that. And although she did watch her weight (that was just common sense, right?), she wasn’t prepared to starve herself. Eating tissues was not her idea of fun, and while she’d had Botox, that was to help with her migraines (mostly). She’d resisted plastic surgery (at least on her face), and had only had a little augmentation to her breasts. She was not prepared to sleep with anyone other than Rob, because she loved him and respected herself. But it limited her career options in a business where the casting couch was still being bounced upon. In the past couple of years, she’d found she was not even willing to go to absolutely every party she was invited to, to make small talk with strangers, on the off-chance one of them (out of, say, fifty thousand) might offer her an opportunity. It was exhausting. Soul destroying. She found that neither the canapés nor the conversation ever quite filled her up. She used to do that sort of eternal mingling and mixing willingly, hopefully. She couldn’t really explain it, but more and more, she found she preferred to stay at home and snuggle up with a good book (which was handy really because there was rarely the option of snuggling up with Rob – he still seemed to like the parties).

Now, as she pulled the door of her luxurious LA home shut behind her and clumped down the path towards the waiting taxi, she wondered whether maybe she should have gone to the parties. Dragged herself there.

The question of other women had raised its ugly head time and again throughout their relationship. As he became increasingly successful, increasingly powerful, she became increasingly paranoid, increasingly jealous. He said there was no reason for her to be like that. To check through his emails, his phone records, to hire private detectives. But he would say that, wouldn’t he? He would say that she was the only woman he’d ever truly loved, or wanted. It didn’t have to be true. Just convenient.

It sometimes felt it was like an incredibly fast version of that arcade game, Whac-A-Mole, where moles appear at random and the player must use a mallet to hit them back into their holes. Other women kept popping up. She’d have to slam them down. Bash them back into their places. Thwack, thump, slap. Take that.

It was exhausting.

She’d had enough.

5

Melanie

‘What are you doing?’ asks Ben as he carefully edges in the door, through the hall, past the paint-splattered sheet that I’ve put on the floor to protect the carpet. It’s a thoughtful act. Lily walked right over it and inadvertently stood in some wet paint; paint that is now trailed throughout the kitchen and sitting room. I’ll get a wet cloth and sort that out later. He loosens his tie, a gesture I always think of as sexy. At least, part of me thinks that he looks sexy, another part of me clocks that he looks worn out; unfortunately, both of those things are overwhelmed by my own sense of panic and exhaustion. Ben is a financial director in a small software company. I’m certain what he does is important, crucial maybe – it’s just not very comprehensible, at least not to me. Even so, I do normally ask how his day has been.

Today I snap, ‘What does it look like I’m doing?’

‘Painting the hallway.’

‘Give the man a prize.’

‘But why?’

‘It needed painting.’

‘Have the kids been fed?’

‘I asked Liam to do some fish fingers and beans for the girls.’

Ben makes his way into the sitting room. I hear a blast of CBeebies as the door opens and then the excited shouts of the girls as they fling themselves at him, demanding cuddles, desperate to off-load their news. I wasn’t very receptive to their chatter about the trials and tribulations, triumphs and trade-offs that occurred at school today. When I picked them up, I more or less frogmarched them home, then stuck them in front of the TV until Liam arrived back and could take over. He’s a good kid. I feel a bit guilty that neither my kids nor my husband got the welcome they deserve today. I have nearly finished a first coat on the hall walls. The jackets, scarfs, hats, gloves, shoes and other debris from the hallway are now in the sitting room in a huge untidy pile. I’m at the stage of the job when you just wish you hadn’t started.

Ben knows me well enough to leave me to it. He takes over from Liam with looking after the girls. He listens to them reading, gets them bathed and into bed. Liam does his homework, then goes out to meet his girlfriend, Tanya. While the paint in the hallway is drying I start to thoroughly clean the sitting room. This largely involves picking up an endless stream of newspapers, books, toys, stray socks, hair clips, Lego, cups, and plates, etc. looking at these items helplessly for a moment and then throwing them into the kitchen sink, a cupboard, or the girls’ bedroom.

I run out of paint halfway through the second coat. I’m a little snow-blind anyway. It’s late, there’s no natural light and in the electric light it’s hard to see where I have layered the second coat and where I haven’t.

I admit as much to Ben and he comments, ‘That suggests a second coat is unnecessary. Come on, love. I’ve made you a cheese and pickle sandwich. You should eat something. Come and sit down for five minutes and tell me what the rush is.’

It’s too welcome an invite to resist. I collapse into a kitchen chair. Ben squeezes my shoulder and I lay my cheek on his hand. He feels warm, smooth, comfortable. ‘We’re expecting a guest,’ I explain.

