Behind Closed Doors

by Catherine Alliott

  I’d left my parents clearly rather excited at the prospect of a day without me. Mum had even clasped her hands with glee.

  ‘We’ll have the Millers round,’ she said to Dad. ‘Hetty rang me yesterday, to see if we were free.’

  ‘Why can’t you have them when I’m here?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, we can, of course, darling, but – you know.’

  Without me they could raid the drinks cupboard and have a lot more fun. I felt like a jailer. And rather sad, actually. I certainly didn’t want to spoil their fun.

  ‘She just means we have to be a bit careful who we have with the Millers. Hetty’s incontinent and doesn’t always make it, and Bertie gets a bit muddled and inappropriate with the young. He can be inclined to be saucy.’

  ‘Right. Do I count as young?’

  ‘Oh Lord, yes. Even your mother does, and she doesn’t mind at all.’

  Hence her skippy excitement. A saucy afternoon with flirty Bertie and without her flinty-eyed daughter watching her flutter her eyelids and chuck it down her neck.

  ‘But we’ll ask the Ashleys with them,’ Dad said decisively and I saw Mum’s face drop. ‘Joan missed her vocation as a Lieutenant Colonel and keeps us all in check, but we suffer her for Roger.’

  ‘Love Roger,’ agreed Mum, brightening again and bustling to get a fish pie I’d made out of the fridge, whilst my father hastened as much as he could on his much improved, but still healing legs, to open the cellar door in the hall. But I strode past him.

  ‘One case or two?’ I asked meaningfully, eyeing him beadily at the top of the horrifically steep stone steps he was planning to descend. Mum had quietly admitted that he’d fallen down the last few once, and it was on that basis that I’d banned it, planning to move a selection of cases up to the scullery. In fact I’d planned to do that today.

  ‘Oh no, darling, just a couple of bottles of the Merlot, if you wouldn’t mind,’ he said, chastened. And then when I was down there: ‘Actually, make it three? And a bottle of the Yquem, perhaps?’

  I brought them up and put them on the side in the kitchen. ‘Just make sure she eats,’ I said, eyeing my mother, in full earshot.

  ‘Who’s she, the cat’s mother?’ she trilled happily, fluttering to open the napkin drawer.

  ‘No, the impossible teenager,’ I said grimly, getting a trifle out of the freezer to defrost, and then leaving them to it, off to embark on my own, far less enviable day.

  As I beetled up the M4, I checked my face again. My mouth seemed to have all but disappeared, and I wished with all my heart I was with my irresponsible, kind parents, doling out fish pie to my mother, keeping an eye on Dad as he tottered to the fridge – now that his legs were healing he refused to use his stick – and staying in that warm, nest-like excuse of a life, forever.

  I’d arranged to meet Amanda in Brinkley’s in Hollywood Road, round the corner from her flat in Tregunter Road. It was a bustling, upmarket bistro, full of thrusting young executives. I’d deliberately suggested somewhere on her doorstep in the hope that she’d like to be allowed back in, which would prevent her from breaking a plate of spaghetti on my head. We weren’t due to meet until one o’clock, though. I glanced at my watch. Ten forty-five. Before then, I was popping home, because Josh had emailed me a few days ago to say that, try as he might, he couldn’t get the heating to work without some weird ticking noise accompanying it. It was driving him mad, and did I have any suggestions? I did, a plumber, but I knew that would be expensive and I’d have to pay, so I told him to take it off the timer. He emailed back to say he’d tried that and the ticking prevailed. Did I have any other ideas? Before he installed a brand-new radiator in the sitting room and sent me the bill? I’d told him I’d pop by when I was next up, and thus, seething slightly, but knowing my eccentric plumbing needed the experienced touch, I drove round to my house. It felt mighty peculiar as I turned into my old road, but luckily, the momentum of having an annoying tenant was enough to keep me from dwelling on worse.

  He came to the door – which naturally was weird, as I’d only ever put a key in before and opened it myself – barefoot in jeans. He wore a crumpled white shirt which hung loose, and a rather surprised expression on his face.

  ‘Oh. Right. Yes, of course. Sorry, I was working. I completely forgot the time.’

