by Sarah Hilary
With my eyes down, I spread the slice, the way he’d buttered his. My mouth tasted of salt. Why was I crying? Carolyn wasn’t here, it was just the two of us. I was warm and well-fed, enjoying his company. The room was wide with sunshine. It was a beautiful, beautiful morning.
‘That’s better.’ He smiled at me, his eyes forest-dark.
As I ate his toast, he poured me a second cup of coffee, adding the last of the milk. We didn’t speak again, finishing our coffees in silence with the sun moving slowly across the table to touch our hands with its easy warmth.
By noon, the sun had gone behind patchy cloud.
The day was mine, Dr Wilder was going out. He hadn’t said where, just that he wouldn’t be home for lunch and would eat sandwiches for supper. ‘The day’s yours.’ Smiling again.
After finishing in the kitchen, I went to his bedroom, meaning to make the bed and tidy the bathroom, but it was all done. The sheets neat, the duvet folded at the foot of the bed. In the bathroom, everything gleamed, fresh towels on the rail. There was nothing for me to do. How little he needed me, I thought. He could look after himself, and no doubt he could cook too. But then I thought how we’d sat together at the breakfast table as easily as old friends. He’d had me here as a housekeeper, but he was keeping me for company. Mrs Mistry’s children whispered to me. I couldn’t make out their words, just the buzzing of their voices in my head. ‘Hush,’ I said.
His aftershave scented the room, making me see forests in summer, the sun cooling as it fell between branches onto fronds of fern. I moved to lay my hand on his pillow and saw the charcoal sketch, his portrait of me with my back to his mirror. Trimmed to the size of a paperback book, propped against the lamp on his bedside table. He’d sketched my profile and its reflection in the glass, like the drawing I’d found in the attic of a tree mirrored in water. Two faces, neither one quite mine. The face in the mirror came closest, exposing the tension in my jaw and neckline. He’d used shades of silver and black, a stroke of charcoal for the shadows along my cheekbone and at the base of my throat. The scar on my eyebrow was a true star, silvered. I looked neither beautiful nor ugly, he’d been neither generous nor cruel, but there was a tenderness to the lines. Hesitation, perhaps, or reluctance; he’d lacked Carolyn’s enthusiasm for the project. And yet he’d kept the sketch, propping it here at the side of his bed where he could look at it as he lay with his head on the pillow that smelt – I leaned in, breathing deeply – of lake water and autumn leaves, his skin. All last night while he lay here, I was with him. Mirror-me, with her neck angled away. Other-me, with her black eyes. Which did he see when he looked at me? Which girl had shared his breakfast this morning? The one with the lovely, youthful neck, or the girl who wouldn’t give anything to the mirror other than her tension, her shadows and her scars.
That afternoon, I walked through London, chasing the sun as it wandered west. I was half-frozen from being inside Starling Villas for so long. Robin had told me to take the day off but it was strange to have idle hands, nothing to lift or wipe or whisk, no work to do.
By the side of the Serpentine, I stopped to watch couples in the boats they’d hired. Canada geese watched with me, their beaked faces somehow looking bloodthirsty. Soon they should be making spearheads in the sky, heading south for the winter, but for now they patrolled the park among the tourists. I was a tourist; I didn’t belong in London or anywhere, unless it was with Joe.
On the water, a couple laughed, upsetting the pitch of their boat. The girl shrieked, her hands across her mouth. The boy wrestled with the oars, shouting happily, his face clenched with effort. Something shifted in the bushes at my feet and I fizzed with fear, moving away from the water to the sand path full of footprints. I had the sudden feeling I was being followed, but when I looked there was no one. The couple in the boat made me think of Joe and me, sharing a bed in Brian’s flat.
