The Girl Across the Street

by Vikki Patis

  Except Beth knows this is all a fairy tale. She knows that Jake isn’t like that at all.

  Seven

  Isla

  Jake and I spend a quiet evening at home, him watching some sport on the TV while I read my book. I sleep for almost twelve hours, surprised when I wake up to sunshine blazing through the curtains, and birds singing in the trees outside. I expected to wake in the early hours of the morning like I usually do, the world still in darkness, but I don’t remember even stirring.

  Jake is beside me, a rarity. He’s usually up and out before seven, if not to work then to the gym. He opens his eyes as I watch him, and I blink, smile self-consciously.

  ‘Morning,’ he says sleepily.

  ‘Do you know what time it is?’ I say, amused. We haven’t lain in bed like this for years.

  Jake stretches his arms above his head. ‘I’m going to Bristol tonight, so I don’t have to go into the office today.’

  This is news to me. ‘How long will you be gone for?’

  ‘Two days, I think. It’s this big conference thing.’ He yawns loudly. ‘It’ll be boring as fuck, but at least the drinks are free.’

  I frown. Whenever Jake travels for work, it seems like he spends every evening in some bar, getting pissed and schmoozing clients. He doesn’t appear to spend a lot of time actually working.

  ‘Great,’ I say, instead of voicing my thoughts. ‘What time are you leaving? I can rustle up some food before you go.’

  ‘The M4 is always a nightmare. I’ll leave here around three, I think.’ He yawns again. ‘What time is it now?’

  ‘Ten,’ I smile. Jake widens his eyes.

  ‘Bloody hell, I haven’t slept that well in years.’

  ‘Me neither.’ I swing my legs out of bed and pad towards the bathroom. As I turn the shower on, I remember the time I spent with Beth, how good it was to talk to someone other than Jake or his parents. What would Jake make of her? I wonder. I shake my head. ‘Common’ is what he’d call her.

  When I get out of the shower and go back into the bedroom, Jake is looking at my phone. I stop, staring at him. He glances up, holds up the phone so I can see it.

  ‘Who’s Beth?’ he asks lightly.

  I hesitate. Do I tell him the truth?

  He reads out a message. ‘“Thanks for yesterday, was fun. Are you free tomorrow?”’ He sniffs. ‘Who is this?’ He turns back to me.

  I take a deep breath. ‘Oh, it’s that woman I met that night; you know, the hit-and-run?’ I try to sound casual, but my voice cracks at the end. The hit-and-run. There was nothing casual about that.

  Jake frowns. ‘Why are you hanging out with her?’ he says snobbishly. In that moment, he reminds me of his mother.

  ‘She’s nice. We went for coffee, that’s all.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Jake throws my phone down on the bed. ‘Where does she live? Not around here, surely.’

  ‘Across the road,’ I say, sitting down at my dressing table. ‘Near the shop.’

  ‘On Pinehurst?’ Jake asks incredulously. I bristle.

  ‘Yes,’ I say shortly. I see him scowl at me in the mirror. Watch it. Don’t antagonise him. ‘Anyway,’ I say brightly, ‘what do you want to eat? I could go and get us a steak from the farm?’

  Jake’s face clears. ‘All right, sounds good.’ He rolls out of bed and heads towards the en suite. ‘Don’t be too long.’

  I grip the edge of the dressing table, watch my fingers turn white. ‘I won’t,’ I manage.

  I quickly get ready and head out to the farm, remembering on my way back that we need milk.

  ‘Shit,’ I say under my breath, and turn right towards Pinehurst instead of left towards home. It’ll be quicker than going to Tesco, I tell myself.

  I pull up outside the shop and pause, looking up at the block of flats towering above me. I wonder which one Beth lives in. They all look the same, with uniform windows that remind me of a prison. I hurry into the shop.

  After we’ve eaten, Jake suggests we take a short walk around the neighbourhood.

  ‘Don’t want to become a couch potato, do we?’ he says, patting my stomach. I shrink away from his touch, turning to find my trainers, my cheeks burning.

  As we leave the house, a child runs past, shooting water from a pistol. Jake laughs, and the child turns, unsure.

