The Doll House: A gripping debut psychological thriller with a killer twist!. Phoebe Morgan
it’s a high-profile job.
‘Well, prisons are hardly prisons any more, are they?’ Andy says. ‘It’s not as if they’re off to Bedlam. Most of them have gyms attached.’
‘I think gyms is a bit of an exaggeration,’ Dominic says.
‘Do you do any court stuff, Dominic?’ Erin asks him. ‘Or do you stick to the features?’
‘I’m a features man,’ Dominic says, ‘I used to cover the court stories too, but it got a bit much. I just found it a bit depressing, really. All that horror. All those wasted lives.’
He looks down, feeling suddenly embarrassed, but Erin nods sympathetically.
‘I know exactly what you mean. It gets you down, doesn’t it?’
Andy interrupts, flexes his knuckles on the table. He’s a big guy; Dominic can see the tendons in his arm straining.
‘So, Dom, how’s Corinne doing?’
Dominic shifts in his chair, pretending to be engrossed in a remaining chip congealed on his plate.
‘She’s . . . she’s doing OK, man,’ he says, although he is not sure that it’s completely the truth.
‘Corinne is my girlfriend,’ he tells Erin.
‘Beautiful name – unusual. Is that after anyone? Grandmother, or anything?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Dominic says. He doesn’t actually know, has never thought of it.
‘Well, it’s lovely,’ Erin says. ‘Have you been together long?’
‘A while, haven’t you, Dom?’ Andy says, grinning at him. ‘They’re joined at the hip.’ His chair has moved closer to Erin’s, the tip of his elbow grazes her water glass as he spreads his arms across the table. Dom is reminded of an animal, a monkey asserting his territory. He’s no idea why Andy bothers.
‘Yeah, years now actually. She’s great. We’re very—’ he bobs his head, awkwardly ‘—very happy.’
‘Most of the time,’ Andy says. Dominic ignores him.
‘What does she do?’ Erin says, and Dominic feels grateful to her for changing the subject.
‘She works in a gallery,’ Dominic says. ‘Over in Islington. They do really well, a lot of nice pieces. She’s very arty, talented, that sort of thing.’
‘Do you live in Islington then?’
‘No, we’re Crouch End way,’ he tells her, ‘closer to the rough side.’
Erin sighs, dramatically. ‘An art gallery though, wow. I always wished I could draw. The best I can manage is stick people.’
‘Stick people, hey?’ Andy asks. ‘I like stick people.’
‘Maybe I’ll draw you some sometime.’ There is a note of flirtation in her voice.
Dominic looks away from them both, traces a pattern on the tabletop. A bored looking waitress who is hovering around behind the bar calls over to them.
‘Can I get you anything else?’
‘Just the bill, please,’ Dominic says. He doesn’t need to watch Andy start to make his moves. What right does he have to comment on Corinne? Just because she wasn’t taken in by him at the Christmas party, wasn’t won over by his charms like the rest of the female population, he seems to have got it into his head that Dominic is making a mistake. Well, he isn’t.
They head outside, back to the office. Erin is going back to court after a quick briefing with the boss on the Claudia Winters case.
‘She just doesn’t seem to show any remorse, that’s the thing,’ she is saying. ‘I mean, her daughter ended up dead! And Claudia sits in the courtroom like she’s not even listening, like she’s in another world. It’s mad.’
Dominic nods. ‘She’s quite ill though, isn’t she? I read somewhere that she had post-partum depression.’
Erin nods. ‘Yes, but how far can you take that, you know? The blame has to fall somewhere.’
They reach the office. Andy holds the door open for them both. He places a hand on Erin’s back as she enters the building and Dominic rolls his eyes. Poor girl. God knows he wouldn’t want Andy homing in on Corinne. As a mate he’s all right, but with women . . . Dominic rubs a hand through his hair and follows them into the newsroom, the clatter of keys quickly surrounding them, swallowing him up.
London
Corinne
I gave in and showed Dom the chimney pot when I got home from the gallery yesterday. But I was right – he didn’t really understand.
‘You know it’s just a piece of pot, babe?’ he said, and I could tell he wasn’t properly paying attention because he was still focused on the news, reading the headlines as they streamed across the bottom of the TV. They were showing footage of that awful woman on trial for the death of her daughter – Claudia Winters. I don’t understand how anyone could ever hurt their child. Anyone lucky enough to have one in the first place. There were pictures of her as she came out of the court room, the paparazzi lights in her face. Her head was bent. You couldn’t see her eyes. The sight of her hunched body made me shiver.
Dom had his laptop out on his knee, he was meant to be writing notes on the property piece, the house we went to together. I dreamed about it last night, I dreamed I was trapped inside and when I woke up I was sweating, a cold sweat that drenched the sheets. I wish he’d write about something else.
‘Yes, of course,’ I said, ‘but it looks so similar, it’s weird. You’d have to see the doll house to know what I mean, I’ll show it to you. I feel like it’s a sign, Dom, like it’s Dad reminding me that things will be all right.’
Dominic rolled his eyes as I knew he would, grabbed the end of my socked foot and wiggled it.
‘Maybe.’
I smiled at him, put the chimney on the dresser, next to the photograph of my dad and my old set of paints.
I haven’t seen Gilly today, I looked for her as I got home, checked to see if she was in. I’ve been trying to think why she sounded familiar, it’s annoying me. But the front door was closed and I couldn’t hear anything. I might knock tomorrow. I ought to be friendly.
When we went to bed, I lay awake for ages, burrowed my face into Dominic’s back, breathing in his warm smell. My feet were cold so I pressed them up against his. It was only then I remembered that I needed to remind him to get the front door fixed. I’m sick of the draught in this flat.
I drifted off around two, and then when I woke up later I felt surprisingly strong and positive, as though a little window had opened in my head. The little chimney pot feels like the first sign of hope in a year, this horrible time since Dad died and the IVF all started.
So, I’m not going to let anything upset me today. I’m going to work, and I’m going to be productive. I make Dominic a nice filter coffee and get myself ready to go, choosing my clothes carefully. A red jumper, my purple earrings. Crimson coat. Triumphant colours. I knock on Gilly’s door before I go to work; this time she’s in, I can hear the child crying.
‘Hi!’ I say. ‘It’s Corinne, I live a number twenty.’ I point at my front door and she nods, smiles. She looks a tiny bit guarded but I can’t really blame her.
‘I just wanted to apologise if I seemed a bit blunt the other day,’ I say. ‘I’m actually . . .’ I spread my hands. I may as well just tell her. ‘I’m actually trying for a baby at the moment and it’s been a bit . . .tough so, so I reacted a bit weirdly when you mentioned kids. That’s all. I’m so