Invite Me In

  Emma Curtis

  * * *

  INVITE ME IN

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Emma Curtis was born in Brighton and now lives in London with her husband. After raising two children and working various jobs, her fascination with the darker side of domestic life inspired her to write her acclaimed psychological suspense thrillers One Little Mistake, When I Find You, The Night You Left and Keep Her Quiet. Find her on Twitter: emmacurtisbooks

  Praise for Emma Curtis

  ‘An excellent read! So original and clever that I was completely absorbed … Gripping, tense and twisty with an unexpected ending. Phenomenal.’

  Claire Douglas

  ‘Emma Curtis is the queen of the unputdownable thriller.’

  Nuala Ellwood

  ‘A dark, gripping page-turner.’

  Sarah Vaughan

  ‘A twist that almost made me miss my flight.’

  Jane Corry

  ‘Filled with drama and twists that exploded on to the page at every turn.’

  Lauren North

  ‘A tense and utterly engrossing story.’

  Tammy Cohen

  ‘Starting from a brilliantly twisted premise, the tension simply doesn’t let up.’

  Nicola Rayner

  ‘I loved it from start to finish.’

  Phoebe Morgan

  www.penguin.co.uk

  By Emma Curtis

  ONE LITTLE MISTAKE

  WHEN I FIND YOU

  THE NIGHT YOU LEFT

  KEEP HER QUIET

  INVITE ME IN

  and published by Black Swan

  This book owes a huge debt to my wonderful friend David Fraser, who allowed me to pick his brains about living as a paraplegic, and who read and fact-checked the first draft for me. As a trustee of Back Up, over the years David has helped many newly paralysed men and women adjust to life in a wheelchair. Everyone’s experience is different and my character Martin Curran is just one man, but it was so important to me to get it right.

  www.backuptrust.org.uk

  1

  The room is filled with summer sunshine. It falls through the two sash windows in great shafts, warming the unsanded floorboards and making the freshly painted walls gleam. The tiler, at work in the bathroom, is listening to a 1980s station on the radio. It’s playing ‘Hold Me Now’ by the Thompson Twins. He likes the eighties stuff; the music my father used to listen to.

  I dreamt about Dad last night for the first time in months.

  My arm rises and falls to the beat as I apply a fresh coat of paint with the roller. My hips and shoulders move in time too. When I’m done, I stand back to admire my handiwork.

  This flat has been a sanctuary. I expect that’s why I had the dream; because the renovation is almost complete and it’ll be rented out soon. Just this room and the carpeting, and then I’m done and it won’t be my sanctuary any more. It’ll be someone else’s. Martin felt like a safe place once, two arms to enfold me, when I was too young to realize I had taken the easy option, that I needed to do it for myself. And now it’s too late; I’m trapped.

  Flat 2, 42 Linden Road. I spotted the ‘FOR SALE’ sign on the walk to Lucas’s school two months ago, viewed it the same morning and then convinced Martin it would be a sound investment. The four flats we currently rent out are modern, trouble-free boxes; this would be our first fixer-upper. Martin didn’t take much convincing; after all, it’s a lot closer to home than the others. A five-minute drive or a twenty-minute walk. He’s happier when I’m close by.

  I check my phone. Twelve fifteen. Time to start cleaning up. Martin likes lunch at one on the dot, and he likes us to have it together, even if it means interrupting my day.

  I push the lid back on the paint pot, take the roller, paintbrush and tray into the kitchen and turn on the taps. Paint ripples through the stream of warm water as I press it out of the foam. It swirls down the drain. I repeat the process until the water runs clear. Down below in the narrow strip of a garden, a workman puts the finishing touches to the decking. What had been an overgrown mess used as somewhere to dump unwanted household items is now a low-maintenance urban oasis.

  Unaware of me watching, the workman straightens up, rolls his shoulders, then walks back to the house and pulls a Peroni out of the small cooler bag he’s left at the bottom of the stairs. He turns to look at his handiwork, raising the bottle to his lips, one hand rubbing the back of his neck as he glugs it down. My hold on the paintbrush tightens.

  The doorbell rings. Startled out of my trance, I drop the paintbrush, turn off the tap and go downstairs. I expect it’s a delivery.

  There are events in all our lives that trigger change. Sometimes it’s a tiny thing; a missed connection on a journey. Sometimes it’s huge; a car crash, a death. You can wake up in your bed, yawn and glance at the clock, get up and put the kettle on, not knowing that at some point on this ordinary day, life will take a different course. For Martin, it was the moment he left the pub. If it had been even thirty seconds earlier or later, things would have been very different.

  I’m standing in the cramped entrance to the flat, holding open the door, looking up into the smiling face of a stranger, and I don’t know, I don’t have a clue that this is my fork in the road, or that the choice I’m going to make is crucial, that people’s lives are in the balance. What I say, what I do, what I sense.

  The man standing on the doorstep is empty-handed.

  ‘Hi?’ I say, turning the greeting into a question.

