It was easy to see they were a messy couple. They couldn’t even be bothered to put their breakfast dishes in the sink: toast crumbs on the table, bread bin open, sticky marks on the work surfaces.
Their bed, an ocean of white, was unmade, the duvet rumpled up as though they’d had a fight on it. There was a pack of contraceptive pills on a nightstand, clearly her side, and a nail clipper and a flashlight on his. Not readers, then.
Their bathroom looked like it could do with a good clean, too: half-empty products scattered about, a brownish soap ring forming in the sink. In the sitting room, wineglasses had been left on the coffee table, and an iPod was slotted into the top of a radio. I slipped it into my pocket. They would buy another one, of course, but its loss would keep them from their jingle-jangle music while they hunted for it.
I stood for a few minutes in their hall breathing in the quiet air of the place. As I looked around, my skin tingled in a way that reminded me of the old days, when I had enjoyed an interest in life. There was a strange crunching sound in my head, like the sea rushing at a shingle shore, and warm exhilaration welling in my chest. I closed my eyes and waited for the sound to retreat.
The idea came to me that I was the fox in the hencoop. I pictured myself running riot, wrecking the place. It was an exciting thought. A tempting idea, but too much in it to give me away. To see them off, I would need to be thorough, to take things more at a drip-drip pace.
With Pipits gone, and no idea as yet how to recover the land it had sat on, or how to deal with Henry, it felt good to have a project, a purpose. Still, I felt a momentary twinge of unease. What if I got caught? I would have to make sure that didn’t happen. I would be cautious; my intelligence would protect me.
Whatever occurs from now on will be their own fault. They set this whole thing in motion with their whining and threats. I cannot allow them to get away with it, to meekly oblige them. They are the kind who will never be satisfied. Comply with one thing and they will find another to moan about. I will not have them as neighbors; they have to go.
It will be little things at first, nothing they can prove, and nothing the police would have an interest in. Their lives are about to become unsettled, full of events for which they will have no explanation. They will wish they had never set eyes on the place, wish they had never interfered with their neighbor’s peace of mind.
For tonight, at least, there will be no pacing to bother them, not the slightest hum from the radio. They will think the letter has worked, think me scared by their absurd threats.
I guessed they would be congratulating themselves while hunting around for their missing iPod, blaming each other, perhaps, for its disappearance.
In the weeks that followed that first visit, I made sure that every few days something went wrong: a split pipe under the sink so that they returned home to their kitchen under an inch of water, a dribble of bleach in their mouthwash, a feed of gin to their expensive bright pink orchid, so tasteless in its shiny black pot, and their framed wedding photograph fallen from the mantelpiece to the floor, the glass split into three shards, tiny splinters of it sparkling like ice in their snow-white sheepskin rug.
It occurred to me that they might begin to think the place haunted, a poltergeist making mischief, perhaps. How funny that would be. I imagined them the sort to believe in such things.
I watched them leave for work every morning from my bedroom window, which looks down onto the private parking area for our house. They aimed for eight o’clock but rarely made it, so that they were always in a hurry; a quick kiss, some calling out to each other, and laughter, always laughter. She, when not getting into a taxi to the airport, unfolding her bike, putting the red helmet on, wobbling off. He in their four-by-four, backing slowly down the slope of the parking lot so as not to hit the big metal refuse bins lined up neatly against the wall.
Driving a four-by-four, especially one with a big ugly bull bar mounted at the front, seems very show-offy to me. What need for it in the city? I still have my old Volkswagen; the same car I have had for years. I like that it doesn’t draw attention.
Once, as Hubby drove out of their parking space, giving a brief little toot of the horn to Wifey, I saw her dismount her bike and stare back toward our building. She held her gaze steady for a few seconds as though trying to work something out, then she shrugged and wheeled her bike onto the road.
I am pretty sure she didn’t see me looking through the narrow gap in my closed curtains. I know how to stand motionless, to become merely a shadow. Still, I gave it a couple of hours that day before letting myself into their apartment. Perhaps she had simply forgotten something that morning, something that she might return for. I left their front door ajar so that I would hear the lift, although I couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t take the stairs. If I am ever caught, I plan to say their door was swinging open as I passed, and I thought that they might have been broken into; might have needed help. They could never prove otherwise.
I thought about leaving red roses at their door with a card to one or the other of them, love from A or B or the like. It might help to break the trust between them. Risky, to introduce things from the outside, though. I will need to think about that one.
Today’s task will be accessing a girlie porn site on their big shiny iMac. She won’t be pleased to see that come up in the recently viewed history. He will be bemused, insisting on his innocence, aggrieved that she could even think it of him. I imagine they will argue about it, and their arguing will not be the harmless bickering that is the stuff of all marriages, but something deeper, something that will fracture their happiness. The thought of his needing such sexual stimulus will hurt her. She will question why, so soon into their marriage, she seems not to be enough for him. The idea that his interest in such things might lead to infidelity will not be easy to dismiss. She will be suspicious.
I was delighted to discover that neither one of them uses passwords for the web or their email. They have set up their computer so that you simply click on an icon and are taken straight through. Such laziness.
