The Woman at Number 24

by Juliet Ashton

  This is taking a toll, thought Sarah, listening to the voice dry out and watching the hands writhe together. Whoever she was – Sarah could only think of her as Mavis – she didn’t seem confused. She was purposeful. Sure of her facts. It was as if a genie trapped in a bottle had finally escaped; the ‘confession’ had a momentum of its own.

  Sedated by the Scotch, Sarah allowed her mind to open just a crack. To take the tale seriously. She listened for a bum note, anything that jarred. ‘You married your boss, didn’t you?’

  ‘He wasn’t my immediate boss.’ Charles Mulqueeny was her mentor, said Zelda or Mavis or whoever the hell she was. They fell in love neatly, elegantly: ‘it felt right’. Then came the meteoric success of the first book. Literary fame. A high-minded, well-connected life. ‘I was happy and – silly, silly me – I took that happiness for granted.’

  A thought embedded itself in Sarah’s brain. Like a pearl growing inside an oyster, it grew, gained lustre. What if, she thought, what if this is all true? Sarah knew the woman opposite to be kind and tough and useful. She studied the eyes. And they told her.

  ‘You’re not Mavis,’ she interrupted. The twins’ bodies were identical, even their striking blue eyes were the same shape and colour. But the expression in their eyes was entirely different. Their souls weren’t twinned; nobody can clone a soul. This woman hadn’t transformed into a warm and loving person. She hadn’t been rehabilitated. She’d always been that way. ‘You’re Zelda Bennison, and you’re my friend.’

  Zelda put her hands to her lips as if praying. She couldn’t speak for a few seconds. ‘Thank you,’ she managed, eventually. ‘It’s hard denying who you really are.’

  Another whisky. A warm silence. Sarah encouraged her to go on. I need to hear this and she needs to say it.

  ‘While I got on with my life, Mavis embedded herself into the fabric of this house like a tick. Ignoring the world.’ And above all, resenting her sister’s success.

  Like a scientific experiment into the effects of lifestyle on health, Mavis had embraced all that was bad for her, while Zelda sought out only what was wholesome. ‘She neglected herself,’ Zelda said of her sibling, ‘as if she was a worthless toy. All her stories about my neglect of Mother and Dad, and indeed of her, were tosh. She ran away from our family home in the middle of the night, not long after I married Charles. This would be, let me see, more than fifty years ago. I tracked her down.’ Zelda looked about her at the squat walls, sweating with damp. ‘To number twenty-four Merrion Road.’

  There was no welcome. Outside, London was swinging through the sixties, but Mavis, her face sour, hair scraped back, looked ‘as if she’d bypassed youth altogether and landed in miserable middle age. She wouldn’t let me past the front step. When Mavis left the family behind it wasn’t a plea for attention; she genuinely wanted rid of us.’

  As Sarah listened to Zelda, she had to remind herself that Mavis was dead. How she came to be that way would possibly test the limits of friendship. Just as Zelda said it would.

  ‘I sent Christmas cards and birthday cards, invited her to my home. I kept visiting, even when Mavis stopped answering the door. I used to steal around the side of the house and tap at that window. The only answer I ever got was Peck screeching at me to go away.’ On the last of those doleful visits, Mavis came out to tell Zelda she was moving away. ‘Despite her lifestyle,’ Zelda gave a weary look about her, ‘Mavis was a wealthy woman and could live as she pleased. Our parents quite rightly left her everything.’

  That was the most gracious response Sarah had ever heard to being left out of a will. ‘But Mavis didn’t move out, did she?’

  ‘The promised change of address card never arrived. I assumed she’d moved on and I’d lost her. Mavis bamboozled me so I’d leave her alone.’

  ‘Tell me about your first husband.’

  ‘We were friends. We travelled. We worked. We would have welcomed children, but . . .’ Zelda brought her shoulders up to her ears. ‘Charles and I were in love from the day we met until he died.’ Zelda shook her head. ‘No, that’s wrong. We’re still in love, Sarah. Some bonds are unbreakable.’ After his death, she kept calm and carried on. ‘I didn’t have you, my tame psychologist, to diagnose the shaking and the crying and the fracturing thoughts as a nervous breakdown. Then I saw light at the end of the tunnel.’

