You never know who’s watching…

Corinne’s life might look perfect on the outside, but after three failed IVF attempts it’s her last chance to have a baby. And when she finds a tiny part of a doll house outside her flat, it feels as if it’s a sign.

But as more pieces begin to turn up, Corinne realises that they are far too familiar. Someone knows about the miniature rocking horse and the little doll with its red velvet dress. Someone has been inside her house…

How does the stranger know so much about her life? How long have they been watching? And what are they waiting for…?

A gripping debut psychological thriller with a twist you won’t see coming. Perfect for fans of I See You and The Widow.

The Doll House

Phoebe Morgan

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Then

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Epilogue

Extract from The Wild Girls

Copyright

PHOEBE MORGAN is an author and editor. She studied English at Leeds University after growing up in the Suffolk countryside. She has previously worked as a journalist and now edits crime and women’s fiction for a publishing house during the day, and writes her own books in the evenings. She lives in London and you can follow her on Twitter @Phoebe_A_Morgan. The Doll House is her debut novel.

This book would not exist without the support, encouragement and ideas of my agent Camilla Wray at Darley Anderson, who never stopped believing in me and whose editorial help was invaluable. Similar thanks go to Celine Kelly, whose incredible insight is very much appreciated. Thanks too to Naomi Perry, who did a stellar job of looking after me last year during Camilla’s maternity leave – I finally found someone who shares my love of red pandas! The whole team at Darley Anderson are superstars and I’m lucky to be on their books.

A huge thank you to my wonderful editor Charlotte Mursell, who has made this process so smooth and enjoyable for me, and who is a great champion of all her HarperCollins books. Thank you to Victoria Oundjian and Lucy Gilmour at HQ for taking a chance on my book; I am so grateful. Thank you to Anna Sikorska for designing such a wonderfully creepy cover and for being the one to put my name onto a book jacket, which has always been my dream. Thank you to Alex Silcox for a great copy-edit and for catching all the things I missed, and thanks to all at HQ; you are all wonderful and I’m very proud to be published by you.

I feel lucky to know such talented, creative publishing professionals, but even luckier to call these people friends: special thanks go to the brilliant Helena Sheffield for your work with the bloggers and your friendship – you always go above and beyond. Thank you to the beautiful Sabah Khan who organised publicity for the book, I owe you a LOT of rainbow coloured flowers. Thank you to Eloise Wood for reading a draft of this book and being a constant supporter and an excellent advice-giver too.

Thank you to the Doomsday Writers – you know who you are and I couldn’t have done it without you, and I hope I never have to. Thank you to the kind authors who have read and quoted for my book, and to Kate Ellis, Kate Stephenson and Natasha Harding for your support too.

Thank you to Donald Winchester, who was one of the first agents to show interest in my writing, and to all of Team Avon and Helen Huthwaite at HarperCollins, the best bunch of colleagues anyone could ask for who publish amazing books with incredible passion and make my day job such a pleasure.

Thank you to my girlfriends for your encouragement and enthusiasm throughout this process; I promise never to put you in a crime book unless you come out on top.

Thank you to Alex for being my voice of reason, and for keeping me calm when I think I can’t write at all. You are an amazing supporter and I love you.

And finally, the biggest thank you to my family – to my brothers Owen and Fergus for reading countless drafts and answering all my incessant WhatsApps – you are my favourite people on the planet. Thank you to my dad for building me a doll house, then reliably informing me which parts of the book made no sense (especially geographically – not my strong point) and for putting me in touch with helpful people too who know more about architecture than I do. Thank you to my lovely grandma for digging out my old short stories, encouraging me and making me smile. And finally thank you to my mum; there are no words for how much you have championed me and this book and I love you so much and am so grateful. Thank you.

To my family, for not being like this one.

Then

‘Can we go now?’

I am tugging on Mummy’s coat, my fingers clutching the thin black fabric of it as though it is a life raft. Mummy’s eyes don’t move; her gaze doesn’t falter. It is as if I have not spoken at all.

Minutes pass. I begin to cry, small, quiet sobs that choke in my throat, sting my cheeks in the wind. Mummy takes no notice. I push my palms into my eyes, blotting out the last remnants of light in the shadowy garden around us. The darkness continues to fall, but still Mummy stares, glassy-eyed. She doesn’t comfort me. She just stares. I bite down hard into the flesh of my cheek, harder and harder until I can taste a little bit of blood on my tongue.

I’m trying to be quiet, trying not to make a sound. Mummy tells me that I shouldn’t complain, that we’re just playing the game. But it’s too cold tonight, and I’m hungry. The chocolate bar I had at school is swirling around in my stomach. I don’t think I’ll get anything else tonight, not if we don’t see them soon.

In the winter time it’s always cold like this, but Mummy never lets us leave. In the summer time it’s better, sometimes the game is almost fun. The garden is the best part, I like the way the grass feels against my knees, and the way the hole in the fence fits me perfectly, like it’s been built just for me. I’m really good at getting through it now, I never even snag my clothes any more. I’m almost perfect.

Now though it’s freezing and my hands are red, they burn like they’re set on fire. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut and pretend that it’s summer time, all nice and warm, and that I can feel the rays of sun on my back from where I’m hiding. In summer I get to see animals. They have rabbits in cages but I don’t go near those any more. One time I did, I crept right up to the cage and put my fingers through the gap, touched one of the bunnies on his little soft nose. But when Mummy realised, she got very angry, she said I had to stay back in the shadows. She says the bunnies don’t belong to us. So I don’t see them any more, but I do get to see the little hedgehog that lives near the fence, and all the creepy-crawlies; the worms and the beetles that Mummy says I oughtn’t to touch. I do touch, though. I push my fingers into the dirt and pick them up, lay the worms flat on my hand and watch them wriggle. I don’t think they mind. It’s nice to have things to play with. I’m usually by myself.

