The Perfect Life

by Valerie Keogh

  The food was good, as it usually was. And she’d been right, there was no chance to carry on a meaningful conversation, every second word swallowed by waves of shouting and laughter. They called out hi to a few acquaintances who passed by, but she was relieved when nobody joined them. They might not be able to have an in-depth conversation, but it was nice to spend time together. She sipped her mineral water; drinking during the week was something she tried to avoid, it made her too tired the next day. Usually, Jack would have a pint, no more but tonight he had two. Plus, he’d had a bottle before they left home.

  Was that the problem? She tried to pinpoint exactly when he’d started to drink so much but she couldn’t narrow it down. It wasn’t particularly excessive but more than she was used to seeing him drink. Maybe she should stop worrying.

  They were quiet as they walked home, the distance between them more than simply space. In the busy streets, she felt very alone but then she thought about him and her eyes darted from left to right as they approached their house. But there was nobody on their doorstep.

  ‘I’m going straight up,’ she said as they took off their coats in the hallway. ‘You coming?’ There wasn’t an invitation in her words; although they hadn’t made love in a long time, she certainly wasn’t in the mood tonight, not with turquoise eyes boring through her head.

  ‘I’m going to watch some TV,’ he said, ‘I’m not tired.’

  If he were late, he’d take the spare room again. Something that used to be the odd occurrence was quickly becoming the norm. As soon as she’d closed her bedroom door, she took out her phone and checked for messages. There was no reply to her text and she felt a slight easing of the tension that had squeezed her gut since she’d seen him on the doorstep. Maybe, he’d understood there was no point in pursuing anything.

  There were messages from Remi and Freya. Bright, happy messages that made Molly’s heart smile despite the ridiculous situation she’d managed to get herself into. She sent cheery messages back, telling them, as she always did, that she loved them and was so proud of them.

  As soon as she woke next morning, she checked her phone again, relief washing over her when there was nothing from him. Surely now, she could put that whole episode behind her.

  It was certainly put to the back of her mind when Jack pushed open the door into the kitchen, forty minutes later. She was dressed and ready for work, a mug of coffee in her hand as she idly listened to an early morning news programme. She’d no idea what time he’d gone to bed. Late, she guessed, taking in his red-rimmed eyes and pasty skin. There was no point in saying anything, she knew by his set look that he wouldn’t appreciate any comment. And she wasn’t in the mood to start the day with a row.

  She made a mental note to ring Petra later.

  As it turned out, she didn’t have a chance, the day turning into one of those nightmares without a minute to herself. It was four thirty before she had a chance to ring and, annoyingly, it went straight to voicemail. She hung up without leaving a message.

  In the station, anxious about going home in case he was there waiting, she hopped on a tube going the opposite direction, getting out at the next stop with the vague idea of visiting a bookshop someone had recommended. Following directions she’d been given, she found it easily enough, frowning when she took in its shabby, unexciting exterior. She was leaving without going inside, then decided she’d nothing to lose; anything was better than heading home.

  The interior of the shop wasn’t a vast improvement on the outside, with uninspiring mushroom-coloured paintwork and a slightly musty smell. Tall floor-to-ceiling shelves were set closely together with barely space to walk between them. It meant she could browse unnoticed, and it didn’t take her long to discover that what the shop lacked in beauty, it more than made up for in its vast selection of old and rare books. She lost herself in them, taking out one after the other, turning crackly old pages in fascination.

  She chose some to purchase, taking them to the sales counter. The middle-aged man behind it didn’t glance up as she approached, his eyes glued to his phone. Nor did he look up when Molly put the books on the counter.

  ‘Ahem,’ she tried politely.

  Eyes briefly looked up. ‘I’m busy with something,’ he said, focusing again on his phone. ‘Give me a minute.’

  Glancing at the books, she shook her head. She didn’t want them that desperately. Without a word, she left them on the counter and exited the shop. A glance through the window as she passed, showed her the man hadn’t appeared to notice.

