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

say that she was the only woman he’d ever truly loved, or wanted. It didn’t have to be true. Just convenient.

      It sometimes felt it was like an incredibly fast version of that arcade game, Whac-A-Mole, where moles appear at random and the player must use a mallet to hit them back into their holes. Other women kept popping up. She’d have to slam them down. Bash them back into their places. Thwack, thump, slap. Take that.

      It was exhausting.

      She’d had enough.

5

       Melanie

      ‘What are you doing?’ asks Ben as he carefully edges in the door, through the hall, past the paint-splattered sheet that I’ve put on the floor to protect the carpet. It’s a thoughtful act. Lily walked right over it and inadvertently stood in some wet paint; paint that is now trailed throughout the kitchen and sitting room. I’ll get a wet cloth and sort that out later. He loosens his tie, a gesture I always think of as sexy. At least, part of me thinks that he looks sexy, another part of me clocks that he looks worn out; unfortunately, both of those things are overwhelmed by my own sense of panic and exhaustion. Ben is a financial director in a small software company. I’m certain what he does is important, crucial maybe – it’s just not very comprehensible, at least not to me. Even so, I do normally ask how his day has been.

      Today I snap, ‘What does it look like I’m doing?’

      ‘Painting the hallway.’

      ‘Give the man a prize.’

      ‘But why?’

      ‘It needed painting.’

      ‘Have the kids been fed?’

      ‘I asked Liam to do some fish fingers and beans for the girls.’

      Ben makes his way into the sitting room. I hear a blast of CBeebies as the door opens and then the excited shouts of the girls as they fling themselves at him, demanding cuddles, desperate to off-load their news. I wasn’t very receptive to their chatter about the trials and tribulations, triumphs and trade-offs that occurred at school today. When I picked them up, I more or less frogmarched them home, then stuck them in front of the TV until Liam arrived back and could take over. He’s a good kid. I feel a bit guilty that neither my kids nor my husband got the welcome they deserve today. I have nearly finished a first coat on the hall walls. The jackets, scarfs, hats, gloves, shoes and other debris from the hallway are now in the sitting room in a huge untidy pile. I’m at the stage of the job when you just wish you hadn’t started.

      Ben knows me well enough to leave me to it. He takes over from Liam with looking after the girls. He listens to them reading, gets them bathed and into bed. Liam does his homework, then goes out to meet his girlfriend, Tanya. While the paint in the hallway is drying I start to thoroughly clean the sitting room. This largely involves picking up an endless stream of newspapers, books, toys, stray socks, hair clips, Lego, cups, and plates, etc. looking at these items helplessly for a moment and then throwing them into the kitchen sink, a cupboard, or the girls’ bedroom.

      I run out of paint halfway through the second coat. I’m a little snow-blind anyway. It’s late, there’s no natural light and in the electric light it’s hard to see where I have layered the second coat and where I haven’t.

      I admit as much to Ben and he comments, ‘That suggests a second coat is unnecessary. Come on, love. I’ve made you a cheese and pickle sandwich. You should eat something. Come and sit down for five minutes and tell me what the rush is.’

      It’s too welcome an invite to resist. I collapse into a kitchen chair. Ben squeezes my shoulder and I lay my cheek on his hand. He feels warm, smooth, comfortable. ‘We’re expecting a guest,’ I explain.

      ‘We are?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘My mother?’ He looks a bit aghast as he places the sandwich in front of me.

      ‘No.’

      ‘Who, then?’

      ‘My friend, Abigail Curtiz.’

      He sits opposite me, scrunches up his eyes the way he always does when he’s trying to recall someone. ‘Oh, the woman who emailed this morning?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘When is she coming?’

      ‘Thursday.’

      ‘This Thursday?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘And you’re redecorating because someone is coming to dinner?’

      ‘She’s staying with us for a few days.’

      ‘How long is a few days?’ he asks suspiciously. Ben is a social man, he’ll accept pretty much any invite that comes our way and we reciprocate, too. However, he has his limits. He likes waking up in his own bed and he doesn’t like entertaining before breakfast, so he’s not a big fan of stayovers.

      ‘I’m not sure. As long as she needs,’ I reply, vaguely.

      ‘But why?’

      ‘I told you, she’s getting a divorce.’ I realise this doesn’t address the question he is asking. Why would I invite someone he’s never heard of until today to stay with us? We rarely have house guests. Theoretically we have a spare room but it’s incredibly small and currently stacked with boxes full of Christmas decorations, old clothes, files and photo albums as well as unused gym equipment and the ironing board. ‘I think it will be nice,’ I say breezily.

      ‘How will it be nice? It will be cramped.’

      ‘Cosy,’ I insist. I start to devour my sandwich. I hadn’t realised how hungry I was until I stopped painting. Besides, with my mouth full I can’t answer any difficult questions.

      Ben studies me. ‘Will it be OK, her staying here for a few days?’

      ‘What do you mean? Why wouldn’t it be OK?’

      ‘It’s just I haven’t heard you talk much about this Abigail Curtiz over the years. At all, actually. I didn’t realise she was a particular friend, not the sort you offer our spare room to indefinitely. I mean, who is she?’

      ‘Well, we were once very close. People lose touch.’ I hope Ben won’t push. I can’t bring myself to articulate exactly why we had to go our separate ways. Why me having Liam made it impossible for me to continue to be her friend. He must understand our lives went in very different directions. While I was trying to secure a place for Liam at nursery, Abi was stepping onto the stage to receive her certificate that confirmed her first-class honours degree. While I was spooning goop into Liam’s mouth, Abi was being interviewed for her first job in TV as the assistant to Piers Morgan’s assistant. ‘No big thing. We just drifted,’ I say with a shrug. ‘You’ll like her. I promise. Everyone does.’ I stand up, lean across the table and kiss him briefly on the lips. He stands too and puts his hand on the back of my head, kisses me hard and long. Even after all these years, that particular manoeuvre makes me melt.

      ‘I have cleaning to get on with,’ I mumble, breaking away.

      ‘We’ll be quick.’ I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘Liam’s out and the girls are asleep. Why wouldn’t we?’ He’s kissing my neck now.

      ‘What’s got into you?’ I ask, giggling. ‘It’s a Monday night.’

      ‘It must be the paint fumes,’ he replies. He slips his hand up my T-shirt and works his thumbs under my bra strap. My body leans into his; instinct, habit, pleasure. I’m aching from painting and tidying all day but suddenly I realise this is what I need, what I want. It delights me that Ben knew as much before I did.

      ‘You are not suggesting doing it on the kitchen table, are you?’

      ‘I