by A J McDine
‘Will you see her again?’
‘I’ve invited her round for dinner on Sunday night. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Not at all. I’m curious to meet her. You hardly ever talk about your past.’
‘That’s because my life only began when I met you,’ I say playfully, and then, ‘To be fair, you don’t either.’
He takes a long draught from his bottle of Peroni. ‘That’s because there’s nothing worth saying.’
We have our traditional Friday night curry, even though I know it’ll give me heartburn later, and watch a heist movie Matt finds on Sky Cinema. I’m sprawled on the sofa with my feet in his lap feeling like a giant beached whale. His phone, face down on the arm of the sofa, pings a couple of times. Each time he ignores it.
‘Who’s texting you this time of night?’ I ask the third time it beeps.
‘It’s just Daily Mail news alerts. Sorry, I know it’s annoying. I need to change the notification settings.’
‘Anything I should know about?’
He looks confused for a second.
‘The news alert. What was it?’
He picks up the phone and squints at the screen. ‘Hold the front page - Donald Trump is being an arsehole about South America again.’
‘They’re playing catch-up. That was on the radio this morning.’
Matt pats my leg. ‘They don’t call it the Daily Fail for nothing.’ He yawns. ‘I’m shattered. I’m going to head up. Leave the clearing up. I’ll do it in the morning.’
‘If you’re sure. I won’t be long. I just want to watch the weather.’
‘You know there are apps for that,’ he teases.
‘I know. But I’m a gardener and gardeners are old school. We like to watch the weather on the TV.’
Once the impossibly petite weather presenter has assured me we have a settled few days ahead, I switch off the television and head upstairs. As I cross the hallway I stub my toe on Matt’s briefcase. Swearing under my breath, I pick it up, intending to leave it on his desk in the tiny box room at the back of the house we grandly call the study, when I remember the card he said was from his Auntie Jan. I fish it out and stare at the handwriting. Something about it looks familiar, but it’s not Jan’s. She has the spidery cursive script of someone with chronic arthritis. Matt’s name and our address, however, are written with a spiky, decisive hand. I check the postmark. The card was sent from Portsmouth, Matt’s home city. His parents retired to Spain a couple of years ago, but Jan still lives in an old people’s home on the seafront in Southsea. Perhaps her hands are so bad now she asked one of the carers at the home to write Matt’s card for her. It would make sense.
I prop the card against his Mac, leave his briefcase by the side of the desk and close the door. When I reach our bedroom the light is already off. I ease myself into bed and drop a kiss on Matt’s bare shoulder. I want him to turn over and give me a hug, but all I get is a muttered, ‘Not tonight, Soph,’ as he pulls the duvet under his chin.
I stare into the darkness, wondering about the late-night texts, the mystery birthday card and the flowers and what they could mean. I taste sourness at the back of my throat. It’s either reflux or misgivings, I can’t quite be sure. I reach for the glass of water on my bedside table and swallow the acid back down.
Planning. The most crucial part of any project. After all, failing to plan is planning to fail. And please believe me when I say I don’t intend to fail.
I have an Excel spreadsheet dedicated to my little project. There’s a list of everything I need to acquire and a countdown to the optimum time for the execution phase. But the part I’m most proud of is my ‘what if?’ column.
Remember those gamebooks that were massive in the eighties and nineties? Choose Your Own Adventure Books, they were called. The reader became the hero and, through the choices they made, determined the plot’s outcome.
That’s what I’ve done. I, of course, am the reader. The hero. So, I’ve envisioned countless different scenarios. If ‘so and so’ does this… I need to do that. If they then change their mind, I need to…
You get the picture.
Or maybe not. Because, if you hadn’t guessed already, I’m deliberately trying to obfuscate you.
Anyway, back to the spreadsheet. I’ve broken down my project into smaller tasks and I’m working through them one by one. I spend hours on the internet every day, tracking down the things I need, poring over relevant papers and studying instructional videos. Covering all the bases until I’m ready to execute my master plan.