  Suddenly the absolute ridiculousness of her situation made her smile and with another shake of her head, she headed back to the station to catch the tube home. If Mr Turquoise Eyes dared to turn up, she was ready to confront him. She’d plead if she had to.

  It was almost six by the time she turned the corner onto Elystan Street, looking ahead to the front of her house, closing her eyes on a brief prayer of thanks when there was nobody standing there, waiting for her. It was over.

  Unwilling to make more excuses as to why she was late, she rushed into the house and up the stairs. A quick shower refreshed her, and when she came downstairs twenty minutes later in a pair of soft cotton pyjamas she was in a good mood and ready for a relaxing evening.

  She put the kettle on for a cup of tea and investigated what they could have for dinner because, once again, she’d forgotten to buy anything. Maybe a big note on the kitchen counter would work. She picked up the house phone and dialled a local Indian restaurant that also did takeaways. They hadn’t had one for a while, it would be a nice change.

  She sipped lemon and ginger tea, feeling the stress of the busy day ebb while she waited.

  It arrived thirty minutes later. Paying, she took the bag straight to the kitchen, leaving it on the counter in the containers. It would be easy to throw it into the microwave when Jack got home. She checked the clock. He was unusually late.

  It was tempting to put off ringing Petra until the following day, but Molly dialled her number. It went to voicemail again but this time she left a message. ‘I wondered if you’d managed to speak to Nicole,’ she said. ‘I’ll be here all evening if you want to give me a call.’ Throwing the phone on the seat beside her, she switched on the TV and sat back to watch one of her favourite property shows.

  The programme was almost over by the time she heard the front door open. She waited for Jack to come through, but to her surprise he went straight upstairs. It gave her the opportunity to watch the end of the programme, but her heart wasn’t in it. He’d know she was there, waiting, she almost always was. He’d probably had a tough day. Or a tougher day. She should have made more of an effort to contact Petra.

  Scrambling from the sofa, she went to organise dinner, taking the containers from the bag and arranging them in the microwave in one lot. It would take longer but there’d be less faffing. Setting the timer, she pressed start.

  She knew she’d regret it in the morning, but she opened the fridge and took out a bottle of wine. A half a glass would help her relax. The half was gone, and she’d poured another before the door opened. She opened her mouth to ask if he were okay, shutting it again without saying a word when she saw how pale and drawn he looked.

  ‘You’re very late. Bad day?’ She injected as much sympathy as she could into her voice, feeling her heart ache for him, for whatever was going on. ‘I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong,’ he snapped, reaching for the wine bottle. He filled a glass and drank half, his eyes never meeting Molly’s.

  She wondered if her friend with the turquoise eyes had contacted Jack somehow. Perhaps his bad mood, pallor and inability to meet her eyes was merely disgust because he knew about her futile seduction of a stranger. Her stomach churning, she watched him for a moment as he sipped the rest of his wine.

  But when he turned to her, when he looked at her at last, his expression was guarded but not condemning. He didn’t look at her with disgust… maybe she was
being oversensitive.

  ‘What’s for dinner?’ he asked, his hand going up to cover a yawn. ‘Sorry, I didn’t sleep too well.’

  ‘I got a takeaway,’ she said, nodding towards the microwave that had pinged several minutes before. She rested a hand on his arm as she passed him, relieved when he didn’t brush it off. Removing the containers, she carried them to the table, returning for plates and cutlery. As usual, when she bought a takeaway she’d ordered far too much. She put spoons beside the containers and sat.

  Jack used the same spoon to take a little from each container. If he noticed she was drinking, an occurrence so rare as to be worthy of some comment, he didn’t say anything. She decided not to have any more, taking a bottle of mineral water from the fridge instead. It was safer to have her wits about her. Conversation was stilted, laboured, any comments she made met with a monosyllabic response. Finally, she gave up trying, and concentrated on her food, pushing it around the plate with little pleasure. She’d chosen a bad combination; either that or she’d completely lost her appetite. After a few mouthfuls, she dropped her fork and pushed the plate away.

  Looking across the table, she realised Jack hadn’t eaten anything. He hadn’t even picked up his fork, sitting with his eyes on the food as if he weren’t seeing it. ‘Jack,’ she said gently. He didn’t look up. She tried again, worried now, her voice taking on an edge. ‘Jack?’

