I Invited Her In: The new domestic psychological thriller from Sunday Times bestselling author Adele Parks. Adele Parks

self-consciously. Imogen whispers in my ear, ‘I’m going to tell Daddy.’ I bat her away.

      ‘So, tell me everything,’ I say with an expansive wave of my arms.

      ‘Like I said in my email, I found out Rob was having an affair, the bastard. I couldn’t stay with him for another moment.’

      I glance nervously at the girls. They are wide-eyed, agog. ‘Oh yes. You must tell me everything about Rob, but I meant other things, more general things.’ Abi looks confused. Clearly for her there aren’t any other conversations to be had right now. There is nothing else on her mind. I try to give her some prompts. ‘What was it like living in America?’ I regret the question immediately. I sound so naive. It’s not like I don’t know anything about the States. We have been there. To Orlando. Once. Although, obviously, I realise that Disneyland isn’t representative. It doesn’t cover it. It’s a big place. Huge.

      Abi shrugs. ‘I couldn’t possibly say. I don’t know where to start.’

      It’s odd because I know more about her than she’s told me. Well, she hasn’t told me much. That’s the weird thing about googling people. It forces a false one-way intimacy. I glance at Abi and am shocked to see she is pressing the bridge of her nose, dewy-eyed – she’s obviously trying to stem tears.

      ‘Oh no, Abi. You poor thing. I’m sorry.’ I want to kick myself. I always say the wrong thing. I’m nervous. It’s odd having her here after so long, and exciting, too. My demand that she ‘tell me everything’ was far too flip. Now she’s crying. I’ve made her cry. That’s the last thing I wanted to do. I’m embarrassed and sad for her, yet also flattered that she’s letting her guard down in front of me. Her emotions are so real, and expressing them is a true testament to our friendship. It’s as though the long years, since we last saw each other, have been swept aside.

      ‘No, I’m sorry.’

      I should have been more careful, more tactful. Just because she looks stunning doesn’t mean she’s not suffering. I sit forward in my seat. I want every ounce of my body to demonstrate that I’m here for her, that I want to help her.

      ‘It’s just been so hard. Such a shock,’ she mutters, staring at me, her big black-brown eyes filled with incomprehension. How could this have happened to me? she’s asking, as about a zillion women before her have asked. Ben is a faithful sort of man, and for that I’m infinitely grateful. His father played around and then eventually left Ellie when Ben was fourteen; he swore he’d never cause the same hurt. But just because my husband is faithful it doesn’t mean I don’t have a clue about men who are not, of which there seem to be very many. Working in a dress shop gives surprising insight; once women are inside the changing room they think they’re in a confessional box. People tell me stuff. A lot of stuff. It’s rarely good. But Abigail is surprised it’s happened to her. I reach towards her and gently put my hand on her arm because I’m not capable of finding the correct words.

      ‘Married affection,’ she corrects herself, ‘married love, is often undervalued just because it’s reliable. That’s a tragedy, isn’t it?’ I nod. ‘It’s a tragedy that we don’t value reliability. If our fridge breaks, we throw it out; we don’t try to fix it and we don’t care what becomes of that fridge, if it’s left to rot, if it makes the earth bulge. Landfill.’ She’s warming to her metaphor. ‘People treat their marriages like that a lot of the time. I think I’m an old fridge. He’s got himself a new model, the sort that dispenses ice and has a fancy drawer to keep vegetables fresh.’

      ‘You’ve lost me,’ I murmur.

      ‘Yeah, I’m dragging out the comparison, but you see my point. I’m on the scrap heap.’

      ‘Don’t say that.’

      ‘Why not? It’s true. It was Valentine’s Day. Did I tell you that?’ I gasp and shake my head. Ouch, that’s cruel. ‘He hadn’t mentioned any plans for the evening, which was unusual. Normally we make quite a thing of Valentine’s night, a celebration, you know?’

      ‘Mmm,’ I mumble, not committing. To be honest, Ben and I are not big celebrators of Valentine’s Day. We might remember to pass one another a card across the breakfast table, or we might not. Valentine’s Day often falls in the half-term holiday, and we’re usually more wrapped up in balancing childcare. The most romantic thing Ben can do for me around then is work from home.

      ‘Last year, we went to Hawaii. It seems like five minutes ago. I can still smell the flora and fauna. I can still feel the warm, tranquil waters. It really is a breathtaking place. We had a candlelit dinner on the beach, prepared by the islands’ top chef and served to us by a butler.’

      ‘Wow.’ I know she’s telling me about the romantic gestures of a man she found with his pants around his ankles, but wow. It’s hard not to be a tiny bit impressed.

      ‘One year, he flew me to New York and we went ice-skating in Central Park, then drank hot chocolates in a cutesy log cabin café. Another year we had a helicopter tour of LA at night. He always sent me two dozen red roses. We always did something. This year he hadn’t mentioned what we’d be doing. I just thought he’d planned something extra special. I wanted to be prepared, so as soon as I finished at the studio I dashed to the beautician. Had the usual: a manicure, pedicure, a Brazilian. You know?’

      I do not know. I mean, of course I know in theory that this is what women do to prepare for a special night but I can’t remember the last time I went to a beautician. I can paint my own nails and, as for the other business, well let’s just say Ben has learnt to love the retro look. He’s lucky if I pluck my eyebrows. I just find life busy and tricky enough without having to inflict extra pain on myself for an aesthetic that precisely one person is going to benefit from. I mean, I’d never ask him to put hot wax on his best bits. Ben has never complained about my lack of grooming in that area; it’s not as though he needs help finding his target. I don’t interrupt Abigail to tell her as much. I know she’d be shocked and think I’m slovenly.

      ‘I popped to the salon for a blow dry and it was just chance that my stylist was running ahead of schedule. What were the odds, on Valentine’s Day? Normally there’s a backlog. I was just going home to get changed, and then my plan was to return to the studio so that he could meet me there. I wanted to look fresh and fabulous but without admitting to making the effort. When I saw his car on the driveway I was excited. That’s the worst of it, Mel, I was actually excited to think he was home. I thought maybe we’d have a little afternoon delight, sod the blow dry.’

      I realise that she means the sex she was planning would be the sort to mess up her hair. It’s a bit more detail than I need.

      ‘I knew there was something wrong the moment I went into the house. I could smell her.’

      I glance nervously at the girls. Ostensibly they are playing with their Aquabeads, making coasters or something, caught up in their own worlds, but I’m never certain – they both have big flappy ears and love eavesdropping on my conversations. I throw a significant nod in their direction to give Abi a warning to be careful of what she says in front of them, but I don’t think she catches my drift.

      ‘I could smell her perfume. And there was music playing. Unfamiliar music. Rob usually listens to Oasis or Blur, stuck in the 1990s, hasn’t bought a track since, but I could hear this heavy pounding beat. Hip hop or something. I didn’t call out, I carefully closed the door behind me and crept up the stairs. Knowing what I was going to see but praying that I was wrong.’

      ‘But you weren’t wrong,’ I murmur gently. I reach for the cake plate and offer her a chocolate brownie. I hope that’s enough for today – she can tell me more later. I’m dying to hear more, I’m so flattered that she’s being open with me, but I’m also terrified that she doesn’t have a filter and the girls are going to hear too much.

      ‘I sneaked up the stairs, like a criminal in my own house. The bedroom door was open, and I could see clothes on the floor. They were at it like animals.’ I glance at the girls again. It’s unlikely they understood that. ‘He was