I push past her, through the people in the living room, knocking against the woman in the red dress whose strong perfume catches in my throat. She gasps and moves closer to Chris, who’s seen me, and I run upstairs to the bathroom, looking for Alice. The bathroom is occupied and I hammer on the door calling her name, distantly aware that I’m making too much noise.
‘For Christ’s sake, can’t I have a piss in peace?’ The door is yanked open and the tall man I’d been dancing with emerges. Gary.
‘Oh, it’s you. Fancy another dance?’
I ignore him and check the bedrooms for occupants, but this isn’t a teenage party and there are no writhing couples hiding under the coats, and there’s no Alice, either. Where is she? She’ll know what to do. Alice always knows what to do.
She must be in the garden. I hold the bannister tightly as I sway downstairs, coming to a stop in the living room doorway, but Chris is right in front of the patio door, his girlfriend hanging off his arm. How could he? I gulp at my drink. I focus my eyes on the exit, lower my head and push forward, but I’m too slow.
‘Hey.’ His hand lands on my forearm and grips it. I let out a cry and pull away. He shifts so his body blocks my path. The girl at his side tosses her hair back: long, glossy blonde hair that shines under the spotlights. Definitely not Tanya.
‘Let me pass.’
‘You can’t avoid me, Ella. We need to talk about the house. I’m putting it on the market. You can’t stop me.’
‘I need more time. It’s my home too.’
‘In theory, but it’s been in my family for decades. I can’t believe you would do this.’
The girlfriend, who is standing at his side pouting at me, puts a hand on his arm, but he shakes it off, causing her thickly painted eyebrows to disappear under her fringe. She doesn’t know him as well as I do; Chris hates being touched when his temper is simmering.
‘How do you think Nancy would feel if she could see the way you’re treating me?’
‘How dare you bring Mum into it?’ He takes a step forward. ‘I’m selling the house and you can’t stop me.’ His voice shakes with anger.
I have to get out of here.
‘I want you out, Ella. Your little flatmate, too. I’ve had enough of being nice.’
I’m aware of the pulsing music of the track fading, the buzz of conversation fizzing out like a dying wasp and heads turning at the sound of Chris’s shouting.
‘The only way you’ll get me out is if you physically remove me. Do that, and I’ll call the police.’ I’m aware that I’m talking like I’m a character in a television drama, but nothing feels real any more. ‘Show’s over,’ I say to the gawping faces and open mouths before I disappear into the garden.
Thirty-Four
ALICE
The two men were standing too close together as I pushed out through the doors and inhaled deeply. They shifted apart as I emerged. The smoker said hello and flashed me a smile as his friend waved his empty glass and went into the house. The smoker ground his heel into his cigarette butt and I bummed a cigarette off him before he followed his friend inside, leaving me alone in the still garden. This garden had a neat lawn and you could see straight on to the heath, where the wind raced through the trees and a dog howled from somewhere in the heart of the forest. But unlike 46 Heath Street, this house wasn’t in need of protection.
The sound of a glass clattering to the floor, followed by a cry, filtered out through the back door and I didn’t want to go back inside. It had been a narrow escape. I didn’t want to see him; I dared not trust myself after the way he’d treated Ella. Ella. As if I’d summoned her, she emerged in a flash of blue through the patio doors, a little unsteady on her feet, and scanned the garden. Was she looking for me? My heart jumped at the thought. Of course she would be, I’m her confidante: sensible Alice, the one who knows what to do in a crisis. Why had I agreed to come here when I should have dissuaded her from coming? We could be settled at home with a bottle of wine, curled up on the sofa, legs grazing…
I stood just outside the house, looking inside but obscured by a curtain hanging inside the window. A man’s laughter rang out, a loud laugh that made me shiver. The husband. I couldn’t help looking, watching him flirting with her, the other woman. Rage rendered me rigid. How dare he bring her and flaunt her in front of Ella, in front of me? The woman sipped her drink and ran her tongue around her lips as if she were putting on a show for him. Ella was still looking out into the garden, but she turned her head as he laughed and the siren made eyes at him. A look of anguish played over her face. He’d just made a big mistake, hurting her like that.
