by Nicci French
‘Thank you so much.’
‘It was my pleasure, Peggy,’ I said. ‘I’ll look out for you on the street.’
‘Would you like a cup of coffee? Or we could have some wine, I suppose. It’s after six o’clock.’
‘I’d love a cup of coffee.’ I stepped over the threshold with the bags.
‘You would?’
‘I don’t know anyone round here,’ I said. ‘You’re the first friendly face I’ve met.’
She nodded.
There wasn’t a speck of dirt in the kitchen. Even the dozens of porcelain figurines on the dresser were clean. Peggy put on an apron – as if you really needed to put on an apron to make coffee – and filled the kettle. I sat at the small round table and looked at her. She was quite short, and not slim but not plump either. Compact. Her hair was cut in a bob and a glossy dark brown that looked natural to me. She had pink cheeks and her skin was still quite smooth, although I saw that there were tiny lines above her mouth and under her eyes, but when I examined her neck I estimated that she must be in her mid-fifties, about the same as my mother. Under her jacket she wore a powder-blue turtleneck, and a calf-length blue skirt that she ran her hands down anxiously, making sure it wasn’t wrinkled or rising up. She wore sensible shoes and through her tights I saw the first traces of varicose veins.
‘So, Peggy,’ I said, ‘how long have you lived in Maitland Road, then?’
She arranged biscuits on a plate. ‘Nearly twenty-seven years.’
‘You were here as a child, then?’
‘No!’ Her pink cheeks became pinker. ‘You’re teasing me. No, we bought this house just after we got married. It was different then. My husband says we should move. He doesn’t like the way it’s going.’
‘What way is that?’
‘The kind of people who live round here.’
‘Do you want to move?’
‘I don’t know. I like the house.’
‘It’s lovely.’
‘But I don’t really feel I belong here. We’re not like the other people on the road. Here, do you take milk?’
‘Just a bit. No sugar. What do you mean, the other people?’
‘Well, your house, for instance. Everyone in it is so…’ She hesitated.
‘Go on.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘They’re the sort of people who come for a bit,’ she said, ‘and then go. Move on. Not like real neighbours. That what the road’s like.’
‘I think I know how you feel,’ I said.
‘Do you?’
‘The thing is, Peggy, I’ve only been in London a short while. I grew up in a small village, where everyone knew everyone else and looked out for each other. It was a real community. If someone was in trouble, they would be helped. If someone did wrong, they would be discovered. That’s just the way it was there. And since Mum died -’ I stopped abruptly.
‘Yes?’ she probed softly.
‘I don’t usually talk about it. My father died when I was little, I can hardly remember him now, and a few months ago my mother died of cancer. She’d been ill for a very long time and I stayed there so I could look after her and be with her. I was her only child. She didn’t have anyone else.’ I looked into Peggy’s eyes. ‘Neither did I.’
‘You poor thing.’
‘I’m all right, really. Just a bit sad still. These things take time. Maybe I’m telling you all of this because you remind me of her.’
‘Do I?’
‘In a way. Do you have children, Peggy?’
‘No. It didn’t happen,’ she said simply.
‘I’m sorry. That must have been hard.’
‘It’s a long time ago now.’
‘Of course.’
We sat drinking our coffee. I ate two biscuits, at her insistence, and she told me which shops to use and which to avoid. There were five cards standing on the window-sill and in a pause I asked her when her birthday was.
‘Two days ago. I don’t really make any fuss about it nowadays. It’s not something you want to remember.’
‘Two days ago. You mean last Thursday?’
‘Yes.’
‘But that’s my birthday too.’
‘No! What an extraordinary coincidence.’
‘Amazing,’ I said. ‘We must have been fated to meet.’
I told myself to make a note of the date of last Thursday before I forgot it and slipped up. Peggy excused herself and left the kitchen. I waited a few seconds, and when I heard her going up the stairs, I leaned forward and pulled her bag towards me. There were several notes folded in her wallet. I took out a ten, then pushed the bag back where it had been. After all, I was out of pocket with all the wine I’d been buying for the house, and I could spend a small part of the money on the Basmati rice I’d promised her. That would please her.