  The light turned out to be a speeding train by the name of Ramon Kaur. ‘His beauty blinded me. His desire proved I hadn’t, after all, toppled into the grave alongside Charles.’ The lust was fake; the ink was barely dry on the marriage licence before Ramon was using Zelda’s credit card as a magic carpet to travel the world in luxury.

  Sarah recalled the widower’s waxed eyebrows at the funeral. ‘Why didn’t you leave Ramon?’

  ‘Vanity, maybe. Certainly shame. I slunk away from my friends into a half-life, a place of shadows.’ Now Zelda could see where she’d gone awry. ‘All the missteps, all the wrong turns are obvious in retrospect.’

  ‘Amen to that.’ Sarah poured more whisky.

  ‘Like a fool, I expected my second marriage to ease the pain of losing Charles. But I miss Charles in the marrow of my bones. It hurts, physically hurts.’

  I want to love like that. Leo had never inspired such depth of feeling. Sarah knew a man who could, but he was locked into a different section of life’s Venn diagram.

  Zelda attended literary events, was snapped alongside the great and the good, but went home to a deserted townhouse each night. ‘My publisher was waiting for another manuscript but I could barely compose a shopping list. My house felt unstable, as if the paintings might fall off the walls and the new kitchen might explode. No love, no writing, no family to lean back on.’

  ‘Oh, Mavis. I mean Zelda.’ Sarah pulled in her chin, appalled at herself.

  ‘I get it wrong myself,’ said Zelda charitably.

  ‘At the funeral . . . your funeral, one of your friends, a tall lady, flamboyant hat . . .’

  ‘That was Miriam,’ smiled Zelda.

  ‘She wished she’d been with you at the end. She didn’t give up on you. There was real grief by that grave, Zelda.’

  Sarah sensed Zelda parking the feelings, to return to them later. ‘Shall we take a walk? The whisky and the confession are having quite an effect on me.’

  For the first time since summer began, they needed to wear jackets. They turned left at the gate, towards the main drag. Sarah had almost vetoed the idea of a walk as too tiring, before remembering that Zelda didn’t have motor neurone disease. She hoped the night air would help to clear her head, put the jigsaw together in the proper order.

  ‘Last year, out of the blue, Mavis wrote to me, via my agent.’ Zelda kept a careful distance between herself and Sarah as they walked. ‘The letter was brief. Basically “I’m sick, come visit”.’ Zelda, surprised and ‘slightly embittered’ that Mavis was still at the same address, found her sister greatly altered. ‘She was so grey. I don’t just mean her hair. She was transparent, a wraith surviving on malice.’

  ‘I recognised you that night.’ Sarah recalled leaning over the bannister when Mavis came upstairs to deliver the letter that Smith had returned. That tranquil face was the one before Sarah now. It seems so obvious.

  Sarah had misread another person close to her.

  They were at the corner of Holland Park Avenue, the street lights bleaching the cars that flew past. Zelda recalled being permitted at last into the musty labyrinth of Flat E. ‘Mavis said she was sorry about Charles’s death. She said it brusquely, of course; Mavis never mastered tenderness. She said, “That new husband of yours looks like a good-for-nothing.’’’ Zelda stopped. They were outside a framer’s studio but she was evidently in her own past. ‘I didn’t defend Ramon. There was no point lying to Mavis. I felt something I hadn’t felt for years, the uncanny communication that flows between twins.’ She blinked, her mouth turned down. ‘Whether they like it or not. Mavis knew all about Ramon and, in a flash, I knew all about her.’
/>   The cord between them had glittered darkly, like coal.

  ‘She was ill,’ said Sarah.

  ‘She was, as she put it, going the way of Granny. She said, “Mother was right: I do take after her.” She wasn’t in the least bit sorry for herself. Even though we both remembered Granny naked and sobbing.’

  ‘Frontotemporal dementia.’

  Zelda nodded. ‘Apparently Mavis’s doctor wouldn’t be drawn on how long she could expect to live. He said it might be ten years, it could be two. Mavis knocked everything off his desk and shouted, “Thanks for nothing.”’

  ‘Good old Mavis,’ said Sarah, nostalgic for her awfulness. They trawled on, past a chip shop and its vinegary bouquet.

