A Quiet Wife Read online

  A QUIET WIFE

  A Novella

  SARAH A. DENZIL

  CONTENTS

  Also by the author

  Part One

  1. 5th December 2019

  2. 14th January 2020

  3. 23rd February 2020

  4. 15th March 2020

  5. 23rd March 2020

  6. 2nd April 2020

  7. 3rd April 2020

  8. 4th April

  9. 10th April 2020

  10. 20th April 2020

  11. 22nd April

  Part Two

  Untitled

  12. Audrey - 18th April, the first Aya session

  13. 25th April – The Cellar

  14. 25th April – 1st May – Audrey

  15. 25th April – The Cellar

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2022 Sarah A. Denzil

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  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this work, in whole or in part, in any form.

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  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, organizations and products depicted herein are either a product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

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  Cover Design by Najla Qamber

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  Newsletter

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  Website

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  ALSO BY THE AUTHOR

  Psychological Suspense:

  Saving April

  * * *

  The Silent Child Series:

  Silent Child, Book One

  Stolen Girl, Book Two

  The Silent Child Series: The Complete Boxed Set

  * * *

  Crime Fiction:

  One For Sorrow (Isabel Fielding book one)

  Two For Joy (Isabel Fielding book two)

  Three For A Girl (Isabel Fielding book three)

  The Isabel Fielding Boxed Set

  * * *

  Short suspenseful reads:

  They Are Liars: A novella

  PART ONE

  Jack’s Diary

  Chapter One

  5TH DECEMBER 2019

  I don’t know her actual name, but I’ve invented many for her. My favourite is Ingrid because she reminds me of Ingrid Bergman. Particularly her early Hollywood movies like Casablanca, where she played a melancholic beauty. A good girl, always, but sad about it.

  We’ve never met—Ingrid and I—but we’re neighbours. In a sense, at least. We don’t share a wall or anything like that. Our houses aren’t even that close. But my bedroom window overlooks her garden in the valley below. You must be rich to live here, with these big houses so spaced apart. I live alone, but she lives with a man. Her husband, I assume.

  She’s a quiet wife, living a quiet life. Through my telescope, I can see right into their house. They chose the glass fronted kind, assuming the house nestled in a valley where no one would see them. I watched the contractors building it over the space of eighteen months. The husband stopped by several times and chatted to men in hard hats. She never visited. I would have remembered her if she had. No, Ingrid popped up one day, changing everything.

  I inherited my house once my parents died. Mother fell down the stairs three years ago. It happened before breakfast. She fell into the breakfast tray I’d made for her, knocking me back off my feet. I’d been on my way to take it to her. She was already dead by the time she crashed into me; her neck broken from the fall.

  I’ve only ever lived in one place—this house. My house, now. Perhaps someone else would find it too full of horrible memories to carry on living here, but I suppose I’m not that kind of person.

  Anyway, I didn’t start this diary to talk about myself; I started it for her. I want to track her; you see. She interests me. You could say that I’m beguiled, and that isn’t a word I use often. Not since Lydia.

  So, let’s start with the basics, shall we?

  I have estimated her height to be around five feet and six inches. This is based on the fact I suspect her husband is around six feet tall, judging by his height in comparison with the builders. She is slender. Perhaps a dress size eight or ten. Her hair is platinum blonde with a silver tinge to it. She likes to dye it regularly. Sometimes it’s slightly pink.

  She’s younger than I am. I’ve estimated her age to be around twenty-five. I’m thirty-three. Her husband seems to be even older than I am, judging by the peppering of grey in his dark hair and beard. Yes, I can see his hair colour through my telescope, it’s really rather good. The husband I reckon to be in his mid-forties, making him twenty years older than her, give or take. For that reason, I wonder whether she’s his second wife. I’ve never seen children at the house. Well, at least there aren’t any stepchildren for her to worry about.

  She has a routine.

  He wakes with the sunrise—earlier in winter—rouses her, and they have sex.

  You’re probably wondering how I know that. Well, they leave the curtains open. They aren’t shy. My theory is that he enjoys the danger of it, the potential for eyes to see them. None of that kind of thing appeals to me. If Ingrid was mine, I’d want her all to myself. I certainly wouldn’t want to share her body with any potential onlookers. Most mornings, I see him toss the duvet back before he lifts her on top of him. She has her back to me, but he stares out of the window. He can’t see me from where I am. I have a telescope and he doesn’t. Still, it’s unnerving.

  After the sex, he showers, and she does one of the following things: reads a book, reads her phone, cries or naps.

  She drapes a silk dressing gown over her alabaster skin and brushes her hair before he gets out of the shower. Then she hurries down their open staircase, makes fresh coffee and places three slices of white bread in the toaster. She mashes avocado, spreads it over the toast and arranges tomato slices on top. The husband then kisses her on the cheek, eats the breakfast she makes, drains his coffee and leaves. He wears a suit. She wears her robe and red-rimmed eyes.

