The Family Next Door(51)

Mia scurried across the driveways in her T-shirt and undies and bare feet, her skinny pale legs a perfect pair of matchsticks. Her hair was sweaty and mussed from sleep. A few paces away from them, she stopped and frowned. “Mummy?”

“Hello, sweetie.”

“Your hair is different.” Mia blinked up at her mother, scratching her bottom absently. “You look like Ithabel.”

Okay, Barbara thought. I am not being paranoid.

“It is similar, I guess,” Essie admitted. “But I like it. Anyway, Isabelle doesn’t have the copyright on bangs, does she?”

Essie tried for a laugh but it fell flat. It was the strangest thing. Barbara’s daughter was standing in front of her, but it wasn’t her daughter. She didn’t even look like her daughter. She needed to call Ben.

“Can we go home, Mummy?” Mia said.

“Oh, no, Mia,” Barbara said quickly. “Mummy’s having a rest day. You can stay at Gran’s for a bit longer.”

“No! I want to stay with Mummy.” She wrapped her arms around Essie’s leg.

“It’s fine, Mum,” Essie said, but Barbara reached for Mia’s shoulder and yanked her away from her mother. She didn’t want Mia going anywhere with Essie.

“Gran!” Mia shrieked. “That hurts!”

“Mum, let go of her.”

But Barbara didn’t let go. It may have been Mia’s reaction, or perhaps the strange look in Essie’s eyes, but Barbara felt herself becoming a little hysterical. “Really, I think it’s best if I—”

“Mum!” Essie slapped Barbara’s hand clear of Mia’s shoulder. “For heaven’s sake, what is the matter with you?” She picked Mia up and held her on her hip.

Barbara stepped back, breathless. “Funny. I was about to ask the same of you.”

Essie shook her head, perplexed, then turned and walked back to the house with Mia. Barbara would have followed but Polly was still asleep at her house. Instead she stood on the street between the houses, a strange feeling of déjà vu creeping over her.

It was happening, she realized. Her daughter’s demons were coming out again.





35


ISABELLE


“Hello?”

It was just starting to go dark when Isabelle’s phone rang. She snatched it up without glancing at the screen.

“Hi,” Essie said. “Is this a bad time?”

“Of course not.” Isabelle sat up straighter. “What’s up?”

“Actually I was wondering if you could come over. I have something to show you.”

“You do?” Isabelle said. Essie sounded different; she was talking too loud or something. Isabelle heard Mia babbling in the background.

“Yes, well. I hope it doesn’t freak you out…”

“Okay, now I’m intrigued.”

Essie giggled. Isabelle felt a whisper of worry—a tremor underfoot. Essie had been struggling last time she’d seen her. Exhausted and verging on delirious. And something in Essie’s voice told Isabelle that things may have worsened.

“Right, just give me a few minutes then. I’m just finishing something up and I’ll come to you…”

“Don’t be too long,” Essie said.

Isabelle had no intention of being long. She hung up the phone and pushed back in her chair, eager to investigate sooner rather than later. Perhaps Essie’d had another night of hardly any sleep? That could certainly make a person sound odd. She was only just on her feet when there was a knock at the door.

“I said I’d be right there!” she called jokingly. She threw open the door and stopped short.

He was dressed in jeans, a gray T-shirt, and a denim jacket, his shaggy black hair pushed back over one ear. His dusky-blue eyes shone with something like mischief.

Jules.

“What … what are you—”

“I said I’d come down on my bike.”

“You did but … I … I wasn’t expecting…”

Jules guided her backward into the house. He stripped off her dress, letting it fall to the floor. In a matter of moments they were both naked.

“I’m meant to be going to see Essie,” she protested against his mouth.

But by the time he lowered them both into the armchair, Isabelle had forgotten all about Essie.





36


FRAN


Fran sat on the floor in the dark room with her head in her hands. She and Nigel had spent the day pretending everything was fine. They’d spoken in odd, jovial voices about trivial day-to-day topics like meals and baths and who would read bedtime stories—a peculiar little show they’d put on for Rosie’s sake. Was it doing her any favors, Fran wondered, not being real in front of her? Obviously there were some topics too mature for a three-year-old, but did they have to talk with faux smiles and cheer? Fran didn’t know. She didn’t know anything anymore.

Rosie had been fussy and clingy at bedtime, so maybe they hadn’t done such a great job of keeping things from her. Kids were intuitive, wasn’t that what everyone said? She’d kept asking for one more story, one more cuddle, one more drink of water. Fran and Nigel had both indulged her, perhaps wanting to put off what was coming. But eventually there was nothing else left to do but turn off her light and go and talk.