That Saturday night, the house was almost empty. Pippa wasn’t there when I returned, and I met Astrid coming down the stairs as I went up, obviously on her way somewhere. It was the first time I had seen her wearing a dress: a short, simple red silk shift. With her long golden legs and slim tanned arms, her dark hair brushed back and her lips painted scarlet, she looked astonishing. I tried not to stare at her, but my chest felt uncomfortably tight.
‘Hi, Davy, how’s it going?’ she asked.
‘Fine,’ I replied. ‘I’m glad to be here.’
‘We’re glad to have you. I’ll see you later, then.’
‘Maybe we can have coffee together tomorrow?’
‘Sure,’ she said lightly.
And so, with a backward wave, she was gone. I was beginning to get the hang of the people in this house. You couldn’t be too earnest or oppressive. People here were free in a way I hadn’t come across before.
Miles was out as well, and Owen – though not with Astrid, I was glad to know. That left only Dario – who was lying in a stoned stupor in the basement kitchen – and Mick, who was in his room with the door shut and probably locked. I decided to risk it.
I started with Miles’s room. It was the best in the house by far and it annoyed me that he had done so little to make the most of it. The large bay windows looked out on to the street, and one side of the room was entirely lined with a large cupboard. I pulled open one of the doors and peered inside. As well as towels and sheets, there were several cardboard boxes, filled with old music magazines, academic quarterlies, Ordnance Survey maps and files, which, on further scrutiny, turned out to be full of bills and letters. I didn’t have time to read any now, but I promised myself I would later. I closed the cupboards and turned my attention to the rest of the room. There were no real surprises. The wardrobe contained suits and shirts, all of which looked quite expensive. I pulled open the drawers of the chest and found nothing interesting except a pack of condoms among the underwear. Time to move on.
I went quietly into Pippa’s room, stepping over the mess and trying not to disturb it. You’d think it would be impossible for her to notice any changes, but even chaos like this had its own order. I saw a bottle of nail varnish standing on the floor, and then I remembered her, sitting in the bed, breasts half uncovered and an amused smile on her face. I unscrewed the top and tipped it over with my foot so it spread over a delicate shirt. I found several pairs of tights and dragged my fingernails down them to create ladders. I spat into a little pot of lip balm. There.
I went up the stairs as quietly as I could, so that Mick didn’t hear me, and opened the door to Astrid’s room. For a few seconds I just stood in the centre, relishing the quiet of her space. It occurred to me that her room was the twin of mine, which was on the floor above and also looked over the street. But this one was freshly painted, and it smelled of coconut, citrus fruit and lavender. I took the few steps to where her toiletries stood on a shelf and sniffed them in turn, learning them. It was clean, tidy and peaceful, just as I like rooms to be. I flicked through the clothes hanging in her wardrobe. There weren’t many – Pippa probably owned ten times more – but I liked what there was. Nothing frilly or fu
ssy, nothing shoddily made. I put my face among the hanging folds and breathed in her scent. Then I turned to the chest, opening each drawer in turn and rummaging through the contents. I put a pair of black knickers in my pocket. She had very little makeup. I took one lip-gloss.
I thought I heard a sound coming from Mick’s room above, so I went out and stood in the hallway, listening. Nothing. I pushed open the door to Owen’s room and stood at its threshold. Photographs were stacked against every wall, some with their backs turned to me but others in plain view. Women’s faces in four-colour black stared sightlessly at me and suddenly my limbs were heavy and my skin prickled. It was starting in my head. I was under water, with things wavering around me, not holding their proper shape.