  ‘Mother’s assertion that Mavis took after Granny affected Mavis like a curse. She’d spent her life waiting for the dementia to pounce, until suddenly . . . gotcha!’ Zelda pulled her thin coat around her; an ancient cloth number of Mavis’s, it was greasy with age. ‘She was almost gleeful about it. I put my foot down. Told her she was coming home with me. That I’d look after her, that there’d be no shame, no struggle, no lack of love.’

  ‘Zelda,’ said Sarah, still wary of the name. ‘That was the speech I prepared for you.’

  Zelda stopped and looked at Sarah’s face. ‘Thank you,’ she said simply, and Sarah felt as if the sun had elbowed the moon out of the way for a moment.

  ‘Mavis was sarcastic about my offer. Said she could imagine how Ramon would react to having a “mad old trout” in the house. And then came the killer punch. She was suffering with motor neurone disease.’

  ‘As well?’ Sarah reeled.

  ‘Apparently it often comes along for the ride with dementia. Mavis painted a grim picture for me. She said, “The MND is weakening my limbs. My muscles will waste away. I already have trouble swallowing.” It had many symptoms in common with frontotemporal dementia. Or, as Mavis put it, she’d have a double helping of uncontrollable screaming and carrying-on. Eventually, she could anticipate paralysis and not being able to catch her breath.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Sarah shivered.

  ‘I tried to tell her about a dear friend of mine who lives with MND, confined to a cumbersome bed but amongst his family. I used rather flowery language, I’m afraid. Something like it didn’t have to be a dark descent, that we could light lamps along the way.’

  ‘That’s beautiful,’ said Sarah.

  ‘Mavis just laughed. Her whole life had been a dark descent, she said. I felt powerless in the face of her cynicism but I insisted we put a plan in place. That’s when she told me she already had one.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Mavis seemed proud that her MND was fast-moving. She’d already spent a day lying on the floor, apparently. I asked why she hadn’t called out to her neighbours for help and she said, “Them? Don’t be stupid. All those trashy books you write, but you don’t have the first idea about real people.” She made a point of telling me, very proudly, that she’d never read a single book of mine. Then she showed me her arsenal of medication. She said . . . she said, “These keep me alive, and they can help me die.”’

  ‘Suicide,’ said Sarah.

  ‘She was brisk, excited, as if we were discussing a holiday. She wanted to take control, she said. She wanted to “go”. Mavis assured me she wasn’t depressed, just opting out of a life that had never held much charm for her and could only get worse. She’d worked out that an overdose of Rilutek – the tablets you found – plus an overdose of the SSRI she took for her mood instability would do the trick, as she put it. Given her condition, it would look accidental.’

  ‘What did you say to all this?’

  ‘I fought dirty. Mavis was a devout Christian, despite her ungodly behaviour. I told her that she couldn’t destroy the life her God had given her.’

  The pause lengthened as they reached Pembridge Gardens. ‘But you could,’ said Sarah.

  ‘Precisely. Mavis summoned me to help her die.’

  ‘Not kill her, Zelda.’ Sarah saw the vital difference.

  Zelda ignored the interjection. ‘She was blunt. If I wouldn’t help, she’d pay somebody to do it. My sister was smug, as if she’d won, as if I’d already agreed. But I couldn’t countenance it. Then she began to talk to me about my life, as if she’d been watching me on CCTV. All my unhappiness poured out of a mouth shaped exactly like my own.’

  Mavis was a grimy mirror for Zelda, reminding her of the loss of Charles, the writer’s block, the PR demands, the failure of her second marriage, the lack of home comforts, the pound signs in Ramon’s eyes.

  ‘Only a twin I’d shared a womb with could read me like that. Mavis laid out my life like a threadbare rag.’

  ‘She left out hope,’ said Sarah.

  ‘She always did. I just thought “yes, yes, she’s so right”. She whispered, “Nobody can tell us apart, so why not let Zelda die? When I go, you can carry on as me. Leave all your mess behind and start again.’’’

  ‘The writer in you felt the lure of the clean page.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it so charmingly: I should have resisted and I didn’t. I gave in. I was never at ease with it, but like your friend Smith, it snowballed.’

  ‘It must have felt good to be with Mavis after years of estrangement.’

  ‘You’re so kind to make excuses for me, but yes, I felt happy to have my twin back.’ Zelda pushed her hand through her hair, exposing her high, dignified brow. ‘Shall we head home? I think we’ve covered the “why”. I need to sit down to tackle the “how”.’

