The Night Visitor

by Lucy Atkins

  The words on that pen mean a lot to me because working with others has never been my strong point. I was an only child and have always found sharing difficult. My school reports would say, ‘Vivian does not work productively with the other children. Vivian must try harder to cooperate. Vivian is not a team player.’ This was the sort of thing that would enrage my father. We both knew, of course, that he was punishing me for that other, more heinous, act and that no amount of beatings could ever erase that. I accepted it because I knew I was guilty.

  But I do not want to think about all that. I have spent a lifetime learning how to protect myself against those thoughts and memories. I do treasure Olivia’s Christmas pen. It is in my bag at my feet even now.

  The waiter is coming back. I unfold my napkin and watch him as he places the steak frites in front of me. His dignity reminds me of the waiters at Formal Hall who would set down each of the five courses with elegant arm movements. I think about those dark, wood-panelled rooms and how the dons would repair afterwards to the SCR for the second dessert away from the undergraduates. There would be fruit and hand-made chocolate truffles, the ritual of passing the port and Madeira, an inlaid silver box of snuff. I was always on the margins of the group, largely silent. Perhaps it is not that different after all to be sitting unnoticed and anonymous in a French cafe.

  One of the great benefits of being unseen, of course, is that one can freely watch.

  I cannot blame her for delegating almost all of the Annabel research to me. Her life is stressful and I am an excellent researcher. She has the pressures of her family, on top of the academic and media work. There was always some crisis or other going on. I remember one day in the bakery she was very distressed. She had no make-up on and her hair was scraped back and a little greasy. She ordered a double espresso before she even sat down and her fingers trembled as she got out her papers.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, yes, it’s fine, it’s nothing. It’s just … you know. Teenagers! Jesus Christ!’ She lifted her chin and her eyes glistened. I wondered, with a vague sense of panic, whether she might be close to tears. I hoped not. I never know what to do when people weep. She is really quite fragile when it comes to her children. They seem to have a profound power over her happiness. I suppose that is something to do with love.

  She started to talk, then, and all her supposed professional boundaries were forgotten. Her eldest son, she admitted, was out of control. She had found cannabis in his bedroom, his GCSE predictions were dire, he was furious all the time and suddenly he wasn’t speaking to his father.

  I felt rather sorry for her as she talked. She looked exhausted. I did not know what to say so I just nodded. She took this as encouragement, and told me how frustrated she was by David’s lack of engagement in family life. She told me that he was always travelling, giving talks or interviewing people, or visiting libraries or academics to research the book that, she said, was ‘going basically nowhere’. She sometimes wondered whether he was avoiding her, or the family, or both.

  Seeing her in public you would never guess that any of this was going on. In fact, you’d think her life was perfect. I caught her on Radio 4 the very next morning, talking about buildings that were once psychiatric institutions. She sounded lively, witty, erudite and charming. Perfectly relaxed. Perhaps her skill as a performer, her ability to beguile, is inherited from her father.

  It might also stem, as most things seem to, from childhood. Olivia must have had to work very hard to be noticed by her busy and successful parents. She is very good at managing what she once referred to as her ‘public persona’. People stop her in the street or in cafes; sometimes they actually sit down and write to ask her for a signed photograph. She is also, I believe, very active on social media. But even now I cannot bear to go online in order to look for her.

  When Annabel is published this scrutiny will no doubt escalate. The book is sure to be reviewed in the broadsheets since Olivia and David are friends with many of the editors. She will be on Start the Week or Woman’s Hour and she will be on television, too, perhaps even on that dreadful gameshow again, where the best liars win.

  She has also already written articles for the kind of magazines she keeps in the Farmhouse toilet: Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar. They seem to work months ahead – she was writing them in late spring even though they will not appear in the magazines until the autumn. She had her photograph taken on the front steps at Ileford for one. That was an extremely trying day. A bearded photographer, two assistants, a journalist and some kind of make-up artist descended on the house. I confined them all to the gunroom where they set up clothes rails and fussed around for hours with hair and make-up, trying on ridiculous outfits, drinking pots of coffee and eating all my digestives.

