The Woman At The Door Read online

  THE WOMAN AT THE DOOR

  DANIEL HURST

  www.danielhurstbooks.com

  Copyright © 2021 by Daniel Hurst

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  PROLOGUE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  A Letter from the Author

  Also By Daniel Hurst

  About The Author

  PROLOGUE

  It all started with a knock on the door.

  If only I hadn’t answered it, all of this might never have happened. Things certainly would have been different.

  My perfect marriage wouldn’t have been blown up.

  My love for my husband wouldn’t have been put to the test.

  I certainly wouldn’t have kicked him out.

  But the past can’t be changed. The fact remains that there was a knock at the door, and I went and answered it. That was the moment that my whole life changed. Such a simple, stupid moment. It should have been a completely forgettable thing, like taking out the bin bags or stubbing a toe on the corner of a doorframe.

  A non-event. Tediously dull.

  Just life.

  But that knock at the door was so much more than that. It changed my life forever.

  That’s because it was the first time that I saw her.

  The woman at the door changed everything. Nothing was ever the same again after she came calling. I hated her, yet in some twisted way, I also feel like I admired her. She was my complete opposite in almost every single way, and there was something fascinating in that.

  There was something so simple about the way in which she broke my life apart.

  I can’t stop thinking about her.

  The woman at the door.

  Why did you have to knock?

  1

  REBECCA

  You can’t beat a Saturday night. For my money, it’s the best time of the week, and I’m sure I’m not alone in thinking that. Friday nights are great, don’t get me wrong, but they are often laced with the fatigue that comes at the end of five full working days. Those evenings were much livelier when I was younger and sleep deprivation wasn’t a factor in my life, but these days, I’m usually in bed at ten on a Friday. Maybe I shouldn’t admit that. I’ve still got two years to go until my fortieth birthday, so I can hardly put my end-of-week weariness down to age. But it is what it is.

  Fridays used to be the best.

  But not anymore.

  Sunday nights have been, are and always will be the worst night of the week. I think we can all agree on that. I’ve hated them since childhood when my parents would make me take a bath in preparation for a new school week, and I continue to hate them to this day as I get ready to go back to the office on Monday morning. Sunday nights are a dead zone. It’s technically still the weekend, but you can’t do any fun weekend things like getting drunk or having a night away in a hotel room in the country. That’s because you have to be ready to go in the morning when the rat race commences again, and it’s hard to do that if you’re hungover or on the other side of the country from wherever your workplace might be.

  I got drunk on a Sunday night once.

  The Monday morning was so bad that I’ve never done it again.

  Yes, there’s no doubt in my mind that Saturday nights are the best night of the week. Fresh from a good night’s sleep and a long lie-in, the first day of the weekend can be spent doing whatever I wish. Shopping for too many things. Eating too many calories. Drinking too many calories. Saturdays are fun, and it means that by the time the evening comes around, I’m feeling refreshed, revitalised and ready for romance. My husband and I have a Saturday night tradition. We order an Indian takeaway, we pick a good movie to watch, and we curl up on the sofa to spend an enjoyable few hours in each other’s company. We don’t judge the other one on how much curry we eat, and we don’t fight over what film to watch. That’s because we’re far too comfortable with each other to care.

  I’ve been married to Sam for three years, but we were together for eight years before that. That’s a long time in anybody’s book, well, anybody’s except my parents. They have been together for fifty years and make jokes about how my relationship is still in its infancy. But eleven years is definitely a long time, and it explains why Sam and I are so settled with each other. Some people in their late thirties might want to spend their Saturday nights out on the town, clinging onto their last remnants of youth by drinking in dodgy pubs and trying to hold a conversation where the music is too loud to hold one. But not us. We’re happy to hurtle headlong into middle age right here on our sofa with a masala and a couple of poppadoms in front of us and the smug and satisfied glow that comes with knowing that we are everything that the other person needs.

  ‘Have you got any naan bread left?’

  Sam’s query is a simple one, and I reply with a simple answer.

  ‘Yeah. Help yourself.’

  I see Sam’s hand reach out for the large piece of bread sitting by my plate and smile, not because he is taking my food but because I knew he would. He does this every week. He starts by telling me that he is cutting down on carbs, so he will not be ordering any naan from the takeaway. I ask him if he is sure because I know how much he likes to dip the bread in his curry sauce when he gets going. But he always insists that he doesn’t want one. Fast-forward to an hour later when the food has arrived, and he’s looking at me and my naan forlornly before the question comes.

  He knows I always have some left for him.

  That’s because I know he is always going to ask.

