Behind Closed Doors

by Catherine Alliott

  I got to my feet. ‘I don’t have to listen to this.’ I realized I was trembling. Her hand flew out and she seized my wrist.

  ‘Sit,’ she hissed. ‘I haven’t got to the best part yet.’

  She had me in a vice-like grip; to shake her off would have been difficult. It would have caused a scene. Already the young couple beside us had paused in their meal. The girl, facing me, looked concerned. I sat, slowly. Amanda kept her grip on my wrist, though. Our scallops arrived. She had to release me. To run would have been cowardly; plus, I wasn’t at all sure she wouldn’t lunge after me. Another waitress appeared with the salads, removed the olives, and replaced them with a bread basket. She topped up the water glasses. It gave us both a moment to compose ourselves. To breathe. My heart was beating fast, though. Amanda still looked unhinged and wild-eyed. She poured herself more wine with a shaking hand. I sipped my water instead.

  ‘The thing is,’ she began, and her face suddenly buckled. I realized she was on the verge of tears. ‘The thing is, Michael was all I had. Literally all I had in the world. After our parents …’ She fought for composure and I screamed inside.

  Here we go again. I wasn’t sure which was worse, the naked aggression or the self-pity. How many years had I sat and listened, first with horror and sadness, then compassion, then, increasingly, with frustration, to what was about to pour forth? About the two lonely, lost orphans who only had each other. And of course it was dreadful, but it was also hundreds of years ago, and many people had experienced similar tragedies and somehow overcome them, and gone on to live decent, fulfilled lives. And whilst it would always be with them, they hadn’t let it define them. Amanda had. And always would, until she died. She would always be Orphan Annie.

  I listened and nodded and looked sympathetic and picked at my scallops which were slippery and slimy. Like her, I thought, as I passed her a napkin. Tears were coursing down her face. Manipulative. Always. And of course she needed professional help, but trust me, she had it in spades. It was all she did with her life. Grief counsellor on Monday. CBT on Tuesday. Group therapy at the Priory on alternate Fridays. She needed to get on. I gripped my fork as I picked at my salad, wondering when I could leave.

  ‘And now Michael’s gone too, so I’m totally alone.’

  ‘But you have friends, surely,’ I said. I couldn’t even force my voice to be kind. Michael and Amanda had barely been in touch; this version of their relationship was simply not true, and I would not collude with it. I went round, I saw her, because my husband wouldn’t. He couldn’t bear her. I insisted she come for Christmas, made sure, if we were at my parents’, which we nearly always were, that she came too, even though Michael would complain. I always insisted the children saw their Aunt Amanda. I was the one who invited her to school plays, carol concerts, even on holiday once – a complete disaster, but I’d done it. Michael had barely allowed us to leave the villa – oh, Amanda knew about her brother and to pretend otherwise was disingenuous – and Amanda got drunk every night, and told us tales of men who’d let her down. Or betrayed her. Lured by her glamour and her money and, to be fair, her brain. Amanda wasn’t stupid. She could have done so much with her life. But these men soon realized what they had on their hands. A narcissist with a screw loose. And then they’d run a mile, lest they wake up in bed, as one poor chap did, being attacked with the heel of her stiletto shoe.

  Likewise friends, even similarly rich, idle, self-obsessed ones, had not stayed the course. Amanda was incapable of talking about anyone but herself; her selfishness knew no bounds. So any conversation would automatically be dragged back to her. My suggestion, therefore, that she could rely on a chummy network, was about the most cruel I’d ever been. I regretted it immediately. I should have let her rant on as usual. But I was so angry with myself for being here, for becoming ensnared in this mesh again … She stopped. Went pale.

  ‘Friends,’ she hissed. ‘Oh, it’s all right for you. Surrounded by family and mothers of your children’s friends and Melissa across the road, plus your sister, a ready-made confidante. Have you any idea how impossible it is for someone like me to have a network like that?’ Her voice rose and the girl on the next table looked alarmed again. ‘Have you? And now that you’ve taken Michael from me, now that you’ve taken my only family member—’

  ‘Hang on,’ I interrupted sharply. ‘What d’you mean, I’ve taken him?’

