The Women: A gripping psychological thriller

by S. E. Lynes

  ‘But surely,’ she says, ‘it’s good to put intelligence to real use? Meaningful use? I think I could really help people, make a difference. Some of them look totally lost, and without English, what possible job opportunities can they have here?’

  ‘Absolutely, absolutely. But someone of your … calibre … I just don’t see you doing that.’ He drains his champagne and, finding the bottle empty, signals to the waiter for another wine glass. When he returns his eyes to hers, he must read something there, because he adds, ‘But if you want to, then go for it, obviously.’

  For a moment, their two worlds hang in orbit. This is a whole conversation they cannot have, she realises, one that revolves around perceptions of success, meaning, life itself. In those first weeks and months of late nights and constant sex, she thought they’d talked about everything. She thought they were so aligned.

  But perhaps she’s overthinking. Peter tells her she does that sometimes. She remembers the photographs in his bedside drawer. Now would be a good time to change the subject.

  ‘So, did you go to school around here then?’ she asks.

  ‘Hampton,’ he replies. ‘Hampton Boys. Nearby, yes, why?’

  ‘Was that a private school?’

  ‘Still is.’

  The waiter arrives with a clean tumbler into which Peter pours a generous measure of red. Samantha has still not finished her first glass of champagne.

  ‘Remember I told you my father left me the house and some money?’ Peter says. ‘Well, it was a lot of money. He was the CEO of a pharmaceuticals company. So yes, I went to private school. In fact, I don’t really need to work.’

  ‘You don’t need to work?’ She can barely stretch her brain around the concept. She knows people like that exist, but …

  ‘Close your mouth,’ he says.

  ‘Sorry. I just can’t believe I didn’t know that.’ She can, actually. Their relationship has been such a whirlwind, and now here they are with a baby, getting to know one another retrospectively.

  Perhaps he feels it too, because he leans forward, grasps both her hands in his and kisses her knuckles. ‘Which is why I keep asking you to marry me.’

  She shakes her head. ‘A wedding ring didn’t protect my mother from anything, did it?’

  ‘But that’s because your father was bankrupt as well as a philanderer. I sowed my wild oats at the appropriate moment. And if I’ve told you about my situation now, tonight, well, consider it my declaration of trust in you. You’re safe, Sam. As I keep telling you, I’m not your father.’

  ‘I know.’ She kisses the inside of his wrist. ‘I know that. Maybe one day. Keep asking.’

  His eyes shine, the pupils black and enlarged in the low light of the restaurant. He pushes his plate away. ‘I think we should head home.’

  ‘All right.’ She glances at the table. She has left her champagne, due to the beginnings of a headache, but has eaten all of her pizza as well as a home-made panna cotta. Peter has left half his pizza, but both bottles are empty.

  Peter suggests they walk home rather than taking the bus or a cab. For exercise, he says. It will do her good after eating so much. They stroll back over the bridge, head right, up the hill, leaving the riverside lights to twinkle on the dark water as it falls away behind them. The air is chilly; Samantha pulls her hat as low as it will go, muffles her mouth with her scarf.

  ‘So, you said you used to teach in a secondary school?’

  ‘I did. Up in Liverpool. I did my teacher training there and walked into a job teaching history.’

  ‘What kind of school was it?’

  ‘What do you mean, what kind of school?’ He laughs. ‘A secondary school. Catholic, is that what you mean?’

  ‘No, I just meant private or state or … I don’t know really. I guess I was thinking of my school.’

  ‘Ah yes, the school of hard knocks, wasn’t it? Pig fights in the yard?’

  She bristles. Her rural upbringing amuses him, along with other aspects of her life – the fact that she worked as a waitress, as a Saturday girl in the village shoe shop. She doesn’t see what is so funny. Someone like Peter would have been hung out to dry at her school; he wouldn’t have lasted five minutes. He hasn’t had to constantly adapt to his surroundings as she has – soften his accent, correct his grammar, refrain from verbal tics, originally adopted for survival, in case they make him sound stupid. She doesn’t say this, doesn’t say much else as they make their way home. In fact, it is only when they get home that she realises that he never really answered her.