  ‘Hello,’ he replies. ‘I’m your new tenant.’

  2

  Did I miss something? A message from the lettings agent? I feel flustered and mildly embarrassed.

  ‘I’m so sorry, but the flat won’t be available for another two weeks. How did you know it was a rental?’

  ‘Oh shit, I was only joking,’ he says. He thrusts his fingers through his already mussed hair and scratches his scalp. ‘I’ve just been in Hooper’s. They didn’t have anything suitable to show me, but they mentioned this place was coming up.’ The big friendly smile dims. ‘I’m sorry, this was inappropriate. I’ll go away.’ He pauses, perhaps waiting for me to say something. ‘It’s only … This is exactly where I want to be. I know it’s cheeky, but I wanted to get in before anyone else did.’

  Do I tell him to han
g on until it’s officially advertised? I should be leaving but his face is so earnest and warm. What could five minutes matter? I open the door wider, standing back. ‘I’m on my way out so it’ll have to be quick, but why don’t you come up and I’ll give you a sneak preview. It’s not finished so you’ll have to excuse the state it’s in, but at least you’ll know if you like it, and then, if you’re still interested, you can be first in the queue.’

  He looks uncertain. ‘Is that OK? I mean, you don’t know me from Adam. I could be a serial killer.’

  ‘I hope not. But I’m not on my own. There are workmen here so I think I’ll be all right. My name’s Eliza, by the way, Eliza Curran.’

  ‘Dan Jones.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Dan. You go first.’

  ‘OK. Well, thanks. I appreciate it.’

  He goes upstairs and heads straight into the sitting room where the pot of paint is still standing on its piece of newspaper. The wall colour is soft and inviting. When I first walked round the flat, even when it was covered with garish floral wallpaper and disintegrating brown carpet, I’d felt embraced. The flats on Linden Road are Edwardian, built around 1910, so the proportions are generous, graceful even.

  He pokes his head into the bathroom, says a cheery hello to the tiler and admires the greenish-blue bevelled tiles. In the kitchen there’s a table, big enough to squeeze four people round. Sometimes I’ve allowed myself to imagine living here with the children, how I’d arrange things. It’s tiny compared to our house, and there wouldn’t be much money, but we’d be cocooned and happy, there’d be no pressure, no stress, no need to be constantly alert. Most of all, I would be in control, not Martin. It’s only a dream. In reality there would still be stress.

  ‘Oh, wow. It’s perfect.’

  I glow with the pride of a child getting a good school report. I haven’t felt this sense of ownership with our other flats; they’ve merely been a means to an end, a financial transaction. Linden Road is different. Linden Road feels like a friend.

  ‘This is great,’ Dan says, making a beeline for the windows and peering out into the street. ‘And there’re two bedrooms, aren’t there?’

  ‘Yes, but the second one’s more of a single. Were you hoping to flat-share?’

  ‘No,’ he says, turning away from the window. ‘It’s only me, but I’d like a study. I work for myself.’

  ‘We could fit a desk in, with a single bed. It might be a bit cosy.’

  ‘That wouldn’t matter.’

  Things are moving too swiftly and I pull back. ‘Obviously, it’ll be subject to references and a credit check.’

  ‘You can’t be too careful,’ he agrees.

  Dan is wearing a T-shirt and scruffy jeans with rips in the knees, which gives me pause. A self-employed tenant is a risk. Martin won’t like it. His ideal would be a young professional, or a couple, who would take care of the place. It’s the first time I’ve thought about my husband since Dan arrived, and with that thought his presence descends like a weight on my chest. I really should be leaving, but something about Dan makes me want to continue chatting.

  ‘What do you do for a living?’

  ‘I’m that conversation stopper, the tech support guy,’ he says. ‘But I also design websites and marketing material. I write copy for businesses and advise them on content as well. And I create 3D floor plans for developers. A bit of everything.’

  ‘Gosh. I wouldn’t know where to start with that. You must be very clever.’

  ‘Highly intelligent,’ he says. His smile is contagious. ‘Practically a boffin. What about you?’

  ‘Averagely intelligent.’ Did that sound arch? Oh God. It did.

  He laughs. ‘I didn’t mean that. Is this place a one-off or are you a serial landlady?’

  ‘Oh, I, we …’ I stammer. ‘I mean, my husband and I own several flats in the town.’

  His gaze drops to my ring finger.

  ‘Nice business to be in.’

  ‘So your income is regular?’

  ‘It is, part of it at least – I’m on a retainer for a couple of clients. I can show you my bank statements if that would reassure you.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Hooper’s will do that.’

  ‘Seriously though, I want it.’ There’s that infectious grin again. ‘What do I have to do to stop you putting it on the open market?’

  I notice that his hands move a lot; rubbing his face, the back of his neck, touching his hair, his nose. Occasionally he shoves them into his pockets in an effort to keep them still.

