The Perfect Neighbours

by Rachel Sargeant

  “Come on,” Chris had said when he interrupted her nap. “It’s time you and me made a night of it. There are some clothes on the chair, and I’ve seen the lovely Helen wearing this shade of lipstick so let’s see what it does for you. The table’s booked for eight.”

  Her heart pounded at the thought of going out. It was hard enough going to swim club every week. She could tell him she was a bit off colour. He’d believe her because she so often was ill: headaches, wheezing, palpitations, every cough and cold Louisa’s boys brought home. But he’d already changed. The silk shirt looked new and expensive. She didn’t want to let him down.

  She slipped on the kaftan he’d left for her. The coarse cloth chafed her nipples. She would get sore again. It wasn’t a colour she would have chosen. It even smelled yellow, sort of sickly, but at least it hid a lot of bulges. She was more conscious of her weight when they went out. The German waitresses would be goddesses, wearing crisp blouses and money bags strapped around their slender hips. She turned sideways to look in the mirror and blinked away tears. She looked pregnant.

  ***

  “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t go back.” He’d been home for all of five minutes when he spotted her swimming things on the washing line. “Was he there?”

  Palm to palm. Helen supressed an urge to lie. “Yes, I spoke to Sascha Jakobsen. Why shouldn’t I?”

  He shrugged and looked disappointed rather than angry. He seemed ready to drop the subject, but she was still boiling about the ski trip and Louisa’s business card, and wanted a fight.

  “He could be a terrorist, a bigamist or a serial killer for all I know, but maybe he had a reason to destroy Louisa Howard’s garden. Maybe she sent him one of her RELATE cards.” She gave a short bitter laugh. “That nearly had me reaching for the garden shears. Only it wasn’t her wisteria I wanted to deadhead.”

  She sighed at the bemused expression on Gary’s face. “Let me explain. She thinks our marriage is in trouble. In her expert opinion we need counselling. So what are you waiting for? You better give her a call.”

  Gary opened his mouth but she continued, “Or maybe it’s too late for that. Should we skip that neighbour and go direct to Karola Barton at number 1? I hear she’s a trained lawyer.” She started to sob.

  Gary held out his arms and she collapsed into them. But she pulled away again.

  “How could you book us a skiing holiday without even telling me? We really are in trouble, aren’t we?”

  He gasped, sounding close to tears himself. “Don’t say that, don’t ever say that. The holiday was meant to be fun, a chance to get out of here and see Austria. I thought you’d be pleased.”

  Helen was crying now, sobbing too much to speak.

  “Our marriage is the most important thing in the world to me,” he said, pulling her into him. “We don’t have to go on the stupid holiday.”

  They held each other, silent except for her sighs. As she calmed, she considered her part in their marriage. In the month since she’d arrived, she’d done little but complain about being here. Was she meeting Gary halfway? He was doing his best, wasn’t he? Maybe there was more she could do. Would it kill her to go on the holiday? Just because they were in the same resort, they wouldn’t have to spend the entire week with Louisa. It might even give them more chance to be alone. No work, no Dickensweg, just romantic days in snowy mountains.

  “Okay, let’s go to Austria.”

  “Are you sure?” he said, tipping her chin upwards. His eyes watered, full of concern. He kissed her gently on the lips.

  “Jawohl.” She tried out one of her few German words and smiled.

  They held each other again, and laughed and kissed.

  “Let’s not cook tonight,” he said eventually. “I know a brilliant restaurant, you’ll love it.”

  ***

  “Luigi, my friend,” a familiar, booming voice said, directing his salutation to a waiter with “Andreas” written on his name badge.

  Helen threw down her napkin.

  Gary finished his mouthful of bread and reached for her hand across the table. “I swear I didn’t know he would be here. Do you want to go?”

  “Our food’s arrived now. Let’s hope he doesn’t see us.”

  Thank God for the low, whitewashed walls that curved round each booth. The tacky Mediterranean courtyard theme might save them. She peered through a trellis of fake ivy at Chris Mowar. He was still addressing the waiter.

  “How’s that beautiful wife of yours?” he asked him, shrugging off his leather coat to reveal a peacock blue shirt. He draped the coat over a startled waitress who’d come over to the entrance to answer the phone.