  ‘Oh, don’t think I don’t know. Don’t think I don’t know that you somehow got rid of him, Lucy.’

  I gasped. Pushed my chair back.

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ she breathed.

  I realized she was watching me intently, like a fox stalking its prey. I had to think fast. And not run. I pulled my chair back in.

  ‘You wanted a divorce, and he wouldn’t give you one, would he? But that didn’t stop you, oh no.’ She lowered her voice. ‘A neighbour saw something. I know because I rang the police the other day. I wanted to know how the investigation was going – after all, we’ve heard nothing. They couldn’t tell me, of course, but they said the next-door neighbour was helping with their enquiries. Someone else told me that, too.’

  ‘Mrs Daley? She was away.’

  I saw the surprise on her face. Realized, in that moment, she was bluffing. Mrs Daley had moved in a few years ago, replacing the young couple who’d once knocked on my door in concern, late at night, but she’d been in Canada at the time of Michael’s death, visiting her daughter. She’d popped round the following week with some tulips, in sympathy. I watched Amanda regroup.

  ‘The other one,’ she said quickly.

  ‘I don’t have another neighbour. They’ve got builders in.’

  She thought wildly. ‘Round the back, then.’

  She’d already given herself away, but this childish ‘then’, this afterthought, almost a playground taunt, when she’d run out of neighbours, drove in the final nail. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help my mind flying to the house behind, and Amanda saw it happen: she watched as I visualized the tall, brick back exterior, three stories high, so much taller than ours. I used to see the top-floor lights go on and the curtains close at night, as no doubt they saw … what could they see? I forced a smile, my heart beating.

  ‘You’re mad.’

  She didn’t answer me. But she started to smile. A satisfied ‘got you’ kind of smile. I knew she’d made it up, but her wild stab in the dark had been more accurate than she could have hoped. I’d never considered the possibility I might have been watched.

  ‘Why so guilty, Lucy? You’ve gone awfully pale.’ The waitress appeared and asked if we’d finished. We nodded and she cleared our plates. I waited until she’d gone, thinking fast. When I spoke, I made my voice level.

  ‘I’m surprised you don’t know about that, Amanda. About the guilt. About it being another stage of grief. After the anger. So many bereaved people feel this way, and I must admit, I’m no exception. I feel terribly guilty. Why didn’t I get downstairs quicker? Interrupt the burglar sooner? Michael might still be alive if I had. And I’ve read about it, about how people blame themselves. It’s well documented. You might even have felt it after your parents died? Wondered, perhaps, if you and Michael had been there, if it might not have happened? Maybe you’d have been in a different hotel, or at least different rooms, had the trip been in the school holidays, say?’

  I watched her eyes flash back to her childhood. To her own terror of that carbon monoxide filtering through the air conditioning and she and her brother not running into their parents’ room saying they felt unwell. I knew I’d hit home. Knew she’d have covered guilt with her grief counsellor many times. I licked my lips and prepared to act like I’d never acted before. I adopted a tone of kind, caring concern.

  ‘Amanda, I’m worried about you. I’m worried that some of your therapy sessions, particularly the group ones, encourage an over-active imagination. You’ve been exhibiting it a lot recently. Remember when you thought Colin and Trevor, in the flat below, were plotting again
st you? Taking your mail? And when you thought the Amazon man was spying through your letter box? I’m wondering if you should go back to your GP. Change your medication, even?’

  Oh, if she could be manipulative, I could too. And I knew that her favourite topic, herself and her complicated medical programme, was the surest way to her egotistical heart.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my medication,’ she snapped. ‘I went to Austria in January, to the Holen, and was entirely irrigated of toxins, so that everything I take now has a better chance. And don’t try to—’

  ‘The Holen Clinic?’ I interrupted sharply. ‘Isn’t that the one that’s just been discredited? By some neuroscientist from Columbia University?’

  It was the detail that got her. Not entirely invented, either, I’d skimmed an article a while back.

  ‘Columbia …?’

  ‘Yes, it was in The Times. Apparently, the Holen’s irrigation methods are highly suspect and there’s a lot of controversy about it. I knew you were a patient so I followed it up online, in the Medical Journal.’

