by Nicci French
'What was that about?'
We were walking along the street towards the underground, having made a hurried exit.
'I don't know. It doesn't matter. It was just me being stupid.'
'Is that all?'
'I just felt – oh, I don't know. Stifled.'
'Nobody was being nasty to you. You just flared up.'
'You don't understand, Nick. It's all the things that lie between the lines. Things that aren't spoken, but I know are there.'
'That sounds a bit paranoid to me.'
'Yeah? Well, that's because you're not in my family.'
'Brendan was trying to be kind.'
'Right. That's what he wanted you to think. He wants to get you on his side.'
'Christ, Miranda, you should listen to yourself.'
'Oh, forget it.' I rubbed my eyes. 'I made a fool of myself, I know that. I feel stupid, ridiculous. I don't really want to have a post-mortem over it.'
'Very well.' His voice was cool.
We reached the underground station. A warm and dirty wind blew up from below. I felt I could hardly breathe. I took Nick's hand.
'I'm sorry,' I said. 'Can we let it go now?'
'I can,' he said. 'Can you?'
CHAPTER 12
'Go on, Miranda,' said Kerry. 'It'd be so easy for me to set up; you could be on a plane tomorrow evening! Go on.' She paused, then added almost bossily: 'I think you need a break.'
'I'm fine,' I said snappishly.
'I'm only trying to help you,' she said. 'We're all a bit concerned.' I clenched my fists and told myself to stay calm.
I opened my mouth to say no, but then I thought, why not? Why not escape for a few days? Long nights, deep baths, pavement cafes, room service, new sights, new faces, language a babble of sounds in my ear, sun on the nape of my neck, oysters, carafes of wine… And when I returned from work, no Brendan. When I staggered into the kitchen in the morning, no Brendan sitting at the table with his dressing gown flapping open, chomping vigorously on the last slice of bread. Calling me 'Mirrie'. Whispering things into my ear. It had only been one night and one day and already I felt as if I could barely breathe. Just now I had sent him to the shops to buy some toilet rolls, and for the few minutes he was gone I felt as if a boulder had been lifted off my chest.
'All right,' I said. 'Just two or three days. After all, I might as well make use of having a travel agent for a sister.'
'Good. It's just what you need, and I'm sure you'll feel much better when you come back.'
'I could do with a few days off' I said. This was the way we were going to play it then: Miranda has been overworking.
I was busy calculating to myself. If I left tomorrow evening, or the next day, to be more realistic, and was away for the rest of the week, then when I returned maybe they'd be gone. Kerry said that everything seemed to be going smoothly with their house purchase.
'Where do you fancy going, then? It can't be too far if it's only for a short time.' She stood up and collected her briefcase from behind the sofa. 'Look, I brought these back on the off-chance. We do these mini-breaks and there are always spaces at this time of year – I could get you one for a quarter of the price.' She spilt several brochures on to the table. 'What about Prague? Or Madrid? Or here's one for a few days in Normandy, by the sea. It might be a bit cold at the moment. I'd go further south, if I were you.'
' Italy,' I said, picking up a brochure and opening it.
' Rome?'
'I've been to Rome. I want to go somewhere I've never been before.'
'There's Florence, Venice, Siena or Naples. Four days. Or look, there's a really nice hotel in Sicily, on a cliff overlooking the sea.'
I looked at the glossy pictures. Pink and grey churches, canals with gondolas, hotel rooms with large beds.
'Hang on,' I said. I picked up the phone and dialled.
'Nick, it's Miranda… yes… yes, I feel much better, thanks. Sorry about it all, I don't know what came over me, tired I guess… Listen…'
It rained. It was raining when we arrived at the airport and queued for the water bus that would take us to the city. The sky was steel grey. Rain pounded on to the roads like arrows, sending up shoots of water. Our clothes were drenched after thirty seconds. Rain poured down our necks. Nick's hair was plastered to his skull. It rained all the way on the boat, and our first view of the city was a blur – a ghost city rising from the water. It was a five-minute walk from our stop to the hotel, and we lugged our bags, full of light clothes and no waterproofs, along a narrow canal where all the boats were tethered to the side, covered in tarpaulins.