Mummy suddenly leans forward, grabs my frozen hand in hers. I can feel the bones of her hand against mine, clutching me tight. It hurts.

‘Do you see them?’ she says, and I open up my eyes, blink in the darkness. It’s almost fully dark now but I look at the golden window, and I do see them. I see them all. My heart begins to thud.

1

Now

13 January 2017

London

Corinne

The house is huge. It sits like a broken sandcastle in the middle of the lawn, strangely out of place amongst the remnants of construction, discarded hats and polystyrene cups left by over-caffeinated builders. I cling to Dominic’s hand as we pick our way through the site. Two fold-up chairs are positioned mid-way across the lawn, their silver legs wet with cold condensation.

‘Dominic? You’re here early!’ A man is striding towards us, hand outstretched. I let go of Dominic and step backwards, feel the immediate rush of anxiety as we disengage.

‘You must be Warren.’ Dom smiles, reaching out to grasp the bigger man’s hand in his own. ‘This is my girlfriend, Corinne Hawes.’ He propels me forward slightly with his left hand. ‘She’s got the day off work so I thought I’d bring her along with me. Got a keen eye for a story too, so she might be of use!’

Neither of these things are exactly true. Dominic is a journalist; it’s easy to twist the truth, blur the lines. He’s good at it.

‘Thanks for coming down,’ Warren is saying, his voice loud and fast. ‘We really appreciate the coverage.’ Spittle connects the fleshy pouches of his lips, hangs horribly before separating itself into two sticky drops. He is moving as fast as he speaks, leading us both towards the house, raising a hand to builders as they walk past. The closer we get to the building, the worse I feel. It looms over us, white in the winter sun. There is something strange about it, something sad. It looks ruined. Forgotten.

‘So, Dominic, Dom, can I call you Dom?’ Warren continues without bothering to wait for an answer. ‘Dom, the thing is, this building is going to be a beauty by the time we’re finished with it. Yeah, it needs a bit of TLC, but that’s what we’re here for.’ He looks at me suddenly and winks. I recoil. He reminds me of Dom’s colleague Andy, the one who spent the entire Christmas party staring down my blouse, his eyes finding the gaps between the buttons on my chest. The memory makes me shudder. That man has never liked me since.

‘Shall we start off with a few questions, I’ll tell you what you need to know? Then you can take a few snaps, I know what you paparazzi are like!’ Warren laughs. I want to catch Dominic’s eye, share the horror of Warren together, but he’s scribbling in his notebook, little squiggles of grey against the white page.

We sit down at the chairs, I feel the wetness of the cold plastic seep through my jeans. The sun hits my eyes and I close them momentarily; they feel dry, the tear ducts emptied. Dom made me come with him today, told me I needed to get out of the flat. He said a week is long enough. He’s right, I know he is. I just can’t bear the fact that we’ve failed again, that another round of IVF has led to nothing. I feel empty.

‘Our readers love a good backstory,’ Dominic continues, and I find a glimmer of peace in the familiar rise and fall of his voice. ‘Especially with a building as beautiful as this.’

‘Well, let’s see,’ Warren says. ‘Carlington House – this is what’s left of it – was originally built back in 1792. It was designed by a guy named Robert Parler—’

Something shifts slightly in my brain, a bell of recognition.

‘I know Robert Parler,’ I say. ‘Well, not know him, of course. I mean I know of him; my dad told me.’

Dom smiles at me, his eyes flashing over the notepad.

‘Corinne’s dad was an architect too,’ he tells Warren, and I feel that familiar sucker-punch at the use of the past tense. It’s coming up to a year since Dad died. I miss him every single day. I miss him more than anyone thinks. I’m grateful to Dom for not saying Dad’s name – Warren will no doubt have heard of him and I don’t want to have to hear him start to suck up to me. People do that when they realise who my father was – one of the most well-known architects in London, famous in the industry and beyond. But it hurts to talk about him, and I feel fragile today, as though I’m made of glass that might shatter at any second.

‘Got yourself a smart little lady here, Dom!’ Warren grins. His teeth are too big for his mouth; I spy a piece of greenery stuck in his gums. ‘So, Parler does a grand job with Carlington and it passes through the hands of local landowners, the few that were wealthy enough. But then the Blitz rolls around, and we suffer some pretty major damage. Family living in it at the time, the littlest of their kiddies is found under the rubble nearly three months later. Three months, can you believe. Tragedy.’

Warren shakes his head, presses on gleefully. I picture tiny bones, birdlike under the aftermath of a bomb.

‘So, the thing is, the place never had the chance to shine until years later, must’ve been around twenty years ago.’ He pauses, stares for a moment at the house before us. I follow his gaze; there is a sudden movement, a shower of white dust spills from the collapsing roof. A trio of rooks fly out from the left-hand corner, shooting into the light, their spidery legs trailing behind them like stray threads in the ashy grey sky. One of them calls out, fleetingly, a short sharp cry that echoes in my chest.

‘Anyway, eventually someone spotted its potential. Employed a whole new round of builders, started work again. By that time, it was owned by the de Bonnier family, you know, they were a big deal in the jewellery business? Very wealthy back then.’ Warren sucks his teeth and raises his eyebrows at me.