Chapter Fifteen
Now
I spend the weekend giving the house a spring clean. I’d like to say I was nesting, but I’m not. I just want to impress Lou. I despise myself for it, but at the same time know it’s inevitable. I always sought her approval when we were teenagers and even though more than twenty years have passed I’m self-aware enough to realise I’m reverting to type.
By Sunday evening Matt’s peonies have pride of place on the gleaming sideboard in the dining room and the table is laid with our best cutlery and the heavy crystal glasses we were given for our wedding, which normally only come out on Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve. I’ve cleaned the downstairs windows and both bathrooms. I’ve hoovered under the sofas in the sitting room and changed the sheets in our room and the spare bedroom. I’ve even cleaned the fridge.
When Matt sees the recipe for beef Wellington on the kitchen table he raises his eyebrows. ‘You’re going to a lot of trouble. What time’s the Merry Widow gracing us with her presence?’
‘Matt, you can’t call her that!’ I pretend I’m scandalised but really I love it.
‘You should be taking it easy, not slaving over a hot stove. I told you I was happy to pick up a Chinese.’
‘She and Ed have spent the last two decades living the high life in Boston. I don’t want her turning her nose up at a takeaway. Mustn’t let the side down.’
‘She’s a mate. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.’
I’m sure he’s right, but I’m too proud not to make an effort, so I spend the next hour wrestling with Gordon Ramsay’s beef Wellington recipe, topping and tailing green beans and preparing a buttery dish of Dauphinoise potatoes. The ramekins of rich chocolate mousse I made earlier are in the fridge along with a couple of bottles of Sauvignon Blanc.
By half past six, satisfied I’ve done everything I need to, I head upstairs to run a bath. While I wait, I study my face in the bathroom mirror. On a good day I used to be able to pass for mid-thirties. Not anymore. When Matt and I met I was thirty-two and he was twenty-seven. Age really was just a number. But the older I get the more I worry our age gap has amplified. Matt looks as youthful as he did the day he spilt his wine over my dress. My face is now a well-worn map of crow’s feet and brown spots. Quite frankly it’s a relief when the mirror steams up and my haggard reflection disappears in the fog.
Lou, inevitably, is late. When the doorbell finally rings at a quarter to eight Matt puts down his bottle of beer and goes to the door. I wait in the sitting room. Lou is in relentless Ab Fab mode again.
‘You must be Matt. You’re even more gorgeous in the flesh! I’m Lou, Sophie’s oldest and most glamorous friend. I’m so pleased to meet you!’
I can almost hear the mwah mwahs as she air kisses him on both cheeks. I haul myself to my feet and join them.
‘Darling, there you are. This is for you.’
She waves a bottle of Piper-Heidsieck at me. I try not to mind that she should know I’m not drinking.
‘Gin and tonic or a glass of fizz?’ says Matt, guiding her along the hallway to the kitchen. I follow, clutching the champagne dutifully, like a maid in waiting. The bottle is so cold my hands stick to the glass.
‘Oh, fizz please, Matthew. Just what the doctor ordered.’
I set out bowls of olives and vegetable crisps on the kitchen table while Matt busies himself opening the champagne. Even though I know it’s coming the pop of the cork still mak
es me jump.
‘What a luxury to have a handsome man to open the champers,’ Lou says, smiling at Matt as he passes her a glass. ‘It was always Ed’s job. I suppose I’ll have to learn how to do it now. Perhaps you could teach me?’
‘Of course,’ Matt says gallantly. He picks up the cork. ‘The trick is to hold the cork in one hand and the bottom of the bottle in the other. Don’t twist the cork. Instead you need to hold the cork firmly and turn the bottle towards you.’
I watch Lou watching Matt demonstrate. Her eyes are glittering and her speech is very precise. I realise she’s halfway to being pissed already and is trying very hard not to show it.
‘Olive?’ I say, offering her the bowl.
‘No thanks.’ She waves it away and instead takes a large slug from her glass.
‘Did you drive?’
She shakes her head. ‘Joshie was home. He dropped me off.’
‘Joshie?’ Matt says.
‘My son. He’s just started at Kent, reading law. Didn’t Sophie mention him?’