  ‘No lectures today?’ I asked, as he stood aside to let me in.

  ‘Reading week, as it’s euphemistically called. It’s actually a bit of downtime for the freshers to recover from their mid-term hangovers.’

  I smiled. ‘Oh yes, I remember. No sooner have they gone, than suddenly they reappear again in a heap. Oh, golly. You’ve changed it around.’

  I’d stopped. He’d been leading me down to the kitchen, but I’d obviously glanced into the sitting room en route. He’d moved the dining table into the bay window, and the sofas to the back. Switched the whole thing around.

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘No, not at all. I like it, actually. Don’t know why I didn’t think of that before.’

  ‘Well, it works for me because I work in the window where it gets the most light.’

  ‘Oh, right. Not in the study?’

  He made a face. ‘Bit gloomy.’

  He was right, it was. The back of the house faced north. And the more I looked around, the more I liked what I saw. He’d hung his own pictures, which were modern and huge and cheerful, most unlike the gloomy Victorian oils in heavy gilt frames Michael favoured, and he’d flung colourful throws over the sofas and even the table. His papers and files were spread chaotically over a lovely deep red, fringed paisley shawl. The whole house, even the kitchen – the sofa had a cream linen throw – looked completely different and I was pleased. I told him so.

  ‘Oh really? I rather imagined you liked it the way it was since you’d clearly had it that way for years.’

  ‘My husband didn’t like change. He came from the sort of family who only decorate once in a generation.’

  ‘Ah, OK. Some grand, baronial pile in Scotland?’

  ‘No, a mock Tudor in Esher, I think. He just had delusions of grandeur.’ Josh glanced at me in surprise. There it was again, that unfiltered thought. ‘Sorry. I must stop speaking ill of the dead. It’s a habit I’ve rather got into and it’s very unattractive. Lead me to the ticking radiator.’

  He opened the cupboard door to the boiler above the sink and turned on the heating. We listened. In a few moments, things began to get a bit ticky, as I knew from experience they would as it revved up, but also, if I turned it off, then quickly turned it on again, at length it would all calm down.

  ‘See?’ he told me triumphantly.

  ‘Yes, but give it a moment. Or even a few minutes. It usually stops.’

  ‘Not in my experience, but coffee? While we wait?’ He was going towards an attractive blue fifties-style kettle. Brown feet, I noticed. Tanned.

  ‘Please.’ And that did feel weird. Someone making me a coffee in my own kitchen. I perched on a stool.

  ‘I do that too,’ he said, suddenly. ‘Speak ill of the departed.’

  I looked at him. ‘Oh – you mean …?’

  ‘Agathe. I try not to, but it’s so close to the surface, I sometimes can’t help it. And weirdly, it feels dishonest not to, even though it’s disloyal and people think badly of you, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I’d like to say we went our own amicable ways, but we didn’t. She buggered off with my best friend and I can’t forgive her for that.’

  ‘No. Nor him, I imagine.’

  ‘Nor him.’

  ‘So you lost both of them.’

  He shrugged. ‘I suppose. But I hate them both anyway, so it’s fine.’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t really,’ I said gently.

  ‘Oh, I do. When you realize it’s been going on for years and that every single memory you have has been compromised, it is possible to hate, which is a blessing. I wouldn’t want to be moping around feeling sad.’
>
  ‘True,’ I agreed. ‘I’d hate to feel sad, and I don’t. I feel …’

  ‘Liberated?’

  I blinked. He was smiling, eyes crinkling. Hair dark and rumpled. Specs on the counter as he made coffee. Quite handsome.

  ‘Yes. Definitely. Until I’m reminded of him again, then I sink. He was a bully,’ I told him helpfully.

  ‘Ah.’ He passed me a mug. ‘And why should you be reminded of him?’

  I told him about Amanda and the memorial service. I don’t know why I did, but on the other hand, why not? It was the only thing on my mind and I’d always worn my heart on my sleeve. I wasn’t about to stop now, just because I didn’t know him. In fact it was easier, not knowing him. Like talking to a hairdresser. Which was perhaps why he’d talked candidly to me. He listened.