  I rarely see them speak during this process.

  Afterwards, she drinks two iced coffees with some sort of milk, or substitute—I can’t quite read the label—and runs a bath.

  She does some light tidying—they have a weekly cleaner, of course—and eats her lunch in the garden. Sometimes I hear music filtering up towards my house. The wind needs to be blowing in the right direction to hear it. But I suspect she plays it most days. It’s rock music with heavy guitars and drums. Unfortunately, I don’t know the band, otherwise I’d check for them on Spotify. It would thrill me to listen to music she loves.

  Sometimes she dances. Arms outstretched. Hair flying. Whirling her body under the sun, her dress hitching up to mid-thigh. I enjoy those days the most. I remain glued to the telescope, transfixed by her movement. She doesn’t dance like the women on television. There’s no gyration, no grinding. She reminds me of a ballerina. The kind attached to a music box, spinning and spinning and spinning. I want to learn why she moves like this. Why doesn’t she go out and meet friends? Why does she stay at home every day and dance in the garden until she’s so dizzy she almost falls?

  Later, she cooks dinner for him. And I mean, she actually cooks. Everything she makes is from scratch, sauces, fresh bread, even fresh pasta. They receive produce deliveries from the local farms. Every week, a box packed full of meat arrives. Then the veggie box. I watch her husband devour those mouth-watering meals at the end of the day. God, I wish it was me. Yesterday, diary, I ate a pot noodle and had a bourbon biscuit for dessert. And the kicker is, sometimes he doesn’t even come home. Whatever he does for a living keeps him out of the house a fair bit. She rarely leaves, but he’s hardly there. It’s a mismatch. I can’t help but think about h
ow I’d always be there.

  I like the fact she never leaves. She’s loyal.

  I like other things about her too. She’s beautiful. She keeps a tidy house. But most of all, she knows her limits. She accepts them. She’s submissive. She’s quiet. She’s perfect.

  Chapter Two

  14TH JANUARY 2020

  What a tedious Christmas. I had hoped to be alone so that I could watch Ingrid. What is Christmas Day like in Ingrid’s house? Did she and her husband spend it alone? Or were they with family? I wanted to see if she cooked a turkey, where they opened their presents and what he gave her. Whatever it was, I’m sure I would have bought her a better present. But I didn’t get to do any of that. My cousin and his wife descended with a cooked turkey and their offspring. They brought presents—a set of Agatha Christie novels—and even a small Christmas tree.

  Surprise!

  Well, diary, I had to race upstairs and tidy the telescope away, but before I did, I noticed her placing the last decorations on their tree. Red baubles. Gaudier than I expected. On my way back from my en suite bath—where I stashed the telescope—I watched him stride over to the tree and swat the baubles off the tree. How I wished I’d had my telescope! I saw only the blurry edges of this movement, but I realised what he was doing because I knew the position of the Christmas tree in the room.

  I pitied her then. Red baubles can be tacky, but I believe I would have allowed her that indulgence. Then Freddy called me from downstairs. He wanted me to tell him where Susan, his not at all quiet wife, could set out the dinner.

  They stayed for well into the new year. During that time, I woke to the sound of children making noises—screaming, crying, pretending to be robots or cowboys or cars. I often hid in my bedroom for as long as I could without seeming rude, silently seething. Susan insisted on making a full English breakfast each morning and forgot, every single time, that I dislike my eggs overdone.

  They left on the 7th. I haven’t moved from my telescope since then. Leftover Christmas cake, chocolates, and crisps litter my bedroom. I’ve never been slovenly, but so starved was I of glimpses of her I couldn’t bring myself to move except to go to the bathroom and sleep.

  There are nights when I stay awake, and I watch them sleep. Dear Ingrid curls up into a tight ball on the edge of the bed. He sprawls out like a toddler, arms everywhere. One night, she woke and walked downstairs in the dark. I saw little of her body. Naked, but fuzzy and blurry through my telescope. The moon cast a slither of light on the house, allowing me at least a peek at her shape. I wanted more.

  Here are my observations over the last week:

  The husband returned to work on the 10th. He must have taken a long break from work. She never danced when he was home. In fact, she didn’t go into the garden once. Now, I’m aware it isn’t because of the cold weather, because she also dances in the rain.

  I noticed a shift in her body language. Her posture, usually that of a ballet dancer, had shrivelled. She stoops when she walks, her arms folded across her abdomen. She winced when picking up the dinner plates yesterday.

  And then I understood. He’d hit her. I’m not sure when, and I don’t know how many times, but he’d caused her physical pain that lingered even now.

  And I’d missed it.

  Now I’d never understand the context. What did she do? Why did he snap? I couldn’t imagine my Ingrid ever doing something to warrant a beating. Not from what I’d seen. But now I’d forever be wondering.