  ‘I don’t read – I didn’t see—’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t, because it’s encrypted. You can only get access if you’re registered, which a friend of mine is. Hilary, a psychologist. I asked her about it. And obviously I didn’t want to worry you. But since you’ve mentioned it …’

  ‘Could she get me the report?’

  Gotcha. ‘I’ll ask her. I’m seeing her soon.’ I know of no one called Hilary. No psychologist.

  The bill arrived and I quickly got my card out, indicating to the waitress I’d like to settle it now. She disappeared for her machine.

  ‘Yes, because the Belgravia Clinic, where I go for my irrigation in London, are also setting up in Austria and are keen for me to go there, and when I said I’d been going to the Holen for years, they did actually raise their eyebrows … I thought they were just touting for business. It’s just so hard to believe. The Holen is so well established …’

  ‘Believe it,’ I said grimly, giving an Oscar winning performance. It helped that I’d seen the article, but let’s not forget, I’m good at this. I’ve had plenty of practice, with Michael’s women. ‘Go back to the Belgravia, Amanda, and ask them exactly what their reservations are. Ask to see the chap in charge, the one you really rate—’

  ‘Dr Kaluigui,’ she said, eagerly.

  ‘That’s it, Dr Kaluigui. Ask to see him. Have a proper meeting, and say you’ve heard worrying reports. Presumably his new Austrian clinic will have state-of-the-art equipment?’

  ‘Yes, and it’s on the lake, too. Fabulous views. Very luxurious, apparently.’

  The waitress was back. I slipped the card into her machine and punched out the number. She tore off the receipt and handed it to me.

  ‘Well, there you are. Now I’ve got to fly, Amanda. I promised I’d pop in on Helena while I was up, she’s got the day off. But I want you to promise me you’ll go, yes? To Dr Kaluigui?’ I got to my feet, simultaneously plucking my jacket from the back of my chair and slipping into it. I furrowed my brow. ‘Otherwise I shall worry …’

  ‘Oh, I will,’ she said eagerly. ‘I’ll ring as soon as I get home.’ She knocked back her wine and made to get up.

  ‘No, don’t rush,’ I told her, putting my hand on her arm and making myself lean in and kiss her cheek, which stalled her. I sure as hell didn’t want to walk with her. For her to revisit anything. ‘You stay and finish that.’ I nodded at the small amount left in the bottle. ‘Otherwise it’s a waste. But please, let me know how you get on, hm?’

  I gave her a steady smile: a really worried smile. And I touched her arm again, a gesture typical of Amanda, who was very tactile. My heart was beating fast. I turned and wound my way through the tables towards the door, praying she wasn’t following me. She wasn’t. As I went out, down the street, I saw her, still at the table. She was pouring the remains of the wine and getting her phone out of her clutch bag.

  I turned and walked quickly away, heading around the corner to where my car was parked two streets back. Before I got to it, however, I had to take a moment. Had to stop. Lean against the garden wall of a convenient mansion. I shut my eyes. My handbag was clasped to my chest and my heart was pounding. I bent my head. I felt sick. I made myself breathe. It was a while before I could raise my head, and when I did, a young chap in a suit, a Barbour over his jacket, was striding by. He did a double take when he saw my face. I believe it might have been very pale.

  15

  I sat for a moment in my car, my heart still racing. Then I realized I was still on her territory and she could come past at any moment. I started the car in a panic, hands fluttering, and pulled out in a blare of horns as a taxi swerved round me. As the cabbie shook his fist and swore violently out of the window, I made myself breathe, calm down: I’d narrowly missed a collision. My face, when I glanced in the rear-view mirror, was ashen. I drove on carefully, then pulled in, far beyond Amanda’s house, to recover. In the glove compartment I found a toffee and sucked it, needing the sugar. There was an old bottle of water too, which I sipped. I went over the horrible, horrible lunch in my head. I was reasonably sure I’d convinced her my guilty demeanour was about wishing I could have done more to save her brother’s life. I was also sure I’d diverted her with her own imaginary health issues. But had she rung the police? Quite possibly, on a daily basis even, irritating the hell out of them, but I knew from my book research they’d tell her nothing. No details from an ongoing inquiry could be disclosed in case it got in the press. So the neighbour business was bollocks. One thing she had said, though, had startled me and then made me think. About knowing I wanted a divorce. There had been times when I’d wondered what she’d heard.