  The food has been exceptionally good tonight, even though we always order from the same place. Maybe they have a new chef, or perhaps the cooks were in a slightly better mood this evening and made more of an effort. Whatever the reason, I’m feeling very pleased with my meal, even if I have just lost a chunk of it to my husband.

  The film we chose to watch is not bad either. It’s a comedy about a woman trying to adjust to becoming a mum. I’m finding it funny, although maybe that’s because I don’t have children of my own. That means I can laugh at how terrifying it all is for somebody else. I’m surprised Sam agreed to watch this movie because I was sure that he was going to ask me to pick something else, but he’s been laughing away a couple of times at some of the jokes too.

&nb
sp; Or at least he has when his mouth hasn’t been full of my naan bread.

  All in all, it’s a very normal Saturday night. A quick check on the time tells me that it has only just gone eight, which means there are still a few more hours of the evening to enjoy yet. Maybe there will be time for another movie after this one, or maybe Sam and I will head into the bedroom early and add a little more spice to our evening to go along with the curry.

  We should probably have sex tonight. It’s been over a week, and I know he’ll be thinking about it. I’m thinking about it too, but I could easily go another night, especially now I’ve just eaten my bodyweight in Indian food. But I’ll see how I’m feeling after the film. Maybe I’ll come onto him when we get in bed. Or maybe I’ll just do it right here on the sofa.

  It is Saturday night, after all.

  But any plans we have are thrown into mild disarray by the sudden knocking at the door.

  ‘Who’s that at this time?’ Sam asks with a mouthful of naan bread.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not expecting anybody. Are you?’

  ‘No. Is it another one of your packages?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I haven’t ordered anything recently.’

  I usually take delivery of at least three or four things a week from my favourite online stores, keeping the local delivery drivers busy, as well as keeping my husband irritated at all the cardboard boxes piling up in the hallway. But I definitely haven’t ordered anything for a while, so it can’t be that. And neither of us are expecting a friend or family member to call around at this time either.

  So who is it?

  ‘I’ll go,’ Sam says, putting down his knife and fork and trying to swallow down a bit of naan bread before he stands. But I’ve already finished eating, so I decide to take this one.

  ‘It’s okay, love. I’ve got it.’

  I get up from the sofa and head for the living room door, leaving behind the food and drinks, as well as the movie that still has a while to run.

  ‘Do you want me to pause it?’ Sam asks helpfully, but I shake my head.

  ‘It’s fine. I’ll be back in a second.’

  I leave the room and enter the hallway, thinking that whoever it is at the door will have the wrong address. It’s probably a takeaway driver getting mixed up on our street. It happens every now and again because of the way the houses are numbered around here. The numbers are all over the place as if they were assigned by a sulky school kid who hated Maths and just wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. We’re next to number six, which means we should either be four or eight. But we’re not.

  We’re fourteen.

  Yeah, it’s messed up.

  I reach the front door and take off the latch, which didn’t really need to be on until we went to bed, but I like to put it on early if we’re staying in because it makes me feel safer and saves me a job later.

  God, I am getting old, aren’t I?

  With the latch off, I just need to turn the handle. As I do, the door swings open and I get a good look at the person standing on the doorstep.

  But they’re not what I was expecting. Instead of an overweight male delivery driver clutching a bag of someone else’s food, I see a blonde woman wearing a smart black coat. Her red lipstick matches her red fingernails, and it looks as if she is ready for a night out. If she is then she is definitely in the wrong place. But before I can say anything, she speaks first.

  ‘Are you Rebecca Andrews?’ she asks me.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The wife of Sam Andrews?’

  ‘That’s right. Who are you?’

  ‘I’m the woman he slept with last month. I’m guessing that he didn’t tell you about me.’

  2

  SAM

  I can feel the draught from the open front door all the way in here. I’m not sure who it is out there, but I’m hoping Rebecca can get rid of them quickly so we can go back to enjoying our night. I know she said that she didn’t want me to pause the movie for her, but I’ve done it anyway. It’s partly because I don’t want her to miss anything while she is out of the room, but mainly it’s because she’ll spend the rest of the film asking me what’s happening if I don’t. It’s just easier if I pause it so that we can pick up where we left off when she returns.

  But she isn’t back yet, and the chilly air from outside is still seeping into our house.

  I think about getting off the sofa and going to see who it is at the door, but that would require me moving, and that’s easier said than done after all the food I’ve eaten tonight. I’ve not finished yet though thanks to Rebecca kindly giving me her leftover naan bread, and I’m very much looking forward to using it to mop up the last of my curry sauce. But I can’t do that if I’m out in the hallway, so I stay where I am and keep eating.