Dominic, in the midst of writing, pauses and looks up. ‘You’ve not been at this twenty years though, surely?’

‘Of course not, Dom, of course not.’ Warren laughs. ‘My men are quicker than that! No, the de Bonniers hired a new company, started to do the place up. Made some good progress—’

‘So what happened?’ Dominic leans forward. His breath mists the air; I watch the cloudy white of it disappear into nothingness.

‘Whole thing got abandoned.’

‘Abandoned?’

‘Yep. Story goes that some pretty deep shit went down between the de Bonniers and the architect firm. All turned a bit nasty. Lot of money lost, from what I understand. That’s what it always comes down to, isn’t it? Money.’ He waves a large hand in the air, it comes dangerously close to my shoulder.

‘So then of course, lucky us, we manage to wangle the deal and get the go-ahead to renovate. One of my biggest commissions so far, Dom, pays for the kids’ school fees, that’s what I always say. You guys got kids? Bloody rip-off these days. My missus says the little buggers are bleeding us dry.’

He turns his head towards me, I feel the heat rise in my face as his eyes meet mine. How can he say that? Doesn’t he know how lucky he is?

‘What kind of trouble went down?’ Dominic asks, saving me from answering his question.

‘Oh,’ Warren wafts a hand airily. ‘It was all a bit hush hush—’ I receive another wink ‘—I’m sure we can find out for you though! But isn’t that more your department?’ He laughs, the criticism veiled.

Dominic inclines his head. I sense his annoyance and my heart beats a little bit faster.

‘So who owns the house now?’

‘Oh, it’s being sold,’ Warren says. ‘Woman who owns it can’t afford to keep it, that’s why it’s in the state it’s in. Been left to rot, really. But someone’s finally come forward to buy it, pumped a load of money in – not that I care where the money’s coming from, as long as it’s coming!’

Dominic winces. ‘Right, right.’

Warren grins at me. ‘I can show you the house, if you like. Any excuse to show off our work, that’s what I always say.’

We are treated to a few statistics on Warren’s builders before we all stand up and Dominic takes a couple of photos. I close my eyes when the camera flashes; I hate cameras. Dad always said he hated them too, but I don’t think he did. He loved the attention, the limelight he used to get in London whenever he unveiled a new design. Flash. Flash. Dominic sees me wincing and touches my hair, asking if I’m all right, and I force myself to smile at him. The house surrounds us. I feel like it’s watching me.

Warren leads us both around the back, to where a hole in the wall gapes brutally, exposing the half-finished rooms inside. I remove a mitten and run my hand over the sturdy stone, enjoying the cold sensation. It is an off-white colour, argent grey, I think, the paint number popping into my head, an old habit from my first gallery days. A spider drifts downwards, its legs moving quickly like tiny knitting needles, spinning itself towards the soft padding of my outstretched arm. Drops of water glisten on its silvery web.

As we wander through the garden, around the crumbling walls, I feel the building enveloping me, touching me with its feelers, pulling me in. Cold fronds of air creep towards me from the dark holes where the windows should be. I stare up at the highest window, wondering who lived here, what secrets this house has held. As I turn away I see it – a flash in the darkness, a white movement. A face. There’s a face in the blackness, ghostly pale. I can see it.

I scream, put a hand to my chest and stumble backwards, my heart thudding.

‘No!’ I am saying, the words bursting out of my mouth before I can stop them. ‘No!’

‘Ssh, Corinne, ssh now, it’s all right.’ Dominic is there, holding me, telling me to calm down, it’s just him, just the flash of his camera. Nothing to see. There is nobody there. He holds me against his chest and I take deep breaths, my legs shaking, cheeks flushing as Warren stares at me. My heart is thudding uncomfortably. I can’t keep doing this, living on my nerves, panicking at nothing. Dom continues to stroke my hair and tell me everything is fine, and I know he’s right but I can’t help it, I keep picturing the sight: a face at the window, looking out at me, staring straight into my eyes.

*

I run a bath that evening while Dominic goes to buy dinner for us both. My discarded boots sit by the radiator, their insides stuffed with old newspaper. We always have far too much of it; Dominic keeps his old copies of the Herald stacked up in the hallway.

I sit on the side of the bathtub, my legs cold against the white enamel, and turn the page of a book called Taking Charge of Your Fertility. I’m trying not to think about earlier, the way I panicked at the house. It’s not good for me, these bursts of irrationality. Dom thinks it’s to do with my dad, the shock of his death. He’s said as much too.

I flip the book in my hands over. It has a picture of a serious-looking woman on the back and a photograph of a baby in a pushchair on the inside jacket flap. I have been hiding the book from Dominic since I bought it on Amazon. I’m embarrassed by it, I suppose, because actually I don’t really believe in any of this stuff, never have.

I saw the fertility book in Waterstones the other day and found myself hovering, looking around to see if anyone was watching me research ways to have children the way other people look up hobbies. I picked the book up, started to carry it to the counter, but the woman in the queue looked at me sympathetically when she saw what I was holding. I left the shop in a hurry, cheeks flaming, unable to bear her pity, but that night I found myself on the computer with my purse open beside me, typing in my bank security details and our address.

I have forgotten that I am running a bath until I feel the ends of my dressing gown getting wet against my skin. The water has reached the rim of the tub and is threatening to overflow. Swearing, I reach for the tap and turn it off, plunging my hand down into the wet heat to release the plug. The book falls from my lap onto the floor, landing with a dull thud.

