by Holly Seddon
And if they were to look at Greg’s laptop in ways that she cannot, what might they find? Maybe she had only seen the tip of the iceberg, blundering around on there. But the police have experts, don’t they? They could find everything, like that email account she’s not been able to get into. What might that contain?
She thinks of the nurse who so recklessly ended a young life. Marianne can barely form this new thought but … was Greg someone who hurt children, or wanted to? Was that what led him to the dark web? Was that why he didn’t want his own children, was he scared he might …? The thought disintegrates, too explosive to hold any longer.
She’d trusted him so completely, she thinks, packing underwear and socks. Even when they fell out, even when he questioned her, she still trusted him.
And he was normal. His tastes were so … vanilla. Too vanilla sometimes. Giggling a few years in when she suggested ways to spice things up. And the porn she found in his browser history was almost bland. But perhaps that was just a cover. And if the police did find something, how could she prove it was him and not her who had looked? It’s too risky. Everything is too risky.
‘Do you mind if I come to stay at yours tonight?’ she asks Noah by WhatsApp, keeping it breezy. She sees him typing, then he stops, then starts again. The flicker of activity like a pulse.
‘How come?’ he replies eventually. A stinging lack of enthusiasm at odds with his usual generosity and joyfulness.
‘I had a gas leak earlier,’ she writes, which is true at least. ‘The smell is making me feel sick.’
‘Oh you poor thing. OK, sure. Come on over. X.’
She grabs her keys and bag and is about to leave but as an afterthought she grabs Greg’s laptop and shoves it in the bag with the rest of her stuff.
*
The traffic grinds slowly from east to west. By the time Marianne reaches Richmond, her shoulders and jaw are locked stiff and the base of her spine feels greasy with sweat. She should have got the tube; she thinks it every time, but can’t bear the crush of other people.
Noah’s Range Rover is on the drive and she pulls in behind it, her car like a toy compared with his. He works from home but there’s no answer when she knocks, so she pulls her phone from her bag. He picks up in two rings, the sound of children in the background.
‘Hey, I’m outside,’ she says. ‘Where are you?’
‘Sorry, I had to come and get Daisy from a play date. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
Daisy. The penny drops. That’s why he’d sounded reluctant about her unplanned visit.
‘Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you had her today.’
‘It’s fine, it’s fine.’ He pauses. ‘It’s about time you met her anyway, right?’
Marianne smiles, despite everything. ‘Yes. I’d love to meet her.’
‘Well, we won’t be long. If you reach over the garden gate and unbolt it, you can get into the garden.’
‘I don’t want to get picked up by Neighbourhood Watch breaking into your garden,’ she says.
‘Don’t worry, Toots, I’ll bust you out of jail.’
She’s still sitting on the bench, surrounded by pretty little solar lights, when Marianne sees him through the windows. He mooches up the driveway and peers through his own living room and out through the kitchen. The little girl she only knows from photos looks tiny next to him. Marianne waves with relief. A minute or two later, Daisy has been sent upstairs to get changed and Noah is outside in the garden. He hugs Marianne briefly and the relief makes her head swim. I’m safe.
‘Now, listen,’ he says, with the manner of a department head running a meeting. ‘Daisy knows I have a friend called Marianne but that’s all. She’s not—’
‘It’s fine,’ Marianne says. ‘I won’t do anything overt, don’t worry.’
‘I’m happy that you’re meeting her, but, if it’s OK, I know this is weird but can you put your things in the spare room and, um, sleep in there this time? Just while we …’
So she’s his guilty secret. The future she’d imagined together feels further away than she realised, and she wants it more than ever. She hoists up a smile. ‘It’s fine, honestly.’
They slide open the patio doors with a strange solemnity and when Marianne tries to make coffee, Noah takes over. ‘It’ll look odd if you seem to be at home here.’
She scoffs before she can catch herself. ‘I’m sure Daisy won’t think anything of me making a coffee.’
Noah smiles, but doesn’t move away from the machine. ‘Please, let me do this at my pace,’ he says quietly, reaching for a cup. In the hallway, footsteps thunder down the stairs and Marianne jumps before she can stop herself.
