The Woman at Number 24

by Juliet Ashton

  ‘Sometimes I feel like an eagle up here.’ Sarah felt her way, conscious that Mavis’s good humour was brittle.

  ‘Eagles mate for life,’ said Mavis. ‘Where’s your eagle partner?’

  As if a scorpion had lifted its tail, Sarah gasped. ‘You know where he is, Mavis.’

  Mavis frowned as she nudged one of the rarebits under the gas jet. ‘Yet he visits, apparently.’

  ‘That was the first time Leo’s set foot up here since he remarried.’ Sarah wondered why she was defending herself. ‘He wants to be friends.’ She blurted it out, trying it for size.

  ‘Does he indeed?’ Mavis looked sideways at Sarah as they waited for the cheese to bubble. ‘You, of course, aren’t foolish enough to believe such a thing is possible?’ When Sarah didn’t answer, Mavis said, ‘A broken heart isn’t a good compass, Sarah.’

  ‘The cheese,’ said Sarah. ‘It’s burning.’

  Mavis seemed to ponder the obvious change of subject before acquiescing and dishing up the Welsh rarebit. As they enjoyed the sublime changes wrought on the humble ingredients, Mavis quizzed Sarah about her work.

  Sarah saw through the ruse: if Mavis was asking questions, she wasn’t answering them. Mavis had never been remotely interested in Sarah – or anyone – before.

  ‘What made you want to be a child psychologist?’

  The only person who knew about the spark that lit Sarah’s ambition – Smith – wasn’t in a position to tell anybody. Not even Leo knew. Her mother knew, of course, because she’d been there.

  The sanitised version Sarah gave Mavis was the truth, but not the whole truth. ‘Children are vulnerable. They need advocates to speak for them. They need to be listened to. If you can help somebody at a young age, you make a change that stays with them for life.’

  Satisfied with that, Mavis continued with her interrogation. They weren’t probing questions, just the sort people swapped at bus stops. Sarah intuited that Mavis was fighting her own remote nature, like a turtle slowly poking its head out to test the air. ‘Do you enjoy painting and decorating?’

  ‘I hate it. Look around you, Mavis. I’ll never get on top of this.’

  Mavis sat forward, the hair on the mole in her chin catching the sunlight as she said, ‘My sister . . .’ she paused. ‘Zelda wrote books, as you may know, and she told me once that each one felt like an impossible task but they always came together in the end.’ She laid down her cutlery demurely, like a debutante, albeit one with red-raw fingers. ‘I’ve broken my own rule.’

  ‘Rules,’ said Sarah, ‘are made to be broken’. She was glad to hear Mavis mention her sister without a sneer.

  ‘Some of them,’ conceded Mavis, with a sketch of a smile, as if she was new to smiling and didn’t want to run before she could walk.

  ‘Nothing for afters, I’m afraid, unless you like very old ice cream.’

  ‘Put it in a pretty dish and we won’t know the difference.’

  The pretty dishes hadn’t been used for some time. ‘Did you ever marry, Mavis?’ asked Sarah, as she set down spoons. Her answer was a look of such shock that Sarah wondered if she had, by mistake, asked Mavis if she’d ever robbed a bank. ‘That’s personal, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—’

  ‘It’s quite all right,’ said Mavis. Quaite all raite. Her tone made it clear it was far from all right. She didn’t answer the question.

  They ate the aged raspberry ripple in silence. The wine had erased the edges of Sarah’s judgement. Bereavement may have blunted Mavis’s aggression, but it couldn’t turn a lifelong recluse into a chatterbox.

  After a firm ‘No’ to coffee, Mavis said, ‘Thank you, this has been lovely,’ as if reciting poetry in another language. ‘Next time,’ said Mavis, gripping the bannister on her way downstairs, ‘I’ll do three courses.’

  Next time? ‘Oh, yes, um, lovely.’

  Tidying away the debris of the modest meal, Sarah wondered if she’d made a friend. A scary friend.

  Chapter Four

  Notting Hill, W11

  This calendar is FREE to valued customers!

  Wednesday 15th June, 2016

  GOLD CANNOT BE PURE AND PEOPLE CANNOT BE PERFECT

  If you like people, a view of the backs of houses is a thousand times more fascinating than a television, and Sarah liked people; they interested her and they moved her and occasionally they scared the bejesus out of her. She was what’s called a people person; that’s why she was good at her job.

  Why I used to be good at my job, thought Sarah, ploughing through her lunchtime sandwich and staring out from her kitchen window.

