The Girl Who Turned a Blind Eye

by Diana Wilkinson

  ‘Great, see you later.’ Cosette’s mobile phone is switched off and put aside while she reaches for her bottle of water.

  ‘Hi. Are you at the college?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, I’m doing English. You?’

  I lay my Spanish conversation textbook down along with a small dictionary. I’ve come prepared. ‘Yes. I’ve just started Spanish classes for mature students.’ I laugh. The word ‘mature’ is a nice touch. ‘Back to school.’

  A few seconds pass before Cosette gets up and throws a rucksack over her shoulder. ‘Sorry, I need to get going. Class starts in ten minutes. It’s been nice to meet you.’

  ‘You too. Maybe bump into you again,’ I say.

  The words ‘bump into’ make me smile. As we get to know each other better she’ll remember that our meeting was coincidental. It was on a sunny Thursday lunchtime in June that we ‘bumped into’ each other. The only vacant seat had been on the end of the bench where my ex-lover’s new girlfriend happened to be sitting. No crime there.

  ‘Beverley, by the way.’

  ‘Cosette.’

  With that she is gone.

  8

  It was only 7.30am. But Travis still got to work early, a lingering habit from the days when he cared about what he did, from the days when he pursued sales leads with a deep conviction that he was the best. Nowadays it was the kids, noisy and demanding first thing in the morning, that propelled him out the front door, work an excuse to escape the mayhem.

  Queenie and he now led virtually separate lives, the children being the flimsy binding that held the marriage in place. Freddie and Emily were like delicate cotton threads impossibly trying to bind together a heavy worn tarpaulin disintegrating round the edges. In his wife’s favour, she turned a blind eye to his affairs and her indifference no longer hurt. Apathy trailed in its wake like stagnant sludge in a slow-winding riverbed.

  The first thing Travis did every morning when he reached the office was to head for the coffee machine. He craved his caffeine fix. One strong espresso would be followed by a second and a third until his brain kicked into gear and mid-morning he would refuel until the shakes forced him to stop.

  In the centre of the small reception area adjacent to his office, the sight of the smooth glossy brochures, stacked like Jenga bricks on the coffee table was depressing. The pile used to excite him. Selling upmarket properties to the obscenely rich, Travis used to play-act that he belonged; but he never would. It wasn’t lack of desire, rather lack of drive as middle-age offered up mediocrity rather than wealth.

  Now the only thing the stack offered up was a sickly synthetic smell which irritated his nostrils. In the last couple of years, as the commissions dried up, the demands of the mortgage and marriage had piled on the pressure and he lived with an albatross round his neck.

  He pushed the papers aside, finding a small slot for the espresso cup on his desk, which was as cluttered as his life. As the computer and printers booted up, whirring and gurgling, he stared out the window at the early-bird commuters. Confident young men and women walked with purpose, the men with full heads of hair and the women shimmying along in miniskirts caressing firm backsides.

  Tarte Tatin, the small café across the street, tempted him every couple of hours with a visit. Gigi would wave up at him and her bouncing cleavage would lure him down with the tease of a creamy French pastry. His waistline was ballooning but his visits quelled the boredom.

  He got up to crack the window a fraction and let in some air. His hand hovered, willing Gigi to look up. The cloudless sky and warm sun, which pierced through a steamy heat haze, were helping lift the early morning blues. Gigi was serving a young man who strolled up and down the counter, deliberating on choices. When he finally left the shop, Gigi glanced up and wiggled her arm, beckoning Travis to come down. He grinned as she swayed her hips and clicked her fingers in time to some silent beat.

  ‘Come on,’ she mouthed.

  ‘Okay.’ He pointed at his watch and turned the dial towards the window. He threw his ten fingers out three times and mouthed ‘half an hour’.

  Back at his desk, Travis made a couple of phone calls, left messages, and then checked his Twitter and LinkedIn accounts. As an afterthought he googled ‘city breaks’. He owed himself a treat, a trip away; Prague or Bruges perhaps. Who knows, maybe Gigi could join him.