Daisy flies around the corner, a flash of gold hair and purple fabric, springing up at her dad. Noah catches her, swinging her around in a swoop and sitting her up on the kitchen side.
‘Wow, you’re like a gymnast,’ Marianne says and Daisy smiles coyly, swinging her legs a little.
‘This is my friend, Marianne,’ Noah says, gently.
‘Hello,’ says Marianne. ‘It’s very nice to meet you.’
‘Hello,’ Daisy replies, looking at her knees.
‘Let me guess, you must be about eleven? Is that right?’
‘I’m five,’ Daisy giggles.
‘You’re not, are you? Five? I thought you were at least eleven. Probably even twelve!’
‘My next birthday I’ll be six,’ Daisy adds.
‘And when is your birthday?’
‘The sixth of August.’
‘No way! My birthday is the seventh of August!’ Marianne exclaims.
‘Is it really?’ Daisy looks to her dad for confirmation and Noah laughs and nods. They’d spent Marianne’s birthday in a spa hotel in Sussex. Daisy had been having a second birthday party in Surrey with her grandparents. It had been Noah’s idea to go away together and while it wasn’t the sort of place she’d usually go, certainly not at those prices, it had been wonderful. Sitting in a hot tub, looking out over the South Downs, with an attractive man pouring champagne, it was a life she was happy to play-act for a night. Just like she’s happy to play-act this: a family man, a little girl, suburban safety.
Daisy pulls a picture out of her book bag to show them, her eyebrows knitting together as she awaits feedback. ‘Is this a castle?’ Marianne asks, taking a punt. Daisy smiles. ‘It’s very good, Daisy, you’re a natural.’ Daisy smiles wider still and Marianne smiles back. Greg had been so adamant he didn’t want to have kids that it came up on their very first date. She’d laughingly agreed at the time, raised her beer in a toast to lie-ins and controlling the world population when really she was ambivalent, even then. The needle moving in the direction of ‘want’ some years later, which Greg considered unthinkable.
‘Right,’ Noah says decisively. ‘It’s already past your bedtime, Daisy, so go up and brush your pegs.’
She tries to negotiate some TV time as Noah shakes his head. ‘No, it’s definitely time for bed, Dais, come on, upstairs.’
‘Do you mind if I have a shower while you do that?’ Marianne asks him.
He pauses. ‘Sure. Daisy, say goodnight to Marianne.’
Suddenly, a little body is leaping up and as Marianne catches her, Daisy leans up and kisses her cheek. ‘Goodnight!’
‘Goodnight, Daisy, sleep tight.’
*
After her shower, hair still wet and make-up soaped off, Marianne walks into the lounge and flops down on the sofa.
‘Oi, you,’ Noah says from the kitchen, ‘come over here.’ The dining table is laid and Noah comes out of the kitchen carrying two plates. ‘Poached salmon and vegetables,’ he says. ‘If you’re not feeling too sick from the gas?’
‘This looks amazing.’ If it was left to her they’d have been gathered around a Pot Noodle. Noah is a caregiver, she realises, whether out of parental habit or just his own nature. She smiles up at him and he mirrors her.
‘I like looking after you,’ he says, his voice sof
t.
‘I like letting you look after me,’ she tells Noah, matching the coyness in his voice. It is still new to them, sharing important words and loaded conversations. A high-wire act of emotions, where either one of them could say too much and scare the other.
Bellies full, they move onto the sofa where they have a corner each, feet up and touching. ‘Daisy is brilliant,’ Marianne says. ‘You must be so proud of her.’
Noah smiles, flicking his eyes just briefly to the framed picture of ashen-faced Louise holding a tiny pink newborn. ‘She’s everything.’
Marianne thinks back to those early moments at the bereavement group. Noah’s emotions so forceful that she assumed he must have been widowed more recently than her. He had sobbed but said nothing for several sessions before speaking.
