‘Anything else out of the ordinary?’
‘I’ve lost my appetite.’
‘Okay.’ She carries on typing.
‘I also… I also think I might have a bit of OCD,’ I blurt out, surprising myself that I’ve actually admitted to my compulsive checking. I think deep down I knew what it was, but I hadn’t said the word out loud until now.
‘Obsessive compulsive disorder?’ She stops typing for a moment and turns back to face me. ‘What makes you think you have that?’
‘I keep checking the locks on the doors and windows. To make sure no one can get in the house. But even after I’ve checked them, I worry that I’ve missed one, and so I have to start checking them all over again. I feel itchy and antsy if I can’t check them again.’ An image of Martin pops into my head and I suppress a shudder.
‘I see. Kirstie – do you mind if I call you Kirstie?’
‘Sure, that’s fine.’
‘Have you had any difficulty bonding with Daisy at all?’ she asks.
I’m surprised by her question. ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Not at all. Quite the opposite. I had three miscarriages before having Daisy, so when she came along I could hardly believe it. I love my daughter so much. I’m terrified of anything happening to her.’ I glance over at the pram again. ‘Maybe that’s why I’m always checking the house is secure. Maybe it’s not OCD. Maybe it’s just me being over-protective.’
‘You said you heard voices in the baby monitor,’ Dr Sloane says. ‘Was that an isolated incident, or have you heard any other voices?’
‘I’m not crazy, if that’s what you think.’ I give a nervous laugh. ‘I googled it and apparently it’s pretty common for older monitors to pick up other signals.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting you were crazy,’ Dr Sloane says with a smile. ‘We just have to rule these things out. Hearing things can be indicative of certain conditions.’
Yeah, it can be indicative of being crazy.
A car pulls up outside the doctor’s window and a nurse gets out. She calls to someone out of my view and waves to them, a beaming smile across her face. She looks so young and happy and carefree that I experience an unexpected pang of envy.
‘What about friends and family?’ Dr Sloane asks. ‘Do you have support at home?’
‘I’ve got my husband.’ Well, I’ve got him when he’s actually at home and not flying out the door to go training every spare moment. ‘He was the one who suggested I come and see you today. But he does work long hours. He’s training for this triathlon at the moment so he’s out most weekends…’
She purses her lips. ‘Do you have any other supportive family close by? Parents? Siblings?’
‘Yeah. My mum and dad live in Wimborne – they’re always happy to help out.’ Unless they’ve got their friends round for lunch. But I know that’s not fair. They’d be round like a shot it they were free. I don’t call on them as much as I should. And I’ve barely spoken to them since all this baby-monitor business started.
‘It sounds to me like you’re an overtired mum who’s had a lot on her plate recently,’ she says.
I breathe a sigh of relief. ‘That’s exactly what I told my husband.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she says with a reassuring smile. ‘Fatigue and anxiousness is all part and parcel of being a new mum. And there’s a lot you can do to help combat it. Do you exercise at all?’
‘Um, not really.’
‘Well, as a minimum, I recommend going out for a brisk walk every day. Running would be better – something to release those endorphins. The exercise and fresh air will also help you sleep. Meditation is also good, along with a healthy diet and no alcohol, especially if you’re breastfeeding. It will take time, but if you follow my advice, things should gradually improve, you’ll see. Book in an appointment to see me again in a few weeks’ time. And there are some leaflets on the side about mother and baby groups, you might find going to one of those gives you some routine to your day.’ She gets to her feet to signal that our consultation is over. ‘So, remember: exercise, meditation, healthy eating and no alcohol. Make another appointment to see me in one month, and we’ll see how you’re getting on.’
* * *
At 5 p.m. I’m standing behind the sofa staring through the lounge window, waiting for Dom to get home. He said he would leave work at four thirty today, so surely he should be home by now. Daisy is upstairs napping. She’s likely to wake up any minute so I have an ear out, listening for her cry.
I went to the doctor’s like Dom asked, but I don’t feel any different at all. I’m still exhausted and worried, and I still have to keep checking the doors and windows. I keep in mind Dr Sloane’s advice, but I already feel as though my insides are cracking, like I can’t quite keep myself intact. I wonder if I should have asked her for some medication for my nerves.
My heart gives a little leap as I see Dom’s car pull into our road. I’m looking forward to telling him about my trip to the doctor. Telling him that there’s actually nothing wrong with me other than overtiredness. But instead of driving straight ahead towards our house, Dom veers away. Where is he off to? I turn away from the window and think about sneaking outside to see. Instead, I jog upstairs to look out of our bedroom window. I can get a good view of most of the cul-de-sac from up there. I have the uneasy feeling I might know where he’s going.
Twenty-Three
I peer out past the Parkfields’ house to the Cliffords’ place. Sure enough, Dom’s car is parked right outside their house. Has he gone over there to hang out with Jimmy? Dom is getting out of his car, walking down their driveway and up to the front door. I watch as he rings the bell. The door is answered seconds later and I catch a glimpse of Rosa’s long, dark hair and her tanned legs. My husband follows her inside.
My heart beats erratically as all kinds of thoughts flash through my mind. Thoughts I would rather not be having. Jimmy’s California isn’t parked in their drive – only Rosa’s cream Beetle. He’s in there alone with Rosa. Should I go over there? Confront them? But what if it really is something completely innocent, and I end up making a total idiot of myself? I’ll wait a while, see how long he spends in her house. Am I a fool for waiting, or a fool for worrying about it?
While I stare at the Cliffords’ place, wishing I could see through walls, a movement from next door catches my eye. A boy. He stumbles out of the Parkfields’ front door, trips and falls to the ground. Not a boy, it’s Callum Carson. Behind him, Stephen Parkfield strides out of the house, shoulders back, chest puffed out, his face scarlet with rage. He’s yelling something, but I can’t make out the words through the double glazing. I turn the key in the window lock and edge it open slightly. A warm breeze floods my nostrils, heavy with the scent of burnt grass and honeysuckle.
‘I told you before,’ Parkfield’s nasal tones fly upwards, now clear as a bell, ‘come round here again and you’ll be sorry.’ He’s standing above Callum and I wonder if he’s about to hit him. Just then, another figure comes striding up their driveway – a man, but I can’t make out who it is. He bends down and helps Callum to his feet. Callum scowls and shakes the man off. The man looks up and I step back, but not before he catches my eye. It’s the builder, Rob Carson, Callum’s father. I feel embarrassed that he’s caught me spying, but it wasn’t done on purpose – I was trying to spy on my husband, not on my neighbours.
I peer back around the curtains to see Carson squaring up to Parkfield, whose body still quivers with anger.
‘Tell your son to stay off my property and away from my daughter,’ Parkfield cries.
‘Did you push him?’ Rob growls at Parkfield. He tries to put an arm around his son, but Callum shrugs him off again. ‘Did he push you, Cal?’