Apple of My Eye: The gripping psychological thriller from the USA Today bestseller
‘I really need to freshen up. My stomach’s churning, too. Not sure I’ll eat much.’
‘I’ve made a pasta bake. It’s quite light. Not creamy or cheesy. You should try some at least, Eli,’ he says, his face filled with concern. As if he sees me as more vulnerable now, too. No longer an equal partner.
‘You’re very good to me,’ I say.
‘Of course I am,’ he smiles. ‘I even left mushrooms out of the recipe because I know you can’t so much as look at them at the moment.’
I smile. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ I say and continue upstairs, where I run the bath and lie in the water, watching my baby wriggle under my skin, feet and elbows pushing outwards.
I wonder how something so small and innocent can make me feel so sick all the time. I stroke my stomach, whispering, ‘I love you,’ hoping if I say it enough I’ll start to really, really feel it.
After climbing out of the bath, I wrap myself in my fluffy dressing gown and I’m just about to get dressed into my pyjamas, when I hear my phone ring. I look at it and see ‘Mum’ on the screen. I’m so happy to see her name and I wish, not for the first time, that she lived closer.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I say.
‘What’s wrong, pet?’ Her reply is immediate. She can always read my mood. Name that emotion in one.
‘Ah, it’s been a long day,’ I say, trying my hardest not to cry.
How is it that talking to my mother instantly brings all my emotions to the fore? I want to tell her about the note but decide not to. She’d only worry and one of us worrying is enough.
‘And the baby? Everything’s okay there?’ she asks, her voice soft but thick with concern.
‘Still making me throw up on a regular basis,’ I say, a hiccup of self-pity ending my sentence for me.
‘You poor pet,’ she soothes. ‘It’ll be worth it. And sure, isn’t sickness a sign of a healthy pregnancy?’
‘This one’ll come out like Superman then,’ I say, forcing a laugh.
‘And Martin? Is everything okay with you both?’
I nod, make some sort of affirmative noise. I don’t want to go down that particular conversational route.
‘Look, Mum, I’ve just got out of the bath. I need to get dried off and into my pyjamas. Martin’s making dinner. I’m planning to get something to eat and go to bed. Work was so busy.’
‘You’re doing too much,’ she says and I feel myself bristle.
This is something she and Martin agree on. They don’t realise that right now, work is the one place I feel in control.
‘I can handle it, Mum. It’s just been a long day,’ I tell her.
‘Well, I don’t like the sound of you one bit,’ she says. ‘I’m going to come and visit on Saturday and I’ll hear no arguments.’
There’s no way I’m going to argue. I could use some maternal TLC. I tell her I’ll look forward to it and that I love her and then I hang up, lie back on the bed and promise myself just five minutes of rest before dinner.
I wake, of course, much later, as Martin comes up to bed. Blinking and stretching, shivering a little, I ask him what time it is.
‘It’s gone eleven. You should just go back to sleep.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to sleep. I was planning to come down for dinner.’
My stomach grumbles to reinforce my point.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he says, unbuttoning his shirt and throwing it into the laundry hamper. ‘I’ve plated some up for you. It’s in the fridge.’
Is it my imagination or is his tone not as soft as it was? He sits on the edge of the bed, looking out of the window over the blackness of the lake. I feel the need to be close to him.
‘C’m’ere,’ I say, reaching my arms out to him.
He turns, gives me a soft smile and climbs under the covers, pulling himself across to me and allowing me to hold him. His hand slips under my dressing gown, to my still naked body. I shiver again, only this time in anticipation. But his hand moves directly to my growing stomach.
‘All this’ll be worth it,’ he says. ‘I know you’re feeling rotten, but this little one’s going to bring us so much happiness and I just know you’re going to be the best mum in the world.’
With his words, our house feels like our bubble again and I smile at him, place my hand on top of his and feel calm. He kisses the top of my head and squeezes my hand.
Tempted as I am to fall back to sleep there and then beside him, I know I need to eat something or the nausea will be much worse when it swoops in again.