I took one last look at him from behind the curtain, bile rising in my throat.
I’d make him pay.
Thirty-Five
ELLA
I burst into the garden to look for Alice, but I only see darkness. I knock over a chair and spot half a glass of red wine on a green garden table; I pause to drain it in one go before walking further down the garden. She can’t have left me here, surely, not with Chris turning up. Then I remember that Alice hasn’t actually met Chris, so she won’t have recognised him. I’m stuck here, looking out into the darkness of Hampstead Heath, faced with either going back inside and seeing Chris and his young blonde sidekick, or climbing the fence and escaping through the park. I look back at the house. Music pours out through the windows and mingles with the buzz of chatter, laughter, a yell. At this moment in time the heath looks like the most attractive option.
A figure stands beside a tree, watching me, emerging from the shadows. It’s Alice. Relief floods me. I trip down the path, stumbling towards her, and she reaches out to catch me. Warm hands on my cold skin, concern in her almond-shaped eyes.
‘What’s the matter? You’re shaking.’ Alice wraps her arms around me and holds me tight, the heat from her body seeping into mine. Her back is hard, muscular, strong. I feel protected.
My lips are against her ear; it’s easier to speak without her seeing me. ‘Chris is here with her. How could he, Alice, why would he do this to me?’
Alice’s firm hands grip my shoulders and she pushes me back gently, holding me at arm’s length. Her brown eyes fix on mine and I blink the tears away. The volume of the music from the house increases and it reverberates through the garden. The bass beat pounds with the anxious rhythm of my heart.
‘He said he wants me out of the house. He shouted at me, right in front of everybody.’
‘Bastard.’ Alice’s fiery eyes are glaring in the direction of the house. ‘Listen to me. It’s a shock for you, seeing her for the first time, it must hurt, but you’re stronger than that, remember? What’s happened to the Ella who told me – what – two days ago that she was moving on? Where’s that strong woman gone? You’ve been so much better the past few days, Ella, don’t let him get to you. He can’t force you to sell, you’ve got rights.’
‘I’m sorry, Alice, none of this is fair on you. You must be worried you’ll have to move out, too.’
‘You can’t worry about me.’ She relaxes her hands, looks towards the house where a peal of laughter punctuates the air. Her, I bet. Talking about me.
‘But I like living with you.’ There, I’ve said it.
Her hair swings as she turns back to me, a streak in the dark as it catches the light. I reach out and touch it without thinking. She holds herself very still, her lips slightly parted, a tiny puff of breath between us.
‘I like living with you too.’ Her eyes are back on mine, asking a question.
Yes.
Alice leans forward, pressing her lips to mine. The noise of the party fades away and I am only aware of the surge of excitement inside me. Her arms stretch around me and I don’t know if the heartbeat I can feel is hers or mine. But it feels right, natural, to be kissing her, and my worries float away with the evening breeze. Until footsteps, voices, interrupt us and we’re forced to separate.
Alice takes my hand. ‘This way,’ she says. ‘You don’t need to
see him again.’ She leads me towards the fence where the heath waits in darkness.
Diary
27 JULY 1997
He was out there for two hours this time. I only dared spend a few minutes at the window watching the torchlight dance around in the black of night; I was too afraid he’d look up and spot me, even though that should be impossible with our bedroom in darkness. Fear makes you illogical. The rest of the time I laid still, pretending to be asleep, although if he’d touched me he’d have felt how rigid I was: on alert. But he never usually touches me on those nights, he’s too preoccupied with whatever he’s been doing. My energy is spent making sure I survive this. Because I have to be strong for her.
