The Woman At The Door, Daniel Hurst [world best books to read TXT] 📗

like a mirror image of my own home, although not as tastefully decorated, I might add. Of course, I’m not going to say that to Steve or his wife, who incidentally has now joined us and obeyed her husband’s command to “get the kettle on, love.”

As the kettle boils, Steve logs on to the laptop in the room which I guess passes for his study, although there are more car magazines than leather-bound books, and I’m pretty sure I can see a large pair of breasts on a calendar hanging on the wall in the far corner. We use this same room in our home as a den, and there is a TV and sofa in there, but we don’t use it as much as we should.

‘So what time was it?’ Steve asks when he has brought up the software that allows him to look at the footage that his outdoor camera recorded.

‘Just after eight,’ Sam replies, and Steve does the necessary manoeuvres on his mousepad to get the time on the screen to where we need it to be.

When he does, he clicks the play button, and the screen is suddenly filled with a surprisingly clear recording of Steve’s driveway and the road beyond. I can see his two cars sitting on the drive as well as the streetlamp at the end of it. Because I know that the mystery woman walked past Steve’s house after she dropped her bombshell in my lap, I’d say there is a good chance that his camera will have captured her.

A few minutes go by as the three of us stare at the screen and watch the seconds ticking away on the counter at the bottom, and Steve’s wife interrupts us with her arrival to give us all a cup of tea. I thank her and am just about to take a sip when I see her.

‘There she is!’ I say, pointing at the screen, although it’s not really necessary. She’s the only person in the footage, so we could hardly miss her.

‘I thought you said it was kids,’ Steve says, but Sam and I ignore him and move in closer to the screen to get a better look.

‘Can you zoom in?’ Sam asks hopefully, but Steve shakes his head as he takes a swig of his tea.

‘Nope. That’s as good as it gets.’

But that’s okay because the footage is sharp and as Steve hits the pause button, Sam and I are able to see the woman clearly.

‘Do you recognise her?’ I ask my husband, and he takes a few seconds to answer me before shaking his head.

‘No. I don’t.’

That’s disappointing because, without a name to put to the face, I have no idea how we could find out any more about this woman.

‘Is that all you need?’ Steve asks us, clearly having had enough of the pair of us already and presumably wanting his home back to himself. I imagine he has got something else for his wife to run around and do for him now.

‘Yeah,’ Sam says before letting out a sigh. ‘I guess that’s it.’

9

SAM

We’ve just got back from our neighbour’s house, but while I went there in hope, I have returned home in disappointment.

That’s because I didn’t recognise the woman in the CCTV footage.

It was a stroke of genius on my behalf to think of Steve’s camera and check out the recording, but it amounted to little because while we did spot the woman leaving, I have no idea who she is. So I guess that’s it then. I might never know her name, and more importantly, I might never know why she decided to come to my house and tell my wife that she slept with me.

Rebecca hasn’t said too much since we got back from Steve’s, and I guess she is feeling as flat as I am about all of this. There’s not much else we can do now but try and move on. That would be easy enough to do if it wasn’t for the fact that the mystery woman has given my wife a reason to doubt me where no reason used to exist. As much as Rebecca tells me that she is okay and that she believes me when I say I didn’t stray, I can’t read her mind and see what she is thinking. I hate the idea that she is now consumed with paranoid thoughts about our time together, wondering if I have been as honest as she used to think I was. I also hate the fact that there may be doubt in her mind whenever I stay out late with friends one night or work away from home on business on those rare occasions that I need to.

Rebecca would never have worried about me hurting her before. But I bet she is now, and that makes me furious because it’s not fair on her, and it’s definitely not fair on me.

I’ve done nothing wrong. Neither has Rebecca.

The only person in the wrong here is that woman.

But she has got away scot-free.

So far, this Sunday has been a little different to our usual ones. Instead of newspapers and coffee over the kitchen table, we’ve been round at Steve’s house, which looked a lot like ours although not as tastefully decorated. I’m sure Rebecca noticed that too, but I can’t chat to her about it because she has been upstairs ever since we got back, locked away in the bathroom, and I’m not entirely sure what she is doing in there. I did knock a few minutes ago to check that she was okay, and she told me that she was fine, so I left her to it, but I’ll feel better when she has come out and I can see for myself.

When she does, I’m going to suggest that we go for a walk and stretch our legs. It will do us good to get out of the house, considering we’ve been cooped up in it for most of the weekend.