The Girl Who Turned a Blind Eye

by Diana Wilkinson

  ‘I’ve moved back to London. Dad died, by the way, and left me the family home. I’m back in Southgate.’ I lower my eyes, teasing out a teardrop by squeezing my lids tightly together. It’s better that Scott thinks I’m grieving, rather than know the truth.

  I want him to remember my soft side. He probably guesses that I feel no sadness, only relief, as I told him often enough about my childhood when we first got together. Never the really bad stuff, but enough to warrant sympathy to keep him close.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t know.’

  ‘How could you?’ Our drinks arrive and I reach for the wine, sipping at the cool nectar. ‘Anyway, Cornwall was a perfect haven after all the drama but you didn’t seriously expect me to stay there forever? It’s miles from anywhere. God, this wine is good. Cheers.’ I raise my glass then instantly regret the celebratory abandon as it seems to wind him up.

  ‘Listen. I don’t know what your game is but keep away from me and Cosette.’

  ‘Cosette? Is that her name? She looks very young, even for you. But very pretty,’ I add.

  ‘I’m warning you. One step in our direction and I’m going back to the police. You might have fooled them but not me.’

  Scott knocks back his water, coughing violently as he drains the glass, and stands up. He glowers down at me, using his height and vantage point to increase the threat level.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I etch concern on my features. ‘Listen. Don’t worry, Scott. I promise I’ll not bother you.’ A deep breath. ‘Actually, I’ve met someone else. A really nice guy who lives in London and I think he could be the one.’ I hold up two fingers on both hands and wiggle them like inverted commas. ‘You don’t need to worry anymore,’ I repeat. It’s a minor victory. The tension slips a fraction from his broad shoulders.

  ‘Whatever. I’ve got to go. Look after yourself.’

  ‘You too. It was great to bump into you.’

  Without a second glance, he heads off the way he came. I watch his retreating back, in its blue striped work shirt, slim fit and clinging to his muscled torso. He’ll have left his jacket at the bank. Barclays in Cheapside.

  He still works on the third floor in mergers and acquisitions. I used to tell him perseverance would one day propel him up the building. The chairman of the bank has an office on the top floor, glass windows encircling a large private sanctum and affording panoramic views all around London.

  ‘That’ll be you one day,’ I said. ‘Top floor. Head of management.’ I lied of course. Scott’s too lazy. I could have helped him but on his own he’ll always hover around the middle of the banking world, mediocrity swallowing him up.

  I spend another half an hour watching the world go by and savour the moment of victory. It’s a good start and it couldn’t have gone any better. Scott’s discomfort is only the beginning; after the discomfort and unease there’ll be the doubts and fears. Finally, I’ll bang the nail firmly in his coffin and destroy any chance he might have of a happy ever after. It’s the least he deserves.

  Ms Evans keeps hinting that I need to let go, but I wonder why? Turn the other cheek. Why? It doesn’t work. It needs to be an eye for an eye, only that will give me comfort. She doesn’t really understand how deep it goes.

  I finish my drink, settle the bill and pick up the cheeses before heading back towards the Tube. My head is light from the drink, the sun and the rendezvous. I sway like a listing ship but soon surge forward, full throttle, euphoric from the lunchtime events.

  However, I need to sober up and down a gallon of coffee when I get home before my date with Travis tonight. He is my project for the future and will never be allowed to treat me badly. Scott has certainly taught me a few never-to-be-repeated lessons. I smile, knowing Ms Evans would approve of my determination to move forward although I’m certain she won’t approve of Travis. Married men are definitely not going to be on her list of the best ways forward for troubled patients and I’m certain they’ll not be recommended in the rule book.

  As I step on to the train, a warm thought tickles my imagination. I don’t need to worry about not being able to have children anymore. Travis has two, a young boy and girl, and a ready-made family is becoming ever more appealing. As the doors slide shut I realise that if everything works out as planned, I won’t need to be defined any longer by a sterile womb.