We’d shared a lot of beds when we first came to London, nearly five months ago now. We would meet strangers in the Shunt Lounge, or in clubs like the one where Carolyn found Joe, and we’d go home with the ones who wanted us. Whatever we had to do, to buy a night off the streets. None of the strangers treated us well, but it was more than we deserved. Most of the strangers I’d forgotten. Only Brian’s face came to me, thrust close to mine, ‘You bitch.’ The prickle of his wallpaper against my bare shoulders. The night before, he’d paid a masseuse to come and oil our backs. That morning, he’d found me going through his stuff, sitting cross-legged with his photos and papers spread over the floor where last night he and Joe and I had been spread. I’d made a pool of papers, giving myself no chance to hide my deliberate transgression when he walked back into the room. ‘You bitch!’ Grabbing me, shoving me up against the wall. We’d known each other nine days, intimately, carnally. I’d seen him naked from every angle. But I wasn’t to see his bank statements or school certificates, or the photos of him as a baby in his father’s arms. That was where he drew the line. Everyone drew one, you just had to search and you’d find it. I’d spread his line all over the floor, waiting for him to return and find me there.
‘What did you do?’ Joe demanded when we were back on the streets, the slam of Brian’s door ringing in our heads. ‘Nell. What the hell did you do?’ But he knew.
I’d done what I always did, sabotaging our safe place.
We didn’t deserve to live well, when Rosie was dead. I’d thought Joe understood that. But he didn’t seem to care that we were getting too comfortable with Brian, having too much fun. Eating good food, getting drunk every night. Joe was taking drugs for the first time since we’d left Lyle’s, smoking and sniffing. It kept him warm, he said, helped him to forget. I didn’t want him to forget. Brian liked to buy us gifts: clothes and jewellery, iPhones and sunglasses and cocaine. Joe knew as well as I did – we didn’t deserve to live like that. ‘Why d’you always have to ruin what we find, what we have?’ He’d walked away from me, in disgust. I’d had to run to catch up with him.
The splash of oars on the Serpentine brought me back to the present.
People were coming up from the Underground with phones in their hands. A tide of people, pressing on the bruise of my aloneness. A man in a hi-vis jacket had attracted a tail of tourists. We’re hardwired to follow the herd. Meagan hardly had to lift a hand to get her way. We jumped before she ever told us to. Each one of us trained to submit and obey, to be grateful for what little we had, living in fear of losing it.
Down in the Underground, trains scratched at the tracks. We loved trains, Joe and me. The only time he slept easily was in the seat next to mine, rocked by the motion of the wheels. The night we escaped from Meagan, we took the train to London. Every detail of that journey was fresh in my head. The steamy smell of the carriage, cake crumbs on the seats, a filmy spot on the window where someone had rested his head. I was wearing the bottom half of Joe’s tracksuit with ‘Mathematics’ printed up the outside leg. Joe wore the matching logo on his chest. He fell asleep almost instantly, his head on my shoulder and then in my lap. I dropped my hand to his hair, turning the silver ring in his ear, his latest piercing. Armour, he said, as if bits of metal could keep unwanted hands away. The ring was warm in my fingers. From an adjacent seat, a businessman watched, unable to keep his eyes off us. Mr Intercity, his shiny grey suit fitting like a second skin. I bent forward, my hair hiding Joe’s face. The man’s stare was hot on my neck. He couldn’t decide which of us he wanted. He didn’t know Joe and I were a package deal. Brian understood, it was why he threw the pair of us onto the streets after my act of sabotage. It was why I wanted Joe with me now, in Starling Villas.
‘Excuse me, d’you mind?’ A different businessman, uninterested in me. I was standing in his path, lost inside my memory of the train journey. The sun slunk over the park.
Where are you, Joe? Where did you go? Whose bed did you find, after Carolyn’s?
We said we’d keep each other’s secrets, take them to the grave. We made a pact, sealed in blood. Never to f
orget, never to forgive. How could he have forgotten that?
Starling Villas stood in sunset, all of its windows ablaze.
It felt good to be back. I’d tested the length of my leash, found the perimeter of my new home. But as I stepped into his hall, fear flared my blood. She was here. I could smell that siren scent, the lilies drooping in their vase – Carolyn was back.
I pocketed my keys, unbuttoning my coat, taking my time. Remembering our breakfast together, Robin and me seated at the table in the hush of the house. He’d given me the day off. I worked for him, not her.
Crossing the hall, I started climbing the stairs to my attic.
‘There you are.’ Her voice came from below me, on the spiral steps that led down to the kitchen. ‘You sly thing . . . I thought you’d stay in, knowing you had guests.’
I continued up the stairs as if I hadn’t heard her.