Once the bath water has resigned itself to an acceptable level, I undress, my dressing gown pooling on the floor. My stomach is flat, white. I imagine it stretched out in front of me, like Ashley’s was with Holly, and the hairs on my body stand up against the cold air, only relaxing as I slide into the hot water. I put my shoulders back against the enamel, feel the points of my shoulder blades flinch at the sensation. I lean down to pick up the book. I should be more open-minded. Perhaps it will work. After all, I am fast running out of options.

Around me, the water goes cold but I stay in the bath, letting my body relax. I used to have baths when I was a little girl, I’ve always preferred them to showers. Images of Carlington House keep surfacing in my mind; the way I screamed, the darkness of the windows. I need to get a grip. I’ve always been a bit like this. When I was a little girl, I was always thinking I saw faces, ghosts in the dark. There was never anyone there. Dad used to say I had an overactive imagination. ‘Seeing the spooks again, Corinne?’ He’d laugh, ruffle my hair. He thought it was funny, but actually it made me feel scared. Still. I’m an adult now, I ought to know better.

My mobile rings twice, a sharp trill followed by a thudding vibration that echoes through the silent flat, but I don’t want to get out of the water just yet. It’s probably my sister. As the sound of the phone begins again, I give up and sink my head under the water, enjoying the cold rush enveloping me, my hair floating up and around me like a dark halo.

The next thing I know, Dominic is shouting, his hands are underneath my armpits, slipping and sliding, and there is water splashing everywhere. The bath mat is bristly under my feet and the towel as he rubs it over me is rough. My teeth are chattering and my fingertips are prune-like. He has pulled the plug and the water is draining out, forming rivulets around the sides of the sodden paperback lying on the floor of the tub.

‘Jesus Christ, Corinne,’ Dominic says, and his voice is shaky.

I blink, focus on his hands as they wrap my dressing gown around me. I can’t quite work out why he’s so worked up. Did I close my eyes in the bath?

Dominic is still staring at me, shaking his head from side to side. There is a funny gasping sound that I realise is coming from me. I need to think of something to say.

‘Did you pick up the dinner?’

2

13 January 2017

London

Ashley

Ashley shifts her daughter from one hip to the other so that she can bend to pick up the mail on the doormat. Holly lets out a cry, a short, sharp sound followed by a wail that makes the muscles in Ashley’s shoulders clench. Every bone in her body is aching. Her hands clasp Holly’s warm body to her own; her daughter’s soft, downy hair brushes against her chest and she feels the familiar aching thud in her breasts. Please, not now.

She feels exhausted; even on days when she’s not at the café it’s as though she’s on a never-ending treadmill of nappies and tantrums, homework and school runs. It’s not as if James is around to help her; her husband has been staying at the office later and later, leaving early each morning before the children are even out of bed. He is pulling the sheets back usually around the time that Ashley is starting to drift off to sleep, having spent the night rocking Holly, trying to calm her red little body as she screams. She has never known anything like it; her third child is by far the most unsettled of the three. It has been nine months and still Holly refuses to sleep through the night; if anything she is getting worse. Ashley doesn’t think it’s normal. James stopped waking up at around the four-month mark, has been sleeping lately as though he is dead to the world. She doesn’t know how he manages it.

Ashley had woken yesterday to find his side of the bed empty and the sound of the tap running in their bathroom. She had put her hand to the space beside her, sat there mutely as her husband gave her a brief kiss on the cheek and headed out the door. As he had leaned close to her, Ashley had had to fight the urge to grip his shirt, force him to stay with her. She hadn’t, of course, she had let him go. Then she had been up, bringing Benji a glass of orange juice, placing Holly in her high chair, making coffee for her teenage daughter Lucy. On the treadmill for another day.

Working a few shifts a week at Colours café is her one respite, her only time when she is no longer a tired mother or a wife, she is simply a waitress. James had laughed at her when she decided to start working at the little café on Barnes Common, with the ice creams and the till and the tourists. He had been amazed when she insisted on continuing work a few months after having Holly, strapping her daughter carefully into the car and driving her across the common to their childminder.

‘You don’t need to now, honey,’ he used to say, before giving her little pep talks on the latest figures of eReader sales, on how well his company was doing. She knows they don’t need the money any more. But the waitressing isn’t for the money – most days she even forgets to pick up the little tip jar that sits at the edge of the counter, ignores the dirty metal coins inside as though they are nothing more than the empty pistachio shells that Lucy leaves in salty piles around the house. Ashley has always been happy to give up her publishing career for her children, but she craves this small contact with the outside world. The easy days at the café give her insights into other people’s lives, a chance to be in an adult environment. Just a few times a week, when she becomes someone else, someone simple, leaves her daughter in the capable hands of June at number 43 and walks back to her car alone, her arms deliciously light, weightless. It isn’t about the money.

June has been a godsend to Ashley in the last six months. A retired schoolteacher, she had been recommended to them a couple of months after Holly was born. Neither of them had been coping very well and the offer of a childminder seemed like a golden ticket, a chance opportunity that might never come again. Neither Benji nor Lucy had ever had a babysitter. Ashley had stayed at home all hours of the day and night, playing endless games of peek-a-boo and living her life on a vicious cycle of nappies and tears. Not that she’d minded at the time, not really, but now that she is older she finds her mind wandering, her energy limited. To be able to work in the café is bliss.

June is unwaveringly kind, and Ashley is overwhelmingly grateful to her for stepping in a few days a week. As far as she knows, the woman lives completely alone, has never had children of her own. Ashley can sense the sadness there, is happy to see the joy in June’s eyes when she drops off Holly. Yes, June really has been a blessing.