  He looked up slowly, his eyes dull.

  ‘I’m worried about you,’ she said, reaching a hand towards him.

  He managed to drag his lips into a semblance of a smile. ‘Don’t be,’ he said, ‘it’s nothing. Just work problems.’

  What kind of work problems? She wanted to ask but she knew that was as much as he was going to tell her. ‘Why don’t you leave?’ she said, grasping and squeezing his forearm. ‘Hand in your notice and get something else? We’d survive on my salary until you did, you could say you want to leave immediately.’

  ‘Survive on your salary?’ He met her eyes, his mouth twisting. ‘I don’t think so, there are bills, debts.’

  She forced a laugh. ‘We’re okay. The mortgage is paid off. Short-term, we’d be fine.’ She pressed his arm again. ‘We could cut back a little. Luckily, the kids’ university fees are paid. At least say you’ll think about it.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  But she noticed, this time, his eyes didn’t meet hers.

  After dinner, he excused himself, saying he had some work to do. It wasn’t unusual, his job far more demanding than hers. There were plenty of opportunities for someone as experienced as he was, he’d easily find something else. She wished he’d give leaving some serious consideration.

  When she’d tidied up, she sat on the sofa and picked up her phone. She dialled Petra’s number again. This time it was answered, her friend’s cheerful voice shouting hello.

  ‘Hi,’ Molly said, ‘I’ve been trying to get you.’

  ‘Yes, sorry, I saw your missed call, but we were about to have dinner, so I thought I’d wait.’

  Getting straight to the point, Molly asked, ‘Well?’

  Petra’s laugh was genuinely amused. ‘Not big on the old foreplay, eh, Mol?’

  This wasn’t the time for what her friend always described as her quirky sense of humour. Molly wanted to know if there was anything she could do, to take that look of desolation from her husband’s face. ‘Please, Petra,’ she said, ‘this is important.’

  ‘Fine. Well, I did go to the trouble of meeting Nicole for lunch today,’ she said, her voice a little cool and stressing trouble to make sure Molly was suitably grateful. ‘And I did pump her for information which, I have to admit, didn’t take much doing.’ Her voice thawed. ‘I hadn’t realised what a gossip she was.’

  Pots and kettles, Molly thought, biting back the temptation to ask her to get on with it.

  There was a long indrawn breath down the line before Petra continued with her voice quieter, as if she were afraid she’d be overheard. ‘There’s a lot of high-powered meetings going on, Nicole said. A lot of closed doors and whispers in the corridors. She said there were a lot of glum strained expressions.’

  Molly held her phone tightly to her ear, afraid she might miss something. When there was silence on the other end, she said, ‘Is that it?’

  ‘What did you expect?’ Petra said, sounding slightly annoyed. ‘It confirms what you suspected, there is trouble in Jack’s office. Isn’t that what you wanted to know?’

  ‘It’s all a bit vague,’ Molly replied. ‘I suppose I’d hoped there would be something more concrete, something I could advise him on. This is…’ She wanted to say nothing, just vague unsubstantiated gossip, but her friend had done what she could, there was no point in being ungrateful. ‘… a bit of a help,’ she finished on the lie.

  Petra seemed mollified. ‘She did hear one of Jack’s colleagues saying it was all to do with money, if that’s any help.’

  ‘Yes, that’s great,’ Molly said, lying again. It was a financial services business; it was always about money.

  They chatted for a few minutes about more pleasant things, the new restaurant that had opened up, the sale that was on in one of Petra’s favourite clothes shops.

  Molly only half listened and was grateful when her friend said she had to go, dropping the phone on the seat and staring into space. She was no wiser except it confirmed it was work causing Jack’s pallor and grim expression. Not another woman.

  And it was nothing to do with him.

  She picked up her phone again and checked. No messages. She’d have preferred if he’d sent a message saying he was sorry, that he’d leave her alone.

  But this silence – she found it unnerving.

