The Doll House: A gripping debut psychological thriller with a killer twist!

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.

‘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.

‘I felt as though the chimney pot was a nice reminder,’ I say. ‘I know that sounds odd but I liked it, it was like a little good luck charm. But it’s weird to find the door as well. Don’t you think? Are you listening, Dom?’ I tug on his arm, feeling like a child.

He doesn’t believe me anyway, I can tell.

‘Are you sure, Cor?’ he says, frowning at me. ‘I mean, seriously, why would it be there? It’s probably just something Marjorie’s left lying around. Come on!’ He pulls me towards him, puts an arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze.

‘I know you’re feeling stressed out. You’ll feel better when this is over, you know you will. We can go to Jubilee Café and get you a cup of mint tea. I think you’re probably just projecting a bit, you’re thinking about your childhood because of everything we’re going through, and because the anniversary is coming up. That’s all it’ll be. All right?’

I smile at him uncertainly, pull out my hand cream and massage my hands, watching the cream absorb itself into the cracks. I try to stop thinking about the sight of the little door, try not to imagine it now, sitting in my desk drawer, pulsing quietly in the dark like a heartbeat. I might bring it home from work tomorrow, show it to Ashley at the weekend.

The nurse comes to get us and it is time. The insemination. My leg muscles contract, tighten in anticipation of the soreness. Funny how the memory of that goes away. Even if it is painful, I can always go again. I feel a surge of excitement as we walk down the corridor, and Dominic squeezes my hand. This could be it. This might be my chance to have a child, this might be the time that everything works, my body co-operates and it all slots into place like perfect clockwork. I can be a good mother. I just need the chance. I think of myself placing dolls in their cradles, rocking them gently to sleep in the miniature bedrooms of the house. The little blue door opening and closing, trapping them inside. I’d do anything to have a child of my own. Anything.

Then

Today’s a bad day. Mummy didn’t seem to want to get out of bed this morning, so I had to go to school without breakfast. All that was left in the cupboard was her jar of pills, but she says she isn’t taking those ones any more. They looked almost like they could be sweets and I was so hungry I almost ate one, but there was a big sticky label saying not to and anyway the top was really hard to open. So I had nothing.

In Maths, my stomach growls and Toby Newton laughs at me.

‘Poor little rich girl,’ he says, and I don’t understand what he means. It happens a lot after that though, as though it’s catching on, spreading like a disease through the school. They hiss it at me in the corridors, whisper it as I walk past. I’ve started to just keep my head down, focus on my shoes. I need new ones. I’m not a rich girl, I want to say. Rich girls have shoes without holes.

Mummy says she’ll buy me some, when she’s feeling better. On the way home today my feet got wet, the puddles soaked through into my socks. When I get home she wants to go straight away, she says we’re going to do an all-nighter. I don’t want to go. Not tonight.

But she makes me. We get in the car and drive until we’re outside, and then we go round the back and hunch down in the usual place. There are lots of stars tonight; I start to count them, and for a while Mummy tells me their names but then the lights in the house go on and she stops talking to me because she’s listening for them. After a while I give up trying to talk to her and just listen too. Usually I get distracted, by the creepy-crawlies or the scabs on my knees but today I sit further forward, right up next to Mum. Her breathing is fast; she’s pointing at something.

‘Do you see it?’

My eyes hurt from straining so hard but I stare at where she’s looking and I do see it. My insides curl up and I have to look away. After a while, Mummy takes my hand in hers and strokes it, she pulls me close to her and gives me a little cuddle. It helps.

It’s been Mummy and me ever since I was born. I think that’s why Mummy is sad, and it makes me feel guilty. I try to be good, to do everything she wants. I go with her everywhere and watch when she tells me to watch and listen when she tells me to listen. But it doesn’t make her happy. Some of the time it makes her angry, and most of the time it just makes her sad. Then I get sad too, and sometimes I feel cross because I just want her to be like the other mothers, all smiley and happy and like a normal mummy.