  ‘Whoa there!’ Jake says, holding up his hands. ‘Don’t shoot me, young man!’ The child giggles and aims the water pistol at him, but he doesn’t fire.

  ‘Bradley!’ A harried-looking woman hurries around the corner. ‘Come on, you, don’t bother the nice people.’ She turns to us, smiles sheepishly. ‘Sorry about that. He’s just got it, refused to leave it at home this morning unless I promised to bring it when I picked him up.’

  Jake smiles widely. ‘It’s no trouble at all. How old is he?’

  ‘Four.’ The woman returns his smile, then looks at me. ‘It’s a lovely neighbourhood for young families, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s why we moved here,’ Jake says, putting an arm around my shoulders. I force a nod, realising the mistake this woman has made, completely unable to stop her next, inevitable question.

  ‘How old are your little ones?’ she asks, and my heart jumps into my throat. Jake’s arm tightens around my shoulders.

  ‘We don’t have any yet,’ he replies. ‘But we will soon enough. Isn’t that right?’ I force a smile as the woman looks at me.

  ‘That’s right,’ I manage, trying not to wince at Jake’s fingers digging into my flesh. The woman smiles uncertainly, then turns back to her son.

  ‘Well, nice to meet you!’ she calls, lifting a hand, and Jake mirrors her, pulling me away in the opposite direction.

  ‘It is so humiliating,’ he hisses as we walk. ‘Do you know, I was asked twice last week if we’d “managed” to get pregnant yet?’ He lets out a snort, looking down at me. I can feel the disdain radiating from him and flinch away from his words, his desperate need to procreate. Jake wants a child, but I don’t.

  ‘It will happen soon,’ I say, trying to lighten the mood. ‘When it’s meant to be.’

  Jake glares at me but says nothing, releasing my shoulders and grasping my hand in his. I long to pull away from his grip, but it is like iron.

  Once Jake has finally, mercifully gone, I stretch out on the sofa with a sigh, a glass of wine in one hand, the remote in the other. I’m flicking through Netflix, trying to find a binge-worthy show, when my phone vibrates next to me. It’s a text from Beth. I remember the one from earlier and realise I didn’t reply.

  Hiya, you OK? the message reads. R u busy 2moz? Xxx

  I pause, finger poised over the keyboard. Do I want to see Beth again? Jake clearly isn’t happy about it, but I have a feeling it’s because he wants to keep me all to himself, trapped inside this house, constantly at his beck and call. He’s never liked me having friends, has always found a way to insert himself into my relationships. I shake my head. I’m not going to let him ruin another friendship. I look around the room, at the spotless floors and tidy shelves. What has my life become?

  No, I’m free. What did you have in mind? I type. Sorry I didn’t reply earlier, I add.

  Beth’s response comes immediately. I woz thinkin I could bring a bottle of wine round? We could hav a girlie night? Xxx

  A girlie night. When’s the last time I had one of those? Before I met Jake, my flatmates and I would often sit in the living room together, applying face masks and painting each other’s toenails. We’d drink cheap wine and smoke cigarettes, flinging the windows wide and playing music on the TV. I feel a sudden longing for those girls, for the girl I was when I was with them. Where are they now?

  I spend a lot of time on social media, and although I have almost four thousand followers on Instagram, none of them are people I actually know. My profile is like my life – perfect on the outside. I post at least once a day, pictures of some fresh flowers in the kitchen or a new print for the living room, inane crap that draws in likes. But it doesn�
�t reach the people I actually want it to. No, none of those people follow me. They wouldn’t even know it was me. My profile picture is of the ocean, a photo I found online and liked. I am invisible, but the people from my past are not. I check their profiles every day, feeling the knot in my stomach tighten every time I see them on a night out, all those girls I used to know, a tangle of limbs and hair, tight dresses and bright lipstick. I see them on holiday in Tenerife together, five women in swimsuits, hair piled on top of their heads, eyes covered by huge sunglasses. I see them, I see their lives, but they don’t see me.

  Why not? I text back to Beth. Jake is away. Come round about five?

  Perfect. Xxx

  I smile and put my phone down. I am determined to break this cycle I’ve found myself in, the endless monotonous days. I am determined to get my own life back.

