Finders, Keepers: The mesmerising new thriller from the author of LIE WITH ME

by Sabine Durrant

  ‘Hello there?’

  Ailsa pushed the gate open with a clang, and came towards us. Caxton clunked shut his briefcase. ‘Right, I’ll leave that with you,’ he said and began to back away. ‘Afternoon, ladies.’

  As he passed Ailsa, he cocked his head – if he’d had a hat, he’d have tipped it – turned left and was concealed by the hedge.

  Ailsa looked annoyed. ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Something to do with Equity Release Freedom?’ I inspected the masthead on the documentation. ‘ERF,’ I said.

  Ailsa frowned. ‘Interesting that he scarpered when he saw me. People like that – they prey on the vulnerable.’

  ‘It’s a big house,’ I said.

  ‘Well, if you are thinking of trading down, please don’t do anything involving ERF. You would talk to us before doing anything, wouldn’t you? I mean, we might be interested. Particularly after I’ve . . .’ She finished her sentence with a gesture, holding her palm upwards, as if she were holding a tray of drinks.

  I looked at her, puzzled. She was always saying how broke they were; how could they possibly afford it? But she was smiling so I gave a little bow of acquiescence.

  ‘OK.’ She inspected the front garden. ‘So much better out here now,’ she said. ‘Nothing to put off our guests!’

  A step away, almost as an after-thought, she said: ‘You are coming, aren’t you?’

  I let out a little laugh.

  ‘Because of course you’re invited. Saturday night? Tomorrow?’

  I began to mutter about having a lot of work, that maybe I could pop round for the first hour or so, happy to help out, to pass round nibbles, that I wasn’t sure I was presentable, but she cut across me. ‘Listen – if you can spare a few minutes, this afternoon, pop round. Maria, my hairdresser and beautician, is coming.’

  ‘Your hairdresser and beautician!’

  It was the sort of phrase we found funny if overheard. She flushed as if she realised too late. ‘I have to do what I can to distract from this.’ She made a gesture with both hands, signalling up and down her torso. ‘You know, when you carry weight like I do, it’s more necessary than for others. It’s important – Tom wants me to look my best. He’s got potential clients coming, Ricky Addison, you know the guy who makes the cookery show, and . . . yeah, people, as well as friends. Anyway,’ she looked into the hedge, smiling, not making too big a thing of it, ‘she gives me a very good rate and it would be my treat. What do you say?’

  I won’t go into too much detail. I spent most of the hour wondering why I had been invited; was it kindness or necessity? Would my presence at the party otherwise be an embarrassment? At first I sat on Ailsa’s bed while Maria, a brusque Spanish woman with elaborately tattooed forearms, finished putting colour in Ailsa’s hair. Before this point, I’d had no idea how extensively it was dyed. ‘Grey as a tabby cat,’ Ailsa insisted, her face pale and puffy with her apparently artificially honeyed bob concealed beneath serried flaps of silver foil. ‘You’d die if you saw me as I really am.’

  Maria combed my hair until it lay flat across my forehead and scalp and she and Ailsa decided I should grow out the fringe, but a few layers would be a good idea. They’d taken off my glasses. ‘I’m in your hands,’ I insisted gamely. I wanted to be loving it, to take pleasure in the kind of ‘girls together’ pre-party experience you get in romantic comedies. I joked about the Jackie before and after, wondered if she was doing something for my ‘heart-shaped face’. But I didn’t enjoy it. The way Maria’s fingers gripped the shafts of my hair, like those clips you get for plastic bags, recalled past occasions when I had watched Faith practise her scissor skills through the window of the hairdresser. I felt a squeeze of loss and then a grim chill settle in my heart.

  Afterwards, deemed by both to be ‘much more presentable’, I let Maria ‘tidy up’ my eyebrows with strips of wax. Agony. Ailsa seemed to care a lot about what I planned on wearing. She ran through several of my options with Maria and eventually the two of them decided the pink blouse and the recently unearthed pair of jeans, but maybe not the denim jacket. And shoes – flip-flops, or sandals, they suggested, as long as I painted my toes. ‘Don’t wear those old trainers,’ Ailsa said, and then laughed. ‘As if!’ I replied. She gave me a lipstick she didn’t use any more and on the doorstep, joked: ‘Nothing to frighten the horses.’ For all her attempts to seem light-hearted, I got the impression she was deadly serious. Appearances, I told myself, matter when you are married to a man like Tom.