  13

  When Jack came downstairs, Molly looked at his grey complexion and dull, staring eyes and decided it was not the time to bring up the subject of leaving his job again. She’d planted the seed; it might take time for it to germinate.

  ‘I’m heading to bed,’ she said, reaching to plant a soft kiss on his cheek. ‘Are you going to be long?’

  He went to fetch the wine bottle from the fridge. There was a glass left in it, maybe a little more; he took it and a glass to the sofa and sat before answering. ‘I’m going to watch TV and chill for a bit,’ he said, pouring the wine. He didn’t look at her as he picked up the remote, the blare of some music station accompanying Molly as she left the room.

  She was glad Freya and Remi weren’t here. Both were intelligent, they’d have picked up on the strange vibes in the house in an instant. She’d have to be careful when she spoke to them on Skype, inject some positivity into her voice. Lie. She smiled grimly. She’d lie.

  It was a while before, finally, she shut all her worries away and closed her eyes. Within minutes, she was asleep and despite her concerns, she slept solidly until a noise disturbed her. The doorbell? Opening her eyes, she grabbed her phone and groaned when she saw it was only six. She must have imagined it. Turning on her side, she tried to get back to sleep.

  But the doorbell went again, longer this time, the sound pealing through the house. She threw back the duvet and got up, grabbing a robe from the back of the door and pulling it on. There was no sound from the spare bedroom and she felt a twinge of annoyance that it was left to her to open the door to who knew what at such an ungodly hour.

  She ran barefooted down the stairs, switched off the alarm and checked the safety chain was in place before unlocking the door. The chain allowed a six-inch gap. She peered through it, blinking in surprise at the two men on the doorstep, both holding identification. Police. Her heart plummeted and she shut the door, her fingers fumbling with the safety chain in her haste to open it. Dear Lord, please, not Freya or Remi. The words going around and around in her head, until at last she pulled the door open.

  She stood, one hand on the door, the other on the frame, her white silky robe with its batwing sleeves making her look like an avenging angel. ‘Not my children,’ she said, her voice husky with emoti
on.

  The men were tall, maybe six foot, and broad so that they filled the space in front of the door. The older of the two, took a half-step forward. ‘My name is Detective Inspector Fanshawe, and this is Detective Sergeant Carstairs. May we come in?’

  Their faces gave nothing away. Molly dropped her hands and stood uncertainly before standing back and waving them inside.

  She indicated the door to the study. ‘Please go in. I’ll go and get my husband.’

  DI Fanshawe held a hand up to stop her. ‘It might be best if we speak to you first, Mrs Chatwell.’

  She looked at him, feeling the ground move unsteadily under her feet. ‘If it’s to do with Freya or Remi, shouldn’t he be here?’

  ‘They’re your children?’ Fanshawe asked, waiting until Molly whispered a strangled yes before continuing. ‘We’re not here about them.’

  She clasped her hands to her chest in relief, then frowned. It had to be something serious to bring two policemen to her front door at such an early hour, but if it wasn’t about the children, what was it about? ‘Would you like some coffee?’ she asked. ‘I certainly need some to wake myself up.’

  When the men nodded and gave their preferences, she went into the kitchen to fill the kettle, her mind spinning as she waited for it to boil. What would they want with her? Her. Not Jack.

  She made coffee, added sugar to one, milk to all three and, gathering them awkwardly, headed back to the study where the two men were still standing.

  ‘Please, sit down,’ she said, putting the coffees on one of the two desks that were still scattered with the remnants of Freya and Remi’s studies. She waited until the men sat before handing them their coffee and sitting onto the small bucket chair in the corner. The coffee was hot, but she drank it anyway, hoping the caffeine would race to her brain to make it start functioning, maybe even give her some clarity.

  She looked at the two men as she sipped. They were fairly handsome despite their ill-fitting suits and cheap shirts. The detective inspector was, she guessed, about her age, the sergeant a few years younger. Each had hard eyes and grim mouths but there was a fan of wrinkles around the older man’s eyes; when he wasn’t working it looked as though he smiled a lot. The younger man’s face was just grim.