I sit up, tell him I won’t be long.
‘I just need a bit of toast or something.’
‘Are you shunning my pasta bake for the second time in one night?’ he asks with a crooked smile.
I stick my tongue out at him. ‘Might be too much considering it’s so late, but it’ll do tomorrow night.’
‘Ah, that might be good, actually,’ he says, sitting up. ‘I still need to talk to you about that.’
I pull on my pyjama bottoms and look around to him while putting on my oversized maternity pyjama top.
‘Yeah?’
‘I need to go to London again.’
My heart sinks. It’s been just a week since his last trip. I know it’s a big job, but I hadn’t expected him to have to travel quite so much.
The note in my bag niggles at me again.
‘A snag with the communal play area,’ he says. ‘And the landscaper wants to discuss the garden plans with me. Boring stuff, but I have to be on site. I need to feel the space to see how it would work. They want doors moved from the original plan – which means moving the storage area and redesigning the mezzanine slightly.’
There’s little point in arguing. What would it look like, anyway? I really would be the Wicked Witch of the West if I asked him to pass the work to one of his colleagues at this stage. This project has been his baby, long before we had an actual baby of our own to worry about.
‘How long will you be away for?’ I ask.
Last time it was just two nights, which wasn’t so bad; even if, by the second night, I found myself increasingly anxious without him close by.
‘That’s the kicker,’ he says. ‘I need to be there for a meeting on Tuesday and, realistically, to get the plans done and drawn up … There’s not much point in me coming back until Tuesday night.’
Friday to Tuesday – four nights – over the weekend.
‘I know that means the weekend …’ he says as if reading my thoughts. ‘I thought maybe you could go and see your mum.’
‘I’m working on Saturday,’ I mutter. ‘But Mum was planning to come and visit anyway. See how I am.’
‘Well that’s perfect, then,’ he says, smiling widely. ‘You’ll be well looked after and I won’t have to worry about you so much.’
‘You don’t have to worry about me anyway,’ I say, my tone sharper than I’d like. I cringe at how petulant I sound.
‘But I do, because I love you,’ he enunciates slowly as if to make the point extra clear.
‘If you loved me …’ I start, the words out of my mouth before I’ve had time to think.
‘If I loved you? Really? And what? I’d quit my job? I’m too tired to go over this again, Eli. I know you’re pregnant. I know it’s tough. I know your hormones are raging, but …’ He shakes his head. ‘No. I’m not doing this. Not now. Goodnight, Eli.’
Our earlier exchange feels soured.
All I can think is how, despite the nice dinner and the hugs and the smiles, things are far from right between us.
CHAPTER THREE
Eli
I leave him to sleep. A couple of slices of toast and a cup of decaf tea later, my brain still doesn’t want to switch off. I sit in the living room, trying to distract myself from my thoughts by watching some American TV show in which a bride-to-be has to choose between a brand-new wedding gown or having her mother’s wedding dress remade into something more suitable for a modern bride.
But, of course, my mind keeps drifting back to my own wedding and my own marriage. To my husband lying upstairs resting before his next work trip. I know I should trust him. I think I do trust him. Mostly. But I wonder, should I be asking more questions?
Maybe if I have a look at his emails. His phone. His wallet. Would I find something to confirm my worst fears or would finding nothing reassure me?
I’ve never snooped on Martin before. I’ve never felt the need and I do feel guilty. I actually feel like an actor in a soap opera as I walk to the dining table, where his suit jacket is draped over the back of a chair. Delving into the pockets, I pull out a receipt for a single cup of coffee and a chicken salad sandwich. A half-empty packet of chewing gum. Assorted small change amounting to seventy-eight pence and some fluff.
Not even Columbo could find evidence of foul behaviour in that. Chiding myself, I put everything back as I found it, feeling like I’m the one who’s betrayed him. I suppose I have. I’ve doubted him.
I probably still do, a little.