  Eight

  Beth

  Beth showers quickly, not bothering to wash her hair. She piles it on top of her head, then quickly applies some make-up. The foundation is drying in the bottle; she adds a bit of water and shakes it. Small drops splatter the carpet, which she rubs in with her socked foot.

  She wonders what Isla’s house will be like. Does it have two bedrooms, three? Is there a downstairs loo? One thing she knows is that it will be spotless. She wonders if she has a cleaner; she can hardly imagine Isla dressed in the ratty clothes Beth’s mother used to wear, her hair scraped back, scrubbing the toilet bowl with bleach. No, that seems beneath her.

  When she is ready, she closes the front door quietly, leaving Kyle asleep on the sofa. Steve is on the floor, hands resting on his huge gut. They seem to have fallen asleep where they lay last night, too stoned to find an actual bed. No matter. Beth doesn’t need either of them. She goes to the shop and buys a bottle of wine, one she would never have bought just for herself. But she wants to make a good impression. She winces when the man behind the till gives her the change.

  As she walks to Isla’s house, she allows herself to daydream, enjoying the soft breeze and the warm sun on her skin. She wonders what they will talk about. How much can the two of them really have in common, after all? Isla, with her perfect nails and hair and skin, who doesn’t look like she’s done a day’s work in her life, is like a decorative bird, poised to be admired in her cage. But who holds the key? Beth wonders. She fancies she can sense an underlying current in Isla, something lurking beneath the surface.

  She remembers Isla’s hands that night, pushing on the man’s chest. Blood trickled down from a cut on his forehead, drying in the cool air. She shudders, pushing the image away.

  Finding herself outside Isla’s house, she knocks on the door. Isla swings it open within seconds. She’s dressed in a pair of loose white trousers and a pale pink top. Her hair is gathered on top of her head in an effortlessly stylish bun, making Beth’s attempt look like a bird’s nest in comparison.

  ‘Hi.’ Beth glances down at her own outfit: too-small jeans and a vest top with a hole under the armpit. She holds out the bottle of wine, suddenly self-conscious.

  Isla smiles. ‘Thanks. Come in.’

  Stepping over the threshold, Beth looks around the small but bright hallway. ‘Nice! I’ve always wanted to see what these houses look like inside.’ She doesn’t mention that her mum used to clean them; could even have cleaned this very house before Isla moved in.

  She pokes her head into the kitchen, then follows Isla into the living room.

  ‘Nice,’ she repeats. She wanders through the room, nods approvingly at the tasteful prints hanging on the walls. They look expensive. ‘Your house is lovely.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Isla smiles, apparently pleased. ‘Tea?’

  ‘Oh yes please. Two sugars.’

  Isla nods and goes into the kitchen to fill the kettle. Beth follows her, hovers in the doorway.

  ‘Can I help?’ she asks. Isla shakes her head.

  ‘It’s only tea.’ She sets out two mugs and adds tea bags while the water is boiling. ‘So,’ she says, turning to face Beth. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Beth says quickly, her eyes darting away from Isla’s. Why does she always ask that? she wonders. It’s like she’s looking for a motive. Is it that hard to believe that someone just wants to hang out with her? ‘I just fancied chilling out. I don’t have to work today.’

  Isla frowns slightly at the explanation, but she doesn’t say anything. She turns to make the tea and hands Beth her mug, then leads her back into the living room. Beth perches on the edge of the sofa like a nervous bird.

  ‘It’s so bright in here, so clean,’ she says without thinking. Is there a trace of envy in her voice, judgement? She tries to cover it with a smile.

  Isla makes a noise in the back of her throat. Beth’s eyes wander around the room. It is free of dust and clutter, the wooden floor shiny, the windows showing no trace of fingerprints and grime. She must have a cleaner, she decides, sipping her tea.

  ‘So, it’s your day off?’ Isla asks, filling the silence. Beth nods.

  ‘I get a couple of days in the week off, but I have to work weekends.’ She makes a face, then turns to Isla. ‘What do you do?’

  She can immediately tell that Isla hates this question.

  ‘I’m a housewife,’ she says eventually.