Let her call my name, if it was so important. Let her raise her voice, show her true colours.
‘Your cousin,’ Carolyn said, ‘is in the kitchen.’
I stopped then, a thud in my throat.
Turning, I saw her on the lower step.
Light hit the underside of her jaw like a torch, showing every line and sag. When she spread her mouth into a smile, the light leapt to her cheekbones, carving her face into a jack-o’-lantern.
‘Well?’ she said. ‘Aren’t you coming to say hello?’
22
‘It’s fortunate I was in, since for whatever reason you weren’t here to answer the door.’
‘It’s my day off.’
‘Really?’ Carolyn laughed. ‘I didn’t know you had those.’ She stood at the kitchen doorway, as if guarding it. The light was behind her, all the betraying softness gone, leaving clean expensive lines of the kind I could never afford. Her dark red dress suited her, better than the black. She raised her eyebrows. ‘What did you do?’
‘Do . . . ?’ I wet my lips.
She knew about our breakfast. My new happiness – was it written on my face, the way money was on hers? Or was she talking about something worse, from long ago? What had she heard?
‘With your day off. What did you do with it?’
‘I walked.’
Her eyes went to my shoes, then to my coat as if she could see the moth holes in its lining. She saw the flush in my cheeks, and the dampness in my eyes. I couldn’t hide from her scrutiny. My stomach clenched, cold sweat stabbing at the back of my neck. All I could think was, I have no cousin.
‘You’ve kept us waiting.’ She swung the door wide with the flat of her hand. ‘Luckily I was here to make tea, after such a long journey.’ Her words made no sense, nor did the way she stood wide-armed, inviting me into the kitchen, where the bronze lamp was lit.
New shadows spilled on the floor. I was afraid to step inside, afraid of what I’d find.
Carolyn’s face was masked by a smile, as if my fear thrilled her.
At the table, hands folded on the scrubbed surface, a cup of tea at his elbow—
‘Joe.’
‘Hello, Nell.’ He smiled up at me, sleepily.
His fringe had grown long in the weeks since I’d seen him last, full of straw highlights. He wore a plaid shirt, faded pink and green, its cuffs fraying at his wrists. He’d brought the sun’s scent in here. I wanted to touch his face, to be sure it was real. To be sure it was Joe.
I had to walk past Carolyn, to reach the table. For a second we were so close, a thread of static touched our cheeks. I lifted a hand to rub at its sharp, fleeting kiss.
Joe sat forward under the bowl of light. He’d taken all the studs and rings from his ears, naked without the piercings. It took me a second to see the tension in his shoulders, the warning behind his smile. But I’d smelt her before I saw her – iron slicing through the summer’s sweetness like a scythe through a field of corn.
‘Your cousin, Joe.’ Carolyn spoke the words through her teeth. ‘And your aunt, of course.’
At the foot of the table, hidden until I took two final steps forward. Grey hair at her temples, black coat buttoned to her neck.
Meagan Flack.
‘Hello, love.’ Her face cracked in a grin. ‘Hello, our Nell.’ Robin’s rota was at her elbow, its pages open. ‘This’s nice.’ Her eyes winked wetly at me. ‘This is very nice.’
Five months had passed since I’d seen her, but it might have been five hours. The old danger dug its claws into me, as familiar as fear. She’d found me, run me to ground. The kitchen seemed to shrink around us, the floor tilting under my feet, light spiralling into the shadows. For a second I feared I would faint, fall and smash my head on the hard tiles. I forced myself to breathe and to stand still, meeting her stare.
This is nice. Starling Villas, she meant. And me, installed here. With Carolyn who stank of money, the one scent in the world that made her salivate.
How long had they been sitting, talking? How much had been said? Three cups of tea on the table, a fourth standing empty.
Stupidly, I thought of milk and sugar, shopping.
Meagan reached for Joe’s hand, patting it with her stained smoker’s fingers. He sat like a doll, head nodding under the lamp’s heat. He’d taken something or it was stress, that strange lethargy that crept over him when he was scared; his brain shutting down for his own protection.
Oh Joe. What have you done?
‘It’s lovely to see you,’ Meagan said. ‘Isn’t it, Joe?’
‘Yes.’ He was docile in her grip.
