Rachel returns home after lying to everyone about her amazing husband when, in reality, she is single…
My house should have been dark, but as I stood inside the hallway, my shoes were lit by a soft glow coming from under the lounge door.
The police say you should leave a light on when you go out to deter burglars, but I had made a decision to ignore that advice because, after taking on a mortgage, I was trying to save on the electricity bill.
The light wasn’t the only thing that made me pause. The air held an unfamiliar perfume. Subtle, but definitely present. My mind filled with nightmare scenarios of being confronted by intruders. But there was no sign of a break-in, and I couldn’t be one hundred per cent sure I hadn’t left a light on, or that I hadn’t used a cheaper cleaning fluid with a fragrance I wasn’t used to.
With trepidation, I opened the door and entered the lounge.
A collection of candles flickered on the coffee table. I froze as the flames danced in the breeze from the open doorway. I might have forgotten to turn off a light, but I would never have risked burning down the house by leaving lit candles unattended. Not that I had lit them in the first place.
Inside, the smell was stronger and not at all like that of a cleaning product. It was a musky scent like from a deodorant or a cologne. I debated with myself whether to run and call the police, or investigate further. Before I decided, the upholstery creaked, and a man poked his head up from the sofa.
“Hello Rachel,” said the man, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “Did you have a nice time?”
I screamed and jumped backwards.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
“Why don’t you come and sit down?”
“S-s-sit down?” I stuttered.
A stranger was in my house, and he wanted me to sit down?
“There’s plenty of room on the sofa. Or you could take the chair.”
I tried to make sense of what I was seeing. Intruders either ran away or attacked you. They didn’t politely ask about your evening and invite you to sit on the sofa. At least, not in any of the scary movies I’d seen – and I’d seen a lot of scary movies.
I needed to think clearly, but panic was setting in and my mind scrambled with fear and confusion. I turned left and right and left again like a trapped wild animal, searching for something – anything – I could use as a weapon. I grabbed the Tiffany lamp from the side table and held it to my chest: a barrier between me and him.
“Stay back!”
He looked offended. “Whatever’s the matter?”
“You’re in my house!”
I gripped the lamp tighter and readied myself to beat him to death with it if I had to.
“Rachel…”
He took a step towards me.
“Stay there!”
I backed away. The cord of the lamp snagged at the socket. I yanked it, and pulled the plug free.
“Rachel, darling, it’s me.”
“Who the hell are you?”
Possibilities tumbled through my head like glimpses of clothes turning in a washing machine. Maybe he was a previous owner who still had a key. Perhaps he was the next-door neighbour who’d got drunk and wandered into the wrong house. But I couldn’t discount the possibility that he was a serial killer looking to slay his next victim.
He took another step forward, and I backed away again. Far enough for my bottom to bump against the door behind me and push it closed. It secured itself a click of the latch. I tensed as I realised I had inadvertently shut myself in the room with him.
“Rachel, what are you doing? It’s Darren!” he said, as if that explained everything.
The name, however, was familiar. Darren was what I called my made-up husband.
Confusion whirled in my mind. It didn’t make sense. There was no Darren. He was a fiction.
“No.” I shook my head. “No, no, no, no, no, no.”
“Are you all right, darling?”
“You’re not real.”
I said it more to convince myself than to explain it to him.
“Rachel, what are you talking about? Of course I’m real – look at me!”
He thrust his arms out wide to reveal his whole body. He was handsome and slim with a full head of deep brown hair swept across his forehead and a toned body beneath his clothes. Tall enough to be manly, at six feet, he was not too tall as to overshadow me. He was the type of man my fantasy Darren might be – if he were real.
“How did you get in here?” I demanded.
His eyes squinted in confusion. “I live here.”
“This is my house.”
“Rachel darling, it’s our house. We bought it, remember?”
Blood withdrew from my skin to service my pumping heart, and I felt myself going pale.
“Are you feeling all right?”
I saw him about to close in on me, and I lifted the lamp higher.
“Stay there!” I ordered.
“Rachel—”
I held tight to the lamp and tried to think.
He’d got into my house somehow; he knew my name and, inexplicably; he knew about Darren. This was no lost neighbour or confused former tenant. Even a burglar wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble.
It was a wind-up. It had to be a wind-up.
God, let him be a wind-up, and not some mad psycho rapist.
“Did someone put you up to this?”
“Rachel, what are you talking about?”
If he wasn’t going to admit it, then fine. But this prank had gone beyond the point where it was funny. Not as if it had ever been funny in the first place.
“Don’t move!”
I fixed him with a threatening stare and, keeping the lamp in one hand, I used the other to delve into my handbag. Rifling past hairbrush, purse, petrol receipts and half-used tissues, I found my phone. With hands shaking and heart pumping – not taking my eye off the stranger for a moment – I called Sheila.
It rang.
It kept ringing.
I willed her to pick it up.
“Yeah?” A sleepy voice down the phone line.
“Sheila? It’s Rachel.” My voice trembled. “I don’t know how you did it – ha ha, very funny – but you can tell him to leave now.”
“Wwwhat?” she slurred. “Rachel? What’re you talking about?”
“The man you snuck in pretending to be Darren.”
“What? Rach, you said Darren’s not real.” A heavy sigh. “I’m tired, hon. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
“Sheila, don’t—” I shouted.
—hang up.
The line went dead. I hit redial. It went straight to voicemail.
Bugger.
The Darren-man looked at me. Like a dog looks at its master when it can’t understand why the human is behaving strangely.
“Why don’t you come and sit on the sofa?” he said in a soothing voice. “I can pour you a glass of wine and we can make love.”
“No!” I screamed, loud enough to wake the neighbours.
He was larger than me, stronger than me. If he attacked me, I could fight back, but he would win. I began to wheeze. I put my hand out to the doorframe, leant against it and tried to slow my breath. It brought back playground memories of childhood asthma. I hadn’t had an episode for years, and I wasn’t going to be floored by it as an adult. I willed my breathing to slow.
I told myself he wasn’t going to attack me because it was just a joke. Some male escort Sheila had booked while we were at the pub and given my spare key to during one of her many supposed trips to the toilet.
“Look,” I said, gathering myself together. “I know you’ve gone to a lot of trouble, and you’re really impressive, but I haven’t got time for this now. You can tell Sheila you got me with your little joke, and we can have a laugh about it down the pub another time. But right now, I’m tired and I need some sleep because I’m starting a new job tomorrow. So, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go to bed and you’re going to leave.”
I left the sanctity of the doorframe and placed the lamp back on the table by the radiator, keeping my eye on him all the time. Without my weapon, I was even more vulnerable, but he didn’t make a move. If he’d been a burglar or a rapist, he would have taken his opportunity there and then. With relief, I knew at that moment he was part of a practical joke. The man – whoever he really was – was a damn good actor, and that was all.
With added confidence, I walked right by him like I owned the place.
Damn it – I did own the place. Minus a £150,000 debt to the bank.
I caught a whiff of his cologne as I went past, mixed with his manly scent.
It was strong enough to wake my hormones.
If I hadn’t needed a decent night’s sleep, I might’ve taken advantage of the practical joker to see how far he was prepared to take his little act.
In the kitchen, I ran myself a cool, refreshing glass of water. When I returned to the lounge moments later, he was gone.
Thank goodness.
Boy, was I going to have words with Sheila when I next saw her.
In some ways, though, it was too bad. It was about time I gave my libido a workout. But – hey! – easy come, easy go.
I went upstairs to bed.
© Copyright, Jane Killick