  4

  Travis picked a seat in the corner and loosened his tie, pulling the tightened red knot to one side and running a finger inside the rim of his damp collar. The surgery’s call, telling him his blood pressure check was overdue, had made him edgy.

  He ordered a bottle of white wine, a cold, crisp Sauvignon Blanc, and let his body sink into the cushioned armchair. Twenty minutes early. He’d have time to pop out for a quick roll-up before she arrived.

  The bar was a couple of streets away from his office. He’d been coming here for years, wining and dining clients through the boom times. The room was packed, buzzing with young dynamic businessmen getting up close and personal with their secretaries. Like he used to, when selling marbled penthouses to fat oil sheiks teased him with possibilities. He had imagined one day he’d be ensconced in such luxury; the playboy bachelor. But marriage had sucked him in and now he barely earned enough to pay the mortgage.

  ‘Boo. Guess who?’

  Beverley’s voice cut through the air, crisp and sharp, and made him squirm in his seat.

  ‘Shit. Don’t do that. You scared me to death.’

  Her hands covered his eyes from behind and a strong stench of perfume made him cough.

  ‘You been here long? Jeez, it’s busy. Don’t you fancy somewhere quieter?’ Beverley scanned the room, peeled off her jacket and pulled a chair up close.

  ‘Ten minutes, give or take. Here. ’

  He handed her a full glass of white wine and watched her take a large swig.

  ‘Cheers,’ she said, clanging their glasses together.

  Beverley could drink. In fact she could drink him under the table. This had been their common ground in the early days, when her boundless energy and passion had intoxicated him. Now her suffocating intensity felt like a pillow was squashed against his face.

  ‘I thought we’d have a couple here and go to the French place next door for something to eat. It’s quieter in there,’ he said.

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’

  But Travis didn’t want quiet. He twiddled his thumbs in the office all day and by evening was chomping for excitement. But arguing with Beverley wasn’t worth the effort, certainly not now that he wanted to move on. She kept trying to pin him down, nail his apathy with sharpened tacks.

  Beverley’s short black skirt rode up over her thighs but he no longer felt the urge to slide his hand underneath and excite her below the table the way he used to. He’d prefer a cigarette.

  ‘Top up?’

  Beverley’s cheeks flushed as she downed her glass. ‘Yes please.’ She wiggled her glass in the air like a winner’s trophy in some speed-drinking competition. He lifted the bottle from the ice bucket.

  With his arm stretched out along the back of her chair, Travis watched as she quaffed the liquid and wondered where the allure had gone. The ducking and diving had only lasted a couple of months and now Beverley was hanging on the end of a phone, the chase over.

  Then there was the matter of his wife, Queenie, whom he had no intention of leaving. At first he thought she was strong, a woman of substance, dealing with his peccadilloes in a mature and grown-up manner and putting the children first. But recently he’d twigged it was because she didn’t care; most likely never had.

  He took a sip of his wine then asked, ‘How’s the house coming along? Did you get your new carpets?’

  Beverley’s recently acquired wealth, however, caused Travis a dilemma. The detached house in Southgate was worth over £2 million; her father’s guilt money apparently. He’d crawled into his grave trying to buy salvation and forgiveness through the hefty bequest and Beverley had willingly accepted. She wasn’t one for scr
uples. Choked by his own mortgage, Travis viewed the wealth like a dangled carrot.

  ‘It’s taking forever, but what fun! When are you coming round? I’m getting it ready for us.’ She held her breath, stared him down. ‘What about one night next week?’

  Beverley’s bust strained against her red shirt and he felt a sudden urge to pull the sheer material apart, the wine egging him on.

  ‘I’ll check the diary tomorrow. Come here, you tease.’

  Beverley pushed him away and stretched out her legs. ‘Any night except Wednesday. What about Saturday? You promised.’

  Early on he’d promised a weekend date but that was when he’d been desperate to get her into bed. Travis leant over and kissed her on the lips, slithering his tongue round to wet her earlobe. ‘Let’s see. I’ve other things on my mind at the moment. This is what we both want for now.’