‘We are?’

‘Yes.’

‘My mother?’ He looks a bit aghast as he places the sandwich in front of me.

‘No.’

‘Who, then?’

‘My friend, Abigail Curtiz.’

He sits opposite me, scrunches up his eyes the way he always does when he’s trying to recall someone. ‘Oh, the woman who emailed this morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘When is she coming?’

‘Thursday.’

‘This Thursday?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re redecorating because someone is coming to dinner?’

‘She’s staying with us for a few days.’

‘How long is a few days?’ he asks suspiciously. Ben is a social man, he’ll accept pretty much any invite that comes our way and we reciprocate, too. However, he has his limits. He likes waking up in his own bed and he doesn’t like entertaining before breakfast, so he’s not a big fan of stayovers.

‘I’m not sure. As long as she needs,’ I reply, vaguely.

‘But why?’

‘I told you, she’s getting a divorce.’ I realise this doesn’t address the question he is asking. Why would I invite someone he’s never heard of until today to stay with us? We rarely have house guests. Theoretically we have a spare room but it’s incredibly small and currently stacked with boxes full of Christmas decorations, old clothes, files and photo albums as well as unused gym equipment and the ironing board. ‘I think it will be nice,’ I say breezily.

‘How will it be nice? It will be cramped.’

‘Cosy,’ I insist. I start to devour my sandwich. I hadn’t realised how hungry I was until I stopped painting. Besides, with my mouth full I can’t answer any difficult questions.

Ben studies me. ‘Will it be OK, her staying here for a few days?’

‘What do you mean? Why wouldn’t it be OK?’

‘It’s just I haven’t heard you talk much about this Abigail Curtiz over the years. At all, actually. I didn’t realise she was a particular friend, not the sort you offer our spare room to indefinitely. I mean, who is she?’

‘Well, we were once very close. People lose touch.’ I hope Ben won’t push. I can’t bring myself to articulate exactly why we had to go our separate ways. Why me having Liam made it impossible for me to continue to be her friend. He must understand our lives went in very different directions. While I was trying to secure a place for Liam at nursery, Abi was stepping onto the stage to receive her certificate that confirmed her first-class honours degree. While I was spooning goop into Liam’s mouth, Abi was being interviewed for her first job in TV as the assistant to Piers Morgan’s assistant. ‘No big thing. We just drifted,’ I say with a shrug. ‘You’ll like her. I promise. Everyone does.’ I stand up, lean across the table and kiss him briefly on the lips. He stands too and puts his hand on the back of my head, kisses me hard and long. Even after all these years, that particular manoeuvre makes me melt.

‘I have cleaning to get on with,’ I mumble, breaking away.

‘We’ll be quick.’ I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘Liam’s out and the girls are asleep. Why wouldn’t we?’ He’s kissing my neck now.

‘What’s got into you?’ I ask, giggling. ‘It’s a Monday night.’

‘It must be the paint fumes,’ he replies. He slips his hand up my T-shirt and works his thumbs under my bra strap. My body leans into his; instinct, habit, pleasure. I’m aching from painting and tidying all day but suddenly I realise this is what I need, what I want. It delights me that Ben knew as much before I did.

‘You are not suggesting doing it on the kitchen table, are you?’

‘I thought that was why you cleared the clutter.’

‘Are you mad?’ I ask, laughing.

‘About you,’ he replies, cheesily.

We compromise and do it on the sofa in the sitting room.

6

Abigail

Tuesday 20th February

Neither airports nor aeroplanes particularly excited Abigail; she’d become accustomed. She didn’t bother looking at the tax-free luxury products that were available because she could afford to buy them at full price, if she pleased. She didn’t grab the in-flight entertainment brochure and get excited by the movies that were showing because often she’d been to early screenings, even premieres. She wasn’t interested in the glass of champagne that was complimentary in business class, because alcohol was dehydrating and it was important not to look drained after a flight. Today she visited duty-free, bought the first perfume and lipstick that came to hand, put it on his credit card; she’d have bought more but they were calling her flight. And while she did still ignore the in-flight entertainment, she put herself in danger of becoming it, as she helped herself to four glasses of champagne and knocked them back swiftly, ignoring the slightly concerned looks on the flight-attendants’ faces.

Abigail felt cheated.

He’d stolen from her. Her dignity, her youth, her opportunities, her time.

Him, and that woman. She wasn’t going to take it lying down. She was going to even up the score. She was owed. And she was going to collect.

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