The Girl Next Door. Phoebe Morgan

We’re a team.’

      The clock on the mantelpiece chimes – it’s an old-fashioned one, like my grandmother would own. Sandra never did have much style.

      ‘I’d better get going,’ I say, ‘Jack will be waiting.’ I glance at my watch, feel a rush of anxiety as I picture him looking at his phone for messages, annoyed now that I’m later than I said. Opening a beer, the soft click of the bottle cap releasing. Jack’s lucky to have you, an old friend said to me once. How true those words are now.

      ‘Oh, send our love,’ the women say, almost in a chorus, and I nod, start gathering my bag.

      ‘Ooh!’ Tricia says as I’m nearly at the front door, ‘I almost forgot to say, because of Clare. But did you hear about Lindsay Stevens, from the Close?’ She lowers her voice, even though we’re the only ones in the house apart from Sandra’s kids upstairs. ‘Apparently, her divorce papers came through. Supposedly she’s devastated.’

      ‘Goodness,’ I say, trying to look shocked, arranging my face into an expression somewhere between sympathy and sadness. ‘That’s awful.’

      Tricia nods. ‘I thought I’d bake something for her, drop it round next week.’ She looks at me expectantly.

      ‘I’ll help,’ I say, just in time, and she beams at me, gives my arm a little squeeze.

      ‘Thanks, Jane, you’re a star. See you tomorrow for pick-up time! And get home safe, won’t you? Text us when you get in. God, I won’t sleep properly until we know who did that to Clare.’ She looks worried, and I feel a sudden chill which I push away. It’s a ten-minute walk home, and besides, I’ve been through worse.

      I shut the door quietly behind me, thinking about Lindsay. I can’t tell them how I really feel about her divorce. I can’t tell them that deep down, part of me is jealous. It’s too soon for them to know the truth.

      I walk home, down the quiet road, using the light on my new iPhone to check the ground in front of me, even though I know the small pavements like the back of my hand. I pass the schools on the right, the primary and secondary next to each other, encouraging all our children to stay just five feet from home for the entirety of their young lives, and my torch-light catches the whips of yellow ribbon tied to the row of saplings outside, hastily erected today after the news about Clare came out. Sadness spreads fast. Quickly, I move the beam away and stumble slightly. I’m drunker than I thought.

      The Edwards’ house is lit up, lights blazing. As I get closer, my heart starts to jump in my chest. There are cars outside: two police, one black. Can’t really pass all this off to Harry as a security breach again. It won’t be long before the journalists descend. I shudder at the thought, thinking of the horror of last night. I think of my daughter Sophie, the sweet pink pout of her lips, the way her little white socks slip down her ankles. If anything happened to her, I’d die. She’s our only girl, though I always wanted more. I don’t have a sister, and Jack never speaks to his older sister Katherine – but we ended up with two boys. Not that I’d change Harry and Finn now, not for the world. Well. I might make Harry a touch more communicative. A touch less interested in blondes.

      I walk quickly past the Edwards’ house, keeping my head down, not checking to see if there’s anyone sitting inside the parked cars. My keys are cold in my hand. I press the metal into my palm, harder and harder until it hurts. Our front door is heavy, a wooden slab framed by a thatched roof. If there was a fire, we’d all be up in smoke. Maybe that would be a good thing. He’s suggested it more than once. Shouted it, in fact. Luckily the children had Harry Potter on, the audiobook blasting into their little ears. Drowning out Daddy. I suppose Harry might have heard.

      Inside our house, I press my back against the door, force myself to take deep breaths. Harry is home tonight; his huge black trainers are discarded inside the front hallway. I bend to pick them up, stack them neatly on the shoe rack, wanting to create a sense of order to ease my jumbled mind. I hope he’s feeling better. It’s horribly unsettling, having this happen so close to home. I know it’s awful, I know I should be focused on our neighbours and their grief, but selfishly, I don’t want the police sniffing around my family, prising apart the cracks in my marriage. Things can still change, any day now. He is usually sorry. So, so sorry. And the bruises fade fast, after all. There’s never been any point getting anyone else involved. Not at this stage.

      Jack is sitting up in our living room, just as I pictured him, his legs stretched out on the large grey sofa that cost us over three grand. Three grand, I wanted to say to him, three grand would’ve sent Sophie to the private school in Saffron Walden. The 52-inch television screen is flickering in front of him, the volume down low. He puts a finger to his lips as he sees me. My stomach clenches.

      ‘The kids are asleep. Well, Harry’s on the Xbox, I think, in his room. But Sophie and Finn went down over an hour ago.’ He’s staring at me. Unblinking.

      ‘Thank you,’ I say robotically, moving through the room to the kitchen, the spaces joined together by the dark beamed archway. I stand at the sink, run a glass of cold water. The basin is deep, the gold tap high above it. Modern. Trendy. The kitchen faces the Edwards’ house. I wonder if Jack has been watching too.

      ‘Were the children alright?’ I ask.

      ‘Fine,’ he says, ‘Sophie wanted a story, Finn wanted more juice. Harry grunted at me. Nothing too strenuous.’

      I can’t work out what mood he’s in. Words hang between us, all the things we’re not saying.

      He gestures to me and I wobble towards him, fingers clamped around the water glass. He smiles up at me, puckers his mouth into the kissy shape that used to mean he wanted sex, and I grip the glass even tighter and purse my lips back at him, trying for a moment to recreate the old magic.

      Later. I’ve swept up the broken glass, keeping a sliver wrapped in kitchen paper, up where the matches are kept so the kids don’t get hold of it. Just in case. I have these little weapons hidden around the house – break in case of emergency. The knife slipped between the top row of paperbacks in our room, third from the left, next to Wolf Hall. The envelope of twenties nestled in with the cookbooks. My escape routes, such as they are. He doesn’t know, I don’t think.

      In bed, we turn towards each other; I’ve brushed my teeth, he hasn’t. I can still taste the slight fug of alcohol on my tongue, feel the beat of my heart in my ears. I picture Rachel and Ian lying in bed next door; I can’t imagine they’re asleep either. Maybe they’re not even in, maybe they’re down at the police station already. Perhaps the police are searching the house. I think of them thumbing through Clare’s things, their eyes taking in every little detail. I’ve watched too much CSI.

      ‘How were the PTA girls?’ Jack asks, and I half smile in spite of myself. Girls. We’re forty-five.

      ‘Lindsay’s divorce papers came through,’ I tell him, ‘Tricia spilled her wine. Sandra says her heart hurts.’

      ‘That’s impossible,’ he says, and I roll my eyes in the darkness. Always the doctor. ‘Why’s she getting a divorce?’

      I shift onto my back. The white curtain brushes my arm, ghostly in the darkness. We’re trying so hard to be normal that it hurts. ‘I didn’t get to find out.’

      I can almost feel the twist of his smirk, although his lips are barely an outline.

      ‘Lucky her.’

      There’s a pause.

      ‘Jane,’ he says then, ‘about last night…’

      I wait. I suppose I’m waiting for an apology, but this time, one doesn’t come.

      I wish I could barricade the downy pillows between us, protect myself in my sleep. I want to talk more about Clare but I can’t; instead I stare at the wall and think of my children, of their sweet, chubby little faces, their sweeping dark eyelashes, the soft inhale and exhale of their breath in the next room. I think of Harry, his teenage body sprawled out underneath the duvet, the smattering of newly acquired