  She leant her heavy breasts in towards him and as he clenched his teeth and closed his eyes, her hand landed near his crotch and slid back and forth.

  ‘Come on. What about that meal?’ She suddenly sprang up, uncoiling like a taut spring, and shook the empty bottle. ‘Look it’s all gone. Let’s go.’

  In frustration he straightened his trousers, keen to come up with a way to bypass the expense of a meal and go straight to the hotel. He stood up and helped her on with her jacket. ‘Whatever you say, boss.’

  They pushed past the increasingly drunken workers, cheek by jowl at the bar, and made their way out onto the street. The summer night felt warm and balmy but a smell, like smoking ham, hung in the air as a thick blanket of pollution furred the atmosphere. Travis coughed, his lungs thick with toxic deposits. He craved fresh air.

  ‘Don’t you just love London at night? The bustle and excitement.’ Beverley bounded along like a baby kangaroo, as if oblivious to the deadly poisons. She took his hand, interwove their fingers like a couple of young lovers. Travis suddenly pulled her into a small alleyway and pinned her up against a wall.

  ‘Why don’t we go straight to the hotel and eat afterwards? I don’t know about you but the food can wait. I’ve got much bigger things on my mind.’ He took her hand and guided it down to his crotch. ‘See what I mean?’

  ‘The bigger the better.’ She squealed, took his hand and lead him hurriedly back out onto the main street. ‘I’m game. Vamoose.’

  They walked briskly across London Bridge and Travis felt light-headed, his dull mood lifting. He’d worry about things later, but for now he’d go with the flow and one more night couldn’t hurt.

  On either side of them, the Thames rumbled along past superficially lit banks.

  The sleeping behemoth snored gently, the dark menacing undertones hidden from sight.

  ‘I think I met your wife today.’

  Travis had reknotted his tie and tucked his shirt back into his suit trousers. It was only 9pm but he was ready for bed. Weariness had set in after climax and the alcohol had induced a post-coital downer, leaving him with a dry mouth and a gurgling growl in his stomach. It had been a long day and he was ready for home, especially now the kids would be in bed.

  His open mouth choked back a lazy yawn. The fan clicked and whirred in the tiny bathroom and Beverley’s outline was visible through a crack in the door. Her pouting lips, like those of a puffer fish, were blood red where a steady hand had applied a thick coat of colour. Travis, his hands slick with sweat, sat on the edge of the bed as he struggled to tie the short laces on his hard leather shoes.

  ‘What? Where? How did you know it was my wife?’

  Beverley’s face was pinned in close to the glass as a steady hand worked her make-up. Eyeliner. Lip liner. Blusher. Finally, she fluffed her hair with a weird spiky metal comb. Travis got up, now fully dressed and moved towards the bathroom, adrenaline pumping in his veins, and pushed open the door.

  ‘Smell the perfume. Remember? Poison.’ Beverley upturned an outstretched wrist. They’d chosen it together and he’d laughed when he first squirted it, whispering in her ear that she was its namesake. That was only six months ago, Christmas shopping on Oxford Street.

  ‘My wife. You said you met her. Where?’

  ‘Waitrose. I took a trip there. You told me that’s where your wife went and, right enough, there she was; by the fresh pineapples.’

  ‘How did you know it was her?’

  ‘You told me she liked pineapples.’ Beverley laughed, deep and throaty.

  Travis froze. He felt a sharp pain sear across his chest.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘You didn’t think I wouldn’t google her, surely? That’s what girlfriends do. Check out the competition. You don’t mind do you? I didn’t speak to her, just followed her around to see what went into the trolley. Get a few tips.’

  He closed his eyes against the stabbing pain, holding a hand to his chest and leant against the door jamb. ‘You definitely didn’t speak to her?’

  Beverley zipped up her make-up bag with one final check in the mirror and then turned to face him. Christ she was baiting him, taunting him. She thought it was funny.

  ‘The only thing I don’t get is how she walks in those skyscraper heels. And no, I definitely didn’t speak to her so you can rest easy. You don’t think I’m that stupid.’