  Andreas/Luigi’s reply was inaudible.

  “Divorced? I remember now. You did tell me. Anyway, my usual table.”

  The waitress came off the phone.

  “Put it on a hanger, my darling,” he said to her. “What’s your name?”

  The girl muttered to the carpet.

  “Look at me, my darling, so I can see you properly.”

  Her face ablaze, she lifted her head.

  “You’ve got good eyes. I could use you in my next film.”

  The waitress, a flattered smile playing on her mouth, slipped away.

  When Mel came in, her anorak and mustard-coloured tunic were mottled with rain. She followed Chris as he strode across the restaurant.

  Helen and Gary settled down to their meals, Helen praying they would finish and leave before Chris and Mel spotted them.

  Gary took out his mobile. “Oh, by the way, I’m texting you my new number. I lost my old phone.”

  “But you had it this morning.” Helen dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “I gave it to you when you got that call.”

  “I lost it at work so I had to nip out at lunchtime and get another.”

  “Did you check you hadn’t left it in the car?” Helen said. It wasn’t like Gary to splash out on things he didn’t need.

  “I looked in the car and everywhere at work. It’s gone, okay.”

  “Okay,” she said quietly. He was clearly annoyed with himself for losing it. “At least Steve C won’t be able to bother you any more.”

  “What?” He stared at her.

  “You know, the salesman who rang this morning. He won’t have your number now.”

  He breathed out and laughed. “I hadn’t even thought of that.”

  Helen laughed too, but not for long. “Now look who’s walked in. Has the school got the franchise here or something?”

  Damian Howard was on his mobile and Louisa stood, stony-faced, beside him. A beaming waiter, heading towards them, executed a neat U-turn when he realized they weren’t ready.

  Damian came off the phone and stepped towards Louisa but she turned her back on him and folded her arms. The waitress approached and offered to take their coats. She hovered, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, and watched Damian’s hands ping-pong between his coat buttons and his wife’s shoulders as he tried to reason with her. Eventually he handed over the coat.

  Louisa yanked off her jacket and bombarded Damian with her reply. Neither Damian nor Louisa had booming voices like Chris Mowar so Helen couldn’t hear what they were saying. Several times the waitress raised her arms to catch the jacket but Louisa held onto it, using it to punctuate her sentences.

  Helen hunched over the menu as they went past the side of the booth. But Louisa was too busy laying into Damian to notice the other guests.

  “Are you listening? She came home with wet hair today. What if she’s meeting him? We’re not safe with him prowling around,” she said.

  Indigestion burned in Helen’s chest. There was no doubt that she and Sascha were the subjects of Louisa’s grievance.

  “Good evening, Chris, Mel,” Damian called out, in a voice that Helen felt was designed to silence Louisa.

  Chris shouted back. Louisa said nothing.

  The next voice she heard was Damian’s again. “We could get a takeaway.”


  “Do you want the Mowars to see us leave?” Louisa said.

  Helen shot a look at Gary. The Howards had come to the booth behind them, obscured by a forest of greenery and plastic bougainvillea. Damian ordered the dish of the day, commenting on its reasonable price despite Louisa’s protests that he could afford the whole menu.

  “I’m a teacher with a house refurbished to the hilt and a large family to support,” he said.

  “Keep your voice down; Chris will hear you,” Louisa whispered. Helen and Gary gave their full attention to their meals. “We haven’t even checked whether it’s organic. The cheaper options are full of additives. At least let me ask.”

  “You can’t keep spending money like water,” Damian said.

  Helen chewed her pasta mechanically and kept her eyes on her plate. She sensed Gary doing the same.

  “What do you mean?”

  Even with background noise from other tables, Helen heard the uneasiness in Louisa’s voice.

  “We can afford it, can’t we?”

  Damian took a breath. “There’ll be no holiday in the Far East this summer. If we start saving now, we can have a week at Center Parcs as well as the skiing trip.”

  “Are you serious?” she said. “Murdo has never been to Malaysia; we have to go.”

  “Murdo is five years old. His idea of a holiday is a bucket and spade and a raspberry ripple.”