Ashley has thought about asking Corinne to mind Holly, but she has the gallery, and besides, Ashley doesn’t want it to upset her. Her sister’s emotions are so close to the surface at the moment, spending all day looking after someone else’s child rather than her own might have been too much.

It took Ashley seconds to make the decision last week. When Corinne had called with the doctor’s news Ashley had gone straight to her laptop and transferred her sister the money for her final round of IVF, thousands of pounds gone with a wiggle of the mouse. Still, it’s for the best. The money would only have been accumulating dust in their joint account. She hasn’t told James yet, has barely had the chance. She can hardly tell him at midnight, when she is half asleep, trying to catch one of her half-hour bursts between the baby’s cries and he rolls into bed next to her, pulls her towards him in the dark and wraps his arms round her stomach. There never seems to be the time.

‘Are you worried?’ her friend Megan had asked her last week. They had been sitting outside Colours café, taking a break from their waitressing duties, huddled against the cold with a pair of creamy hot chocolates.

‘Am I worried?’ Ashley had repeated the question out loud, the words misting the January air.

Megan had nodded, pushed her strawberry blonde hair behind her ears, tucked the ends underneath her purple wool hat.

‘About what?’ Ashley knew what her friend meant, had pretended not to.

‘Well, you know.’ To her credit, Megan had had the grace to look slightly uncomfortable. ‘Why do you think he’s staying late so much?’

‘He’s working, Megan,’ Ashley had told her, and they had finished their drinks in silence, drunk them too fast so that the cocoa burned the top of Ashley’s mouth and scorched the taste buds off her tongue. Megan had apologised later, put her arm around Ashley as they stood behind the counter together.

‘Ignore me,’ she said, ‘I haven’t had any faith in men since Simon left. James is one of the good ones. Don’t worry.’

Ashley had squeezed her friend back, allowed herself the warm flood of relief. The feeling hadn’t lasted. The hot chocolate she’d had coated her mouth, she felt the thick sweetness of it on her tongue, looked down at herself in shame and felt the bulge of her stomach, the way it pressed against her jeans since having Holly. It never used to.

In the kitchen, Ashley sets Holly down in her high chair, humming to her until she begins to quieten down. Holly’s chubby hands reach out for the wooden spoon on the work surface and Ashley hands it to her obligingly, closes her ears to the noise of the daily drumbeat beginning, the sound of her baby hitting the spoon on the table. She begins to sift through the pile of mail, catches the edge of her finger on an envelope and closes her eyes briefly as a slit appears in her flesh. She is so tired; as she squeezes her hand she thinks momentarily how nice it would be to sink onto the sofa and blot everything out, just for an hour, just for five minutes. Three children have knocked the wind completely out of her sails. She thinks of herself as a child, and wonders at how well behaved she was. She and Corinne were good as gold, would spend hours sitting cross-legged in front of the big doll house their dad had made, playing endless games of families in the light of the big French windows that overlooked their garden, the sprawling green jungle that was home for so many years.

At fifteen, Ashley would never have spoken to her dad the way Lucy sometimes talks to James. She would never have wanted to let him down – the disappointment in his eyes if she came home with a less than perfect grade was always heartbreaking, though he’d always pull her into his arms and tell her it didn’t matter. By contrast, Lucy can be so insolent, the harsh words fly out of her mouth like bullets. She apologises, of course, most of the time. Ashley has seen her curl up next to James, rest her head against his shoulder, put on her pink piggy socks so that she looks like a ten-year-old again. With Ashley she is closed off, on guard. Perhaps it’s just a phase. Her friend Aoife’s daughter had come home the other night with a shoe missing, vomiting up vodka in horrible swirls of sick. At least they are not there yet.

Ashley checks her watch. Ten to five. Her eyes meet Holly’s, as though her daughter will speak to her, will offer some advice. Instead she smiles, a big, round-cheeked smile that makes Ashley’s heart melt. Neither of them blink and the moment stretches out, and, just for a second, Ashley feels the rush of love, the energy she used to have. It is all worth it, the exhaustion, it is worth it for this. These moments. Then Holly’s eyelids swoop down to cover her eyes and the moment is gone, lost. The kitchen is humming with everything still to do. Ashley has to pick Lucy up from the school bus in ten minutes, which leaves her about forty-five seconds to spoon some coffee granules into her mouth. She doesn’t bother with the kettle and water ritual any more, there never seems to be time. Still, she’d never eat granules in front of James; it feels shameful, like a dirty secret. As she unscrews the jar of the coffee, the phone begins to ring; Ashley reaches for it automatically, using her other hand to dip a spoon into the brown granules.

‘Hello?’

There is a silence on the other end of the line. Ashley listens, straining to hear. Being a mother always gives telephone calls a new level of anxiety: the children, the children, the children.

‘This is Ashley?’ she tries again but there is still nothing, just the steady sound of the house around her, the receiver pressed to her ear. Behind her, Holly gurgles, she hears the sound of a spoon hitting the floor. Ashley thinks of her husband, wonders where he is, who he is with, what he is doing right this second. There was a time when the only place he’d ever be was right next to her. She puts the phone down, crunches the coffee between her teeth. The taste is bitter in her mouth.

3

London

Corinne

‘Are you sure you’re going to be all right?’ Dominic calls from the kitchen. He is standing at the sink, eating a plum for breakfast. The juice drips down his fingers, yellow rivulets running into the silver basin. I reach for my hand cream, rub it into the crevices of my palms, inhale the soft sweet smell of it.

