The Housewife
Natalie Barelli
PROLOGUE
“I’ve been underestimated my whole life,” I say.
Detective Bates is hunched over his paperwork, his shoulders rounded like a bear. He’s far too big for the chair. I don’t know why they don’t give him a special one. Even the pen looks tiny in his hand.
“You have, have you?”
My sister used to say, Sarcasm is when someone says something but they mean the opposite, usually to make fun of you, but in a jokey way.
Is Detective Bates being sarcastic? Probably. I am seated at a table that’s been bolted to the floor in a nondescript interview room with no windows. The only sound, other than the scratching of Detective Bates’s pen, is the fluorescent tube buzzing above my head. I’m not in handcuffs, but you get the sense there could be a “yet” after that statement. Also, I have a considerable amount of blood on me, and my Max Mara shirt is sticking to my skin. I tug at it. It’s not my blood, so there’s that, but still. The secret with blood is speed. You have to soak the fabric in cold water as soon as possible so the stain doesn’t set.
“Can I go home now?”
Detective Bates looks up sharply. “Your house is a crime scene, Mrs. Davies.”
I nod and use two fingers to dab at the corners of my eyes.
He stares at me for a moment. “My apologies.” He reaches for a box of tissues and slides it over to me. I pull one out.
“Thank you.”
“My colleague will be back any minute and we can restart the interview. I apologize for the delay.”
“I understand. It’s no problem,” I say, folding the tissue and gently pressing it under one eye, then the other.
Detective Bates resumes writing his report; a clock on the wall ticks by.
There’s a bit of old Scotch tape stuck to the table, brittle and yellow with age. I peel one corner up with my fingernail. It breaks off, leaving a sticky smudge behind.
“What do you clean the table with?”
Again, that odd look. “I don’t know. I don’t do the cleaning.”
“Who does?”
“That’d be the cleaners.”
“Tell them to soak a cloth in white vinegar and leave it on for a few minutes. It will break down the stickiness. And if that doesn’t work, mix a spoonful of baking soda with a bit of water to form a paste and gently scrub it with a sponge.”
“I’ll be sure to pass it on.” He turns the page in front of him. “What’s your occupation, Mrs. Davies?”
I lean forward to peer down at the form. Make sure he gets it right.
“Housewife.”
1
Two weeks earlier
“They got married very fast. Very fast, if you know what I mean.”
I’m about to bring out a tray of whipped goat cheese tartlets with caramelized onion and thyme when I hear Meredith talk about me. I know it’s me they’re discussing because Roy and I did indeed get married very fast. Not even three months after we first met, I stood at the altar in my exquisite Elie Saab wedding dress, a thick, gold wedding band encrusted with pavé diamonds sliding onto my finger.
I retreat behind the archway leading to the living room and listen.
“She’s very pretty,” Eileen says.
“And very young,” Meredith says. “Twenty years younger than him, I’d say. ”
“Typical,” Eileen mumbles.
“Deborah was barely in her grave,” Barb says.
“But why so soon?” Eileen asks.
“She was pregnant, didn’t you know?” Meredith says.
“Jodie was pregnant?” Eileen asks.
“Yes!”
“Right! Well, that explains a lot!” Barb laughs.
“But she’s not pregnant now, is she?” Eileen says.
“Apparently, she lost the baby,” Meredith says. Then, sotto voce, she adds, “They always do, don’t they? Her type? As soon as they’ve got the ring on that finger, that baby magically disappears down the toilet. And I don’t mind saying, thank God for that.”
“You want me to take that, Mrs. Davies?” Marie says behind me, loud enough for the guests to hear. Marie is our housekeeper. I turn around and find her smirking at me. Not that I’m surprised since she’s always smirking at me. At first, I used to think it was a deformity, that maybe there was something wrong with her mouth, but then I’ve never seen her smirk at Roy.
“No, thank you. I’ve got it,” I say, then walk through the arch with my tray and my head held high.
I don’t usually mind what people say about me, but in this case, I do. These ladies—these harpies, as my mother would have called them—are my husband’s friends. I want to get to know them so I can ask them questions about my husband because, as Meredith rightly points out, we did get married very fast. I want to ask things like, What is Roy really like? Does he actually like offal? Because I made an offal dish once, and he didn’t eat much, even though he said he loved it. Any hidden personality quirks I should be aware of? Have you ever seen him lose his temper? Because I’m yet to see that, but then, still waters run deep. Isn’t that what they say?
I walk past the harpies with my tray, scanning the floor for traces of mud as I go. I wish they’d taken their shoes off, or at the very least, stood somewhere other than right in the middle of the ivory and faded-blush Turkish rugs.