  Much to the photographer’s dismay I refused to allow pictures to be taken inside the house. I had already told Olivia this, so they did know about the restrictions. Not that this stopped them from haranguing me. But I held firm. I could not have magazine people snooping around Ileford. And I could not have her upstairs.

  The upstairs would not have been suitable for photographs anyway. The discrepancy in décor never bothered me before I met Olivia; I only really felt the dissonance when I was forced to look at it through her eyes.

  Lady Burley had updated most of the bedrooms in a burst of bad taste in the late 1980s when she briefly lived here full time before decamping to Morocco. She relied on Laura Ashley prints and allowed her fondness for ruffles and festoons free rein. She also went quite mad with a stencil. She has done very little to it since. Before she went into the care home she was talking about redecoration, but that fell by the wayside with her diagnosis and I am not fussy.

  I had not even noticed how shabby the kitchen was. I remember the disappointment on Olivia’s face as she took in the anorexic brown stove and scarred pine units. She had no doubt been expecting an Aga, flagstones, a scrubbed wooden table, hanging copper pots and jugs of peonies. She said something about how ‘cosy’ it was. I pointed out that cooking for one requires very little in the way of amenities, something she might have forgotten with her family of five and friends dropping in to discuss films and books and art exhibitions over ‘kitchen suppers’.

  I saw her eyes travel to my wall calendar; that month it was a rather ugly Airedale Terrier. The only days with writing on them were those on which I was seeing her. Perhaps she realized she had overstepped the mark because she looked away and said something about the trees.

  She did admire the grander public spaces, though: the library, the drawing room, the hand-carved Tudor ceiling and decorative panelling in Lady Burley’s morning room. She always noticed the details, like the cornices and decorative mouldings, the dado rails and original parquet floors, the Gothic stone fireplaces. The downstairs is preserved in vague Victoriana with flock curtains, walls in hunting green or oxblood, dark mahogany pieces and oil paintings. She loved it all.

  When she asked, that day with the photographers, to be allowed upstairs, I was firm. ‘Lady Burley has forbidden it.’ She had to remember, I said, that Ileford was not my house. Whatever my job title – private secretary, manager, housekeeper, caretaker, trustee – I was merely the employee and it was not my place to show strangers into Lady Burley’s private spaces.

  ‘But she’d never know.’

  ‘Are you asking me to lie to a vulnerable eighty-six year old?’

  ‘No, no, God, of course not, no.’ I saw her exchange a glance with the photographer, whom I already instinctively disliked.

  I said nothing. Olivia was used to getting what she wanted. But not from me.

  In the end, the photographer had her standing on the front steps because he liked the mullioned windows and the dressed stone of the arched front door. He seemed to know a little about architecture. The pictures actually turned out rather strikingly. Olivia’s dark hair and pale skin looked dramatic against the knapped flint walls. She was wearing a rich yellow silk dress and unco
mfortable-looking spiked shoes, with one of her drapey leather jackets over the top. The amount of make-up they layered on her face was quite extraordinary and, in my opinion, rather ghoulish in the flesh, but I concede it looks less odd in the actual photographs.

  On a recent day trip to Kent I came across the sulphur beetle in the sand dunes. I spotted a flash of yellow on a wild carrot flower and there she was, Cteniopus sulphureus, showy and bright with her little antennae wiggling at the sun. She made me think of Olivia, who also thrives in the spotlight, teetering on the tips of flowers, displaying her colours to all who pass.

  When I have finished my steak and counted out the euros, I decide that I must try to walk around a little. I am somewhat unsteady on my feet from the wine and the intense heat and a searing and unpleasant pain shoots through my knee when I put weight on it. The meal feels leaden in my stomach as I limp towards the bandstand.

  And that is when I hear the familiar laugh. It floats to me on the warm, scented air. I turn my head, searching, and then I see her on a bench beyond the fountain.

  She is in a red dress and is accompanied by her slim, strawberry-haired friend and two small children, neither of them her own. They are all holding ice creams. I wish she were alone but she isn’t and it’s too late to hide because I am fully exposed, now, standing in the middle of the square. She stops dead. She has seen me.