  As he went to log off his phone pinged.

  You about later? Drink maybe? B x

  Before he finished reading the message, a second ping followed.

  Are you there? X

  Followed by a third.

  Hope you’re not ignoring me? Ha ha. Popping to Waitrose later… fancy some pineapples?

  It still wasn’t even eight. What the hell was Beverley doing texting this early? He turned his phone to silent and stuffed it in his pocket.

  His stomach growled, desperate for sustenance and the three cups of espresso had given him the tremors. He was sweating under his tight shirt, and dampness circled his neck and coated his armpits. Raising an arm, he sniffed and recoiled before extracting a small cologne spray from his desk drawer.

  On his way out, he paused and clutched the back of a chair, willing his rapidly pulsing heartbeat to subside.

  Travis had been itching for months to ask Gigi for a drink. She was fun, and a few beers with an attractive woman, no strings attached, was what he needed. Having decided to tell his wife that he’d a property viewing and not to worry about supper, he finally picked up the courage.

  ‘Listen. What are you doing after work? Fancy a drink or two down by the river?’ he asked, as he handed over cash for two croissants and leant gently on the glass counter. ‘Might as well make the most of the great weather.’

  ‘Of course. I’d love to have a drink with you. Why has it taken you so long to ask?’

  ‘Brilliant. I’ll be finished around six. Shall I pop by then?’

  ‘Perfect. I look forward to it.’ With that, Gigi turned away to serve another customer. ‘Two baguettes coming up.’

  With a spring in his step he headed back to the office and tentatively reached for his phone. He turned it back on to find there were another ten texts from Beverley. He typed.

  Sorry am with clients. Will get back later.

  No sooner had he pressed ‘send’ than a reply bounced back.

  Great. What time? Xx Where were my xxxs??

  How the hell did he know what time? Beverley was worse than his wife used to be. If he’d hoped Beverley might get the message from subsequent lack of contact after the evening in the hotel, he was well off the mark. She was like a tick under his skin. He was about to turn the phone back to silent when the screen lit up again.

  Don’t ignore me. Just like to keep my diary up to date! Say 5?

  Jesus. Now he had to tell her when he was going to contact her.

  OK. I’ll call at 5.

  Perfect. Have a great day. I’ll be waiting xxxxxxxxxxxxx

  He’d definitely call at five but it would be the last time. He’d arrange to meet up with her once more, tell her face to face that he was staying with his wife and that they should call it a day. His heart raced again, the palpitations like a distant drum roll as searing hot flushes, like scorching furnace flames, burned up his neck.

  9

  At four, Travis found himself in Canary Wharf. The riverside apartments had the best views in London and the location alone meant they commanded million-pound price tags. His client, Mr Keverne, wandered through the sleek black-and-white living space, padding across the marbled floors and running his fingers over the shiny angular worktops.

  Travis headed outside to the corner wrap-around balcony, pulled the glass doors behind him and glanced down from the first-floor terrace. Small speed boats shot up and down the Thames, haring past leisure cruisers which ferried tourists along the river. He held his hand up and felt a slight skiff of rain, the cool welcome against his skin.

  Travis wasn’t hopeful of a sale. Mr Keverne was elderly, probably mi
d-seventies, with a heavily lined forehead and leathery skin. A deep suntan hinted at retirement and time spent in the sun, but still Travis doubted he was in the market for such an expensive bachelor pad. These were the sort of properties Travis coveted, the sort he’d once dreamed of owning.

  The glass doors behind slid open and jolted him out of his reverie. Mr Keverne stepped out and smiled, displaying dazzlingly white implants.

  ‘What’s the asking price again?’

  ‘£1.5 million. Cheap at half the price!’ Travis joked. ‘It’s only just come on the market so I can’t see there’ll be much leeway in the price.’

  Mr Keverne moved alongside Travis, rested his hands on the railing and looked straight ahead. A couple of minutes lapsed before he spoke. ‘I’ll take it.’