Their accounts are very boring on the whole: gym fees due, her mother twittering on about how she can’t wait to see them. Nothing from his parents, though, so I suspect they may be dead, or perhaps they don’t have email.
Sometimes I glean a bit of useful information, such as when they will be away, or when they are meeting up with friends—a helpful indication to me that they will be home late. I’ve learned that he has a hundred and three friends on Facebook, she only eighty. Occasionally I delete something, a payment reminder, or one or two of their favorites on their supermarket shopping list.
Tonight they will return to a neat little hole in the bathroom mirror and a tipped-over jar of honey in the kitchen, its contents drooling through the wire racks of their pull-out food cupboard. The honey was a mistake. I was looking for coffee, as I had run out, and I accidentally knocked it over. They had left the lid loose. Tut, tut.
It’s enough for now that I have access to their lives. So I keep off their radar by being the quiet neighbor: my radio on low and bare feet around my apartment. I’ll start up again when I’m ready. On-off is the way to niggle and confuse them.
Their habits are not entirely reliable, so I keep a notebook to jot down their comings and goings, snatches of conversations that I overhear, what they are wearing, whether they are holding hands or seem a little apart as though they have argued. It helps to detect patterns, to know your enemy.
They often entertain; people like themselves, people I think of as the Burberry set, designer-labeled, unoriginal. They are, like most people, tribal, wearing the same clothes, driving the same flashy cars, sharing the same cul-de-sac mind-set, no doubt.
They take their rubbish out to the big bins on Tuesday evenings and Sunday mornings. He does Tuesday, she Sunday, wearing a coat over her pajamas and silver trainers on her feet. If it weren’t for the hair, she would look quite masculine, with her broad shoulders and long strides.
Occasionally they go away for weekends. I see them put their bags into the trunk of their car, notice the upward lift in their body language, watch the newly washed four-by-four sail away. It is just lovely when they are absent at weekends. I put aside thoughts of Pipits’ land, and of Henry, and indulge in the present. House knows that I will get to it when the time is right, when plans fall into place, as they have a habit of doing. Meanwhile, it feels good to be taking on the neighbors.
I stand sentinel at my window for a few minutes in case they return for any reason, and then I allow the pleasure of their truancy to wash over me. If the upstairs American happens to be away at the same time, I revel in the joy of having the whole house to myself.
I take my time getting ready: a long shower to wash away Mayfair Lady, no makeup, no disguising clothes, no jewelry. The real me emerges: straight hair, pale skin, my jawline appearing sharper than ever without the pearls and scarves to soften it, my eyes a little hollow without the makeup. I reclaim my true self.
In their apartment I make coffee, watch their television. I left it on once for them to come home to. I wonder who got the blame for that. I take my own gin with me, since they are not spirit drinkers. Wine is more their thing.
I took a nap on their bed one Saturday afternoon when they were on a break to Paris. But I couldn’t settle down for long. Every sound disturbed me. And what if they returned unexpectedly? Who’s that sleeping in my bed?
A bit of me is always on alert when I make myself at home in their apartment; wise, I think, not to allow myself to relax completely. But I so love it there; maybe because no one in the world knows where I am.
* * *
TO ADD TO THE pressure of living in their jinxed apartment, and just when they must be thinking they have tamed me, I have resumed my radio habit and sent them a letter about the bike, reminding them that the hallway is communal property and that they have no right to block it with their things. I’ve warned them that if they do not remove the bike, I will be obliged to complain to their landlord, who is an old friend and would be upset to think that they were breaking the rules and displeasing his fellow tenants.
I cannot actually claim their landlord as an old friend, although I did meet him on a couple of occasions before he started renting his apartment out. He bought a painting from us once, a rather good abstract by a Camden artist, and afterward, he invited us to the theater; he had tickets for something or other. Bert went. I can’t remember why I didn’t. I reason, though, that our interest in the building is the same and that he is bound to take my side in any disagreement. After all, I am an owner here, too, and will be in the building long after “short and tall” have left. So I write to him with my complaints, and, just to be friendly, I mention a little of my new circumstances.
My request to remove the bike from the hallway was perfectly polite, but the couple sent no reply, and as yet the bike is still there. It is foolish of them to think I can be ignored.
Whatever Hubby said, it is obvious they do not want to be good neighbors. Their recent attitude to me has proved that. I met them on the stairs the other day, and you would have thought it impossible for “good evening” to sound so hostile. They were dressed in running gear, their faces polished with sweat. He couldn’t bring himself to smile, and Wifey gave me a strange look that made me wonder briefly if she could smell her perfume on me.
I heard them chattering on their way up the stairs before they saw me coming down. They mumbled a brief greeting, and I did the same. After we had passed they fell silent. In my mind’s eye I could see them exchanging sniggery looks. I wondered in what terms they talk about me to each other: the uptight insomniac, perhaps? The bitter middle-aged woman who could do with a good seeing to by some randy buck? I know how their kind think. They see Mayfair Lady and make assumptions.