  Beth can’t quite hide the look of incredulity on her face. It feels like she’s stepped back in time. How many women are housewives these days? Without being mothers as well? She wants to ask about children, but she stops herself.

  ‘I used to work,’ Isla says suddenly, the words coming out in a rush. ‘I met Jake when I was nineteen, nearly twenty. I was working in a café in Letchworth – do you know Letchworth?’ Beth nods, though she’s only been to that side of Hertfordshire for the odd night out. She recalls the town being quite lively on a Saturday night. ‘He was at university at the time. Oxford. I can’t remember why he was there – in Letchworth, I mean. His parents live in Ware.’ Of course they do, Beth thinks bitterly.

  Isla sips her tea before continuing. ‘I moved in with him, and his parents, when he graduated. Then we got married and bought the house here.’

  Bought. Beth suspected that Isla and her husband owned their beautiful house, but the word snags in her mind, tearing up strips of jealousy. She herself will never own a home.

  She finds it difficult to imagine Isla in a uniform, one not dissimilar to her own, serving coffee and wiping tables. ‘Did you keep working, at the café?’ she asks. She pronounces it ‘caff’, and grimaces at her own roughness. She must work harder on her accent.

  Isla shakes her head. ‘When I moved to Ware, I got an office job, something Jake’s dad set up. It was great. I really enjoyed it. The pay wasn’t brilliant, but it was better than I’d ever had, and I liked the work.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Admin, mostly. It was in an estate agent’s, but I worked on the maintenance team. Taking calls from tenants, organising plumbers and electricians. That kind of thing.’ She looks up at Beth and smiles sheepishly. ‘It doesn’t sound very glamorous, does it?’

  Beth almost snorts. You want to see glamorous? Try working a shift with me on a Saturday night. She arranges her face carefully to hide the thoughts bubbling up inside her. ‘It sounds like you enjoyed it. Why did you leave?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Things changed,’ Isla replies lamely, avoiding Beth’s eyes. Beth knows there’s more to it, but she doesn’t push. Isla will tell her, in time.

  ‘How old are you?’ she asks. Isla looks up, eyes wide as if startled by the question.

  ‘I’m twenty-eight,’ she says. She seems younger somehow, but Beth nods.

  ‘Twenty-seven, me. Would we have been in the same year at school?’

  Isla shrugs. ‘Probably. But I didn’t grow up around here.’

  Beth pounces on that. ‘Where did you grow up?’

  Isla smiles, but her expression is pained. ‘Around, all over,’ she says vaguely. ‘You? Have you always lived here?’

  ‘Yup,’ Bet
h says, a hint of embarrassment in her voice. ‘Never left.’

  ‘Never?’ Now it is Isla who is prying. ‘Not for university? A holiday?’

  Beth snorts. ‘Never went to uni. Didn’t even get any GCSEs worth mentioning.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Isla confesses, and Beth shoots her a smile.

  ‘And you’re doing all right, ain’t you?’ She nods firmly, but Isla remains silent.

  Beth sips her tea, looking up at the shelves hanging on the wall. There’s a small framed photograph on the top one, of a man and a woman, a small child balanced on the man’s shoulders. She peers at it, trying to make it out, but it’s too far away.

  ‘Have the police been in touch with you?’ Isla asks suddenly. Beth shakes her head.

  ‘Nope. I read something about it online, though, something about trying to access the CCTV from McDonald’s and the petrol station. Do you think they can?’ She hopes Isla doesn’t notice the note of desperation in her voice.

  Isla nods. ‘I expect so.’ She’s staring out of the open patio doors, apparently lost in thought.

  Beth rummages in her pockets and comes up with a pack of cigarettes she splashed out on yesterday. What with that and the wine, she’s down to her last tenner until payday.

  ‘Want one?’ she asks, pushing the thought away and holding up two cigarettes. Isla takes one with a smile and they step outside into the sun.

  ‘I can’t believe how nice the weather has been,’ Beth says, blowing smoke into the bright blue sky. ‘There’s not a cloud in sight.’ She turns to Isla and grins, holding one hand over her eyes. ‘It’s perfect sunbathing weather.’