Taking a deep breath, I remind myself to be mindful. To be in the moment. It’s a method we use with our patients to help with anxiety. Our patients who have real problems. Mine are nothing in comparison.
I focus on the ticking of the clock. The gentle hum of the fridge freezer. The sound of the rain tapping on the windows. I close my eyes and lie down on the sofa, where I think of everything I can feel and smell, pushing all other thoughts away until my eyes start to droop and I can feel sleep wash over me.
When I wake, the house is silent and there’s a blanket draped over me. I blink, look around. The jacket’s gone from the back of the dining room chair. I see a note propped on the coffee table beside a fresh glass of water, informing me my husband’s left for the airport and didn’t want to wake me as I looked so peaceful. He’s ordered me a taxi as he had to take his car and mine’s still off the road. He loves me, he says. He’ll miss me. And the baby. No mention of the exchange we had last night.
I lift my phone, see that I have just thirty minutes until that taxi arrives, when I need to be in full possession of all of my senses and ready for a day at the hospice. Work will distract me, until home time at least. I wonder, would it be pathetic of me to text my mother and ask her to come down today instead of tomorrow? I know she won’t mind. In fact, she’ll probably jump at the chance to fuss around me more. So I send the text and I breathe a sigh of relief when, just minutes later, she replies that she’ll be with me by home time.
*
I never really believed it when people said they ‘didn’t have a minute to themselves’ before I started working in the hospice.
It’s not unusual for me to realise I’ve been trying to find five minutes to nip to the loo for the last few hours and haven’t found the chance. Our break room is filled with half-drunk coffee cups, the fridge with half-eaten lunches. We do what we can when we’re needed, because that’s what you do when you care for the terminally ill.
You don’t clock out for lunch while someone breaks down in pain or fear or grief. When they just need to tell you their story. That’s not how it works.
I grab a long overdue toilet break mid-shift, no longer able to ignore the baby kicking my bladder. I realise I’ve been so busy that I’ve not had time to think about anything but work. And that feels good.
But I’m still curious. I want to know where the note came from, if possible. I figure if anyone has information about the note, it’ll be Lorraine, our all-seeing admin officer, so I wash my hands, straighten my uniform and walk to reception, where she holds court.
‘A handwritten letter for you?’ she asks, gazing over the top of her purple-rimmed glasses at me as she sits sorting through the day’s mail. ‘I put a couple of things in your pigeonhole yesterday, but no, I don’t remember anything standing out from the norm.’
‘No one hand-delivered it?’
‘Not to my desk, no. There was some post in the box outside when I came in yesterday morning. It was probably among that.’
‘Right,’ I say, feeling disappointed that I’ve hit a dead end but wondering how many dead ends I need to hit before I accept there’s nothing more sinister to find.
‘Is it important?’ Lorraine asks. ‘Have you got the envelope there? Maybe if I saw it, it might trigger a memory.’
‘No, no, it’s not important. I’m just nosy,’ I lie.
‘Well, I hope it was something nice for you. A thank-you card or something.’
‘Something like that,’ I say and smile before excusing myself to get back to work.
Rachel is on shift, too, and we find ourselves together at lunchtime, with her eating my sandwiches while I make a piece of toast. It’s an improvement on some dry biscuits anyway.
‘I have to say, Eli, these sandwiches aren’t up to Martin’s usual standards. You must have words,’ she jokes.
‘Well, that’s because I made those. Martin’s away for a few days with work.’
‘Again?’ she asks, eyebrows raised for just a moment before she readjusts her expression. ‘I suppose the project will be nearly done now. Best he gets away before this baby comes, I guess.’
‘Yes, some last-minute glitches,’ I say, the toast losing its appeal.
We fall into an uncomfortable silence.
‘I didn’t mean anything,’ she says. ‘With the “again”. Me and my big mouth – you know what I’m like.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ I say. ‘He’s been away a lot.’
I know Rachel isn’t trying to be insensitive. I know she’s still sore from the break-up of her own marriage, which ended after her husband had an affair. Or, to be more accurate, numerous affairs.