  Samantha reaches the crèche almost an hour before class. She needs the extra time if she’s going to settle Emily and still have a moment to catch Harry Boyd. To her surprise, her student Suzanne is chatting to one of the nursery assistants. The assistant says something out of the corner of her mouth and they both laugh. Samantha hasn’t seen Suzanne laugh before, she realises. She looks pretty; her brown hair, which previously looked dull, today is glossy. Samantha thinks perhaps she’s straightened it.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, cursing the heat creeping up her neck.

  They look up and promptly stop laughing. When she sees the baby, however, Suzanne breaks into a warm smile.

  ‘Oh, Samantha,’ she says. ‘Is this your little girl?’

  Samantha feels the blush spread up onto her face. ‘I’m trying her in the crèche today. Peter’s working, so …’

  Suzanne is walking towards her, her smile still wide and warm. ‘Oh my God, she’s gorgeous.’ She bends forward, brushes her forefinger against Emily’s cheek. ‘Hey there, little one. Aren’t you beautiful, eh? You’re like your mummy, aren’t you?’

  The corners of Emily’s mouth turn up in a gummy, idiotic grin.

  ‘There’s a smile,’ Suzanne sing-songs – her accent is northern, well-spoken. ‘There’s a lovely little smile.’

  It is the most Samantha has ever heard Suzanne say. She is blossoming, as if she prefers the company of babies to adults. Samantha understands her. Babies don’t care who you are, whether or not you’ve pronounced the name of a composer correctly, got the wrong century for an artist, asked for sugar for your coffee. All they need is a kind voice.

  ‘She’s gorgeous.’ Suzanne is looking at Samantha finally. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Emily.’

  ‘Aah, what a lovely name.’ Suzanne holds out her arms, raises her eyebrows. ‘Can I have a little hold?’

  ‘Of course.’ Samantha hands her over, watching with something like delight as the other woman cradles Emily and looks lovingly into her eyes.

  ‘I didn’t realise you had a child in the crèche too,’ she says.

  ‘I don’t yet,’ Suzanne replies, her eyes not leaving Emily’s face. ‘I was thinking of bringing our Jo next week, so I just wanted to have a chat, like, see how I felt about the set-up, but they seem nice here. And it means I don’t have to leave her with my mum. I live quite far away, so I don’t like leaving her too long, you know?’

  ‘Good idea. How old is she?’

  ‘Only little. Not much older than Emily, to be honest.’ She glances up at Samantha. ‘Shall I take her over to Gail?’

  ‘No, it’s OK. I can’t chat actually, though. I have to see my boss about something before class.’

  Suzanne nods, her expression flattening before animating once again. ‘Listen, do you want me to stay here for a bit, make sure she’s settled? That way you can get off and do what you need to do.’ She turns towards the nursery nurse and calls over, ‘Gail, this is Samantha’s little one, Emily. I was just saying I don’t mind staying on a bit, make sure she’s OK?’

  Gail waves and gets up from the floor, where she is playing with bright outsize Lego bricks, the kind Peter has said he will never have in the house.

  ‘Hello,’ she says, holding out her hand. ‘I’m Gail.’

  Samantha shakes her hand. She looks so young – late teens perhaps. Finally, someone younger than her in charge of an infant, although she’d rather leave Emily with s
omeone more experienced. Gail tells her there’s a form to fill in, so, leaving the baby clearly very contented with Suzanne, Samantha follows her into the office.

  ‘I’m in RBS27,’ she adds, scribbling the number for the classroom on the form. ‘But she’s been fed and changed so she shouldn’t need much. There’s some spare nappies in here and a bottle. Can you warm it? She takes a bottle from my partner, so she should be OK. Is there anyone else working with you?’

  ‘Sandra’s gone on her break but she’ll be back in a mo, don’t worry.’ Gail is smiling at her with patient benevolence beyond her years. ‘She’ll be fine,’ she says slowly.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll be back a little after two.’ Samantha remembers her arrangement with Aisha and Jenny. ‘Actually, it’ll be nearer three, but call me if there’s any problem. I’ll be in the canteen from two.’

  Suzanne is already sitting on a wicker chair with Emily in her arms. Emily has fallen asleep, the pale brown brush of her eyelashes, that pink bow of her top lip, the same as her father’s. Samantha sighs, kisses the palm of her hand and presses it to Emily’s head.

  ‘Bye then, little one,’ she says softly, then, meeting Suzanne’s eye, ‘See you in class.’