It rained every day. We ran to churches and art galleries, and in between we sheltered in little cafes drinking double espressos or hot chocolate. I'd dreamed of long, slow walks through the labyrinth of canals, leaning together on bridges to watch the boats go by, sex under thin sheets with the shutters closed against the sunlight. We spent too much money on lunches, which were meant to have been picnics of bread and cheese, or slices of pizza, because it was better to sit inside for a couple of hours with the tourists' three-course menu and a jug of house wine. Nick bought me a leather wallet and a glass thumb ring. I took photographs of him standing damply on the Rialto Bridge. At night we ate in tiny restaurants and went to bed with the sound of rain clattering against the small windows of our room. He flossed his teeth for five minutes every morning and every evening. He snored in his sleep. He loved chocolate and ice cream.
Every so often, the rain momentarily stopped and the sun half appeared through a gauze of clouds. The puddles glistened and the swollen canals rippled in the light, and the stones steamed. It was the most silent, beautiful city I had ever been in, and I found myself wishing, once or twice, that I was here alone, not worrying about our relationship, not having to make an effort. I would have walked and walked along the deserted paths, not speaking, storing everything up. I wouldn't have minded the rain.
They were still there when I got back on Sunday afternoon. Indeed, they seemed more firmly installed than ever, their belongings spreading along shelves, their laundry in the washing machine, toothbrushes in my London Underground mug. In two thick piles on the table were wedding invitations: Saturday, 13 December, at 4 p.m. They were making lists of who to invite, of decisions to make, tasks to be done. There was an air of bustle and excitement about them.
I unpacked and went to see Laura, but a couple of Tony's friends were there so after half an hour or so I came back. I said to Brendan and Kerry that I had a headache. I made myself scrambled eggs and a cup of tea and took them into my room, shutting the door behind me. I sat in bed, hearing the television next door, the phone ringing and being answered, water running, laughter, the springs on the sofa bed creaking. I poked at my scrambled eggs until they were cold and unappetizing, and stared at my bookshelves and the piles of paper on my desk. Was I imagining it, or did it all look a bit different, as if someone had been tampering with things? I turned off my light and lay in the dark. Brendan laughed very loudly, as if he wanted to be heard. As if he wanted me to hear him.
The next morning, though, they left early to go to the house they were buying. They said they wanted to measure up for curtains and bookshelves, before Kerry went to her office at ten. I decided to arrive at work later than usual, so that I could spend some time alone in my flat.
Later on, I went over and over it in my mind, everything I did in that lovely, quiet, empty hour before leaving. I tidied the kitchen-living room, pushing the duvet and sheets into the tall corner cupboard, folding up the sofa bed, cramming scattered garments into bags, washing plates and glasses from the night before. I opened the windows wide to air the room and rid it of its unfamiliar smell, swept the tiles, vacuumed the carpet. Then I had a long bath and washed my hair. I pulled the plug and cleaned the bath out before sitting down to breakfast in my dressing gown, a towel wrapped like a turban round my head. I ate the remains of the muesli with yoghurt; a big cup of coffee. I even heated the milk for the coff
ee. Then I got dressed, cleaned my teeth, picked up my overalls and left, locking the door behind me. I know I did all of that. I clearly remember.
I was still working on the big house in Hampstead. Bill dropped in at lunchtime and took me out for a salad. I finished at half past five, cleaned my brushes and drove home. I wasn't seeing Nick that evening, and Kerry had said something about going to a movie, so I thought maybe I would be able to spend time on my own, which I was craving. I could get a takeaway and listen to music, perhaps. Read a book. Mooch.
It was nearly six-thirty when I pulled up outside my flat. There were no lights on, and the curtains were still open. My heart lifted. I ran up the stairs and even as I pushed the door open I heard it. The sound of dripping, tinkling. A tap running. Except it wasn't the same sound as a tap running; it was bigger, more complicated. Then I stepped inside.