  “You’re on an expat head teacher’s salary and you want our son to have an ice cream instead of a summer holiday.”

  “Isn’t that what you did as a child? Remember that? Changing your name doesn’t change—”

  “Stop it. Someone might hear,” Louisa hissed.

  “Perhaps Murdo could go on the trips you do. Where’ve you been? Now, let me think: New York, Paris. Or Rome – that was a good one, you researched that one well.”

  “Don’t mock me. How can you be so cruel? Just be quiet.”

  “You’re the one raising your voice … Hi, Chris, leaving, are you?” Damian changed his tone.

  Through her hide, Helen saw Chris give Damian a thumbs up on his way to the exit, Mel by his side.

  “Changed our minds. The little lady isn’t feeling well,” he said. He took Mel’s hand and she smiled at him.

  When they’d gone, Louisa started again. “You’ve never queried what I spent before so what’s changed all of a sudden?”

  Helen looked at Gary. Could they move without being noticed?

  Damian said: “I don’t want you spending so much time with Chris.”

  “What?” Louisa gasped. “You’re the one who’s … Doesn’t matter. What’s Chris got to do with our finances?”

  Helen twisted her fork so deeply into her pasta that it scratched glaze off the plate. She should speak to Gary. If they talked, the Howards would know they were there and moderate their conversation, but it was like driving past an accident on the motorway, she couldn’t tear herself away.

  “You’re always round there,” Damian said.

  “I … it’s not what …”

  Helen had never heard Louisa lost for words but the woman was struggling.

  “Chris … he asked me to keep an eye on Mel. She’s manic depressive but in total denial.”

  “Manic depressive? Mel’s just fat and miserable. You can’t fix everyone in Dickensweg, however hard you try. Let Chris worry about his family. You need to concentrate on ours.” He summoned the waitress and ordered a bottle of house red.

  “I thought we were economizing,” Louisa said.

  Gary broke the silence that followed to whisper that they ought to go.

  Helen shook her head. Too late now. Her food was tasting so good with its revealing accompaniment. Relate Counsellor heal thyself.

  “And we can’t be out too long,” Louisa added. “The babysitter’s only a kid.”

  “Shelly’s 19, Louisa. Perfectly old enough,” Damian replied.

  Gary choked on his bread. He covered most of his face with his napkin until the coughing subsided. Helen tried to catch his eye but his gaze returned to his meal. She recalled Damian’s hushed phone call outside the library. Shelly, Sweetheart. She felt sick. Was he having an affair with their babysitter? A girl half his age? And did Gary’s coughing fit mean he knew?

  “I’d rather go now, if you don’t mind,” Louisa said in a pained voice. Did she know too?

  Damian sighed. “I’ll cancel the wine.”

  A few minutes later, they came around the open side of the booth and saw Helen and Gary. The men shook hands. Louisa leant towards Helen for an air kiss. Helen was glad no contact was made; her cheeks were burning. Louisa’s perfume was exquisite, as was her composure. She must have known their row had been overheard, but no fleck of colour beyond that of her expensive make-up invaded her face.

  “We must do supper sometime. After Austria,” she said, over-smiling as she swept to the exit.

  Fiona

  As we walked, my stride chased his. Even before we got to my room and saw the terrible thing that had happened, he took charge, the good and handsome shepherd. It was a chilly night, but I was glowing inside. Who wouldn’t be when they had him there?

  “Are you warm enough?” he asked.

  “Yes, thanks,” I replied and winced at my mistake. I should have said no. Then he’d have offered me his jacket or put his arm around me. But I blew it, missed my cue.

  He did like me, didn’t he? I couldn’t have got it completely wrong. We’d bumped into each other three times at the pub. And it wasn’t by chance, was it? He knew it would be full of students but kept coming back. I think it was to see me.

  Should I invite him in for coffee? What state was my room in? The translation I’d been working on was out on the desk but all my clothes were put away and I’d tucked my Hello Kitty nightshirt under the pillow.

  A couple of girls I didn’t know were on the porch smoking. Shoulders hunched, it was colder than they must have thought when they nipped out without coats. Their eyes lingered on him. He smiled, and their faces lit up. He’d had the same effect on everyone at the pub.