  Olivia

  South of France, Day Five

  David had driven Miles and Paul down to the coast and they came back late in the afternoon with sunburned faces, lugging a big plastic tub of live lobsters.

  The animals glistened like huge, flinty beetles; their taped claws and armoured tails clattered against the plastic and their antennae twitched in panic and confusion. Ben, Nura and Jess were fascinated. They crowded round and watched the lobsters until Dom told them they were to be boiled alive. Nura then burst into tears and Ben turned dangerously pale. Only Jess looked interested still.

  ‘It’s OK, guys, it’s a totally painless death.’ David kneeled, gentle and patient, next to the younger children. ‘They don’t feel a thing, I promise. It’s actually quite nice – they just fall asleep.’ The anger Olivia had been nursing abated, slightly, as she watched him. She had always loved him like this: handsome, patient, paternal. He was good with children. While Olivia found parenting stressful and worrying a lot of the time, David always seemed able to simply enjoy the children, moment to moment. This made him an excellent father. Perhaps the situation with Dom was even more troubling because of that.

  ‘But I don’t want you to boil them!’ Nura cried.

  ‘I know, darling, but they won’t suffer, I promise, they’ll just have a lovely warm bath and nod off.’ David reached out and stroked Nura’s hair out of her eyes. ‘And also, they taste really, really good.’

  Ben made a choking sound and ran off. They heard the front door slam. Khalil called out to Al, on the terrace. Al looked around for Chloe, but she was nowhere to be seen. After a moment, he heaved himself off the lounger and lumbered after his son.

  Nura was looking at Jess for back-up, but Jess was a pragmatist; those lobsters had to die. Nura fled to her mother’s open arms.

  Olivia raised an eyebrow at David. ‘They do just fall asleep,’ he grinned.

  ‘You could anaesthetize them in the freezer first.’ Khalil walked in from the terrace clutching a small bottle of beer. ‘It puts them into a coma. Then you stick a knife through the back of the skull before you put them in the water.’

  ‘Not helpful, Khal.’ Emma looked up from their sobbing child.

  Al came back then. ‘Ben’s locked himself in the sodding tower.’

  Half an hour later, Ben was still bolted in the priest’s tower, Nura remained inconsolable and Emma was beginning to look as distraught as her daughter, so Olivia suggested driving down to the village for ice cream.

  The promise of ice cream got Ben out of the tower and stopped Nura’s sobbing. Nobody else could be bothered to come, so it was just Olivia, Emma and the two children who sat in drained silence as they drove down the winding road towards the village.

  ‘Can you get scissors?’ David called from the kitchen as they left. ‘There aren’t any – we’re going have to gnaw our way through the claw tape.’

  The approach to the village was a straight and functional road that passed estate agents, a Crédit Agricole and a basic Tabac. The village centre was more picturesque, though, with small shops and cafes grouped around a grand, pink and white hôtel de ville and a square lined with plane trees. In the middle sat a yellow-striped bandstand and a fountain.

  As they skirted the square they passed a cafe with tables set out under the trees, a boulangerie-pâtisserie, a tiled fromagerie, a small Casino supermarket and a Maison de la Presse. They parked beneath speckled trees near some old men playing boules in baggy trousers, waists belted high. They paused their game to stare as Olivia and the others got out of the car.

  Even at six in the evening the heat was intense. Olivia fanned herself. ‘The shop here does the best ice cream in the region,’ she said. ‘It’s famous.’

  The children perked up a bit at that.

  The ice cream was, in fact, excellent. Olivia chose the fig and ricotta, the children both had strawberry and Em had a speckled vanilla. They found a bench in the shade by the fountain where the heat felt less intense; Emma began to teach Nura how to order ice cream in French and Ben did an impression of Jess trying to kill a lobster, like Psycho. They all laughed. It was then that Olivia noticed a bulky figure crossing the square towards them.

  The sun was in her eyes so it was hard to make out a face, but there was something all too familiar about the lopsided stride, the swing of the arms.

  It could not be. She was hallucinating. She had to be.

  But no – it really was.