  About a year ago, in a moment of madness, when Michael was away in Edinburgh reviewing a play, I’d contacted a divorce lawyer. Foolish, in retrospect, because ultimately I knew I’d be unable to go through with it, but I’d been desperate at the time. Melissa had found her for me, and I’d asked if we could just speak on the phone, or face-to-face, never write anything down. No emails. She hadn’t batted an eyelid, perhaps used to such a request. I’d called her from my bedroom. Imo was across from New York and, since Michael was away, was staying the night. She was working in the study. She knew nothing; I didn’t want her involved. Amanda had popped by that morning, unexpectedly, as was her wont. Imo let her in, had come up to tell me, then went back and told Amanda I was on the phone and I’d be down in five minutes. She made her aunt a cup of coffee and went back to work. When I came off the phone, having arranged to go and see the lawyer, I opened the bedroom door to find Amanda coming out of the bathroom opposite. Her eyes were glittery and bright, as they had been just now in the restaurant. She said Imo had said to use the loo up here, that it was nicer. She was all smiles. I’d said yes, of course. My voice had been low on the phone, and I’d been sitting on the opposite side of the bed, facing the street. I was sure she couldn’t have heard. But she’d been unusually sweet as we’d drunk our coffee in the kitchen, admiring the garden.

  When Michael got back, things had seemed fine. Well, you know. Normal. Then one day, I was upstairs in my walk-in wardrobe, sorting out clothes for a friend who was having a charity sale at her house, and he came up and found me. He’d discovered my secret phone, in the cellar, in an old trunk, right at the bottom. He’d found the lawyer’s details. He’d hissed and snarled obscenities at me, circling me, spitting at me as I’d shrunk behind my clothes on hangers, right in the corner, until I was curled up and crouched down, my arms over my head. Then he’d gone, closed the door, and locked it. Yes, quite dark. The light switch was outside, you see, and he’d turned it off. Obviously he’d let me out later, and had even cooked supper that night. It was ready when I came down. Chicken in a creamy mushroom sauce. He’d turned the heating off upstairs so it was freezing, but downstairs, it was warm. We’d sat at the kitchen table which he’d laid with a cloth, flowers from the garden in my favourite jug, and he
’d made conversation, to which I’d tried to respond. My phone, and the lawyer, weren’t mentioned. Towards the end of the meal, Michael started to talk about the children, in general terms, about their lives, but in a scary way. He said he might go and visit Imo, in America. Alone. Did she still live on the twelfth floor? I never rang the solicitor again and he never went to New York.

  But that was then. And horrible though it was to realize now that Amanda had, in all probability, had her ear pressed to the door, and then been plotting to tip Michael off at the same time as laughing with Imo and me in the kitchen – this was now. Michael was dead. And something else she’d said, inadvertently, was far more pressing. Far more pertinent. I realized I needed to see something for myself, as an insurance policy. It hadn’t occurred to me, you see. Just hadn’t occurred. And it should have done. I needed to check. I turned the ignition, making sure I looked all around before I pulled out.

  When Josh came to the door he looked, understandably, surprised. I made a hopeless gesture, throwing up my hands in the air and adopting an I’m-a-moron expression.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve put my purse down somewhere. No idea where. I’m really sorry, but I’m having to retrace my steps. I’ve been back to the restaurant, and into a couple of shops; would you mind …?’

  ‘Oh no, not at all. Come in.’ He stood aside, feet still bare. ‘But I’m pretty sure it’s not here. I’d have spotted it.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I thought, but maybe when I went in the study …’

  ‘I don’t think you went in the study?’

  I made a guilty face. ‘I did, actually. When you were on the phone. I was intrigued by you saying it was a bit gloomy and I didn’t know why I’d never thought of working in the front room. I popped in to – you know – check out the light.’