  Chapter Three

  23RD FEBRUARY 2020

  I had a wobble.

  A personal one. It led to dark days. I can’t be more specific than that because it’s embarrassing to admit this weakness, even to you, diary. Though I will say that I didn’t leave the bed for a long time. And during that time, I neglected dear Ingrid. Still, it wasn’t to be helped.

  Now I make myself go for a walk every day. The roads around here are quiet. The weather is improving. There’s no ice on the ground anymore, which is good because I do worry about taking a tumble. I must confess, I am quite enjoying these long walks. Some mornings I see a robin red breast hopping along the wall. The earlier it is, the more the air smells like dewy grass and the promise of what is to come.

  Sometimes I walk past her house, just to see. Curiosity gets the better of me. She even poked her head over the gate once and I caught my first glimpse of her outside of my telescope. I couldn’t quite believe it. There she was, just six or eight feet away, standing on the other side of her gate, on her way back to the house after one of her garden dances. All the air left my body. I stood and watched. Her hair fell loose, the ends caressing the top of her woollen cardigan. Beneath her outerwear, her purple dress stopped a few inches above her knees, revealing thick stockings, or tights. And on her feet, she wore Wellington boots. She nodded to me and then entered her home.

  She no longer walked with her arm holding her abdomen. That pleased me. Her injury had healed. I was glad for her. I’ve never understood husbands who hurt their wives. Women need to be protected. Sheltered.

  We didn’t speak to one another, but I like to think that nod advanced our relationship a step. And when I arrived home, I raced up to my bedroom to the telescope. There I stayed all evening, watching as she prepared a sausage casserole for her husband. He kissed her on the head when he arrived, and after eating, he retreated into a room deeper into the house.

  She watched the news in the kitchen. I haven’t been following it myself, but I have heard about the virus. I can’t imagine being touched by it here, in this part of the world.

  Chapter Four

  15TH MARCH 2020

  I believe I’m living in a parallel world. One I do not recognise. The country is slowly shutting down, locking itself up as society falls prey to the pandemic. All of this makes me want to go to my dark places again. My unmade bed calls to me. However, I refuse to allow this to happen to me again.

  Over the last few weeks, I’ve put my excessive wealth to good use by buying cleaning products, tinned goods, toilet paper, and meat for the freezer. I have enough to last for months. During that time, I’ve been rather distracted and haven’t been able to watch Ingrid as much as I’d like.

  Below ground, in the old cellar, is a room my parents fitted long ago. It’s kitted out with a toilet, sink, gas stove and two beds. They’d intended to use it as a panic room or bunker in case of an emergency. I’ve had some plans for it but haven’t put them into action yet. However, I’m now more grateful than ever for its existence. Who knows how this pandemic is going to play out? I took some of the tinned goods into the room and stacked the shelves. I added hand sanitiser, toilet roll, and toothpaste.

  Afterwards, I sat at the telescope for several hours. The husband never came home. My dear Ingrid made herself a supper of soup and fresh bread. I saw her baking it in the afternoon. Barefoot in the kitchen, hair loose, face fresh. I liked her more without make-up. Most mornings she at least applied mascara and a gloss over her lips, and now I considered the fact that he requested it of her. If she didn’t bother today, it meant he wasn’t coming home, which I found interesting. Why not? Everyone knows there’s a lockdown coming. According to the news, many of us are working from home already. Why isn’t he?

  Chapter Five

  23RD MARCH 2020

  I was right to be paranoid. As I suspected, the government announces that the country is in lockdown and we cannot leave our homes. Many are without essentials because of bastards like me stocking up before they made the final decision. Do I feel guilty about that? No, I do not. I’m alone. I don’t like to leave my house very often, anyway. I have my own difficulties to contend with. It’s good that I don’t need to moderate my behaviour for the pandemic. I’m not a person who bends easily. I tend to snap instead, and no one wants to see that.

  The quiet wife is still alone. Her husband never came home when lockdown started, and this I am extremely curious about. Where is he?

  According to the new rules, I am allowed thir
ty minutes of exercise per day. I took this exercise earlier on, making sure to walk past dear “Ingrid’s” gate, hoping to catch another glimpse of her.

  Well, diary, I am pleased to report a delightful development today. She talked to me!

  I had on light corduroy trousers, a hunting jacket, and hiking boots. She wore a similar outfit to the time I saw her in February, only this time paired with ankle boots rather than Wellingtons. She smiled and waved as I approached, and then she stepped over to the gate and placed her arms on the top bar, as though waiting for me to approach.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? Do you live around here?”

  “Yes,” I said, pointing to my house in the distance. “I’m your neighbour, actually.”

  “Oh, goodness, sorry. I can’t believe we haven’t popped round to introduce ourselves.” She held out a hand and then retracted it. “We can’t do that, can we? It’s been so long since I saw someone I almost forgot! I’m Audrey.”