  ‘Oh no, you don’t have to do that. You’re the wife.’

  ‘Really? I mean – legally, or something?’ I said hopefully.

  ‘Well, I don’t know about legally, but if neither you nor the children want it, I don’t see how she can force your hand.’

  ‘Watch her,’ I said grimly, sinking into my coffee.

  He was observing me. ‘Another bully?’

  ‘Runs in the family,’ I muttered.

  He nodded. ‘Well, just – hold your nerve. Tell her your memories are unhappy and you don’t want to glorify him.’

  I almost reached for a pen in my bag to jot it down, but managed not to. ‘Yes. Yes, I will. Anything else?’ I asked anxiously.

  He smiled. ‘Well, I didn’t know him. But was he very religious?’

  ‘God, no. Not in the least.’

  ‘Well then, say he’d have hated it. Went against all his principles, or something. Good heavens, you’re right, it has gone off.’ He cocked his head and listened. Silence.

  ‘It does. But if I’m honest, it’s more like fifteen minutes than five, and if I’m totally honest, one in about a dozen times it doesn’t. The trick is to turn it on and off quickly, then put the radio on loud, or have a bath. By the time you realize it’s irritating and go to switch it off – the ticking has stopped. Usually. Otherwise keep the radio on.’

  ‘Right. I’ll remember that. I haven’t needed it up to now since it’s been so warm but this cold snap—’ His mobile rang on the counter. He glanced at it. ‘Oh, sorry. I need to take this.’ He picked it up and disappeared into the sitting room telling, presumably, a student on the other end that he’d just grab their essay and have a look. However, he didn’t reappear and I heard him chatting in the next room. I drank my coffee. It occurred to me that he was far more pleasant than when I’d first met him. And he’d been so open. I wondered if he’d mellowed because he was away from the hurt of his family. Whatever he said about hate, that must have caused terrible pain. His glasses were sitting on the counter where he’d left them and, on an impulse, I put them on. Definitely very squiffy making. Definitely not clear glass. I only just got away with taking them off when he reappeared. He’d seen me replace them on the counter though, and looked surprised.

  ‘Oh, my son, Ned, has the same ones,’ I explained. ‘Only he’s lost them. I was just – just looking to see what make they are.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ He looked unconvinced.

  ‘Anyway,’ I drained my mug, ‘I must be away. And thanks for the – you know. Words of wisdom. I’m off to put them into practice.’

  He nodded and walked me to the door. But as I left and was driving off down the road I found, rather to my relief, that I wasn’t thinking about what I was going to say to my sister-in-law. I was wondering instead what Josh’s best friend had been like and how on earth Agathe had imagined he was a better option. He must have been quite something.

  14

  In the event, obviously, I didn’t tell Amanda where she could get off. Or where she could stick her memorial service. Or in any way hold my nerve or defend my corner. She won hands down. She was ready for me, naturally. Armed and dangerous, with a half-drunk bottle of Chablis and a whole heap of bitterness. I’d parked in Tregunter Road, where I knew there to be meters, and walked, too casually in retrospect, still fresh from my not unpleasant morning, down the expensive street where she lived. The pavements were squeaky with money and I marvelled, quietly, at being back here. Tall, white stucco mansions, one of which housed the top-floor flat in which she lived, were fronted by immaculate gardens encased with black iron railings. Filipino housekeepers were watering pots full of hyacinths and spring bedding, and one emerged with a baby in a pram. I turned the corner and walked down Hollywood Road towards the smart, bustling restaurant, joining a few people arriving at the door, wrapped up in coats and scarves against this sudden dip in temperature, rubbing their hands cheerfully and commenting on it. I joined in the discussion, lulled by a sweet French woman’s smile and her expression of horror at the unpredictability of the British weather.