  On Saturday, the activity started shortly after lunch. Two women turned up in a blue Berlingo van and offloaded polythene-wrapped trays and Tupperware. Ailsa went out in the car and shortly afterwards Delilah arrived on foot, her arms full of flowers. Tom opened the door and a little while later I heard them in the back garden together. She was asking him where he wanted pots. ‘You better ask the guv’nor,’ he answered. ‘You wuss,’ she said and it struck me how relaxed they sounded, how his voice was loose; how she spoke on the gurgle of a laugh.

  I felt a growing agitation, a tightening of nerves, over the course of the day. When it was time to get ready, I thought again about Ailsa’s bossiness over my outfit. Was she fearful I’d embarrass her? Or had she, in a kind way, anticipated my stress and tried to ease it? I put on the top, and the jeans, and applied purple varnish to my toe nails from Faith’s box of make-up, but I lost confidence in the flip-flops. Nobody wants to see a middle-aged woman’s feet, even when they are daubed with plum. At the last minute, I tried out Ailsa’s lipstick, but I wiped it off and lay down on my bed, overcome by a memory of the last time I had put on so much make-up, feeling it creep into my thoughts.

  I stayed there for a couple of hours – Maudie curled up next to me – listening to the music, the bass thumping through the brickwork, the chatter slipping through the cracks in the windows, until eventually I gave myself a talking-to. Ailsa would be hurt if I didn’t attend. A party was an enormous undertaking at the best of times, let alone when your marriage was in trouble. I owed it to her to at least show my face.

  Two people were leaving as I arrived, the door opening, a blast of light and noise behind, and his arm around her shoulders, tripping down the steps towards me, the swish of silk, the click of heels, laughter around the corner.

  A woman in a black trouser suit held the door open and a man stepped forwards, holding a tray bearing glasses of prosecco. I took one, and the door closed behind me.

  The house was dark and yet bright, lights flashed, candles flickered, shadows looming. Vibrations shuddered through the floor; there was a sharp, disorienting smell of spiced orange. The kitchen was a throng of bodies, backs of heads, flicking hair, limbs and heels, voices and laughter.

  I turned into the sitting room, joining a crush of people – a few of whom I recognised, including several of the women from the pub quiz, and Sue and Andrew Dawson, Ailsa’s neighbours on the other side. I smiled but they didn’t respond; I’m invisible to them, or at least they pretend I am – which I suppose has its plus points (they’ve never complained about my clutter). It was loud, a wall of voices and music, the occasional shriek. I stayed by the door, touching the wood behind me with the tips of my fingers. It felt damp. I could stay here for a little while, and then creep back to the safety of my own house. It was too crowded for Ailsa to know if I had come or not. ‘What a squeeze!’ I imagined myself telling her the following day. ‘Such fun. I had a ball!’

  A tray passed and I took a canapé – mushroom? No, fish! – and stood there, smiling as if I were having a lovely conversation with myself. I nodded my head and clicked my fingers a bit to the music. Hits from the 1980s; I recognised some of the playlist from my own student days.

  People were dancing at the other end of the room, and I edged along the wall to get a better view. Two women in jeans and tiny tops were camping it up, trying to involve Bea who, flouncy in a red party dress, was giggling in the corner; a man with a goatee was wiggling his hips. And in the middle were Ailsa and Tom
.

  She was in a bright, long-sleeved kaftan, purple and turquoise swirls, her feet bare, her cat-like eyes flicked with heavy eyeliner; Tom was wearing a flowery blue shirt, crisp at the cuffs and collar: both of them a burst of colour. He was swinging her round in a cack-handed attempt at a jive; she was tripping over his feet, and they were laughing, the two of them, moving together and apart, as if they didn’t have a care in the world. They seemed grounded, smiling, happy, united.

  I stood still for a moment or two. Tom had his arm around Ailsa’s waist and he suddenly threw her backwards; causing one of the women to lurch out of the way. Pulling Ailsa towards him again, he held her close for a moment, hurled her away, held her to him.

  It was a performance, I realise now, a public display. They knew they were being watched.

  Delilah was standing alone across the room, leaning against the far wall holding a glass of prosecco. Her hair was pulled back in her usual bun, with its artless tendrils, and she was wearing dark-red lipstick and a white satiny dress. I was struck by the expression on her face. It wasn’t wistful, or resentful, or anything I could quite put my finger on. It was just something in the relationship between her eyes and her mouth, the position of her chin, but I got the impression she was breathing carefully.