  Travis stood up straighter, his eyes widening as a large beam spread across his face.

  ‘Wow. That’s brilliant news. I don’t think you’ll regret your decision.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  Travis offered his hand. ‘Congratulations.’

  His eyes were drawn to the heavy gold bracelet round the elderly man’s right wrist and the expensive Rolex watch on the left.

  ‘Come on, young man. Let’s go and get this deal moving.’ Mr Keverne gripped Travis’ hand tightly until he got a response.

  ‘Yes certainly, sir. I’ll take you straight back to the office and we can start the ball rolling.’

  Never judge a book by its cover. Mr Keverne was no weakened old-aged pensioner grasping at life’s fading pleasures, this guy probably had a few million in the bank. With a final cursory glance around the apartment, Mr Keverne followed Travis into the corridor where they hopped into the glass-fronted lift. In the foyer a uniformed concierge ushered them out through a heavy set of glass doors.

  As they hailed a taxi, Travis felt buoyant, his mind racing with exciting new possibilities. It wasn’t only the commission, but the thought that perhaps such a lifestyle might not yet be beyond his grasp. If home life didn’t improve, and if he worked harder, he might be able to put himself first again. Other than the adjoining apartment, there was only one left; the penthouse. Travis pictured himself on the roof terrace, festooned with exotic plants and cooled by the granite cascading water feature. This time next year he could have a cocktail in one hand and a pretty girl or two on his arm.

  ‘After you,’ he said, opening the door wide for Mr Keverne as a black cab pulled alongside. Things were definitely looking brighter.

  Travis and Gigi ended up in a small bar on the riverbank, Travis buoyed from the agreed sale and bubbling with renewed energy. Gigi’s bare arms shimmered in the evening heat.

  ‘Yes, I’m married. What about you?’

  Travis liked the early days of relationships when personal questions weren’t misconstrued and expectations were limited. Having fun was what mattered.

  ‘I was. A long story,’ she said. ‘You men are not to be trusted.’ Gigi’s smile was like a beacon in a towering lighthouse. Travis leant across and pushed back a stray wisp of hair that had fallen over her brow and flicked away a speck of bread flour stuck to the ends.

  Gigi smelt of freshly baked bread and roses and Travis breathed in the heady scent, letting the tension slip from his body. He lifted the beer to his lips and took a long swig but, as the drink hit the back of his throat, he coughed violently.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Are you okay?’ Gigi leant forward. Travis blinked several times and coughed again.

  ‘Yes. I’m fine. It went down the wrong way,’ he spluttered, patting his chest.

  Over Gigi’s shoulder to the right, he saw Beverley heading in their direction. She wore headphones, singing as she walked.

  ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. It’s not your wife, I hope.’

  Perhaps he had seen a ghost. He now remembered he was supposed to phone Beverley at five and it was nearly seven. For some reason this suddenly seemed important, as if this fact alongside the vision up ahead were somehow connected.

  ‘No, it’s not but it’s someone I really don’t want to see. Listen, do you mind if I make tracks? I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’ Travis was already on his feet, scrambling to get his jacket on with one hand while knocking back the beer with the other. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Of course not, but I was enjoying myself. You go and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  He didn’t kiss her but instead extended a hand.

  ‘Oh, I see. It’s another woman but not your wife. You’re sealing our business deal with a drink. Nice to meet you too.’ Gigi smiled, shook his hand and winked.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ he repeated. ‘It’s been lovely but…’

  ‘Go on. No worries.’

  He turned to leave, watching as Beverley took a right into Conduit Street. Perhaps she hadn’t seen him and it was a strange coincidence. But Travis didn’t believe in coincidence.

  ‘Bye, Gigi. See you later.’

  Travis strode off, eyes peeled straight ahead and didn’t look back.

  10

  The phone calls are proving to be very time-consuming. For maximum effect I need to keep up the silent heavy breathing every few days and try to fit a call in when I have a free moment.