But we haven’t got a normal family. Not any more. Mummy says we were going to have but that it got taken away. Someone else got it instead. When she says that it gives me a funny feeling inside, it makes me want to pull on the ends of my hair until the strands come out and it hurts a little bit. I did that a lot when I was younger but Mummy said I had to stop or I’d never be able to plait my hair like they do. I stopped after that, because their hair is lovely, it’s the thing I’m most jealous of right now. I’ve seen them plait it through the upstairs window, I think they do it before they go to bed.

7

Kent

Ashley

Ashley gently shakes her son awake. The roads to her mother’s house were horribly busy, and she has done all the driving. James is not here. She slips a hand into her cardigan pocket and brings out her mobile; has he even called yet? But of course, there isn’t any reception at the house. Never has been. She’d bet on the fact that he hasn’t rang anyway. Ashley sighs. She’s eaten Minstrels all the way to Kent, dipping into the bag proffered by Benji. No wonder James isn’t here; he probably doesn’t want to be stuck with a fatso like her.

Ashley shoves her phone away, takes a deep breath and gently kisses Benji’s still-closed eyelids. She’ll have to put James to the back of her mind, but it’s hard. Beside Benji, Holly stirs in her car seat. Her little fists are clenched by her sides. They have had to stop three times on the way, once to change her nappy, once to buy Lucy a magazine and once to get Benji the Minstrels. Every stop has been a struggle. Lucy has been quiet and unhelpful, Ashley is hot and tired from juggling all three children on her own. Without James.

Every time Ashley thinks of it she gets a little spurt of anger. She had pleaded with him to come but he had been resolute.

‘Ash, I have to be in the office on Saturday morning. I’m sorry, I know it’s not ideal but . . .’ He had tailed off, looked down at the floor. Lucy had come into the kitchen moaning about her shoes (‘Where are they, Mum? I left them in the hallway. Why do you always move everything?’) and the moment had gone, slipped away from Ashley like sand through her fingers.

‘I’ll meet you there, I promise,’ James had murmured, planting a brief kiss on her forehead. She had reached for him, brushed the ends of his shirt as the jangle of his mobile pulled him into the next room. He had pressed it tight against his ear, turned his mouth away from her so that she couldn’t hear what he was saying, or who was on the phone. She’d watched the back of his head through the glass window in the door frame, the way the muscles in the back of his neck stood tense and alert.

At least this weekend is an excuse to get away from the house. Ashley is not sure how many more nights sitting alone in front of the TV she can take, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock, waiting for Holly to start crying again. Lately, when Benji and Holly are sleeping upstairs and Lucy has retreated to her room, Ashley finds herself at a loss – not that there isn’t anything to do, there is always washing to be done, surfaces to be wiped – but she finds herself alone, left with nobody to talk to. When this happens, she realises what is happening – she is missing her husband. Even in the marital home they have shared for years, Ashley is missing the man she married.

And she wants to know where he is. She has come to dread the little pangs of anxiety that ripple through her every time the phone rings, the places her imagination jumps to. There had been another call late last night, the needling sound of her mobile this time, jolting her awake just as she dozed off, alone in the double bed. She had stared at the screen. Unknown number. Sitting upright in bed, Ashley had pressed the phone to her ear. She’d said nothing, didn’t want whoever it was to have the satisfaction of hearing her voice. After a few seconds of silence, she’d pressed end call, buried the little phone deep underneath the pillows, laid back down in the bed. In the morning the phone had been placed neatly back on their nightstand; James had smiled at her.

‘You shouldn’t sleep with it under your head. I moved it for you.’ She had nodded, watched him leave the room, go straight upstairs to his office even though it was first thing in the morning and the children were all clamouring for breakfast.

His absences have shown no signs of stopping. She knows she ought to confront him but something is making her wait. She supposes it is hope; hope that she is getting things out of proportion, is misreading the signs. Once it’s out there, she will have to deal with it. But how much longer can this go on? How can he not see how much she needs him?