I cried with relief when he went out to the shop this morning. I drank tea in the kitchen, ignoring the rumble in my stomach, and looked out of the window. I wanted to check the garden but Doris was hanging her washing out and I couldn’t possibly speak to her. Instead I looked in on Melissa, hoping to find her sleeping, but she was sitting up in bed, one hand rubbing her stomach, which grows daily. Dark patches underline her eyes and her sallow skin is far from blooming. Eczema has flared on her arms and legs and her lank hair is plastered to her head. Pregnancy is not being kind to her.
Melissa’s wardrobe door was open and I caught sight of her school uniform – it pulled at my heart. The green-and-red kilt she so hated, the bottle-green jumper and red tie. It wasn’t so long ago she was doing handstands against the back wall, tumbling and laughing, her tie hanging down. A lump in my throat stopped me from speaking but I had to be strong for her, so I swallowed it down.
I asked her how she was feeling and she looked at me with sad eyes and shrugged. I told her it was only a matter of weeks before this would be over and she burst into tears. I lost count of how long I sat with my arm around her, her slight body burdened with the huge load she carried. Carrying her was so different for me. I was young and in love and excited for the future. Hard to imagine now.
Once Doris had gone indoors, I ventured outside. He’d tramped through my flower beds in the dark, his footprints tracking his progress: he’d left a trail of broken stalks, petals littering the ground. The broken flowers resembled my heart, sliced into pieces and stamped upon. The soil around the shed had been dug over, but I couldn’t see what had occupied him for two hours. I crouched down on shaking legs and peered at the ground. My heartbeat felt as if it was pounding in my ears. What would I find? I said a prayer when I saw he hadn’t been digging as deep as I feared. Maybe I’d got it all wrong. Mother used to tell me I had an overactive imagination.
Doris suddenly appeared next door and I was trapped. I couldn’t go back inside without talking so I made sure the mask was in place, kept the conversation safe. We discussed how the foxes were ruining the garden. She reckoned they kept her awake at night. For her own sake I hope she’s not snooping around when he’s out here. I wouldn’t wish that on her. She asked after Melissa, why she hadn’t seen her for weeks. I didn’t look at her when I told her she’d gone away for a while, and she hovered about, prodding and poking me with questions that I won’t – can’t – answer. She narrowed her eyes when I was talking, as if she didn’t believe what I was saying.
Melissa managed some soup and a slice of bread today. It took her ages to finish the feeble meal but it’s better than nothing. My childcare manual doesn’t cover what to do if the mother won’t eat. Yet I was in control of myself – the one thing in my life I have got control over – and this gave me strength.
I know the chapter on childbirth off by heart, just in case. I tried to ask him what would happen when the baby came and he laughed in my face, said I was a woman, wasn’t I, and I’d been through it before. When I protested he slapped my face. Red stripes marked my cheek and my face throbbed for days. I have to think of a way to get Melissa away from here. Away from him.
Thirty-Six
ELLA
Heavy curtains block out the light. Sunlight peeps through the slits; even these mere slithers are like glass shards scratching my eyes. I’m lying on my side, my right arm dead underneath me. I shift my weight and lift my lifeless limb, dropping it down on the bed. I knead my arm until it moves from unresponsive to limp, my mind blank until I massage a bruise to life and suddenly remember banging my arm as I climbed over the fence. Sitting up, my dead arm is forgotten along with my blissfully ignorant state of mind. The party, Chris, the argument, the house, Alice. Alice.
What happened? I close my eyes, my head banging in time with a branch that the wind is blowing against the window. My phone tells me it’s mid-morning, so Alice should be at work, thank God. I screw my face up when I remember what a fool I made of myself. I curl up into a ball, wishing I could make myself disappear, squirming at my behaviour, my drunkenness.
This time yesterday the row with Chris would have been uppermost in my mind. But my focus has shifted to Alice. The memory of kissing her is the one thing that doesn’t make me squirm, because she responded. I’m sure she did. I feel again the fluttering in my stomach: did she feel it too? She wasn’t drunk, was she? I rewind back to earlier on in the evening when we arrived. No, I’m sure she stuck to sparkling water.