  Since Leo moved out, Sarah had felt isolated. She didn’t trust as readily. She couldn’t blame Leo, but that didn’t stop her doing exactly that when she woke up yet again at 3 a.m. alone in the big bed they’d chosen together. As a child psychologist, she led her small patients through their thought processes, but now her own were gnarled and twisted, like the wisteria that clambered over number twenty-four.

  As a married person, one half of the Harrisons, she’d looked forward; alone, she harked backwards. Her childhood stalked her. Sarah shook herself, stood up, dumped the disappointing egg mayonnaise in the bin.

  It was the second day in a row she’d come home at lunchtime to work on the flat. It was better than facing St Chad’s kitchenette, knowing her colleagues were wondering why she was sitting at the reception desk instead of dealing with her clients.

  The senior receptionist had asked no questions, patiently showing Sarah the ropes of the telephone system and the signing-in book, but their rapport was patchy; Sarah, usually one of the clinical staff, was suddenly on the receptionist’s side of the fence. There could be no in-jokes about the therapists or rolled eyes behind Keeley’s back.

  Sarah drifted back to the sitting room and pulled on her overalls. With the half hour available to her she could undercoat the door she’d sanded. Another small job ticked, the flat pushed into its future.

  It was a dangerous pastime, but sometimes Sarah imagined the old sitting room superimposed over this one.

  There were still dimples in the carpet where the glass coffee table had stood. Intriguing objects used to just turn up: items Leo acquired for the Old Church but couldn’t bear to sell. A chinoiserie vase had stood behind the mother-of-pearl frame that still stood on the mantelpiece, displaying a photo of her father, dashing and elusive in a colour-saturated snap from the seventies. She had his nose; according to her mother he’d also passed on other, less positive attributes.

  Sarah visualised the pale Swedish grandfather clock that had stood sentry between the windows. She’d given it to Leo, along with the rest of the furniture, in a fit of self-righteous martyrdom when they were dividing their possessions.

  To her horror he’d simply accepted them; she’d meant him to be dazzled by her selflessness and fall back in love with her.

  Before Leo, Sarah had thought of antiques as ‘old stuff’. He’d shown her how to penetrate the layers of neglect with a laser eye. He knew a piece’s history, appreciated the knocks it had taken, and relished its patina. With Leo, Sarah had felt as understood as one of his artefacts; she felt beautiful. Even when pale and suffering with her reliably punctual period woes, she could rely on Leo to tuck her into bed and look after her. Without him watching her through love-tinted lenses could Sarah ever consider herself beautiful again?

  A knock on the door and Tom filled the frame.

  ‘I’ve been sent to fetch you.’ The combat shorts that reached almost to his knees were perversely sexy despite their boy-scout vibe. ‘She Who Must Be Obeyed wants you in the garden.’ Tom smiled, that carefree smile that suggested there was nothing hidden, nothing untoward, even when he added, ‘And so do I, obviously.’

  A shout from the garden brought them both to the window. Jane evidently didn’t trust Tom to carry out his errand. ‘It’s too sunny to be indoors!’ she yelled, legs akimbo in denim cut-offs. ‘Get yourself down here, madam!’

  Sarah trotted down
behind Tom, noticing his outdoorsy tan; a colour picked up on the move, not on a beach towel. Taking the back door, they crossed a narrow concrete strip that opened up into steps to the lawn. Windows from the basement flats looked out onto this unprepossessing strip of yard, and at one of them sat Una.

  The window was open, and the child sat in the shade, her eyelids half closed, like a basking kitten.

  ‘Hello there.’ Sarah paused, one foot on the steps.

  No response, just a widening of the eyes, like pansies opening.

  ‘Would you like to come out into the sunshine?’

  Una was snatched away, and the window was empty.

  The sun pressed down on the lawn like a lid. Sarah regretted her overalls.

  Jane said, ‘Why is the garden so neglected? People kill to have outdoor space in Notting Hill!’ She threw out her arms, encompassing the rectangle of lawn and its borders of tangled flower beds. ‘There’s even a shed! Every media moron wants a shed! A tidy garden adds thousands to a house’s asking price.’

  Tom, pulling on serious-looking gloves and picking up long-handled shears, said, ‘It’s nice for its own sake, Janey. Not everything’s about property values.’