‘Yes. Yes, Dom, of course.’

‘And you’re going to the gallery today? D’you feel up to it?’

‘Of course. Dominic, I’m not ill.’

He turns on the tap, rinses his fingers and shakes them dry. ‘OK. Sorry. So we’ll meet after work at the clinic, yes?’

I nod, he reaches for me and I lean forward to kiss him. He’s dressed for work and he smells lovely; clean and fresh.

‘Yes, sounds good. What are you working on at the paper today?’

He sighs. ‘Alison’s really on my case at the moment. She’s insisting I get on with the Carlington House piece, says she’s being hassled a lot by the owner. Cool place though, didn’t you think?’

I stare at him. ‘I thought it was kind of scary.’

Dominic smiles. ‘Maybe a bit creepy. Weird to think of it abandoned for so long. I’m hoping there’ll be time to start writing it up today. I’ve got a bit of a backlog at the moment, what with . . .’ He tails off.

I feel a flash of guilt. ‘I know, time off. I’m sorry, I’m OK today. Promise!’

He shakes his head, folds his arms around me again, even though the clock is now showing nearly a quarter to eight and he’s going to be late.

‘Don’t ever apologise to me, Corinne,’ he says, the words urgent in my ear, his breath warm on my cheek.

We straighten up. There is a loud banging sound upstairs, the familiar noise of an electric drill gearing up. The people above us are extending their flat, I don’t know what they’re doing up there, they’ve been messing around for weeks.

‘The fun continues,’ Dominic says, rolling his eyes at me. ‘I wonder whether they’ll ever actually complete?’

‘Go, go!’ I say, and I adjust his blue tie, touch his chest. I don’t really want him to, I don’t want him to leave me on my own. He picks up a cooling cup of coffee from the counter, drains it and leaves the flat; the door bounces noisily on the hinges behind him as it always does, far too loud. The neighbours have complained several times, we ought to fix it.

After he’s gone, I go back into our bedroom. I’ve got to get better at being by myself. My dad used to say being able to be alone is a skill; he told me his alone time was precious to him, something he cultivated in spite of all the parties and the attention, the people who wanted to know his name, where he got his ideas from, what project he was working on next. We used to have a photo of him propped up on the windowsill in the dining room – in it he’s surrounded by people, his dark eyes flashing. He looks like he’s in his element, but one night when I was a teenager he told me that all he’d wanted to do that night was be alone, away from the frenzy. I never would have guessed.

I take a deep breath. Perhaps I can find my element too, perhaps being alone is something I can learn to enjoy. The bedroom feels so quiet and still. The bed is made; Dom is good at things like that. He says we have to try to keep the flat tidy with it being so small. It is tiny, nestled in the tangle of streets between Finsbury Park and Crouch End, a two-room affair with a little bathroom leading off the kitchen. I love it; it’s minuscule, miniature, fit for a pair of dolls.

I go to my drawers, the insides pretty with the embroidered linings that Ashley made for me. In the bottom drawer, a clump of black tights lies in wait, flecked with tiny specks of white tissue. The nylon feels dry and rubbery. I think about untangling the blackness and drawing the material over my legs, getting on the Tube and going to work, and all of a sudden the idea seems overwhelming.

I sit down, hugging my knees to my chest. The flat always feels even smaller when I am on my own, I don’t know why. The absence of a child seems worse. I stare at the painting above the clock, the first picture I ever commissioned for the gallery. I brought it home three years ago, hung it proudly in the flat. The blue waves of the ocean, the bright red of a ship. It’s beautiful. I used to love it, the way the thick paint glistened on the canvas, the hint of sunlight dappling the left corner. Aurora yellow, cadmium red. I know all the paint names, or I did. I used to recite them to Dominic when I got my first gallery job, spent hours hunched over the colour chart, making sure I didn’t forget. That was a long time ago now.

My gaze shifts from the painting to the clock below and, as I watch, the crimson figures (geranium lake, paint number 405) flicker, rearrange themselves into new numbers, and that’s when I realise that I have been sitting by the pile of black nylon for almost forty-five minutes.

It’s too late to go to work now. I don’t know where the time has gone. The hormones I am taking make me feel dopey, a wasp in a honey-jar. When I call the gallery, Marjorie sounds irritated and I feel bad. I’ll go tomorrow, definitely.

I get back into bed, lie still for a while, listening to the sound of rain beginning outside, the steady drip drip drip of the pipe on the roof. The builders upstairs seem to have stopped for a bit, the quiet is nice. When I was little I used to go up to Dad’s office and listen to the way the rain spattered on the skylight, hammered down hard so that it bounced off the glass. It used to make me feel safe, because the rain was outside and I was inside. It couldn’t get to me.

There is a sudden sound, a little thud that makes me jump, and I feel my body stiffen, the muscles in my legs tense slightly under the sheets. You’re too jumpy, Corinne, Dominic always says. You exhaust yourself with nerves. He’s right about the exhaustion. I’m not sure I can help the nerves.

Eventually, I start to need the bathroom, so I ease myself out of bed, go out into the hallway. I’ve got to pull myself together, I know I have. I take a deep breath, peer at my reflection in the mirror. I need to keep hoping, I can’t give up.

The tiles are freezing on my bare feet. The hallway is draughty; the front door has sprung slightly ajar. Occasionally it refuses to close properly; I’ve told Dom to fix it time and time again. I frown, step over a pile of yellowing newspapers, push my shoulder against it to make it jam shut, but it won’t. I open the door again and try harder, but something is bouncing it back. I crouch down. Something is stopping the door from closing; something small jammed in the frame. I stare at it for a few seconds and then it comes to me; I know exactly what this looks like.