  The song ended, and a slower ballad came on. A guitar and a sad voice singing about his English rose. Tom bowed out, raising his hands to Ailsa in apology, and left her, brushing past me down to the other end of the room, and then out into the hall. More guests had arrived. I could see his arms raised extravagantly in greeting, hear the dry bark of his laugh.

  Ailsa hadn’t noticed me. I hoped she wouldn’t. I didn’t need to speak to her. I would wait a few minutes until I could be sure Tom had left the hall and then I would slip away when no one was watching, and indeed I had begun to sidle in that direction when I saw Max coming up into the back sitting room from the kitchen, holding a tray. His hair was gelled – you could see the comb marks – and he was wearing a button-down blue and white check shirt. My heart turned.

  ‘Would you like one of these?’ he said, holding out the tray.

  ‘Max! How lovely! What are they?’

  ‘I think it’s roast beef in Yorkshire pudding? I’m not sure.’

  I took one, dipping it in the pot of horseradish sauce. ‘I think you’re right,’ I said. ‘Are you having a nice time?’

  ‘Mum says the people who make that cooking show have just arrived, so I thought I’d go and . . .’ He held out the tray and I nodded, and watched, as he ducked between arms and squeezed behind backs, tray held up at a precarious angle, towards the door out to the hall.

  He got there just as Tom was bringing his guests in.

  I know more about them now: Ricky Addison and Pippa Jones of the successful production company ‘Stirfy TV’. At the time, I only got a brief impression; he was plump with a shaved head and an air of extreme confidence; and she was floaty and hippy-ish. Tom swept Pippa in under his arm, but he was looking over his shoulder at Ricky, laughing at something he said, playing mein host, or the sycophant, somewhere between the two, so he didn’t see Max bearing down with his tray of horseradish and beef.

  Max took a step towards them, just as Tom, his head still averted, took a step towards him. There was a crash and an oath and the dynamics of that corner of the room changed – people moved away, others crouched down, choux pastry rolling over the floor and Max repeating he was sorry, and Pippa’s voice: ‘It doesn’t matter. Forget it. Forget it.’ Ricky laughing and Tom swearing and flapping at Pippa’s dress with a napkin.

  ‘Apologise,’ Tom said to Max and Max, mortification sounding like anger, said, ‘I have.’

  ‘Again,’ Tom ordered.

  ‘I did,’ Max said, his face red.

  It was easy in the chaos that followed, the scuffle for cloths and dustpans, to scurry past them all. I took the stairs and reached him just as he was about to lock himself in the bathroom.

  ‘Max,’ I said, getting my foot in the door. ‘Let me in.’

  His face appeared around the corner, his eyes pinched, his lower lip wobbling. ‘Why?’

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I just do.’

  He opened the door and I closed it behind me. He sat down on the floor, curling up into a ball. He had a grease stain on his new shirt.

  ‘I’m useless,’ he said. ‘I ruin everything.’

  ‘You’re one of the least useless people I know. You’re a superstar. God.’ I pulled down the toilet lid and sat on it. ‘If you knew what terrible things I’ve done, you wouldn’t believe it. This is nothing. You said sorry several times, I heard you. It’s over now, everyone’s forgotten it already. It was a mistake – not even your fault actually. People need to look where they’re going when there are canapés around.’

  One of the buttons was undone and in the gape his chest looked pale and white.

  He looked up at me. ‘I hate my dad. He’s always so angry.’

  I laughed. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him!’

  ‘They’re the really important guests – they’re the point of the whole party – and I ruined it for him.’

  ‘No!’ I sounded as dismissive as I could. ‘They can’t be that important. What’s as important as his own son? He knows that, if he has any sense at all. Next time you need something to write about, write about this! Humiliation, embarrassment, mortification – all good wow words. Remember how it feels inside and think of how to describe it. Honestly, nothing makes one feel more in control than finding the right words for a horrible experience – it begins to feel like you’re writing about someone else and it stops hurting.’

  He let out a noise, half-laugh, half-groan.

  A desire rose in me then to hug him, to hold him, to make his sadness go away, but instead I stood up.

  ‘What do you think? Shall we go down and join the party?’

  He scrambled to his feet. ‘I’d rather watch a movie but I’m not allowed.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s fine. I’ll square it with your mum.’