  As Jane dragged deckchairs out from behind the shed, Sarah said, ‘Nobody’s ever taken the garden in hand. I’m too lazy to come all the way down. Helena created a wow-factor roof terrace on top of your kitchen extension. Lisa and Una stay inside all the time. And Mavis . . . well, she’s just Mavis.’ Accepting an ice-cold can and marvelling at how thoroughly Jane took control of her surroundings, Sarah added, ‘Lisa used to come out here before Graham left. He and Una planted sunflowers in that corner.’ Straggling weeds marked the spot.

  ‘So many break-ups.’ Jane folded her arms, and gazed at Tom, who was engaged in hand-to-hand combat with the ivy that strangled every plant that dared to show its face. ‘My marriage is for keeps. We’re two peas in a pod.’

  Sarah drank greedily; she wasn’t so optimistic about marriage.

  Jane lowered herself gingerly into a distressed deckchair. ‘I can never get comfy in these things,’ she giggled, her knees under her chin. When her bottom went through the striped fabric, the tearing noise sounded like an epic fart.

  They all roared. Like a workout for the soul, the laughter sent blood coursing through Sarah. She hadn’t honked like that in an age. The sun, no longer oppressive, felt like a caress. All it took to transform the tatty grass into a pleasure garden was the addition of two playful people.

  ‘That’s quite a laugh you’ve got there, Sarah.’ Tom pulled in his chin.

  ‘Like a goose being molested,’ Sarah quoted Leo.

  ‘Ha!’ Tom let out a bark.

  ‘And Tom’s a Labrador being molested,’ suggested Jane, sitting on an upturned crate.

  ‘Watch out, Sarah. Jane’ll take you over.’ Tom put on his sunglasses and squatted to gather up clippings. ‘Jane’s always full on about people she likes.’

  She likes me. That was a leg-up for Sarah’s limping ego. ‘I’ll cope,’ she smiled.

  ‘Say no now and again. Keeps her on her toes.’

  Jane said, as if she’d had a brilliant idea, ‘What’s your favourite colour?’

  ‘What is this?’ scoffed Tom, straightening up. ‘A boy band interview?’

  ‘You can tell a lot about a person from their favourite colour.’

  ‘You can tell more by just talking to them, surely,’ Tom added. ‘Behind these dark glasses I’m rolling my eyes. Just so you know.’

  ‘Turquoise,’ said Sarah.

  ‘Calm. Cool. Tranquil. But mysterious.’ Jane’s eyes flashed.

  ‘My favourite colour,’ said Tom, ‘is bright red, the colour your forehead’s going to be, Jane, unless you pop indoors for some sunscreen.’ He turned to Sarah. ‘Why can’t she remember this stuff herself?’

  ‘Because,’ said Jane, springing up, ‘I have you to remember for me. I’ll winkle out Lisa and Una while I’m indoors.’

  ‘Good luck,’ said Sarah with feeling.

  ‘Tom, tell Sarah about what you do,’ called Jane as she went, unable to relinquish control of the scenario even when absent. ‘He does a vital job, Sarah. More indispensable than your nurse or your fireman.’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Tom.

  Sarah envied their easy, disrespectful rapport.

  I used to tease Leo like that. She thought for a moment, realising that he’d hated it.

  ‘I work mainly in Soho,’ said Tom.

  ‘Soho?’ Sarah raised her eyebrows, thinking of seedy strip joints, and doorbells that promised ‘Busty Blonde 3rd Floor’.

  ‘Yes, Soho, I’m a prostitute,’ deadpanned Tom. ‘Soho’s changed, you know. The strippers are outnumbered by advertising agencies. I’m a voice-over artist.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘I do voice-overs. You know, on ads.’ Tom returned to the ivy, booming out, ‘Wake up with Kellogg’s.’

  ‘That’s you on the commercial?’ Sarah gaped, delighted. ‘Do another one!’

  Obligingly, Tom scrolled through his greatest hits. For Pampers nappies he was playful; building societies needed him at his most reassuring. ‘I’ve just done Guinness. And Always Ultra.’ He turned to say, ‘With wings. Can’t help thinking I was miscast in that one. Do you want to hear my sexy?’

  ‘Um, OK.’

  ‘Paco Rabanne. For men.’

  ‘That’s almost too sexy.’

  ‘I have to be careful with it. In case women faint. In real life, I’m an actor. A failed actor. The voice gets plenty of work, but nobody wants my body, Sarah.’

  Hoping she wasn’t blushing, Sarah made a pish! noise.