I change the subject. I don’t feel comfortable falling down this particular rabbit hole with her.
‘I have to nip out to pick up my car from the garage,’ I tell her.
‘Let me run you there in my car,’ she offers. ‘I’ll pick us up something nice for afternoon break.’
I notice the sandwich I made has barely been touched. It would be churlish of me to refuse her offer of a lift, so I smile and thank her, and we grab our things and climb into her car.
‘Excuse the mess,’ she says as she throws an empty McDonald’s paper into the back seat, which is strewn with empty drinks bottles, a dog lead and a pair of rather smelly football boots.
‘It’s no messier than it was last night, don’t be worrying,’ I tell her.
‘At least last night the darkness hid the worst of it,’ she laughs.
As we drive to the garage, I know I’m too quiet. My head’s full of words, but I don’t know how to say them without sounding like I’m a paranoid wreck. I hate this feeling. Normally, conversation flows really easily between Rachel and me, and we can share each other’s worries and concerns.
‘He loves you very much, you know,’ Rachel says as we drive over the Foyle Bridge towards the garage. ‘That’s what’s on your mind, isn’t it? That stupid note. But you really shouldn’t worry. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more devoted husband. I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn yesterday. He’s one of the good guys.’
And he is. Without doubt. I remind myself not to make problems where none exist.
*
At 3.43 p.m., we watch a sixty-three-year-old man hold his fifty-nine-year-old wife’s hand as her chest stills. The rattle that’s come with each breath for the last twelve hours slows then stops, and the grip she’s held on his hand releases. I watch a man, still alive in every physical way that matters, die a little in front of me as he kisses his wife of thirty years on her lips before they have the chance to turn cold.
Then, very tenderly, Rachel and I do what we need to with his wife who we’ve cared for over the course of the last week. We remove the tubes and wires. We tidy the bed sheets around her. We open the window, an old hospice tradition, believed to let the spirit of the deceased move on. Then we stand back and let her family begin their grieving process.
‘Some are tougher than others,’ Rachel says as we leave.
‘Yes,’ I reply. I can’t bring myself to say more. I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep it together.
‘Almost home time,’ she says.
‘And we get to do it all again tomorrow,’ I respond, too worn out to say anything else.
CHAPTER FOUR
Louise
I’d told myself if I saw her again before the end of the week, it’d be a sign from God that I was right. This baby was the one I’d been waiting for.
I’d been on edge since I first saw her. Always looking at the door of the café, watching every person come in, feeling frustrated when it’d been someone else.
But then, I was in the supermarket, half-heartedly throwing a sad selection of meals for one, to be washed down with a bottle of wine, into my basket, when I saw her hovering around the fresh fruit aisle.
She looked more tired than before. The dark circles under her eyes only highlighted her pallor. She probably needed iron, I thought. She had apples and grapes in her basket, but really she should’ve been stocking up on leafy greens, red meat. That kind of thing. I was tempted to talk to her, but what would I have said?
What would it have looked like? A mad woman in the supermarket telling her that she needs more iron in her diet.
I followed her from a distance. Watched as she put some fresh bread into her basket. Wholemeal. That was good at least. As was the fresh orange juice she chose. It was good to see she could make some decent choices for her baby. The chocolate biscuits, the tinned soup – neither of those were particularly nutritious. Not for an expectant mother. I shook my head.
Her baby needed to be well. I needed this baby to be well.
I wasn’t one of those crazies who thought a woman became nothing more than an incubator when she fell pregnant, but the baby always had to come first. Anything else was selfish. A mother shouldn’t just eat what she wanted, do what she wanted without considering the life she was growing inside her.
Every baby deserved the best start in life.
That’s how it had been with me. Not that it mattered in the end.
Maybe I knew nothing. Maybe this woman with her tinned soup and her packet of biscuits knew more than I did. It wouldn’t matter in a few months’ time anyway. I’d be able to feed my baby all the healthy food they needed.
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