I bend down, pick up the small object, hold it carefully between my cold hands. Flecks of auburn paint flake off onto my skin, lying on my hands like specks of blood. How strange. It’s a little chimney pot. It looks like the chimneys we had on our doll house when we were little, on the big pink house Dad built for us.

I stand there at the doorway, clutching the little chimney, and a small smile comes to my lips as I remember.

It was no ordinary doll house. Nothing Dad did was ordinary – I remember one of his clients telling him that over lunch, him regaling us with the story that evening, his eyes glowing with pride. ‘Nothing by halves,’ he always said, and he was always true to his word. Our doll house was almost a metre high, with pink walls and a blue painted door, a red-slated roof and four big brown chimney pots made of real terracotta. Each of the rooms was tiny, compact, perfectly formed. Dad was obsessed with buildings, and he’d spent months working on this one, a little replica of our real home that Ashley and I could play with. Whenever Mum would tell him to come to bed, rest his eyes for a bit, he’d shake his head. ‘It’s a challenge,’ he used to say, ‘and there’s nothing better for you than that. I’ve got to get it right.’

He knelt on the floor with us on Christmas Day and showed us how it worked; the intricacies of the rooms and the stairways and the loft, and even when Mum came out with the Christmas pudding I wasn’t drawn away. I became obsessed with finding miniature furniture, little rugs, curtains that I cut out painstakingly from scraps of white material I found in my mother’s sewing box. And the dolls. Oh, the dolls. Dad brought them home for us, one by one, beautiful, smartly dressed figures that we positioned in the house: a long-skirted mother cooking in the kitchen, a baby in the miniature cradle, a father sitting in the little pink armchair stuffed with real feathers. Every time he went away for work he’d come back with another one. He got some of them from abroad, bringing them carefully wrapped in scarlet tissue paper to protect the china, regaling us with tales of the countries he’d been to as we pulled open the presents. His work took him further than any of us had ever been.

I haven’t thought of the doll house properly for years, had always assumed Mum had put it in her attic with the rest of our childhood things. A lump fills my throat.

I bring the chimney pot up to eye level, twist it around so that I can see it from all sides. It is as tall as the length of my hand and as wide as my palm. As I stand in our doorway, I feel a pair of eyes on me and raise my gaze. A young woman is watching me, a dark-haired toddler in her arms, an empty pushchair at her side. I blush, pull my dressing gown more tightly around me, suddenly aware of my bare feet, the untamed hairs on my legs.

‘Sorry!’ she says. ‘I just wondered if you were OK? You looked a bit upset.’

‘Oh!’ I say. ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine, thank you. Just had something in the mail.’ I smile at her, trying not to notice the way her child is clinging to her chest, its little hands clutching at her hair. She strokes its head absent-mindedly. She hardly looks old enough to have a baby; I hope she knows how lucky she is. God, of course she does. What’s the matter with me?

‘I’m Gilly,’ she tells me, ‘I’ve just moved in.’ She gestures behind her to where the door to her flat hangs open and I see boxes, the edge of a packing crate.

‘Welcome to the building,’ I say, and she laughs. Something about the sound of it is familiar, as though I have heard it somewhere before. The way she gasps slightly, as though she hasn’t quite enough breath to properly let go. She’s smiling at me.

‘Thank you, it’s been a bit of a rocky ride so far but we’re hoping to settle in here.’

‘Is it just you and the baby?’ I ask her.

She nods, looks down. ‘Just me and the kiddy. Do you have any little horrors?’

I flinch, clutch the chimney pot tighter to my chest.

‘No,’ I say. ‘No I don’t. It was nice to meet you, Gilly.’ She looks a bit taken aback but I try not to mind. I step back inside our flat and close the door. I can’t be friends with another mother, I just can’t. It’s too painful. The gasping sound of her laugh niggles at me. I’m sure I’ve heard someone laugh like that before but I can’t think where – the thought slips away from me like the string of a kite that I can’t quite grab hold of.

Inside, I prop the chimney pot on the table. I know it can’t really be from the doll house, but it does look almost identical to what I remember, and even though the rational side of my brain knows it must be something else, it feels almost like it is a sign, a little spark of hope, a reminder of why I put myself through this every time. I want to cling to it, to cling to something. It’s as if this being here is a message from Dad, telling me not to give up hope. I have wanted a family since I was a little girl. It will happen. I have to believe.

*

Later on, I leave to meet Dominic at the fertility clinic. As I dressed, I put the chimney pot into my pocket, gave it a lucky pat before I left the house. I can feel it bumping slightly against my hip bone; I like it, it feels like a little talisman, a good luck charm. If I do have a daughter I could dig out the doll house, give it to her as a present. One day. I feel bad for being abrupt with Gilly this morning. I know she can’t help having kids, I know I can’t behave like that. Maybe I’ll knock on her door later, apologise.

Outside it is freezing. Minus two, the radio said. Strings of Christmas lights are still dotted around, twinkling stubbornly, even though it’s past the deadline of the sixth. I can see my breath, misty particles floating in the air, glowing under the street lamps. It is already dark even though it has only just gone five-thirty. Despite the weather, I feel a little glow inside me, a swell of hope from the chimney pot cocooned in my coat.