‘My wife died four years ago,’ he’d said, finally. ‘A few months after our daughter was born.’ He swallowed, and she thought that was all he would say but then he’d carried on, so slowly it was as if each word hurt his throat. ‘Lou had kidney failure. She shouldn’t have gone through with the pregnancy but she was amazed she’d conceived in the first place. She spent the whole pregnancy calling it a miracle baby.’ He’d screwed up his eyes and then looked down at the wedding ring still on his finger. ‘I thought it was the worst thing that could have happened because it accelerated everything … I just wanted more time with her. I’ll never stop feeling guilty about that because now my daughter is everything to me, everything.’
He talked about his health obsessions, his need to stay fit. Marianne noticed the shape of his chest and his arms; twin flickers of desire and shame turned her head away. It was too soon, she thought. And it wasn’t appropriate to ogle bereaved men, no matter how attractive they were.
‘I can’t let Daisy down and I can’t let her lose another parent,’ he’d said to the group. ‘Not ever.’
*
‘Shall we watch something?’ he asks now, gesturing to the enormous flat TV screen mounted on the wall.
‘Just put on whatever you’d watch if I wasn’t here,’ she says. ‘I don’t care what’s on the screen.’
He fumbles with the remote and chooses a programme about small businesses. It’s definitely not what she’d choose but Noah is a self-proclaimed ‘entrepreneur’ with ‘a finger in lots of pies’.
‘I’m not very good at holding down a normal job,’ he’d joked on their first date. She’s still not entirely sure what he does – investing in failing businesses and turning them around, she thinks. Some business partners in the mix somewhere. Sometimes providing money for start-ups with curious ideas that risk-averse banks won’t support, something like that – but too much time has passed to ask again.
She leans back and closes her eyes, happily disinterested. Then her brain starts whirring away again.
‘Hey,’ she sits up after a few minutes. ‘Have you got any booze? I really need to blot things out.’ He looks at her for a moment, as if reading her face. Then, without saying anything, he heads to the dining room and rummages in a drinks cabinet she’s not noticed before – alcohol is usually a once-a-week ‘cheat’ for Noah – and then into the kitchen, swinging a couple of bottles. A few minutes later, he presents her with a cut-glass tumbler filled with ice, a slice of orange and dark amber liquid that smells like Christmas.
‘An Old Fashioned,’ he says, ‘but I’m afraid I’m out of cherries.’
‘I can’t drink this without a cherry,’ she says. ‘Take it away.’
He smiles as she sips it cautiously. It’s incredibly strong and surprisingly delicious. She smiles gratefully as he flops back down into his corner and presses play on the remote. She takes a slug, the booze hitting her fast. ‘God, that’s good. You’re a dark horse.’
He smiles and pulls her foot onto his lap, rubbing her big toe gently. ‘I’m no stranger to blotting things out,’ he says, eyes on the screen.
Sam
I’m back in the park opposite her flat when Marianne drives past, chewing her thumbnail and staring at the traffic lights ahead. Like everyone around me, I’m looking down at my phone. Keeping my eyes soft and easy, ready to glance up when the right make and model slides past. I watch her now as she indicates and turns left, her silly little car sliding along the northern edge of the park and then out of view.
This is curious. Perhaps the gas scare has put a kink in the typical routine because she would normally be settled for the evening now. It’s a school night and she has no gym memberships, no dinner bookings. Her best friend lives in Dubai, other friends in Devon. Her mother moved to France recently. Apparently she keeps co-workers at arm’s length; none of them are even social media connections.
She’s likely making an unscheduled trip to her boyfriend in Richmond, but it’s too risky to hare off to a different part of London without a plan. I’m bone-tired, sloppy in my movements. I need to go home and take stock, re-read the part of the report that deals with her love life.
I stand up slowly. A little boy smiles at me from the top of the slide and I smile back, then stick out my tongue to make him laugh. His mother looks over with heavy lids and we share tired smiles.
*
I’ve used a zigzag route, inching back and forth through stop-start traffic for what felt like hours. My temples ache from concentrating, my teeth still grinding as I climb out into the evening air.