  We left together and I covered his back while he scurried down into the basement. I had a strange disembodied feeling walking into the kitchen, as if I would trip and fall face first into the crowd. The table had been moved to one side, and was covered in bottles and glasses. I could see Ailsa standing there talking, and I managed to cross the room and reach her without mishap.

  ‘Verity!’ Ailsa was a polished sleek version of herself. ‘You came! I’m so glad!’

  My fingers fiddled with my new layers. ‘Of course.’

  She pointed down and said in a tone of total outrage, ‘Trainers!’

  ‘No one can see my feet.’

  ‘They can smell them! Joking!’

  ‘You’ve got so many friends,’ I said. ‘So many people I’ve never seen before.’

  ‘I know. Hell. It’s awful!’

  ‘Who are they all?’

  ‘Parents from school, old friends of Tom’s, clients.’ She gestured out to the terrace where Tom was holding court, Delilah in the crowd around him. ‘It’s all worthwhile because Ricky turned up. The party can be deemed a success – though God.’ She leant forward to whisper. ‘Bloody Max spilt a tray of food all over him.’

  ‘It was just an accident.’

  ‘He’s so clumsy, that boy.’

  ‘He didn’t mean it. He’s mortified. He’s watching TV now. I hope that’s OK.’

  But she was looking over my shoulder, searching the crowd. ‘He’s wonderful, Ricky. Of course I knew him first. It was my introduction that . . . anyway.’ Her eyes became suddenly wide. ‘Lucinda! There you are! See you later, Verity. I’m so glad you came. You’re my wing woman.’ She mouthed: ‘Debrief tomorrow, yes?’

  Out in the garden, I saw Tom disentangle himself from a group and come back into the kitchen, his arm over Ricky Addison now, whispering in his ear. It was dark out, but fairy lights twinkled in the bushes, also some rea
l fire things on sticks. Perhaps I could make my way out there. I took a few steps in that direction, squeezing between the table and the counter.

  ‘Hello!’

  The woman I had pushed into was small with white-blonde hair, and a prominent overbite. ‘Susie,’ she said. ‘We met once with Ailsa in Sainsbury’s car park.’

  She introduced me to the people she was with, a tall thin couple called Liz and Will. ‘They’re friends of Ailsa and Tom from Kent.’

  ‘Kent,’ I said. ‘I’ve never really understood what happened there.’

  Liz kept smiling, keeping her head on one side: ‘What do you mean?’ she said.

  ‘Ailsa said “it all went wrong”. I’ve never quite understood what she meant.’

  Liz darted a look at her husband, who pointedly looked away. ‘Her house was so gorgeous,’ she said. ‘They did such a good job with it.’

  ‘She’s good at doing up houses.’

  ‘She certainly is. I know she was sad to leave it.’

  I kept looking at Liz, trying to keep my gaze level. ‘So why did they?’

  She took a sip of her drink, holding the glass to her mouth longer than was necessary. ‘Why did they what?’

  ‘Leave Kent.’

  ‘Oh.’ She shrugged, and let out a little laugh. ‘Life’s complicated. We miss her!’ she said. ‘We all love Ailsa. Tonbridge’s not the same since she’s gone! Do you want another drink?’

  I shook my head and she and Will, after conferring, headed over to the bar area.

  Tom was leaning at the bottom of the steps up to the hall; Ailsa was back on the dance floor. I craned my head. She was entertaining Ricky now, the two of them dancing together quite closely; her head was back, her eyes closed.

  I set off with purpose in the opposite direction up the steps onto the terrace, through the smokers and shouters and onto the grass, and once I was there it was easy to keep going, ducking between the shrubs and under the decorative wrought-iron arch, to the ‘wild meadow’ at the bottom of the garden. It was fuller and richer than the last time I’d given it any attention. I sat on the raised railway sleepers they’d erected around it; I smelt creosote and soil; my ear was tickled by the floaty grass things that took up much of the space. Their house was as loud and fluid and bright as one of those party boats you see passing on the Thames – a stream of noise, voices and music, a streak of light against the dingy river. I could only see the top half of my house beyond the trees, but it looked black in comparison, gloomy and uninhabited, the brickwork stained, the window frames grey and splintered. The sash of Faith’s window had clearly slipped, leaving a foot-long gap between glass and wall. Several slates were missing on the roof. Tom was right – it was probably letting in damp. I thought again about Peter Caxton’s proposal. If I had a cash injection, I could mend the broken gutters. I could patch the property up, make it more habitable.