  Beverley’s villainous chuckle followed him back into the bedroom.

  ‘I’m starving. What’s the name of the restaurant? French, I think you said. Hope it’s good.’ Without waiting for a reply she lifted her bag and clicked open the door. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  Travis followed her out, dragged along like muddied water in the wake of a ship’s churning propellers. Beverley’s gait was determined and he suddenly remembered her lack of scruples; it mightn’t be that easy to walk away.

  Tomorrow he had two things to do. One, get his blood pressure checked and two, work out how to get shot of Beverley.

  5

  Scott watched Beverley look up and down the street. He had piled the pizza boxes high on her doorstep, stacking them neatly one on top of the other with a gruesome surprise in the top one. Beverley was curious, nosey and wouldn’t bin the boxes without checking the contents. She’d open them in order, the top one first, and work through methodically. Scott would stay and watch, hoping her discomfort might make him feel better because he couldn’t feel any worse. The nightmare was starting all over again.

  After Danielle’s accident, which the police couldn’t pin on Beverley due to lack of evidence, Scott was like a caged lion with an immovable blade in its paw. He was unable to function and took extended sick leave from the bank. Mental health issues had been cited, and he hadn’t lied. Danielle didn’t hang around and after she left, an impotent rage led him to the brink of insanity.

  Cosette, his new girlfriend, sweet and innocent, had coaxed him back from the edge. It had only been a few months but he was slowly moving on with his life. It was still difficult to relax but he was starting to enjoy the simple things again: breakfast in bed, candlelit dinners and a girlfriend who made no demands.

  But Beverley was back, a ghoul not done with haunting. She had become a stalker in broad daylight. The police assured him it was all under control and that Miss Beverley Digby could no longer touch him, but Scott knew better. No restraining order or enforced therapy sessions were going to keep her away; she knew how to play the system.

  He slunk down in his car, sweat lathering his body. His armpits exuded a rancid odour, wet globules of perspiration staining his shirt and his fists were clenched like balls of iron. He had forgotten how to loosen up, how to get release from the anger and tension which had engulfed him again. If he wasn’t careful he’d find himself in therapy, sectioned for insanity, evil deeds, or both.

  He watched Beverley walk down her front path and come out onto the street. Leaving the front door ajar, she walked right, then left and right again before ducking through a gap in the neighbour’s hedge at number thirty-seven. It was another similarly large detached house, 1930s, leaded windows and fancy chimney breasts. Sa
vagely clinging ivy trailed the walls of number thirty-seven whereas Beverley’s house was bare, void of adornments.

  Ring. Ring. Ring. Her finger stubbed furiously. She peered through the window to see if there was anyone looking back out, wondering why no one came to answer the door. She was going to have a long wait because the O’Connors had gone out about an hour ago, shortly before Scott had made his delivery. Beverley would be trying to find out if they had seen anything and who had left the pizza boxes.

  Scott’s car was parked directly across the road in total blackness. The only street light came from an overhead lamp outside Beverley’s house and its ghostly beam shone on to her porch. Beverley hovered by the gate, waited a couple of minutes, then went back up the path.

  As she counted the boxes, twenty-four in total, Scott wished he had the courage to finish her off. If Beverley thought of inviting friends round for a party, there wouldn’t have been any point. It wasn’t because the boxes were empty but because she didn’t have any friends.

  The cartons were all empty except for the first one which contained a margarita pizza with stringy mozzarella cheese, a few basil leaves, garlic and a chopped-up mouse. There was enough olive oil squelching over the top that she wouldn’t at first recognise the meat ingredient.

  Her scream was slightly delayed and, even from across the road, it made Scott jump. He had been counting to ten but wasn’t prepared when she let rip on number eight and her screech tore through the night air. The intensity of the reaction for such a tiny mouse made Scott suspect she knew someone was watching.

  Beverley’s eyes hit on his car. If she was keeping tabs on him, it was possible she recognised his new vehicle. Scott fumbled with the keys and as soon as Beverley went back inside, he started up the engine and pulled away.