Catherine sat with the phone in her hand until morning.
Twice she had dialled Adam’s number and twice she had hung up before it could ring.
Once she had started to call the police, but never reached the third nine.
Now she just sat on the edge of the bed, with Chips pressed against her thigh for warmth.
She was desperate to hear Adam’s voice. Had run through their conversation in her head a hundred times in the past few hours.
‘Hello?’ he’d say gruffly, and she’d say a small hello, and then she’d burst into tears.
She knew she would, however hard she tried not to. Just thinking of it made her well up. And then his voice would change to that soft one she knew so well … ‘Catherine? …’ – the way it had when she’d announced she was pregnant. He’d been so happy! He’d immediately made her lie, giggling and protesting, on the sofa with tea, toast and the remote control, while he’d rushed out and bought chicken soup and multivitamins and all the things that a new baby might need from an all-night garage. These had included a pack of disposable nappies, age 12–18 months, six jars of Heinz banana pudding, and a remote-controlled train that blew bubbles from its stack. Two days later he’d signed up for a St John Ambulance course in Baby First Aid, and had traded in his Golf for a repulsive pea-green Volvo with Side Impact Protection System and automatic child locks …
Couldn’t tell him that while he’d done everything in his power to protect her and the baby, she’d bumbled about the house, making silly threats, with only a vase to defend herself and their unborn child against a knife-wielding invader.
That she’d let in!
She’d left the bathroom window open so that Chips wouldn’t bother her if he wanted to go out, even though Adam had told her not to.
But it’s so hot! her brain always whined when he said it. And it’s so small and so high! Nobody could get in there.
But somebody had got in. The air freshener had been knocked on to its side and – if she cocked her head right – she could see a smudged footprint on the white-tiled sill. Piecing it together in the long dark hours, Catherine guessed the burglar had got in there and headed straight downstairs, where he’d collected the obvious things and unlocked the back door to make sure he wouldn’t be trapped.
Then he’d come back upstairs …
He must have been right behind her while she was standing at the top of the stairs, waving the vase and shouting empty threats.
Catherine shivered.
She hadn’t been brave, she’d been reckless. She could see that now.
It must be baby brain! People had told her that pregnancy could lead to irrational decisions, illogical choices, and Catherine had dismissed it as misogynist nonsense.
But now she saw that she’d been as stupid as a stupid blonde in a horror film who wouldn’t turn the stupid lights on.
She’d put herself at risk, and – even worse – she’d put their baby at risk.
How could she tell Adam that?
She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. He’d be furious – and justifiably so. Her utmost serenity would be over, and it would be all worry and guilt and heightened security while Adam wrapped her in cotton wool until she choked …
The panic rose in her.
9–9–
She stopped dialling again. Thought it through once more.
What could the police do? The burglar hadn’t taken anything. Hadn’t broken anything. She hadn’t even seen him. If she called the police she’d have to relive the whole thing – parade her stupidity for the whole world to see – for nothing. The police rarely caught burglars. Everybody knew that. The Gazette was full of crimes the police couldn’t solve. One burglar had been at large for so long they’d even given him a nickname: Goldilocks – because he slept in the beds and ate the food in the houses he broke into. And if the police couldn’t catch him, Catherine doubted they’d be working overtime to catch the man who’d knocked over her air freshener.
Calling the police would get her nothing but embarrassment. Embarrassment and hoo-hah.
That’s what her mother would call it. Hoo-hah. Fuss and nonsense.
Catherine tossed the phone aside and hugged her belly. ‘We don’t need hoo-hah, do we, Crimpelene?’
She sighed at her bad luck. She wasn’t even supposed to be here! She and Adam were supposed to be away for the weekend in Sidmouth, celebrating their anniversary. But rent was due and they were saving up so hard for the baby, and when the opportunity for overtime had come up, they’d cancelled.
Even so, it was adding insult to injury to be burgled and threatened, when she should have been waking up to breakfast in bed overlooking the sea.
She looked through the window now as if the view might surprise her with a miracle, but all she saw was Mr Kent’s house on the other side of the cul-de-sac, washed with a pink glow from the rising sun.
Although it wasn’t the ocean, the view made her feel better. The night had been bad. But the night was over, and the dawn painted her fear a new, less scary colour.
I could have killed you.
Yes, she thought, but you didn’t, did you?
That was the comforting truth.
The intruder hadn’t killed her. Even when she’d been wavering at the top of the stairs, fat and unbalanced, with a vase wobbling in her hand. Even when a gentle nudge would have sent her plummeting to the hallway … he still hadn’t killed her. Had done his best to avoid her, before escaping the way he’d come in.
In fact, she’d scared him out of the house!
Maybe he’d just wanted to scare her back …
Catherine blinked.
That felt plausible. The burglar, thwarted by her noisy bluster, had made his own spiteful gesture in return. Left the knife and the threat, knowing he’d stolen her security, if not her valuables.
It was logical.
Likely …
And that was how Catherine started to think of it. How she decided to think of it. Empty bravado. Signifying nothing. And if it was nothing, then nobody needed to know. Nothing had to change. It would be best for her and – more importantly – best for the baby.
Utmost serenity.
And so Catherine While didn’t call her husband to tell him of the burglary. And she also didn’t call the police.
Instead she covered the shimmering knife with a tissue and picked it up gingerly, holding it at arm’s length, as if it might go off in her hand.
Then she pushed it to the very back of her bra drawer, and burned the birthday card in the kitchen sink.