There was water everywhere. The kitchen floor was an inch deep in it and the carpet was sodden when I stepped on it. There was water pouring from beneath the bathroom door. I opened it and stepped into the flood; the remnants of the book I'd been reading in the bath that morning floated by the toilet bowl, along with a mushy roll of toilet paper. There was a steady waterfall cascading over the rim of the tub. The hot tap was half-on. I waded across the room and turned off the tap, then plunged my arm, still in its jacket sleeve, into the water to find the plug. I felt ill and sick and consumed with anguish, and then I thought about the flat below and I felt worse. I found a dustpan and started sloshing water off the floor, into the emptying bath.
It took forty-five minutes to get the worst of the water off the bathroom floor. I laid newspapers everywhere to soak up the rest and started on the kitchen. Then the bell rang.
He was yelling before I'd even got the door open. He sploshed across the carpet, still shouting at me. His face was quite purple. I thought he might have a heart attack or a stroke, or he might just die from his head exploding.
'I'm so sorry,' I kept saying. I couldn't even remember his name. 'So sorry. I don't know how…'
'You'll sort this out, do you hear? Every last thing.'
'Of course. If you give me the details of your in -'
At that moment Brendan and Kerry appeared, arms wrapped round each other, faces glowing from the night air.
'What on earth…?' began Kerry.
'You may well ask.' I whirled on Brendan, 'Look at what you've fucking gone and done. You stay here, you clean out my fridge, you drink my coffee and my wine, you take up every inch of space so I can't move without bumping into you. You have bloody baths in the middle of the day and then…' I was spluttering with rage. 'Then you go and leave the plug in and the water running. Look! Look!'
'And that's nothing compared to downstairs,' said my neighbour grimly.
'Miranda,' said Kerry, 'I'm sure…'
'Whoa!' said Brendan, holding up his hands. 'Calm down, Mirrie.'
'Miranda,' I said. 'Miranda. There's no such name as "Mirrie".'
'Don't get all hysterical.'
'I'm not hysterical. I'm angry.'
'I haven't been here today.'
'What?'
'I haven't been here.'
'You must have been.'
'No. Now sit down, why don't you, and I'll make us all some tea. Or maybe a drink would be better.' He turned to my neighbour. 'What about for you, Mr, er…?'
'Lockley. Ken.'
'Ken. Whisky? I think we've got whisky.'
'All right, then,' he said grudgingly.
'Good.'
He pulled the whisky bottle out of the cupboard, and four tumblers.
'You must have been here,' I said to his back. 'You must.'
'I went to look at the house with Kerry, then I went shopping. Then I met Kerry for lunch.' Kerry nodded. She still looked shaken by my outburst. 'Then I went to Derek and Marcia's to see Troy.' He put his hand on my shoulder. 'No midday baths, Mirrie.'
'But…'
'Did you have a bath before you left, maybe?'
'There's no way I left the plug in and the tap running. I don't do things like that.'
'It's so easy to do. We've all done something like that at one time or another.' He turned to Ken. 'Haven't we, eh? I'm sure Miranda will make sure everything's dealt with. And she's in the building and decorating trade, so maybe she can help you with the painting and stuff. Mmm?'
'I didn't do it,' I said hopelessly.
'Miranda,' said Kerry. 'No one's blaming you. But you were the last to leave. And you had a bath, didn't you?'
'But I…' I stopped. A tremendous weariness came over me. 'I remember cleaning out the bath.'
'Don't worry,' he said gently. 'We'll help you sort this mess out.'
'I don't understand.' To my horror, I felt tears sliding down my cheeks.
'Miranda! Listen…' Kerry's voice was sharp.
'Ssssh,' said Brendan. He actually took her by the forearm and pulled her aside. I saw her flinch. Her mouth hardened for an instant.
'There, there,' he cooed into my ear. 'There, there, Mirrie. I'm here. I'm here.'
I closed the bedroom door and picked up the phone.
'Laura!' I said. I kept my voice low, so they couldn't hear me. 'Listen, Laura, this thing's happened. I need to speak to someone about it…'
'Are you telling me,' said Laura when I'd finished. 'Are you seriously saying that Brendan crept back into your flat and on purpose flooded your flat?'
'Yes.'