  ‘Let me talk to my husband first. If you give me your contact details, I’ll let you know tomorrow. It would be helpful to have a tenant ready to move in immediately.’

  I sneak another look at my watch. Shit, Martin’s going to be furious. ‘Listen … I don’t want to be rude but I really must …’

  ‘You have to go.’

  I smile. ‘Yes.’

  He moves towards the landing. ‘I’ll go back to Hooper’s and do this officially. I’m sorry I approached you like that. I should have thought it through.’

  ‘It’s fine. Really.’

  It’s not. I’m seven minutes late. I show Dan to the door, hold it open for him. He steps outside then turns to me.

  ‘You’ve, um …’

  He touches my face, picks a dried blob of paint from above my right eyebrow. I flinch at his touch, the unexpected warmth of his fingertips.

  ‘Good to meet you, Eliza.’

  Then he’s gone. I run back upstairs and into the spare bedroom, get out of my overalls and into my jeans, hopping around as I slip my trainers on at the same time. I scoop up my bag and keys, run back down and jump in my car.

  3

  Coming from the morning spent in a pretty period flat, walking back into our modernist house always jars. I never seem to get used to it. The stark concrete exterior of Winterfell is unwelcoming after the friendly red brick and cream woodwork of Linden Road.

  Inside the front door I instinctively stop to listen. The house is quiet; my three-year-old daughter is with her au pair at the One O’Clock Club, my son is at school. Without them the spaces feel hollow.

  ‘Martin,’ I call, my voice sounding echoey. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

  I walk into the kitchen and put my bag down on the island. Martin is sitting outside on the terrace, the Financial Times spread open on the table in front of him. I join him, but when I bend to kiss him, he jerks his wheelchair back and slaps me.

  I press my palm against my cheek to draw out the sting. ‘I’ll get lunch on.’

  ‘You do that.’

  I walk back inside. I whisk up four eggs. I make a salad dressing. I heat a pan and drop a knob of butter into it, watching it melt as I tip the pan to and fro over the heat, swirling it around. Life is a series of bargains. Battles you win, losses you accept. Martin loves me and gives me so much, but his love is like a protection racket. I pay every day so that my children are happy, so that my past remains buried, so that I can maintain my friendships and feel secure.

  ‘He just walked up and rang the doorbell?’

  Ten minutes later and he’s acting as though nothing has happened. But that’s the way Martin operates. He’s like my father was, in that there’s no apology and normal service is expected to resume immediately. No dwelling, no crying, no sulking.

  But my face still stings.

  I told him about Dan. I thought about not saying anything, letting Dan go through the normal channels as though we had never met, but that would have involved asking him to tell a lie, which would have been unfair, not to mention risky. Martin would be bound to find out.

  I divide the omelette in two with the edge of a spatula and ease the pieces out of the frying plan and onto heated plates.

  I wanted to see what it felt like to say Dan’s name out loud too, if truth be told; a touch, even fleeting, from a charming man, is not something that happens to me every day.

  ‘I know,’ I reply. ‘It does sound odd. It was a spur-of-th
e-moment decision. He was trying to steal a march on other candidates. I think he was embarrassed when he realized it wasn’t the done thing.’

  Martin helps himself to salad. He does it with aplomb, lifting it high out of the bowl before dumping it onto his plate. Then he fishes with the salad spoon for slices of avocado and cherry tomatoes.

  ‘What did Susie say?’

  I’d called our lettings agent from the car, wanting an explanation before I got home.

  ‘She was apologetic. He’d come in off the street and asked to see what they had. She couldn’t show him anything he liked, so she mentioned Linden Road. She told him which flat though, which she shouldn’t have done.’

  ‘Stupid cow,’ Martin grunts.

  ‘She was trying to be helpful.’

  ‘For all she knew he could have been a psychopath.’

  ‘He seemed perfectly pleasant. He was so enthusiastic about the flat.’

  I pick at my food. The omelette is perfect, but it’s hard to swallow when you’re trying to hold it together, to get the balance right. Humility, but with a touch of spirit. Too much humility and I irritate him; too much spirit and I make him angry. He doesn’t like me to be pathetic, but he doesn’t like me to be combative either. You’d think after ten years of marriage I’d have it down. Martin is a good-looking man, broad-shouldered with thick black hair and a strong jawline; his effect on me was instant when I first laid eyes on him. In his mid-thirties he is still handsome, but the lines between his eyes and at the corners of his mouth have deepened. When he smiles though, his eyes crinkling, he is irresistible. I see women react. Men too. I don’t get many of those smiles directed at me these days.

  ‘Eliza, he showed up unannounced and said, “I’m your new tenant.” You don’t think that’s creepy? What I can’t understand, what really beggars belief, is that you let this man in.’

  He cocks his head.

  ‘OK,’ I concede. ‘If someone else told me the story, I would think it was creepy, but it didn’t feel it at the time. Besides, the workmen were there so I wasn’t putting myself in any danger. I’m not an idiot.’