  ‘Hello? Who’s there? Hello?’

  Her tone was reasonably tolerant at first, with some minor swearing and irritation, but it soon heated up. Today she’s very bad-tempered, not ladylike at all.

  ‘Listen, you pervy shit. Hang the fuck up. I’m warning you.’

  I wonder why she’s warning me and what she intends to do. She knows that you can’t trace withheld prank calls. She withholds her own number often enough.

  The phone snaps off at this point and she goes and pours herself a drink. I can’t see her but imagine it will be a strong red Burgundy, or Malbec from a box in the fridge. She likes her red wine chilled!

  I won’t start on her mobile yet. There’s no hurry. Increasing the pressure slowly will give her time to mull but she’ll be mortified when she discovers she has a stalker.

  She blocked my calls for two whole days by unplugging the landline. The engaged tone really grated and I was about to give up, when the ring tone came back on and I finally got through.

  ‘Hello.’ Her voice had been light, expectant, as if she’d already forgotten the reasons for disconnecting the phone. My persistence is really winding her up.

  ‘Hello.’ No answer. ‘Hello. JUST FUCK OFF.’

  I’m really getting to her and it serves her right. She’s starting to understand what it’s like to lose control.

  11

  ‘Take another step down. The staircase is long so take one step at a time.’ Ms Evans’ voice is coaxing, cajoling. Her tone is low and soothing with a long drawn-out drawl at the end of each sentence. ‘Everything here is safe, calm and peaceful. Let yourself relax. One more step and your body will feel as if it’s floating blissfully away…’

  Ms Evans has been very persuasive about the hypnotherapy route. She’s done courses and gained qualifications in putting people under and assures me that I’ll only talk about things that I want to. She won’t be able to tease me into revealing or doing anything I’m uncomfortable with and I must say, she’s done quite the sales pitch. Also, it’ll be worth it if it helps pass the time.

  I’m being led down an imaginary stairway, slowly, steadily, one step at a time. When I reach the bottom I’ll leave conscious thought behind. Letting go doesn’t rest easy but the blackened room and eye shades are helping to block out the world.

  Soon I’m in a large room with ripped pink-and-yellow patterned wallpaper but it’s warm and quiet.

  ‘Where are you?’ Ms Evans’ voice is distant, but chirpy, like early-morning birdsong.

  ‘I’m at home.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m looking out my parents’ bedroom window. I can see into the hospital grounds across the road. People are walking in and out, and there’s a man in striped pyjamas but i
t’s not a concentration camp. It’s a looney bin.’ A little giggle pops out.

  ‘Oh. Why do you think it’s a looney bin?’

  ‘Dad calls it a looney bin.’ A slight tic makes my eyelid flicker. ‘But Mum says it’s a place to make people better; people who are sick in the mind.’

  In my trance I see Mum staggering towards the Abbott grounds, clutching her pale blue handbag. I’m gripping the windowsill and can, if I stand on tiptoe, see over the top. Her bag contains all manner of pills. ‘My sweets.’ She smiles through cracked lips and swollen black eyes whose lids are stuck together.

  ‘Can I have one?’

  ‘No. These sweets are for grown-ups. They help to make us happy.’ She was lying of course; she was never happy. Dad saw to that and I couldn’t make her happy, as I only got in the way, so I left her alone and didn’t complain. The misery flows through me, thick sludge clogging my arteries.

  ‘Is your mum sick?’

  My left leg jiggles up and down. I put my hand on top.

  ‘No. It’s because Dad hits her that she comes here. But she doesn’t tell because he’ll only hit her more. She says she’s feeling blue. I’m alone. All alone.’

  I used to wonder what shade of blue she meant. Her dark mood made me plump for navy. I put my forefinger to my lips, holding it close and say, ‘Ssshh. We mustn’t tell.’

  We made a pact, Mum and me, to let Dad knock her about when he fancied and no one need ever know. She never told, protecting him, not herself, and mine were silent fears.