‘Oh, erm, probably. I’m always being told off for not listening.’ Matt gives a sheepish grin.
Lou laughs. ‘I don’t suppose she did. Sophie always was a dark horse and you know what they say, a leopard never changes its spots.’
Wondering if they have even remembered I’m in the room, I thrust a crisp bowl under Lou’s nose. Anything to soak up the booze. ‘I’m confused. Which am I, a horse or a leopard?’
‘Neither,’ Lou says, dipping her head towards Matt. ‘You’re a fucking cougar, darling.’
The champagne bottle is in the recycling bin and they’ve started on the Sauvignon Blanc when I serve the beef Wellington. Lou is regaling Matt with stories of our school years, most of them at my expense. I try really hard not to mind, but she’s flirting with him outrageously and Matt, always the gentleman, is doing nothing to discourage her. He has such an easy charm that women are always falling at his feet. He won over Mum in a matter of minutes and Rosie worships the ground he walks on. Even Angela isn’t immune to his charms.
Being the only sober person in the room makes me feel disconnected from the others. Almost invisible. But it gives me a chance to observe my husband and my former best friend as they parry back and forth. Lou is pushing her food about her plate, making me wonder why I bothered with Gordon bloody Ramsay’s bloody beef Wellington. But she’s still knocking back the booze. Her eyes are glazed and she’s playing with a strand of her blonde hair. Every now and then she runs a finger around the rim of her glass. Matt is laughing at her witticisms and topping up her glass, but I don’t think he’s flirting back. He’s just pissed, and he’s a loud, amenable drunk who would laugh at anyone’s jokes.
Lou gets unsteadily to her feet. ‘I need to powder my nose. Where’s the little girls’ room, darling?’
‘First door on the left at the top of the stairs,’ I say. And then, when I see her sway, ‘Need me to show you?’
‘Would you mind? I seem to be a little tipsy.’ She hiccups and giggles. ‘Oops-a-daisy.’
I roll my eyes at Matt and mouth, ‘No more booze!’ and take Lou’s arm. Under the silk shirt and capri pants she’s as thin as a stick. How many other meals has she pushed around her plate without eating recently? Compassion for her hits me like a wave.
‘Come on, you old lush,’ I say, leading her up the stairs. ‘Need me to come in with you?’
‘Just like old times. Do you remember that time in your mum and dad’s bathroom when you -’
‘Not now, Lou.’ My voice is firm. ‘Are you going to be OK?’
She hiccups again and waves her hand at me. ‘You go back to that scrumptious husband of yours. I’ll be fine on my own. I’ve got to be, haven’t I? I don’t have a choice.’
‘Do me a favour and don’t lock the door, just in case,’ I tell her, before heading back downstairs.
Matt is attempting to load the dishwasher. ‘Bloody hell, I had no idea Lou was such a game old bird,’ he says.
‘She’s the same age as me!’
‘You don’t look it.’ He dumps a couple of plates on the side with a clatter, crosses the kitchen and takes me in his arms. ‘You are beautiful, Sophie Saunders, and I love you so very much. I really do. You do know that, don’t you?’
I give him a gentle shove. ‘Enough. You’re pissed as a fart.’
Unperturbed, he murmurs in my ear, ‘Let’s have an early night, shall we?’
The scent of the lemony aftershave I bought him for Christmas mingles with the sour smell of wine. I’m at once attracted and repelled. He gives my backside a squeeze and whispers, ‘Get rid of Lou and come to bed.’
‘Christ, Lou!’ My blood runs cold. ‘She’s been up there ages. I’d better go and check she’s OK.’ I push him out of the way and take the stairs two at a time. I’m out of breath when I reach the landing. I knock on the bathroom door. ‘Everything OK in there?’
There’s no answer. I press my ear to the door but all I can hear is a running tap. I give her a couple of minutes and knock again but there’s still no reply. Anxiety gnaws at my insides. No-one takes that long to wash their hands, drunk or not.
‘Lou, I’m coming in.’ I turn the handle, but the door won’t budge. She’s locked it from the inside, even though I told her not to.