'Why on earth?'
'Because he's weird; he's got this thing about me.'
'Oh, come on. I've let the bath run over loads of times,' she said. 'It's really easy to just forget about it.'
'But I don't do things like that.'
'There's a first time for everything. It's a more likely explanation than yours, isn't it?'
'I remember cleaning out the bath. Vividly.'
'There you are, then. You put the plug back in, hosed down the tub, then left the water running a bit.'
I gave up trying to persuade her. It was starting to seem possible even to me, and I'd been there and knew it hadn't happened. And anyway, it was just too tiring.
CHAPTER 13
The couple who lived in the house in Ealing had hired two skips, and they were already almost full. When I left, I peered into them. Among the jumble of old rugs, chipped plates, broken furniture, I saw a computer that looked quite new, a laser printer, two telephones, a large oil painting of a greyhound, several cookery books, a standard lamp, a wicker basket. I should be used to it by now. I often see people throw away TVs still under guarantee, year-old cookers and perfectly functioning fridges. In my job, we're always ripping out new things and substituting the even newer. Last year's fashions are replaced with this year's. Whole kitchens disappear into skips, bathtubs and beds and cupboards, garden sheds and miles of shelving. Recycling centres are mountains of obsolescence. It gives us extra work, I suppose. The people we do jobs for are always talking about beginning again, as if the stainless steel and glass that we're installing everywhere at the moment won't soon be replaced by old-fashioned, newly trendy wood. Everything comes round again. Every decade falls out of favour and then re-emerges in a slightly different form, like the flares on my trousers, which Bill is always laughing about because they remind him of when he was young in the Seventies.
I surreptitiously reached in and pulled out a cookery book. I'd rescue that at least. Recipes from Spain. I put it in my hold-all, along with my paintbrushes.
At home, Brendan was making a great fuss about washing up a few bowls and Kerry was standing over the stove, stirring something. She looked sticky and irritable.
'We're cooking for you tonight,' she said.
'Thanks.'
I took a beer from the fridge and retreated to the bathroom. What I needed was hot water on the outside of my body and cold alcohol on the inside of my body. I was lying in the bath feeling pleasantly woozy when the door opened and Brendan came in. I sat up abruptly and hunched my knees against my body.
As if he were alone, he took a piss into the lavatory which was next to the bath. He zipped himself up, rinsed his hands and turned to me with a smile.
'Excuse me,' I said sharply.
'Yes?' He stood over me.
'Get out.'
'Sorry?'
'Get the fuck out of here. I'm in the bath.'
'You should have locked the door,' he said.
'You know there isn't a lock,' I said.
'There you are, then.'
'And you haven't flushed it. Oh, for God's sake.'
I stood up and reached for a towel. Brendan took it from the rail and held it just out of reach. He was looking at my body. He had a strange expression, a triumphant smirk. He was like a little boy who had never seen a naked woman before.
'Give me the fucking towel, Brendan.'
'It's not as if I haven't seen your naked body before.'
He gave me the towel and I wrapped it around me.
The door opened and Kerry came in. She looked at Brendan and then she looked at me. Her face sharpened with disapproval.
'What's going on?' she asked.
'Miranda didn't lock the door,' Brendan said. 'I didn't know she was in here so I barged in.'
'Oh,' said Kerry, 'I see.' She stared at me and I felt a flush rising up my face. I pulled the towel tighter around me.
'There isn't a lock,' I said, but she didn't seem to take any notice.
'Supper will be ready soon,' she said after a pause. 'Brendan? Can I have a word with you?'
'Ooops,' said Brendan, and gave a wink in my direction. 'Trouble from the missus, eh?'
As I got dressed I told myself that this wouldn't go on for long. I just had to get through it, then I could get on with my life.
Kerry had done all the cooking and Kerry isn't really someone who has ever bothered about food. She had made macaroni cheese with peas and bits of mince added. It was stodgy and too salty. Brendan opened a bottle of red wine with a flourish. Kerry loaded much too much on to my plate. Brendan poured too much wine into my glass. Maybe getting drunk was a good idea. Brendan lifted his glass.