  I do feel slightly guilty for eating this bread when I had made the vow to myself to give up carbs for a while. It’s a vow I have made several times in the past, and I am yet to stick to it. I really thought tonight would be the night when I exercised some restraint and stayed away from the dreaded bread, but alas, here I am again, scoffing down the extra calories as if it’s my last meal on Earth.

  It’s not that I’m overweight and really need to lose a few pounds or anything. It’s just that I know I will feel better within myself if I curb my carb consumption. After all, I’m not eighteen anymore. I’m thirty-eight now, and the pounds are slowly starting to pile on, which means I have to do something if I don’t want to be reasonably rotund by the time I hit forty. There’s not much one can do about getting older but keeping in shape is definitely within my control, so I do need to make the effort.

  Starting tomorrow, of course.

  I finish off my delightful meal, ensuring that there isn’t a scrap of food left in any of the silver trays that were dropped off here by a polite Indian man an hour ago, before taking a deep breath and sinking back into the sofa. I feel like a whale, and right now, I probably look like one too. My stomach is bloated, thanks to the curry and naan, although the two pints of lager that I washed it all down with haven’t helped there either. If I had my way, I wouldn’t move now until bedtime, which will probably be when this movie finishes. It won’t be a late night, and I do like the idea of getting into bed early with Rebecca and seeing where the mood takes us, but then again, I’m not exactly feeling like a Casanova with a full curry inside of me. Hopefully, my stomach will go down, and I’ll be feeling a little more energetic when the film finishes. But the pause symbol is still showing on the TV screen, which means the film won’t be finishing anytime soon. That’s because Rebecca is still not back yet from answering the door.

  What is taking her so long?

  I decide to go and investigate, but I’m one of the few talented men that can do two things at once, so I pick up our dirty plates as I go, planning on dumping them in the kitchen after I’ve checked on my wife in the hallway.

  Carrying the plates to the door, I notice that Rebecca has left some of her rice. Unlike me, she is able to exercise some level of control around carbohydrates. I’d ask her for some tips if I knew she wouldn’t laugh at me.

  Leaving the room, I enter the hallway, and that’s when I hear Rebecca calling out of the open doorway.

  ‘Wait! Come back!’ she cries, although I’m not sure who she is talking to because I can’t see the other person. It looks like they have already left, but I walk towards the door to see if I can get a glimpse of them anyway. But just before I reach the door, Rebecca turns and sees me standing there holding the plates with a confused expression on my face. But it’s not my expression that is the problem.

  It’s hers.

  She looks distressed.

  ‘Who was it?’ I ask, wishing I could put the plates down somewhere but feeling like this is more important at the minute.

  But Rebecca doesn’t answer me. Instead, she just glares at me, and that’s when I notice that she has tears in her eyes.

  ‘Rebecca. What’s happened?’ I ask, and thi
s time, I decide to do something about the plates so that I can make sure she is alright.

  I put them on the bottom step of the staircase before reaching out for my wife with my now-empty hands, but she moves away from me, which is very unlike her.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I ask again, and I’ve lost count of how many questions that is now since I came out here. But I know how many times she has answered me.

  Zero.

  ‘Rebecca?’

  ‘Get away from me.’

  Her response is shocking both in its content and delivery. She spoke the words in such a harsh manner as if she really meant it.

  ‘Will you tell me what’s going on?’ I plead, feeling the cold air blowing in from the open doorway and wondering if Rebecca can feel it too. She must do. So why isn’t she closing the door?

  Why does she look like she wants to run out of it?

  ‘Rebecca. Please!’

  I sound more desperate now, but that’s only because I am feeling it. I have never seen my wife like this before. She looks like she hates me, but that doesn’t make any sense. Two minutes ago, we were having a great Saturday night with a takeaway and a film. One knock at the door and all that has changed.

  Who the hell was it?

  ‘Will you at least close the door? It’s freezing,’ I say, hoping that a bit of common sense might be the thing to do the trick and get us to be more communicative with each other again. But it seems that my wife’s mood towards me is even colder than the weather outside, and she ignores my request, instead remaining at a safe distance from me in the open doorway.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ I confess, throwing up my hands in despair. ‘If you don’t tell me what this is about then how I can help?’

  ‘Who was she?’ Rebecca asks, and the question catches me off guard, not just because I wasn’t expecting her to speak.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The woman that just turned up on my doorstep.’

  ‘What woman?’

  I try to look past Rebecca and out onto the street to see who she might be talking about, but it’s too dark out there, and I can’t see anybody.