  Suzanne hunches her shoulders briefly and smiles once again. ‘See you there, hon,’ she calls out as Samantha heads out of the crèche.

  Harry Boyd is not in his office. He is not in the admin office either. Penny McKay, the woman who, it appears to Samantha, holds the entire college together, tells her she saw him in the cafeteria a moment ago.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Samantha half runs across the courtyard, through the canteen, the foyer where the art students’ exhibition hangs. Her own wretched little poetry collection comes into her mind. She wishes Peter hadn’t sent it to the university press. She wasn’t ready. It wasn’t ready. And if it gets published, she will know it is because of his status, not her own talent. She should have argued more boldly. But she was at the end of her pregnancy and more tired than she had ever been. And Peter’s powers of persuasion hit her only afterwards, as is so often the way.

  Harry is nowhere to be seen. Time is ticking. She heads for the photocopier to find Sean hovering in the foyer. A stress pain pushes at her sternum. She should ask him what he was doing in her street. But he looks more anxious than she is. He is shifting his weight from foot to foot and fiddling with the zip on his anorak.

  ‘We’re in PK23 in the old building.’ He zips up his anorak, unzips it a few centimetres, zips it up again, unzips, zips. His brow is furrowed, his eyes round. ‘It says it on the classroom door but it’s not on the noticeboard. How will people know where to go?’

  Samantha can’t ask him about his presence outside her house now; he is far too rattled, and besides, any sinister intent just doesn’t square up. Now that they are face to face, the idea that Sean would hurt a fly is unimaginable.

  ‘Hold on a sec.’ She jogs down the corridor – sure enough, there is a sign Sellotaped to the glass:

  Spanish exam. Please be quiet.

  Creative Writing for Beginners moved to PK23.

  ‘Oh,’ she says, a little perplexed. No one told her. She can sense Sean standing behind her, almost touching her shoulder. When she turns, his nose almost grazes hers. She takes a step back. Oh, but how worried he looks. She could cry for him.

  ‘Actually, Sean,’ she says gently, ‘could you maybe wait in the foyer and redirect the others? Save them making noise outside the classroom, as there’s an exam on? That would completely solve the problem and you’d be doing me an enormous favour.’

  He almost beams, nods violently. ‘I can do that.’

  ‘Brilliant. I won’t start without you, don’t worry.’

  ‘I’ll stand in the foyer so they won’t disturb the exam. I’ll tell them to go to PK23.’

  ‘Exactly.’ She gives him a thumbs-up and heads back towards the main building to find keys for the classroom, her heart still with him. There will be a moment to ask him what he was doing in her road, but that wasn’t it.

  In the courtyard, Suzanne is heading towards her.

  ‘Settled in fine,’ she says. ‘She’s fast asleep in her car seat, bless her.’

  ‘Brilliant. Listen, we’re in PK23 today.’

  Suzanne doesn’t appear to register the information. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t make it last week,’ she says. ‘I was under the weather.’

  ‘That’s OK, don’t worry about it. It’s not like school – you won’t get a detention.’

  Suzanne laughs, perhaps more than the joke deserves, and Samantha remembers that she left school at sixteen. At the reception desk, she stops to change the classroom keys and together she and Suzanne take the staircase to the first floor.

  ‘I’ve booked our Jo in for next week,’ Suzanne tells her. ‘They can have a play date.’

  ‘Aw, that’s lovely.’

  They reach the first floor landing. Aisha and Jenny are waiting outside PK23.

  ‘Actually Suzanne,’ Samantha says, her pace slowing. ‘I’ve just realised I’ve given the nursery the wrong classroom number. They won’t know where to find me if Emily needs me.’

  ‘Yes they will!’ Suzanne’s face is pure triumph. ‘I saw the sign before and I told Gail.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, OK. That’s … that’s brilliant, thanks.’

  Suzanne beams back at her before disappearing into the Ladies, leaving Samantha to face Aisha and Jenny alone.

  ‘We were just talking about you,’ Aisha says. ‘Do you have time for a quick coffee after class?’

  Samantha nods, eventually produces a strained, ‘Er, sure.’ She’s gone all weird, she knows she has, but she can’t help it. She fumbles with the key, which rattles in the eroded fitting of the lock. With a stiff clunk, the door opens suddenly and violently. Samantha almost falls into the classroom.

