Valentina: A Hauntingly Intelligent Psychological Thriller by S. E. Lynes

straighter. She’d redone her eye make-up too, I thought – and was that nail polish on her fingernails? She smelt of soap, as if she’d had a shower. All the things I’d had stored up to say evaporated.
    “ Hi there.” She shook her head, her hair falling around her shoulders, catching the light, falling just so. She looked like Klimt’s Judith . She looked relaxed on some deep, molecular level. I really should try yoga, I thought.
    “ You could have texted,” I said.
    “ I left the damn phone in the car. I thought it’d be quicker to get on and get here.”
    “ What happened?”
    “ Nothing.” She looked at me in that very direct way she had, no arms crossed, no doubt at all in her body: a wordless, flagrant challenge.
    “ Nothing?”
    “ I underestimated the timings, that’s all.”
    I waited for an apology. It didn’t come.
    “ Have you washed your hair?” I asked.
    “ I always take a shower after a session. Especially Ashtanga. It’s so ... vigorous.” She was still staring at me, impassive, and I realised I’d seen her do this before, in the nursery.
    “ Zac did the mother of all poos.” I indicated the living room with my head. “It went everywhere. I had to change him. It was a nightmare, to be honest.”
    “ Oh God,” she said, laughing. “He does whoppers. It’s gross.”
    “ Listen,” I said. “If you’re going to be longer than you say you need to let me know, OK?”
    She saluted me with a smirk. “Won’t happen again, officer. Didn’t realise you were so touchy about it.”
    She strode into the living room and cooed in a baby voice: Zac. Zackeeee. Zackee, angel . I followed her to the door. Please take him home, I wanted to say. Please go. I am too exhausted to be cross, too weary to know what just happened, what I feel about it.
    “ I’ve put his other things in the wash,” I said instead. “I’ll give them to you next time. I know he looks like Kim Kardashian in her leisure wear but that was all that fit.”
    “ Thanks,” she said, turning to me. “You’re so sweet.”
    “ I’m away to give Isla her tea now so – ”
    “ Wow, Shona,” she said. “You really don’t have to do that.”
    “ Oh,” I said. “I didn’t mean ...”
    “ But I guess Red’s not home till late on Fridays so that’ll save me cooking two dinners.” Out of nowhere, she leant toward me and stroked my cheek. “You have lovely skin,” she said, before heading back into the living room. Through the open door I watched her sit, then lie on the sofa, Zac on her belly. “You’re amazing, Shona,” she called through. “Has anyone ever told you that? Absolutely amazing.”
     
    The next day, Saturday, the day of Mikey’s return, I woke early as usual to Isla crying. But this day was different. I didn’t groan, nor did my legs ache with deep fatigue. I felt OK. I felt light. I nipped out and bought scrummy things for tea and replaced the bottle of Sancerre that Valentina had drunk.
    When I got back, I put my Disclosure CD on loud and burst into action cleaning the house. Honestly, it was like the 1950s, getting ready for a husband to come home from work – house perfect, wife perfect, baby perfect. But I enjoyed it despite all that, in a weird, postmodern, ironic way. I think.
    At midday I heard the taxi from the kitchen. My stomach flipped over.
    I ran to the door, as I’d imagined doing all week, flung it open and stepped out.
    “ Hey stranger,” I called out.
    He looked up, gave me a quick wave and continued to count cash for the driver, smiling and chatting in that way he had. I waited, hopping from foot to foot. I waited for him to come and fold me into his arms.
    He patted the roof of the cab, picked up his kitbag and walked towards me with it dangling over his shoulder. Behind him, the taxi drove down the lane, out of sight. Anticipation built in my belly. His smile was different, I thought, almost bashful, his chin dark with stubble.
    On the front step, he dropped his