  Tom was a grower. At first glance he was well put together, nothing wrong with him, but not memorable. Spend a little while in his company and internal lights came on. His eyes, always narrowed, were kind and intelligent. His wide mouth, full in repose, opened out guilelessly when he was amused. Which was often. And his forearms were strong, with a rope of vein that . . . Sarah pulled herself up sharply. It was safer not to eulogise married men’s forearms.

  ‘Acting’s unpredictable. Hard to make a living. Before I fell into voiceovers, I had loads of jobs on the side, all sorts of strange skills.’

  ‘Hence your ability to upholster a sofa.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Tom paused in his battle against nature to smile at her, chuffed that she’d remembered.

  It was safe to find Tom attractive. Welded to Jane, the man was unattainable, like a film star. Since the divorce Sarah had a deep respect for couples who went the distance, glued together by mortgages and supermarket shopping and hoovering under the bed and, most importantly, plain old love.

  Quite apart from his transparent decency, no man married to Jane would dare stray. Perhaps, thought Sarah, I should have been more possessive of Leo.

  Tom and Jane weren’t to know it, but they gave Sarah hope that there were happy endings out there.

  ‘We need more chairs!’ shouted Jane, leading Una by the hand, Lisa tailing them. Jane winked at Sarah, and Sarah was warmed by being part of something, a partner in kindly crime. ‘Lisa has an hour before she goes to work.’

  More chairs were found – Jane had a talent for it – and Lisa settled Una at her feet as if the child was a handbag. Una had no inclination to wander. She was a watcher, her round eyes travelling slowly over each of the adults.

  ‘I’ve got to go to one of my old dears at half two and give her a bed bath,’ said Lisa complacently. ‘She’s a bit forgetful. She doesn’t keep herself, you know, nice.’

  ‘My grandma has a carer,’ said Jane. ‘She’s a saint. I don’t know how you do it, Lisa.’

  ‘Where does Una go while you work?’ Sarah wondered how Lisa managed to hold down a job.

  ‘My dad takes her. He’s a bit unreliable, though. It’s a nightmare some days. We just rock it and roll it.’ Lisa shrugged; she was accustomed to hard graft and lack of help.

  That struck Sarah as wrong.


  ‘Oi, Sarah,’ said Lisa, chattily. ‘Jane and Tom are better neighbours than that Smith, aren’t they?’ A hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh shit, sorry, mate.’

  ‘S’OK.’ Flustered, Sarah grinned away the awkwardness. ‘Smith wasn’t everybody’s cup of tea.’

  ‘But you and – sorry.’ Lisa’s eyes fluttered everywhere but at Sarah. Her brown hair was pulled into a topknot so tight her eyes were slanted.

  ‘Smith?’ Jane was inquisitive. ‘What was wrong with this Smith?’

  ‘Let’s drop the subject,’ suggested Tom, crossing to the shed and giving the rusty padlock a tentative rattle. ‘I think Sarah and Smith were close.’

  ‘Smith was a bit of a mess,’ said Sarah. ‘But we just clicked.’

  The other residents at number twenty-four had been immune to Smith’s charms. Whimsical, extrovert, with a tendency to roll home in the small hours and leave the front door ajar, Smith played country music at stadium levels, and evaded paying Flat C’s share of the communal charges.

  ‘Remember the tattoo?’ Lisa rolled her eyes. ‘Elvis riding My Little Pony. Nutter.’

  ‘Leo didn’t like Smith,’ remembered Sarah. ‘The tattoo didn’t help.’

  ‘Or he didn’t like you liking Smith.’ Jane’s head was back, her eyes shut, a pagan offering to the sun goddess.

  ‘Very perceptive,’ said Sarah.

  ‘Not really. You can tell Leo’s one of those macho types.’ Jane beat her chest. ‘Woman! My woman! Woman like me best!’

  ‘It was Smith’s smoking in the communal hall that got my back up,’ said Lisa. ‘I had a right go about it.’

  ‘One time,’ said Sarah, ‘Smith was locked out and Helena’s swanky dinner guests had to step over this snoring bundle on the doorstep.’ Sarah had forgotten how much Smith made her laugh; there hadn’t been much laughter towards the end. Lisa’s comments were only one side of a complicated story. ‘I saw through the bad behaviour. Smith was good to me when Leo buggered off; let me talk.’ Sarah tapered off. She’d bored Smith, she must have done, but there was no murmur of complaint. ‘Smith asked a lot but always managed to give back, despite the eccentricity.’ Surprised at the tears clotting her voice, Sarah said, ‘We all have something beautiful in us.’ She started slightly; the letter was up in her flat. She didn’t like being this far from her lucky charm.