My phone beeps. A text from Alice. She wants to cook for me this evening. I drop my head back on the pillow, taking a deep breath. At least she hasn’t run for the hills. I jump out of bed, instantly regretting the swift movement, which makes my head pound. I wonder where she is, what she’s doing, unable to stop thinking about her.
Chris leaves a series of angry messages on my phone but I don’t pick up. His red, bloated face at the party, yelling at me that he wanted me out of the house, pulses in my mind. Should I sell up? Get away from all this? My love for him is being eroded, piece by piece. But mostly my thoughts revolve around Alice. I need fresh air. A walk on the heath.
* * *
Autumn is definitely on its way out. I kick at conkers on the ground as I plough along the familiar track back to the house. A dog races after a ball, scattering dead leaves and twigs. It’s not just the house I would miss if I moved away, it’s all this: the heath on the doorstep, the view I can lose myself in, the feeling of being outside the city. The whole time my mind is on Alice. Maybe she could stay in the house more permanently? The idea excites me.
Mr Mortimer is watering his plants again. He makes his way towards the gate when he sees me; he looks at my muddy boots.
‘Been out on the heath?’
‘Yes, I needed some fresh air.’
‘I’ve found something I’d like to show you, if you’ve got a minute?’
‘Lovely.’ I’ve always wondered what the house next door looks like inside. ‘I’ve got something for you, too. I won’t be a minute.’ I fetch the bakery sign from the garden. He beams at it.
‘Well I never. Didn’t think I’d see that old thing again. I’ll put it up on my shed. Come on in. What you said the other day, I’ve been thinking. Rang a bell somewhere, you know how it is when something’s niggling in your head and you can’t quite tease it out. So I’ve done a bit of digging.’ He indicates his front door, winks. ‘I might even stretch to a cup of tea, if you’re lucky.’
‘Tea would be great.’
Mr Mortimer’s face flushes and I wonder if he’s lonely. Loneliness is something I’ve come to recognise. I’ve never noticed any visitors to his house or him getting out much. I find myself wondering what he does for Christmas. I’ve always been too wrapped up in my life with Chris to even notice. What else did I miss out on in our sham of a marriage?
He leads me through his narrow hallway; the house is a mirror version of ours, but his home exists in a different period. The kitchen has a 1950s air to it, with a Formica table and pale yellow cupboards. It’s spotless and there’s a comfortable, lived-in feel to the place.
‘I’ve only got ordinary tea. None of that fancy herbal stuff you get nowadays. I went into a café the other day, young chap serving, terribly polite he was, asked me what I wanted and I told him a coff
ee and he asked me what kind and pointed at this board. Well, it was like being in a foreign restaurant, like when me and Doris went to Majorca once. That was a long time ago, mind you. I told him coffee with water and a dash of milk. Not too hot. Very nice it was, in the end.’
I smile. ‘Ordinary tea is fine, thank you.’
‘Sit yourself down.’
He hums to himself as he puts the kettle on and makes a pot of tea. He’s like the kindly grandfather I never had.
Once the pot is on the table he excuses himself and comes back carrying a photo album. ‘Like I said, it got me thinking, our conversation the other day. That date you asked me about, 1997 wasn’t it? Something was niggling at my mind, I couldn’t quite work out what. So I thought I’d jog it along a bit. Doris used to like photographs, and she was meticulous about organising them. Because of her work, you see, she was an archivist for the museum. Used to collect things. All the photos of the family were very precious to her and she kept them all in albums, clearly labelled. And like I told you before, she used to be right friendly with the neighbours, we used to hold street parties and all that kind of stuff – very different in those days, it were. So if she had any photographs of the people next door I thought it might help me remember.’
He places an album in front of me. Black-and-white photographs are fixed onto the black pages with corners. Small photographs, four to a page, each with a neatly handwritten caption underneath. He opens the book to the beginning, traces his gnarly finger over the face of a woman. ‘My Doris.’
The Woman at 46 Heath Street: A twisty and absolutely gripping psychological thriller Page 18