Well, I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose. I marvel at how perfectly I have created her myself; everything faultlessly in keeping, the lipstick thick enough to fleck the teeth, the hair so lacquered as to be oblivious to the wind, and the clothes archetypal, right down to the beige fifteen denier tights and matching taupe court shoes. How surprised my brash neighbors would be if they could see the real me.
And my darling sister, Gloria. What a surprise it would be to her, too. She has visited me on two occasions in the last eighteen months, once overnight with Noah, who ran around the apartment dropping his toys, crying the moment he woke, and being so noisy that I thought the couple downstairs might come up to complain and discover the real me. And once with Henry, who was up for a trade fair where he was showing his wares.
Their visits were a strain. I have since put them off coming again, with the excuse that I have engagements, or that I will be away staying with friends.
“How lovely for you,” Gloria said. “To have such a good social life.”
My sister thinks that she knows me well. How surprised she would be to find that she does not. She knows nothing of my subtlety, my secrets, my true feelings. In her eyes we have a sisterly bond that cannot be broken.
Hah.
23
THE LATEST OUTRAGE CAME via the owner of their flat, a man whom I felt sure could be relied upon to take my side. He has sent me a letter, in reply to mine, in less than friendly terms. He is sorry to have to say it, but he thinks that I am making his tenants’ lives very difficult. They are good tenants, he says, their references exemplary, and they are entitled to their peace of mind. He would hate to lose them.
He writes, Of course it is not your fault that some unfortunate things have happened in the apartment since my tenants moved in, but your late hours and loud radio are depriving them of sleep. I would be grateful if you could be a little quieter after midnight.
I was very sorry to hear of the breakup of your marriage, and to learn that Bert is no longer a neighbor. I am sorry, too, to have to write in this vein. I have confidence that all will be well, now that you are aware of the problem.
He adds a P.S. Do you by any chance have a set of keys to my apartment?
So they have written to him complaining about me. No doubt accusing me of all sorts of bad behavior. Why would he mention the “unfortunate” things going on, otherwise? They must have put into his head the idea that I am to blame. So now I know they suspect me. And why ask if I have keys to his apartment? His letter has put me on edge. How dare he question me?
I answered him promptly, told him I was surprised at his attitude, that his tenants were troublesome neighbors and that I had more reason to complain than they did. I said he should get them to move their bike from the downstairs hall. And no, I did not have keys to his apartment; if some are missing, perhaps he should ask Bert. But he hasn’t bothered to reply.
I bet they are going to change the locks. If not, perhaps they are setting some sort of trap to catch me. I am furious enough to be off my guard. I must give myself time to think of how to move things on from here. It never does to rush at things.
It has taken me a while to settle. Immediately after I received the insulting letter, I had the urge to go downstairs and trash their flat. But I smothered the impulse. It would have felt fine, but I am practiced at keeping cool.
I have decided to give it a month, no visits to their flat, no pacing or radio to bother them, no action whatsoever. They will calm down, get their precious sleep, and relax. They will think they have won. Their foolishness at thinking me so easily put off will work in my favor. I will bide my time.
A few days of this, and I find myself bored. So I have taken again to staying out at night, to driving around in my car. I’ve missed my nighttime vigils at the riverbank, missed being out in the dark. The city won’t be as dark or as silent as Cold-Upton, but it will serve the habit, at least.
Three or four times a week, at around eleven o’clock I start getting ready. I fill my flask with gin, put it into a carrier bag with my cigarettes and a thermos of strong coffee, and place it conveniently on the front passenger seat on top of the cashmere throw I took
from under the assistant’s nose in Harrods. The throw was the last and the biggest thing I bagged. I simply threw it over my shoulder like a pashmina and walked away. I cut off the security tab in the lavatory and dropped it behind the toilet before leaving the store. The cutting left a hole, repaired now. It is hardly noticeable. Five hundred pounds’ worth of the finest cashmere. A good swan song, and no thief caught.
I drive as myself rather than Mayfair Lady, face scrubbed, dressed down in the padded jacket with a fur-lined hood that I bought especially for my night drives.
Once out of Mayfair, I head over to Kensington. People watching is more interesting here; the high street is teeming until late at night. I stay parked at the far end of the street for a bit, just long enough not to draw attention, before driving the less obvious route through the tree-lined streets to Notting Hill. On Westbourne Grove, I check out the designer shop windows and look into the restaurants, which heave with claques of bumptious bankers, who vie for tables with the media crowd. Art and finance, a testing mix of people, who no doubt despise each other. It’s fun to watch their polite sparring for tables.
An hour or so before driving home, when the restaurants have closed, and there are not so many people about, I park on one of Ladbroke Grove’s residential streets and with the sound low, listen to the radio or to one of my books on disc; I’m halfway through Ripley’s Game at present. I drink my gin and smoke. Sitting in my dark coat with the hood up, I enjoy being the watcher of the night’s events. Cats slink about, a rat once popped up from a drain, and I have even seen an urban fox, sitting untroubled in the middle of the road, eating from a discarded pizza carton.
The Beloveds Page 22