I heard the front door open. I backed out and pulled the door shut quietly, then turned, went into my own room and lay on my bed, waiting for the ticking in my left eye to go away. I heard voices. Miles, I thought, and someone else: a woman, but not Astrid or Pippa. I don’t know how long I lay there, whether or not I slept, but when I went downstairs Dario was awake, sitting on the sofa smoking a cigarette, and Mick was frying eggs at the stove. The smell made me feel sick again. Miles was there, and so, too, was the woman whose voice I had heard. She was tall and striking and had flawless skin, but her face was discontented and her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. She reminded me of a bird of prey, a hawk perhaps. I told myself I had to be careful.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Mick was sitting at the table and Astrid was at the stove. She was wearing blue jeans and a light brown T-shirt. She was barefooted again, leaning up to reach a saucepan down from a high shelf. The effort pulled her shirt up, exposing the smooth brown skin of her lower back.
‘Sorry,’ I said, turning to go.
‘That’s all right,’ said Astrid. ‘Join us.’
I thought of my instruction manual. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
She laughed. ‘I’m cooking one of my special recipes. Pasta accompanied by spicy red pesto bought from a deli, sprinkled with cheese, plus red wine.’
‘Sounds fantastic,’ I said.
‘It is,’ said Astrid. ‘Even I can’t fuck it up.’
I found Mick disconcerting. He was like a smooth wall that provided no fingerholds. He didn’t seem to find it awkward to stay silent. He looked at me for a moment, then got up and collected plates, forks and glasses, three of each. He took a bottle of red wine from a carrier-bag on the floor, opened it and poured some into each glass. I picked up mine.
‘Cheers,’ I said, too quickly. Astrid was stirring pasta in the saucepan and Mick just stared at his glass. It felt like an awkward moment but then Astrid smiled, picked up hers and took a gulp from it.
‘Mick and I were talking about travelling,’ she said. ‘Have you done much, Davy?’
Lying is like a really good tool. It’s a tool for manipulating people, for controlling them. You can tell them what they want to hear; you can make them think you’re a particular person. The point of lying is to have different lies for different people. Different people need different lies, the way that different jobs need different tools. If you have just one lie for everyone, you might as well tell the truth because the truth is much easier. If you’re telling the truth, you don’t need to think because the truth automatically fits together neatly. Lies aren’t like that. You have to make them fit. And you have to remember which lie you’re telling at any particular time, and to whom, and if it fits with every other lie you’ve told and whether anything could happen, today, tomorrow or the day after to expose it. Knowing when not to lie is part of the skill. I knew, I just knew, that Mick and Astrid were talking about travelling because they had both done a lot. And I would so much like to have said yes, so that I would have been part of the club. But then they would ask where and I would name some place, and it would turn out that one of them had been there and it would go terribly wrong. It would only take something as small as that to ruin everything in the house and force me to leave.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Round Europe mainly,’ said Astrid. ‘ India, a bit in the Far East, Australia. Nothing like Mick.’
‘Where have you been, then?’ I said to Mick.
He made a dismissive gesture. ‘I just got back from Latin America,’ he said. ‘I was there a couple of years.’
I thought of my book, my manual on how to be a real person. Bring people out, it advised. There’s no such thing as a bore. All a good talker needs is a good listener.
‘What’s the best place you went to?’ I asked Mick. ‘Where would you really recommend?’
He thought for a moment. ‘ Brazil,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘Number one.’ He held up one finger. ‘The rainforest. Two: the Amazon. Three: big, noisy, exciting cities. Four: the dancing. Five: the cachasa.’ He started on the fingers of his other hand. ‘Six: the music. Seven: the beaches. Eight: excellent dope.’ This was the most I’d ever heard Mick say, but he continued. ‘Then there’s the women.’
‘Number nine on your list,’ I said lightly, pleased to see Astrid grinning, but Mick scowled as if I was mocking him.
‘They’re the most amazing women in the world. Present company excepted.’
‘Oh, shut up, Mick,’ said Astrid, heaping pasta on to the plates.
‘And it’s cheap.’
‘Sounds great,’ I said. ‘How’s your Spanish?’
Mick looked at Astrid.
‘Portuguese, in fact,’ said Astrid. ‘ Chile and Peru and the rest speak Spanish.’
‘Yes, I knew that,’ I said. ‘I meant when you were travelling round the rest of South America. Actually, I was thinking of learning Portuguese.’