I’m walking along the pavement by the park, past the playground, the empty swings hanging loosely in the darkness. Resting for the evening. A car speeds past, its headlights illuminate the tall, spiked tops of the park railings and I give a little gasp; someone is there, right beside me, I see a face hidden in the railings amongst the dark. My breath catches in my throat. Oh, God. I can’t breathe.

Then the headlights swing by, the golden light throwing itself over me and I exhale; it’s just the shadowy figure of a dog-walker, hurrying along towards the park exit and the gaping steps of the Underground. It’s nothing, it’s nobody. It never is.

I put my head down and keep walking, focusing on my feet clad in their little black boots. My heart rate returns to normal, I can feel my body calming down. I’m used to the feelings now – the immediate rush of anxiety followed by the weak-kneed relief. The cycle of it all.

It is a relief to see the double doors of the clinic glowing ahead of me. Dominic is waiting inside, looking at his watch, wearing the sky-blue scarf I bought him last Christmas. He looks so handsome. As I stare at him through the glass, I remember the times we used to meet after work, back when we first met; I’d sneak out early to see him, desperate to be in his arms. It was so exciting; it was like a drug. Somewhere along the way we lost that excitement, between the endless rounds of IVF and the money flowing out of our bank account like water through a sieve.

I walk a little faster, eager to get to him, to feel his arms around me. I slip my left glove off as I go, run my fingers over the tiny chimney. As I enter, a couple push past me, hurrying through the door, and I catch a glimpse of young, bright eyes, hopeful red lips chapped with cold. An elderly woman follows them out, walking quickly with a slight hobble, grey hair falling across her face. She looks like a grandmother, a grandmother in waiting.

In the entrance room of the clinic we hug hello, I feel the relief of Dominic around me. We might not have the excitement, but we’ve still got each other.

‘You OK?’ he asks. ‘Good day?’

I smile at him reassuringly and almost tell him about finding the chimney, but something stops me. I know he’ll think I’m being silly. He thinks I cling on to the past a bit too much, to memories of Dad. So instead I say nothing, I feel for the chimney pot in the pocket of my coat and tell Dominic that my day has been fine.

‘Miss Hawes?’ The nurse appears and gestures to me. Dominic puts an arm around me as we enter a little side room. We sit down together on the green chairs, our thighs touching.

‘IVF treatment can be a difficult process, Miss Hawes.’ The nurse is smiling kindly at me. ‘Corinne? Sometimes it helps to chat to others who are going through the process. We do have a support group that meets once a month? Would you and Dominic be interested?’

The nurse is looking at me expectantly, her face open, eyes wide. She means well, I know, so I smile back at her, even though tonight I will have more hormones pushed into me, will wince as Dominic injects me with bromocriptine, clomifene, fertinex. We can both recite the drugs as though they are our times tables.

‘I think we’re OK, actually. But thank you,’ I tell the nurse, and then we start going through it again, planning the insemination. I force myself to keep cheerful, keep hoping, and I squeeze my hands around the little chimney pot in my pocket and imagine my dad smiling at me, telling me this is just another challenge. It makes me feel better, and I close my eyes and I wish and I wish and I wish.

Then

The windows of the car are misting up. Mummy has turned off her headlights so that our car sits in the darkness, hidden on the tree-lined street. Now that I’m almost eight, she talks to me more. She says if we’re lucky though, the next time it’s very cold winter time we might be able to get out of the car and go into the house. She says she’s not sure yet, she’ll have to let me know. I like talking to her, it’s the best thing, except for I can’t talk to her on her quiet days, because she hardly says a thing. On those days I have to talk to myself, make up the voices in my head, pretend there is someone else who will chat to me. Really I know it’s just me but sometimes I can trick myself. I can pretend.

I’m seven nearly eight, I’m getting big, and I know I’m getting taller because on the nights when we sleep in the car my legs hurt more. They’re hurting now, it’s harder to scrunch them up small in the passenger seat. I draw shapes on the car window, circles and diamonds and swirly lines that tangle into great messy scribbles. I am bored. I want to go home. We have been here for hours.

‘I’m hungry, Mummy.’ I am hungry, my stomach is growling like a lion. There has been no food all day. Sometimes Mummy forgets. When there is no reply, I pull on Mummy’s sleeve and eventually she gives me a bar of chocolate, squashed and warm but whole, bright in its wrapper. Yum. Just as I’m about to eat it, I am jerked forwards; the car is moving, we are on our way. Mummy is pressing her foot to the floor, glancing into the rear-view mirror, her eyes alive again. She still hasn’t put the headlights on. The chocolate tastes old and a bit stale, but I don’t mind, I eat it anyway. It’s gone too quickly. I want more.

The car is moving very fast; the chocolate whooshes around in my stomach and I begin to feel sick. We bend in and out of streets, faster and faster, until suddenly we are stopping, Mummy is slamming her foot onto the brakes and our little car is screeching to a halt. Outside the world has become very dark, I can just about see the tiny silver stars if I tilt my head back all the way and look out of the window. The dashboard lights glow; their green and orange lines form a face in the reflection and I jump, startled by the way the features leap out at me. That finally gets Mummy’s attention.

‘What is it? Do you see him?’

‘I see a face,’ I say, and Mummy leans over me, right across my lap so that I can smell her hair, the strange sour scent of her skin. I hate the way my mother smells now. The girls at school tease me for it, they say that it’s because she doesn’t wash. I wash myself, I run myself baths in our little flat, fill the tub up until the water runs cold. I sit in them for ages, wishing I could be a mermaid and live underwater. I don’t like the flat, I want to move back to the big house but Mummy says we can’t. All our money is gone. The bad man took it.

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