Page 1 of The New House

part one

chapter 01

millie

The silence of a house that’s been broken into is unlike any other. It’s as if you’ve flipped up its skirts and made it gasp, taking all the air with it.

Those first few stolen seconds of stillness are like a drug to me. I could spend a lifetime in this moment, at peace.

But it doesn’t last long.

It’s broken by the soft patter of feline paws running down the hallway. A grey cat slinks into the laundry room, ignoring me completely as she heads to her bowl. She isn’t the least bit interested in me, or what I’m doing in her house.

Cats have refined survival of the species to an efficient minimalism. Even the most self-absorbed cat will nurture her own kittens. But by the time they’re eight weeks old, the mother, having accomplished the important work of teaching them independence, is done with them. She’ll still intervene if they’re in trouble or get too rough in play, but she won’t interact with them on a regular basis. She’ll swat a youngster who disturbs her rest. And once they reach adolescence, at around twelve weeks, it’s every cat for herself. The mother will hiss if they come near her food. She won’t grieve when they disappear from the home. In fact, she’ll be relieved.

We don’t blame a cat for being a cat.

You knew what you were gettinginto, Tom says.You’re an intelligent woman. You knew what having children would mean.

The cat twines herself in a figure-eight around my legs, seeking more food. I pick her up, stroking the back of her head, enjoying the sensual pleasure of her fur beneath my fingers as I wander into the kitchen.

I had high hopes for this property, but it looked a lot better on Rightmove than it does in person. The pictures were clearly taken with a wide-angle lens, and then Photoshopped. The kitchen has very little natural light, and even on a bright morning like this, it feels dingy.

The owners obviously renovated before putting the house on the market – the house smells of paint – but they’ve made the same mistake most people do when they remodel a kitchen: they’ve upgraded the cabinets and appliances, but kept the same inefficient, dated layout.

It’s nicely done, with granite countertops and interesting stainless-steel backsplashes, but the way people live has changed a lot in the last few decades: a kitchen isn’t just where you cook any more, but where youlive. They should’ve taken down that wall to the dining room – who actually uses a dining room these days? – and created one large, open-plan space. It would’ve given them a lot of natural light, too, from the west-facing front of the house, and they could’ve put in some French doors at the back to get that indoor/outdoor feel.

I check out the cupboards. Emma Bridgewater crockery, yawn. Expensive Le Creuset saucepans but cheap knives, which tells me everything I need to know about the people who own this house.

Upstairs is equally disappointing. A cramped fifth bedroom that should’ve been used to expand the master bathroom, or, better yet, create a decent walk-in wardrobe. Original features no one’s had the courage to eithereliminate completely, or assimilate into the new design.

None of the beds are made. The cupboard doors in the master bedroom are flung wide, as if they’ve left in a hurry. Her sweaters are neatly folded in colour-coded stacks, but his side of the wardrobe is a tangled mess, with ties dribbling down the shelves, and balled-up socks on the floor. In my experience, incompatibility in a wardrobe is a more reliable indicator of divorce than infidelity.

I open the cabinet in their ensuite bathroom, scrutinising the prescription labels.

She’s had two bouts of cystitis recently. He’s got bad haemorrhoids. She’s missed a couple of her contraceptive pills this month. I wonder if her husband knows that.

Bored suddenly, I go back downstairs and scan the knick-knacks on the bookshelves in the sitting room, looking for a souvenir before I leave.

I never take anything valuable, or clearly sentimental. A fridge magnet. A bulldog clip. Nothing that will be missed.

There was a time I broke into houses on a weekly basis. Whenever life got too complicated, I’d slip away and disappear into the silence of a house that wasn’t mine. I’d spend hours in other people’s homes, perusing their wardrobes, reading their books. I find it profoundly soothing to exist in a world where I’m not supposed to be, for reasons I’ve never been able to explain.

It’s been months since I allowed my darker self to call the shots, but I’m tense and exhausted. Some people drink or take drugs to relax. This is my addiction.

I know what I’m doing is wrong: I’m violating someone’s private sanctuary. But I only visit houses that have been put up for sale, whose owners are inviting scrutiny. I’m careful never to leave a trace of my presence. I made a promise, and I never break my word.

First do no harm.

For a moment, I consider taking one of the photographs. Mr and Mrs Unmade Bed, with their two children, Boy and Girl. Here they are on their ski break in Zermatt. Oh, look! Boy and Girl have a new puppy, Dog! Look, Dog! Look!

They make family life seem so easy.

In the end I slip one of a pair of dice into my pocket, and go back through the kitchen, leaving via the same back door in the laundry room as I came in.

I even lock it behind me, which is more than the owners remembered to do.

SETtalks | psychologies series

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