  ‘Vivian?’

  ‘Olivia! It is you. Goodness gracious!’

  For a moment they just stared at one another. Vivian came to a halt, ramrod straight, square on. Olivia caught a whiff of perspiration beneath the familiar washing powder she used on her clothes.

  ‘What are you doing here, Vivian?’

  Vivian’s nose was very sunburned and sore-looking. Sweat glistened at her hairline. ‘I’m looking for harlequins,’ she said. She was carrying a safari hat and wearing an unflattering pair of Bermuda shorts, rolled-down woollen socks and dusty hiking boots. There were smears of dirt on her linen shirt, as if she had wiped her fingers down it repeatedly. Minuscule bubbles of sweat clung to her upper lip.

  Emma held out hand. ‘Hello, I’m Liv’s friend Emma.’

  Olivia gazed at Emma and then at Vivian again. She felt completely helpless. She struggled to speak. ‘Vivian is … She’s been … helping me with the research for Annabel … I’ve probably mentioned her to you.’

  Emma smiled and frowned. ‘I’m not sure …’

  Vivian shot out a hand and Olivia jerked her arm away instinctively; the fig and ricotta ice cream flew off its cone and plopped into the dust.

  ‘Oopsie!’ Emma cried.

  Vivian looked flustered. ‘But I was trying to save it, it was slipping off the cone.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Olivia turned away and threw the empty cone into the bin. She stared down for a second at the cigarette packets and sweet wrappers and a single, crushed man’s shoe.

  ‘Let me buy you another ice cream.’ Vivian was behind her.

  Olivia balled her fists. She turned and said, as calmly as she could, ‘That’s OK, Vivian.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I really don’t want another ice cream. Thank you.’

  Ben and Nura were staring up at Vivian. Their smeared faces were both wary and curious. They looked at the floor when Vivian’s gaze rested on them. Emma introduced them, explaining that Ben was Chloe’s son and Nura was her own daughter.

  ‘That’s nice. Three families on holiday together.’ Vivian grinned, oddly.

  ‘Yes, it’s lovely actually. We do
it every year,’ Emma smiled. ‘Chloe, Olivia and I were at university together.’ She gestured in the direction of the hills. ‘We’re staying in a house a couple of miles out of town. You might even be able to see it from here. It has an amazing view out over the valley. Liv has a knack of finding us gems to stay in. Last year we went to a Greek island.’

  ‘Olivia has excellent taste.’

  Olivia could not speak. She was going back over every interaction she’d had with Vivian about this summer and she was positive that she had never once said where, exactly, they were going in France.

  ‘We get to sleep in a priest’s tower,’ Ben said. ‘It’s haunted.’

  ‘Really? I live in a haunted house.’ Vivian looked at Ben and Nura. ‘I have a ghost who walks her dog and another who comes and sits on me at night.’

  Ben and Nura’s eyes widened.

  ‘Our ghost is buried under the front doorstep,’ said Ben. ‘It comes out at night and walks around outside the tower.’

  Emma gave a nervy laugh. ‘The sleeping arrangements here are quite an adventure for the children.’

  This was too much. Olivia put her hands on her hips. ‘What are you doing here, Vivian? When did you get here?’

  ‘I came a few days ago. I’m here for a week.’

  ‘But how did you—’

  Vivian cut her off. ‘Jessica, Paul and Dominic! How are they?’

  ‘They’re fine,’ Olivia said. ‘Everyone’s totally fine.’

  ‘And David?’ Vivian said. ‘Is David well?’

  ‘Yes. He’s cooking lobster right now. In fact, I’m afraid we’re going to have to get going in a minute.’

  ‘Apologies for the way I look!’ Vivian shouted. ‘I’ve been in the hills looking for harlequins. I must look a fright.’

  ‘Harlequins?’ Emma raised her eyebrows.

  ‘A species of ladybird.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Emma nodded. ‘Aren’t they the cannibalistic ones that are causing all sorts of problems? I think I read about them somewhere.’

  ‘The harlequin is the fastest spreading invasive species on record,’ said Vivian. ‘They’re monstrous predators, they—’