‘Lou! Are you alright?’ I call. I’m really worried now. What if she’s lost her balance, hit her head on the side of the rolltop bath and is lying unconscious on the floor? I yank the brass door handle again, then give it a shove with my shoulder, but the door remains stubbornly closed. As of course it would. None of the original Victorian pine doors had their keys when we bought the house, so Matt fitted a heavy-duty bolt to the bathroom door soon after we moved in. It’d take a battering ram to open it.
‘Lou!’ I yell again. I kneel on the floor and squint through the keyhole. All I can see is the sink, which is directly opposite the door. The tap is still running but there’s no sign of Lou. I shift my weight, my cheek squashed against the smooth pine door so I can see the rest of the bathroom. It’s carnage. I open my mouth and scream.
Chapter Sixteen
Now
Matt is by my side in an instant. ‘What on earth -?’
I point at the door. ‘Lou,’ I croak. ‘She’s -’ But I can’t finish. I don’t know what she is. All I know is that our white bathroom looks like a crime scene. A bloodbath.
He rattles the door handle.
‘She’s locked it!’ I cry. ‘Look through the keyhole.’
He kneels beside me and, as he stares through the keyhole, I replay the scene in my head. Splatters of blood as bright as holly berries on the cream rug and smears of it on the side of the bath. My nail scissors, their blades open, discarded on the floor. Lou curled up in a foetal position between the toilet and the shower. Her white capri pants sodden with blood.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Matt says. ‘What the hell has she done?’
‘Shush, what’s that?’
A quiet keening is infiltrating the landing. The sound’s so pitiful it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I give the bathroom door another rap.
‘Lou, it’s me, Sophie. Everything’s going to be alright. But you need to let us in so we can help you. Do you understand? You need to unlock the door.’
The keening quietens. Matt is about to say something, but I hold my finger to my lips.
‘I don’t want your help,’ says a feeble voice. ‘I want to die.’
In the steady, neutral tone I use at work when one of the gardeners is agitated, I say, ‘I know things seem bad at the moment, but they will get better, I promise. You’re not alone. I’m here for you. And so is Josh. He needs you. We all do. Let me in, please.’
The metallic sound of the bolt being drawn across is followed by the click of the door handle. I let out a huge breath. Whatever she’s done to herself, we can fix it.
I push the door open, gather her in my arms and hold her tight.
Much later, Lou is
sitting at the kitchen table in a pair of my pyjamas while I warm milk for a hot chocolate for us both. I’ve cleaned and bandaged her wrists as best I can. Matt wanted to call an ambulance, but Lou became so distressed at the thought of going to hospital that I promised we wouldn’t. Luckily the cuts weren’t as deep as I first feared, and soon stopped bleeding when I applied pressure to them. It was only when I was washing them and noticed older scars crisscrossing her wrists that I realised this wasn’t the first time she’s self-harmed.
I place the mugs on the table and sit opposite her. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
Lou glances at the door.
‘It’s OK. Matt’s gone to bed.’
She gives the barest of nods and reaches for her mug with trembling fingers.
‘What is there to say? I’m a fucked-up piss-head and the world would be better off without me.’
‘Don’t be silly. Of course it wouldn’t.’
Mascara is caught in the creases at the corners of her eyes and her cheeks are leached of colour. She looks like a particularly sorrowful Pierrot doll.
‘No-one would notice if I went,’ she sniffs.
‘What about Josh?’
‘I’m a burden to him. A millstone around his neck.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘He’s told you that, has he?’
‘Of course not. He’s far too nice. Too much like his dad. But it’s true.’
‘You’re being ridiculous. You’re his mum. He needs you.’
It’s as though she hasn’t heard me. ‘It’s alright for you, with your lovely house and your lovely husband and your lovely baby on the way. Everything’s so fucking lovely. You’re a walking advert for the perfect little family. Bless.’
She spits out the word with so much venom I flinch.
‘Perfect Sophie. Everyone loves you, don’t they?’ she adds, glaring at me with open animosity. The speed at which she’s morphed from melancholy drunk to embittered Fury terrifies me. I had no idea she felt like this.
