Now, I tiptoe across the bathroom floor, the underfloor heating warming my toes as I reach up and peer through the crack in the window. Just as I thought, the large recycling bin is under the window, to the left of the orangery, right where I left it, only… I push the window wide open and look out as far as I can. The recycling bin is on its side, a small spillage of plastic and a couple of glass bottles on the patio beside it. That doesn’t mean anything, I tell myself, my breath coming fast in my throat. A fox could have knocked it over. Maybe there was a storm.
I slam the window closed, latching it tight and sit on the cold toilet seat, rubbing my hands over my face. Just because the bin is on its side doesn’t mean that someone used it to stand on, to climb up onto the orangery roof and then force their way into the house through the bathroom window. It doesn’t mean that when they heard our taxi arrive they climbed out of the bathroom window and tipped the bin on its side in their hurry to get away. It doesn’t mean anything.
‘Em? Are you in there?’ Rupert’s voice rouses me, and I move to the sink, quickly scrubbing at my face with a wipe before pulling open the bathroom door. He hands me a steaming hot cup of tea, and gestures towards the bed where he has pulled back the duvet and plumped my pillow.
‘Thanks.’ I gratefully take the tea, wrapping my cold hands around the mug. ‘Rupert, the recycling bin. It’s on its side out there, some of the rubbish has fallen out. The bathroom window was open too.’ I wait, watching his face to see what his reaction is.
‘Oh bugger, really?’ He pauses in stripping his T-shirt over his head. ‘You don’t want me to go and sort it out now, do you? It’s just started raining.’
‘No, it’s OK.’ I shake my head and climb into bed, relieved when Rupert finally turns out the lamp. Maybe Rupert is right and I’m just being silly. Maybe there is nothing to worry about.
The next morning, I watch through the living-room window as Rupert chases down the last bits of recycling from behind the two small stone lions that flank the porch – plastic wrapping that has blown round the side of the house – and stuffs them deep down into the black bin. In the cold light of day, I feel ridiculous for getting worked up over the bin toppling over – and Amanda was keeping an eye on the house; she must have opened the window upstairs to air out the bedroom a little. Either that or I really did forget to close it before we left. That’s what I’m telling myself anyway. It was such a busy week, after all, the week before the wedding, maybe I only thought about closing the window. An icy finger crawls up my spine, making me shudder and I pull my cardigan tightly around my body. It did feel as though someone had been in the house though; the air had that disturbed feeling about it, and I am sure I wasn’t imagining the faint hint of perfume, the light scent of something that might have been nectarines on the air.
A few days later, I still haven’t shaken the uneasy feeling that settled on me the night we arrived home from Barbados, although Rupert seems to be back to his usual self. He grabs a piece of toast, shoving it into his mouth while searching for his car keys, as I sit quietly at the kitchen table, still in my dressing gown. I’m finding it strange to be sitting here, with nowhere to go and nothing to do, while Rupert rushes around frantically. I nurse the dregs of a cup of tea, as I wait for him to leave the house so I can start getting ready myself, although ready to do what exactly I don’t know.
The days are different, now Rupert has taken on a cleaner – a Polish woman named Anya, who seems to spend a lot of her time scowling at me – and taking care of the house is no longer my responsibility. It turns out that I’m not as brilliant at keeping house as I thought I would be, and after I used neat bleach to clean the marble floor tiles in the main bathroom (damaging them beyond repair, much to my horror), Rupert insisted on getting a professional in to take over. So now, instead of spending my days tidying and cleaning, I watch someone else do it. And do a better job of it, too. I pop the tiny bubble of boredom that grows in the pit of my stomach, telling myself that this is what I want.
‘What are your plans for today?’ Rupert asks, as he shoves papers into his briefcase. He’s asked me the same question every morning since we got home.
‘Probably nothing, the same as yesterday,’ I say, feeling prickly and scratchy. I get up and put my arms around him. It’s not his fault that I am irritable this morning.
‘I spoke to Sadie last night,’ Rupert’s chin rests on my hair, ‘she said she’s going to a yoga class this morning, if you’d like to