  “Do you want to …?” I asked.

  “I’ll see you to your door …”

  We spoke at the same time, and I felt stupid. One girl smirked as she stood aside to let us enter.

  My room was on the first floor. I clomped up the steps ahead of him. His feet were silent, the bare wood pliant for him. What should I say? Attempt the coffee offer again?

  We stepped into my corridor and strains of “Santa Lucia” hit us.

  “My neighbour’s a music student,” I told him.

  He mimed along to the song. It made me laugh and I skipped ahead. But I halted outside my door and my skin prickled. Something wasn’t right. The door was ajar and swung open when I touched it. My bookcase loomed in front of me, propped diagonally between the two opposite walls of the narrow entrance. The books were in a heap beneath it and there was a broken photo frame on top. Mum, Dad, and me at the Eiffel Tower when they’d visited me in France.

  I felt my face blush and I damned my carelessness. Stupid, stupid timing. Not only had I forgotten to lock my room, I must have put the Larousse dictionary on the top shelf. Dad had told me not to.

  I thought the top-heavy bookcase had toppled over. When it happened again all these years later I got it at once – I thought they had caught up with me – but in my student digs that night I simply bent down to pick up the photo and hoped he’d still come in despite the mess.

  But Shep said: “Don’t touch anything.” He took my arm – finally – and pulled me back. “I need you to be strong, Fiona.”

  I followed his gaze beyond the bookcase. Duvet and pillows flung on the floor and my Hello Kitty nightie stretched across the wrenched-back anglepoise lamp, a bizarre clothes horse. Posters ripped off the wall. Kanye West grinned from the windowsill, the top of his head missing.

  “I should have stopped this,” he said, pulling out his mobile phone.

  I didn’t see how he could
have done anything but I felt some comfort when he said it.

  The drawers of my desk and bedside locker were overturned on the bed. Screwed up sheets of Le Figaro translation beside bracelets, knickers and Tampax.

  My face burned, and his shepherd’s arms caught me as I fell.

  16

  Friday, 28 May

  Clutching her shopping bag like plundered booty, Helen strode through the copse along the back of the neighbourhood. She wondered why she hadn’t used it before, it was far better than staying on Lindenallee with cyclists coming up behind and pinging their bells. She slipped the bag to her wrist and swung it around. Perhaps it was the day for doing things differently. Why shouldn’t she? She wasn’t one of Louisa Howard’s sheep. She tapped the bag: her act of rebellion.

  She’d been to the school second-hand shop, congratulating herself for picking a Friday when she knew it was Sabine, not Louisa, on duty. She bought a fluorescent pink puffa jacket and olive green salopettes. She had a perfectly good ski-suit in her wardrobe, but she would show Louisa and the rest of them her complete contempt for the communal skiing holiday by spending the week in mismatched scruffs.

  Oh, yes, she was so over Louisa Howard. If that was even her name. That snipe she’d overheard Damian make in the restaurant about researching a trip to Rome had stayed in her mind. She always suspected something false about that woman, and wished she knew what Damian meant about changing her name. She gripped the bag again and thought about the tense conversation she’d witnessed a couple of weeks ago between Chris and Damian by Chris’s car. Did Chris know Louisa’s secret? Was that why he got away with giving Damian, his boss, the runaround? As far as Helen could see, he was always late to school and called the shots when the two men spoke. What the hell had Louisa done? Helen just hoped she would be able to keep her trap shut for the duration of the holiday. If Louisa annoyed her – when Louisa annoyed her – would she stop herself from mentioning the eavesdropped conversation?

  She turned left when she thought she’d got to the top of Dickensweg. But there was a row of garages at the end of the street with Ausländer Raus daubed on every door. The graffiti looked freshly painted. Despite what Gary said, someone had a grudge that wasn’t going away. It wasn’t her cul-de-sac so she went back into the copse. Had she missed Dickensweg? A flutter of nervousness tickled her belly. She wasn’t lost, was she? How could she be, she’d been going in a straight line. She carried on, telling herself she would retrace her steps if she didn’t find the turning.