‘Really?’ said Astrid. ‘Everyone says it’s a lovely language.’
Fuck, I thought. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. I’d told the truth to stop myself looking stupid and I’d made myself look stupid anyway.
The next day I went to the bookshop and found a guide-book to South America. Brazil really did look good. Ten days later, I was sitting in a class at an institute in Clapton with several businessmen, a few white-haired retired men and women and a couple of younger people I couldn’t make out. Introductory Portuguese taught by a middle-aged woman, fat, bespectacled, Portuguese, but not at all the kind of woman Mick had been talking about. Week four. It was late March by now and I’d missed weeks one, two and three but I told the woman in the office I’d catch up.
Several days later, when I met Mick in the hall, I said in a cheery voice, ‘Bom dia.’
He looked startled. ‘Is this for real?’
‘I told you I was planning to learn.’
‘Spanish is really more useful,’ he said. ‘Unless you’re planning to go to Brazil. Or Angola or Mozambique.’
‘Or Portugal,’ I said.
‘Yeah,’ he said, sounding doubtful. ‘Was it the women? I may have exaggerated about them.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I like the sound of the language.’
Mick’s expression relaxed. ‘I do too,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not taking the piss. Boa sorte.’
‘What?’
‘Good luck.’
For the next few weeks, I lived my life happily in compartments. There was the Portuguese compartment, where I was a person planning a project in Brazil. There was the work compartment. Down in Camberwell I was the young apprentice, eager to learn. It was always good to pretend to know less than you really did. I could clearly see that Dario was taking the housemates at Maitland Road for a ride. He was allegedly paying his rent in kind, by doing the house up. It was mainly painting, but he also did a bit of electrics, a bit of carpentry, even some plastering and plumbing. It was a botch job. When he painted a room, he couldn’t be bothered to tape up the wood frames. I mentioned it once but he said it was a waste of time. All that was needed was a steady hand. The result was paint speckles on the woodwork. His carpentry was all ragged edges, protruding screws and
ill-fitting joints. If his electrical work was of the same standard, there was probably a risk of fire.
I thought of mentioning it to Miles and provoking a row, but that didn’t fit with the role I was creating. For the moment, I was the perfect housemate, the one who did the washing-up and patched over disagreements. It was always useful to have ammunition that could be used later.
I wanted to get to know the housemates individually. One evening I wandered out into the garden to get a shirt off the line and found Dario in a corner, smoking a joint. He offered it to me and I took a puff.
‘It’s good stuff, isn’t it?’ he said.
It never had much effect on me. I’d always found it difficult to see why it meant so much to other people, why they gave it so much attention. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s really good stuff.’
I handed it back to Dario who took a fearsome drag on it, the tip flaming up.
‘I can get some for you, if you want,’ he said. ‘For a good price. Just say the word.’
I didn’t reply. So that was how he earned his pocket money.
‘But don’t mention it to Miles,’ said Dario, dropping the roach and stamping on it. ‘He’s a bit paranoid about it.’
In the early days, I phoned Astrid’s mobile on a Friday afternoon about some shopping that needed to be done. She suggested we meet up at a pub where she went at the end of the week. When I arrived at the Horse and Jockey, it was full of other despatch riders, spilling out of the doors, overflowing from the pavement on to the road. It was like a huge, bustling party that I hadn’t been invited to, except that I had. I wandered around and found Astrid sitting with a black guy, in his thirties, strongly built, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, head completely shaved. I wondered if he was another boyfriend, but she introduced him to me as Campbell, her ‘so-called boss’. I bought a drink for her and for him, and for another man sitting at her other side and one for myself, and they made room for me at the table. I enjoyed sitting there, watching this strange breed. There were riders in bright yellow tops, like competitors in the Tour de France, and there were scruffy young men in cut-off jeans and vests, and older men, grizzled, deeply tanned, with long hair in dreadlocks or ponytails. I sat and sipped my drink while they joshed each other, gossiped and complained about their clients.