  I saw her first. She was poised at a corner table in the window, her back to the wall. I made my way across with a nervous smile. She looked incredibly glamorous as she always did: stick-thin, her hair very blonde and smooth, freshly blown dry by someone else’s hand, and tucked under her chin, like a helmet. She was wearing a beautiful dusky pink tailored jacket, a silky cream shirt, and lots of expensive jewellery. Her lips were thin but thick with lipstick. She extended them in a smile and gave a dinky little wave of her fingers in a faux friendly gesture, but I knew better. It was all in the eyes. They were over-bright and glittering. She meant business. This was her moment. Amanda didn’t have a job because she didn’t have to work, and aside from lunches with other rich women, she had plenty of leisure time. The moment I saw her face I realized she’d been thinking this through for weeks and that I was woefully under-prepared.

  As soon as I’d sat down and we’d exchanged a few pleasantries, before I’d even taken a sip of water or looked at the menu, she started. Her back straightened, she clasped her hands in front of her and spoke crisply and fluently as if I was at an interview. She even thanked me for coming. Then she told me, in no uncertain terms, exactly where the service was going to be: St Luke’s, Chelsea; what the order of service was – she produced, not a draft, but a creamy stiff original from her bag; who was doing the readings; and who was doing the flowers (Lady up-your-bottom-someone she’d been at school with).

  ‘Ned won’t read,’ I said quickly, when I saw his name by one of the planned readings, which I knew immediately was a big mistake, because I’d fallen into her trap.

  ‘Oh well, never mind. I’ll ask a friend to do it,’ she said sweetly, whipping the order of service card back from my hands. I realized I’d spoken as if it were already happening.

  ‘I’m afraid none of us will come,’ I said firmly. ‘We don’t want it, Amanda.’

  Her over-stretched brow furrowed as much as it was capable. ‘Well, how strange. Don’t you think that will look rather odd? As if you’re pleased he’s dead or something?’

  My breathing became a bit shallow. ‘Well no, of course we’re not pleased he’s dead—’

  ‘No, I didn’t say that, I said it might look that way. But since you mention it, Lucy, are you pleased he’s dead?’

  ‘No, of course not!’ I said, flustered, reaching for my wine glass. She’d already poured us both a glass, and although as a rule I don’t drink at lunchtime, for once I was grateful. I took a swig.

  She made a thoughtful face. ‘It’s just I haven’t quite glimpsed you as the grieving widow yet. No tears at the funeral, from any of you, and I couldn’t control myself. Sobbed all the way through. Now shock I understand, but that sort of numbness usually passes and gives way to terrible, searing agony, a realization of a huge void that can never be filled. A great aching chasm, anger even, as you realize the only man you’ve ever loved is never coming back, hm?’ She put her head on one side, quizzically. ‘Oh, scallops, please. With a small green salad.’ This to the waitress, who was poised beside us.

  ‘Um, the same, please,’ I muttered, without looking at
the menu.

  ‘But you don’t seem to be in that place at all. At first, I thought you couldn’t bear to be in the house in London because there were too many fond memories. But now I realize you left because you couldn’t wait to start a new life. Couldn’t wait to rid yourself of all traces of my poor darling brother who, let’s face it, was barely cold.’

  ‘Amanda …’

  Her voice was not raised but it had a horrible shrillness to it. The couple at the next table had already glanced across and taken in her clenched face and grim, set mouth. Her hand was shaking as she reached for her glass and knocked back half of it. It was then I registered that the bottle was half empty. Imo was right, I shouldn’t have come.

  ‘In fact, I’ve never seen such a merry widow. You couldn’t wait to get a nice fat wodge of rent from my brother’s house – a house that, by rights, incidentally, should probably belong to me, because it was bought with my parents’ money. And which you’ll no doubt sell for a fortune the moment the market moves, or when you snare a new man, which is doubtless what you fully intend to do under the guise of,’ she made quotation marks in the air, ‘Looking After Your Parents. In such a delightful, dutiful, caring way.’

  I felt my blood rise. ‘I am looking after my parents. And actually, Amanda, Michael bought the house but contributed nothing to the running of it. You know as well as I do, a weekly column in a small literary magazine brought in barely any money at all, whereas—’

  ‘Oh, whereas you, you had your sparkling literary career, which you lauded over him, knowing he was the real writer in the family. The real wordsmith. But, oh no, you, with your tawdry, tuppenny-ha’penny career, churning out the same old rubbish. The same tired old detective inspector Suzie Woozie—’