  Indoors again, up in the eaves, Zelda sat back in Tom’s chair. ‘It was like plotting a novel.’ Mavis had told nobody of her illness; the collapses and lapses had – tragically, to Sarah’s ears – all happened behind closed doors. ‘As for me, I was, and remain, as fit as a flea. My medical history could be written on the back of a stamp. The first step was for Mavis to visit a new GP, purporting to be me.’

  ‘But, Mavis was . . .’ Sarah shrugged. ‘A mess! No doctor would think she was a famous authoress.’

  ‘We tidied her up. She fitted into my clothes and I wrestled some make-up onto her face. We were twins, when all was said and done.’

  The medical aspect of the plan was the most problematical, the most likely to fail. Yet it had gone like clockwork. Mavis, dressed up and perfumed, signed on with a new surgery as Zelda. Awed by his famous new patient, the GP nervously broke the terrible news that she was suffering from both frontotemporal dementia and the early stages of motor neurone disease. Mavis staged a theatrical meltdown in front of him, and from then on the GP gladly visited his celebrity charge at home, noting that her mental state was deteriorating with frightening speed. The real Zelda was impressed by Mavis’s acting ability; she was the image of their Granny whenever the doctor called.

  ‘You told nobody at all?’

  ‘The plan could only work if Zelda – if I – died without her friends – my friends – around. It was cruel of me. I emailed my closest friends, told them I was feeling poorly, that I’d gone to visit my sister and she’d insisted on looking after me. There were responses, puzzled and worried, but after a while I stopped checking my inbox.’ She looked at Sarah. ‘I was committed, you see. I had to cut the ties, Sarah.’

  ‘Zelda, I’m not judging you.’

  ‘Is that my therapist talking?’

  ‘No, it’s your slightly pissed friend talking.’

  Zelda smiled. Despite the gravity of her story, she was shedding ballast as she came clean. She looked down at her scruffy tartan dress, out of fashion since before Sarah was born. ‘Mavis stayed in, out of sight, as she grew more and more ill. I began to wear her clothes. The tint in my hair grew out and I washed it in washing-up liquid, like she did. I scrubbed my hands until they were as raw and cracked as her poor fingers.’ All Zelda’s pricey moisturisers were thrown out, and she cleaned her face with soap. ‘I abandoned the house I’d bought with Charles, all my possessions, my jewellery, my books . . .’ Zelda put a hand across
her eyes. ‘Forgive me. Sometimes it hits me.’

  ‘Take a moment.’ It was as if a fire had ravaged Zelda’s home. A fire she set herself. ‘You hung on to some of your clothes.’ Sarah reminded her of the finery she’d found in the wardrobe.

  ‘I should have got rid of them. They were a clue.’

  ‘I didn’t pick up on it.’

  ‘I remonstrated with you for seeing only the best in Leo, but your tendency to find beauty in people meant you didn’t suspect me. You really do follow the instructions in your father’s letter, and I used that against you.’ Zelda sighed, moved on. ‘As soon as my make-under was complete, I ventured out in Mavis’s hand-me-downs. She took to her bed, gratefully. The effort had taken its toll. The plan was solid, but it required such nerve. Just encountering you in the hall was a potential disaster. I didn’t need to act much in the beginning; blind fear can turn the most mild-mannered woman into a harpy.’

  ‘What about money?’ Sarah’s mind was on the practicalities. ‘Your will, or Mavis’s will, no, hang on, your will?’

  ‘It’s complicated, isn’t it? Mavis’s strategy was straightforward. I took over her bank account, remembering to sign my name with an M instead of a Z. Our wills remained exactly as they were. When I die, Mavis’s fortune will go to a cat charity.’

  ‘She hated cats!’

  ‘I know. My will left half of everything to Ramon, with various other bequests. It’s odd to think of my friends wearing my jewellery while I’m still alive. Sometimes I think the ramifications of what we did will drive me insane.’

  ‘Why don’t we pause there?’ Sarah was exhausted just listening. ‘Let’s get some sleep and you can tell me the rest tomorrow.’

  Grateful, Zelda allowed Sarah to walk her to her front door. She asked her to wait there a moment, as Peck flung his water bowl about and told Sarah what he thought of her.