Once inside, I take off my boots by the door with an involuntary sigh. My heels are sore, gritty with all the miles I’ve covered. I spread my toes out on the cheap carpet and stretch my arms over my head. I’ve worked hard and fast, expecting this assignment to be resolved by now. Hoping, despite my inherent caution, that this last box can be ticked and I can put all of this behind me. We’ve already agreed that Pavel Bourean is not a possible target, long disappeared. This only leaves Marianne.
This should already be job done, a mess cleared up. Justice, I suppose.
But I’m still on the hook and now this ‘final’ job is growing more complicated by the day. I rub my forehead and tug my coat off.
According to the report, her boyfriend is a businessman called Noah Simpson. A widower with a little girl. I look again at the shots from Google Streetview. It’s a family home. I will need to tread very carefully – there can be no collateral damage.
I study the floor layouts, the entry points and those little shards of gold where all neighbours’ views are blocked. I make a plan, then head into my kitchen to scare up something to eat.
As I wait for the microwave to ping, I set an early alarm for the morning.
Marianne
Tuesday, 14 September 2021
Marianne becomes aware of her own skin first. The hairs on her arm standing to attention before she even knows she’s awake. Someone is in here, watching me sleep.
Their breath skims the surface of Marianne’s skin. Her arm is draped over the pillow and she tries to keep it from trembling, keeping her eyes closed and breathing level. Buying time while she works out what the fuck to do.
Behind her, in the warm belly of the bed, she feels Noah stir and roll over to spoon her. A big ship, turning slowly. Still asleep, he wraps his heavy arm around her and pins her where she lays. Whoever is standing there continues to watch.
It’s early morning but still dark in here. With her eyes screwed shut, Marianne tries to picture the room, the layout. It’s both familiar and not. Cushions another woman chose; an en-suite full of men’s products; at the foot of the bed, the blanket box that Noah laid her down on during their first, most adventurous, time.
She pictures the double-glazed windows, locked for security in the way that safe suburban people like to do. Even if she could unpin herself from Noah, as soon as she moved she would surely be grabbed. And what of Noah? And Daisy? Fuck. She pleads silently. Don’t hurt them.
‘Daddy?’
They throw themselves apart and open their eyes in unison. Daisy is a blur of legs and a tangled nightie as she runs out of the door. Noah pulls on some pyjam
a bottoms and rushes out after her, casting a pained look back at Marianne as he leaves. She was supposed to go back to the spare room last night, but four Old Fashioneds and a couple of orgasms had knocked her out. And he’d passed out just as easily, clearly. But that was the one condition for her staying and she’d blown it.
The threat of imagined danger lingers in her racing heart and sweaty palms, but reality is a sad slap in the face. From the other bedroom she can hear Daisy’s sobs and Noah’s soothing, apologetic tones.
Marianne’s phone lies on the side table. The alarm starts up and the screen goes black, the last sputter of energy used up. She plugs it in to a spare charger on Noah’s side and drags herself to the shower, keeping her hair out of the water and using a body wash that makes her smell of sandalwood and testosterone. She wraps herself in the same towel she used last night, its edges cold and damp. From the other room, she can hear Daisy and Noah talking quietly over the sound of fresh sheets being billowed and fanned.
She dresses guiltily, silently, wishing for a way to slip out unnoticed and somehow rewind to last night and just get into the spare bed instead. Noah appears, grave faced.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she starts but he waves it away.
‘She wet the bed. It was just bad luck.’
‘I figured that’s what happened. Is she OK now? Did she ask about us?’
He clicks his jaw. ‘She’s OK,’ he says, pulling gym clothes from his drawers and peeling off his pyjamas. She watches him discreetly. When she’s stayed over usually, she’s felt proprietorial of his body, grabbing his bum when he walks past or squeezing his arms while he cooks. Now she feels like an interloper. Like the other woman.
‘I’m sorry, I know I’m being a bit moody. It’s just … I didn’t want it to happen like this,’ he says. ‘She’s never known me be with anyone and I really wanted to get this right, to give us …’ – he pauses and looks at her – ‘to give us the best chance.’