I wanted to pull him away from her. And I wanted to rescue Robin’s rota. She’d no business looking at it, no business being here. Carolyn was tense with questions, her eyes like Meagan’s hands – hooked on Joe. I’d done this, brought him back. And she was wondering why, with what purpose I’d brought him here. No matter how hard I wished him away, it was done.
Carolyn said, ‘Lovely,’ and it took me a moment to realize she was parroting Meagan.
When I forced myself to meet her eyes, I saw it was more than curiosity. Carolyn’s body was always tight and her face too, but I’d learnt to read her. Fear sat in the shadow above her upper lip. This wasn’t the way her game was supposed to be played. Joe was a one-night stand, a nightclub pick-up, someone she’d never see again. He’d fascinated her, the way he fascinated everyone with his sleepy sexiness, that sense you could take him unawares. Like the man on the train, Mr Intercity, Carolyn couldn’t take her eyes off Joe. But Meagan was petting at him, so obviously in charge. And then there was me, the stranger who’d installed herself here while all along knowing Joe, knowing about that night. One step ahead of her game, from the start. I didn’t need to panic, not yet. She was doing it enough for both of us. I reached for the pot and poured myself a cup of tea, adding a splash of milk. ‘Did you come far?’ I asked Joe.
It was Meagan who answered: ‘From Bala. By train.’
‘Goodness!’ Carolyn laughed, and fear flavoured her voice too. ‘I’ve no idea where that is.’
‘Wales.’ I drew out a chair and sat at the table.
Three of us now, staring up at Carolyn. I saw the soft spot under her chin. ‘Bala is in North Wales.’
Her gaze shifted between Joe and me, avoiding Meagan. It struck me for the first time how the costly gloss of her skin aged her. It was such an obvious falsehood, like a child’s clumsy lie.
‘That’s a long way!’ Her voice was a pitch too high, falsely bright.
She was old enough to be his mother. For one night, she’d been able to pretend otherwise but he wasn’t supposed to come back. That was my doing, mine.
I sipped at my tea, surprised to find a small measure of sympathy rising to the surface of my feelings towards her. Carolyn could afford so much, things I’d never have, but she couldn’t buy the drowsy flush of Joe’s cheeks. Meagan knew it, too. Sitting with his hand in hers, grey head cocked, soaking up every secret in the house, hoarding it as a miser hoards money and food and heat.
Meagan waited until I’d finished my cup of
tea before saying, ‘We should have a proper catch-up, Nellie. Just you and me. A proper natter.’
I took care to keep calm, although my heart was thudding and my throat was so tight I had difficulty swallowing the last of my tea.
‘We must,’ I said.
Somehow, I managed a note of challenge, meeting her eye so steadily I saw her face flicker. Unsure of her ground? Or excited at the thought of fighting me for a piece of whatever she imagined was on offer here? Money, it was always money with Meagan. And she’d never been afraid of fighting for it, getting herself dirty. She would bring up Rosie’s death without a second thought, if she thought it would get her what she wanted.
What would Carolyn Wilder make of that? A six-year-old who died in our care, mine and Joe’s, a drowned baby girl. What would Robin think? R. Wilder JP. Magistrate.
‘We could have it now,’ Meagan said, ‘our natter.’
‘Oh, but you must be tired, after your long journey.’ I stood, and began clearing the tea things from the table. ‘Why not leave it to the morning?’
I saw the smile crabbing her face. She was so sure she had me where she wanted me. She could taste my fear. I had to fight to keep my hands from shaking, the way they always shook when she fixed her attention on me. Through all of it, Joe sat immobile, his hands slack around his teacup, his gaze as distant as our lake. Carolyn didn’t speak but she watched us intently.
When Meagan and Joe stood to leave, Carolyn made a joke about the spare room. Testing them or me, I wasn’t sure, but Meagan was too smart for that. She knew to take her time if she was to inch her way inside Starling Villas. She wasn’t going to rush and risk ruining it.
‘Kind of you but we’ve a place not too far away. It’s a flying visit.’
From the kitchen window, I watched their shadows bleeding up the street.
Not too far away. I pictured a small hotel, cheap because there was never enough money. Until now. I leaned into the cold slab of the sink. Don’t panic. Don’t do anything stupid.
