The Woman At The Door Daniel Hurst (online e reader TXT) 📖

in his curry sauce when he gets going. But he always insists that he doesn’t want one. Fast-forward to an hour later when the food has arrived, and he’s looking at me and my naan forlornly before the question comes.

He knows I always have some left for him.

That’s because I know he is always going to ask.

The food has been exceptionally good tonight, even though we always order from the same place. Maybe they have a new chef, or perhaps the cooks were in a slightly better mood this evening and made more of an effort. Whatever the reason, I’m feeling very pleased with my meal, even if I have just lost a chunk of it to my husband.

The film we chose to watch is not bad either. It’s a comedy about a woman trying to adjust to becoming a mum. I’m finding it funny, although maybe that’s because I don’t have children of my own. That means I can laugh at how terrifying it all is for somebody else. I’m surprised Sam agreed to watch this movie because I was sure that he was going to ask me to pick something else, but he’s been laughing away a couple of times at some of the jokes too.

Or at least he has when his mouth hasn’t been full of my naan bread.

All in all, it’s a very normal Saturday night. A quick check on the time tells me that it has only just gone eight, which means there are still a few more hours of the evening to enjoy yet. Maybe there will be time for another movie after this one, or maybe Sam and I will head into the bedroom early and add a little more spice to our evening to go along with the curry.

We should probably have sex tonight. It’s been over a week, and I know he’ll be thinking about it. I’m thinking about it too, but I could easily go another night, especially now I’ve just eaten my bodyweight in Indian food. But I’ll see how I’m feeling after the film. Maybe I’ll come onto him when we get in bed. Or maybe I’ll just do it right here on the sofa.

It is Saturday night, after all.

But any plans we have are thrown into mild disarray by the sudden knocking at the door.

‘Who’s that at this time?’ Sam asks with a mouthful of naan bread.

‘I don’t know. I’m not expecting anybody. Are you?’

‘No. Is it another one of your packages?’

‘I don’t think so. I haven’t ordered anything recently.’

I usually take delivery of at least three or four things a week from my favourite online stores, keeping the local delivery drivers busy, as well as keeping my husband irritated at all the cardboard boxes piling up in the hallway. But I definitely haven’t ordered anything for a while, so it can’t be that. And neither of us are expecting a friend or family member to call around at this time either.

So who is it?

‘I’ll go,’ Sam says, putting down his knife and fork and trying to swallow down a bit of naan bread before he stands. But I’ve already finished eating, so I decide to take this one.

‘It’s okay, love. I’ve got it.’

I get up from the sofa and head for the living room door, leaving behind the food and drinks, as well as the movie that still has a while to run.

‘Do you want me to pause it?’ Sam asks helpfully, but I shake my head.

‘It’s fine. I’ll be back in a second.’

I leave the room and enter the hallway, thinking that whoever it is at the door will have the wrong address. It’s probably a takeaway driver getting mixed up on our street. It happens every now and again because of the way the houses are numbered around here. The numbers are all over the place as if they were assigned by a sulky school kid who hated Maths and just wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. We’re next to number six, which means we should either be four or eight. But we’re not.

We’re fourteen.

Yeah, it’s messed up.

I reach the front door and take off the latch, which didn’t really need to be on until we went to bed, but I like to put it on early if we’re staying in because it makes me feel safer and saves me a job later.

God, I am getting old, aren’t I?

With the latch off, I just need to turn the handle. As I do, the door swings open and I get a good look at the person standing on the doorstep.

But they’re not what I was expecting. Instead of an overweight male delivery driver clutching a bag of someone else’s food, I see a blonde woman wearing a smart black coat. Her red lipstick matches her red fingernails, and it looks as if she is ready for a night out. If she is then she is definitely in the wrong place. But before I can say anything, she speaks first.

‘Are you Rebecca Andrews?’ she asks me.

‘Yes.’

‘The wife of Sam Andrews?’

‘That’s right. Who are you?’

‘I’m the woman he slept with last month. I’m guessing that he didn’t tell you about me.’

2

SAM

I can feel the draught from the open front door all the way in here. I’m not sure who it is out there, but I’m hoping Rebecca can get rid of them quickly so we can go back to enjoying our night. I know she said that she didn’t want me to pause the movie for her, but I’ve done it anyway. It’s partly because I don’t want her to miss anything while she is out of the room, but mainly it’s because she’ll spend the rest of the film asking me what’s happening if I don’t. It’s just easier if I pause it so that we can pick up where we left off when she returns.

But she isn’t back yet, and the chilly air from outside is still seeping into our house.

I