  ‘Steady as she goes,’ Jenny says with a laugh. ‘You almost went flying then!’

  Without making eye contact, Samantha heads for the computer. Shit, she didn’t do the photocopying.

  ‘I won’t be a tick.’ She dashes out with the day’s lesson notes, almost bumping into Suzanne. In the corridor, she stops, curses again. She’s left her bag in the classroom, but to go back now will look like she doesn’t trust those women. She doesn’t trust them – well, two of them. But no, she has the folder. The bogus work has always been placed in the folder.

  A shadow is moving towards her. Sean.

  ‘I’ve told all the others like you said, Miss. They’re on their way. I told Tommy, Reggie, Daphne—’

  ‘Sean, you’ve saved the day,’ she says. ‘Excuse me, I just have to dash and get these copied.’ She holds up the folder and smiles.

  ‘I’m a bit earlier today,’ he says. ‘Tried the bike again because the roadworks have moved north of Kew now so it’s not as bad.’

  ‘Right you are, Sean.’ Samantha’s forehead prickles.

  Behind Sean, Lana appears and says a gruff hello. Seeing her chance, Samantha makes a run for it.

  By the time she returns, the class is full. Her bag is on the desk and appears to be as she left it. No one will have dared touch it in full view of the others. Focus. Lead the discussion. She pulls a tissue from her bag and wipes her forehead, takes a gulp of her water.

  ‘OK,’ she begins. ‘Today we’re going to look at dialogue …’

  She takes them through a couple of scenarios, gets them to split into pairs and write an argument over a parking space in a supermarket car park. After fifteen minutes, she asks Reggie and Daphne to read theirs.

  ‘“Excuse me,”’ Daphne reads aloud from her notes. ‘“I think I may have been here before you.”’

  ‘“Were you?”’ Reggie peers at the same sheet. ‘“I’m afraid I didn’t notice.”’

  When they have finished what must be the most polite argument ever recorded, Samantha encourages the class to help her analyse what they have written.

  ‘Good dialogue needs subtext,’ she tells them
, scribbling a few lines from Reggie and Daphne’s script on the whiteboard. ‘Can anyone tell me what subtext is?’

  Aisha raises her hand. Samantha scans the room, tries to make eye contact with someone, anyone else. No one will look at her directly.

  ‘Aisha?’

  Aisha gives one of her sickly smiles. ‘It’s what lies beneath what we say.’

  ‘Can you expand?’

  ‘It’s what you really mean but you don’t say it in words. So, like, “I think I may have been here before you” means something stronger.’ Aisha’s face is so earnest. She simply doesn’t look like someone who could spend even one second being mean-spirited. But then, appearances …

  Daphne giggles. ‘It’s really saying “I was here before you”, isn’t it?’

  ‘Good,’ says Samantha. She does adore Daphne. ‘You could argue that the subtext is even stronger, couldn’t you? What would be stronger still?’

  Again, Aisha raises a hand. Samantha checks the rest of them, but no one else appears willing to answer.

  ‘Aisha,’ she says, through her teeth.

  ‘It means “You’re in my space.”’ Aisha meets her eye. ‘It means “Get the hell out of my space.”’

  The hairs on Samantha’s arms stand on end. She holds Aisha’s gaze, tries to read it but can’t. With a sense of capitulation, she breaks eye contact.

  ‘Exactly,’ she says. ‘“Get the hell out of my space. I was here first.”’ She looks around at the others, sweat prickling once again on her forehead. ‘And there are lots of examples,’ she blusters on, trying to lift a mood it’s possible only she can feel. ‘If your boyfriend puts on a shirt you don’t like, for example, and you’re going out to a restaurant with some friends, and you say, “Darling, are you wearing that shirt?” what would you actually mean by that? Anyone?’

  Boyfriend, shirt, restaurant. Samantha cannot get Peter out of her mind. Peter in their living room, looking her up and down and saying, Are you wearing those jeans? Subtext: Don’t wear those jeans – I don’t like them.

  No, she had replied, although she had intended on wearing them. And she had gone upstairs and changed. She imagines Aisha in their living room, Peter saying the words to her. Would she have changed, or would she have stood her ground and said, Yes, what’s it to you?