The Perfect Life

by Nuala Ellwood

  ‘She sounds ace,’ says Lottie. ‘I bet she drank Campari and lemon. We should be more yuppie.’

  ‘Yeah, I’d like to see you try that in your office,’ I say, feeling merry with wine. ‘What was the name of the guy Michael Douglas played in that film? The one where he says “lunch is for wimps”?’

  ‘Gordon Gekko!’

  We both remember the name at the same time and collapse into giggles.

  ‘Lowering the tone as ever, Miss Adams?’

  I look up and see Damian Astley. He’s the finance officer at Luna London and the man I go to when I need extra cash for my – as he likes to call them – ‘ambitious’ marketing campaigns. He’s in his late fifties but keeps himself so trim and groomed he could easily pass for a man in his forties, though I would never tell him that or his ego would go through the roof.

  ‘Fancy seeing you here,’ I say as he approaches the bar. ‘I didn’t think theatre was your thing.’

  ‘It isn’t,’ he says, smirking. ‘We’re here for the booze.’

  He gestures to his friend, who is standing on the far side of the bar, to join us.

  ‘We were just talking about you, actually,’ I say with a smile. ‘Gordon Gekko. Remember that old eighties film, Wall Street?’

  ‘Old eighties film,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Thus spake the millennial. It’s an absolute classic, though I’m guessing it came out before you were born.’

  ‘A few years after,’ I say, watching as Damian’s friend comes towards us, a bottle of beer in each hand. He’s very attractive, with dark curly hair and deep-brown eyes. He smiles as he approaches and I find myself blushing.

  ‘Guys, this is Connor,’ says Damian, pulling out a bar stool for Connor to sit down. ‘Connor, meet Vanessa Adams, our marketing miracle worker, and … sorry, love, I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘It’s Lottie.’

  ‘Ah, Lottie. Same name as my wee niece, I’ll remember that,’ says Damian, his old Northern Irish charm surfacing. ‘What do you do, Lottie?’

  While Lottie and Damian discuss Lottie’s job, Connor pulls his chair further towards me.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Vanessa,’ he says. His voice is deep, with a trace of northern accent. ‘Damian speaks very highly of you.’

  ‘Ah, that’s good to know,’ I say, taking a sip of wine. ‘I always feel bad for getting him to loosen the company purse strings for my ad campaigns. How do you two know each other?’

  ‘Damian was a friend of my dad’s,’ says Connor. ‘They were at uni together. When Mum and Dad split up, Damian stuck around for me. He’s a sort of unofficial godfather.’

  His eyes glisten slightly and I get an urge to reach out and touch his arm, reassure him. It’s an odd feeling. I’ve only just met this man yet I want to protect him. Beside us I hear Lottie telling Damian about the ‘murderous puppets’. She’s laughing and doing impressions, much to Damian’s delight.

  ‘I read about that show in the Observer,’ says Connor, leaning in to me and raising his voice above the din of the bar. ‘It sounded interesting. What did you think?’

  ‘I actually quite enjoyed it,’ I say, edging my seat away from Lottie. ‘Though I feel bad for subjecting Lottie to it. It was a bit dark for her tastes.’

  ‘Why would you feel bad?’ he says, a frown passing across his face. ‘It’s not your fault she didn’t enjoy it.’

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘What did you like about it?’ he says, flinching slightly as Damian lets out a roar of laughter at something Lottie has said.

  ‘It reminded me of the children’s stories I enjoyed when I was a kid,’ I say. ‘You know, the Grimms’ fairy tales, ghost stories, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Yeah, ghost stories were a big thing when I was at primary school,’ he says, staring at me intently. ‘The girls loved them, though I could never see the appeal. Remember those Holly Maze books?’

  I breathe in sharply. For a moment the memory of my mum driving into sharp sunlight flashes in front of me. I can’t allow myself to think about that, not tonight.

  ‘No, I don’t remember those. I was more into The Demons of Winter Valley.’

  ‘Sorry, I interrupted you,’ he says, touching my arm. ‘You were saying?’

  ‘The show just reminded me of those stories,’ I say, the wine loosening my tongue. ‘Good versus evil, morality lessons, if you like. The main character wasn’t as sweet as she made out. She was playing with the audience, hiding her true nature from them. But the hooded figure, the one we imagined was bad, was actually her guilty conscience. And when he … oh, I’d better not spoil the ending for you in case you go and see it.’

  ‘No, do,’ he says. ‘I’d like to hear.’

  ‘Well, in the end, the hooded figure kills her.’

  ‘Ah, hence the murderous puppet?’ he says, gesturing to Lottie.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘But the murder was … well, it didn’t look like he was killing her. The way the puppeteer worked the puppet’s hands made it look like he was embracing her, like he was, in some weird way, saving her.’

  ‘Saving her from herself, I suppose,’ he says, fixing his brown eyes on me.

  ‘Yes, exactly that,’ I say excitedly.

  It’s a relief to talk about the show like this. I love Lottie but she can be so fixed in her likes and dislikes that sometimes I feel I have to adapt my own to suit her.

  ‘I’m a bit of a nerd when it comes to theatre,’ he says, placing his beer bottle on the bar. ‘Though it’s the look of the stage that really intrigues me. I studied set design at college before changing tack and going into art direction. That dress you’re wearing, for example. It caught my eye immediately because it brings out the shade of your eyes. Blue is definitely your colour – Christ, that probably makes me sound rather vacuous.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I say, my stomach fluttering as I look down at my dress, a pale-blue Zara number I’ve had for years. ‘I know a lot of people think that about my work in cosmetics. People view the beauty industry as something frivolous and lightweight, but for me it’s about storytelling, creating different characters for each occasion.’

  ‘It sounds like you love your job,’ says Connor with a smile. ‘You’re lucky. There are so many people trapped in jobs and lives that they hate.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I say, feeling myself relax. ‘Before I got the job at Luna London I’d spent years temping. God, some of those places were really dire. I remember one time I was working on the reception desk of a marketing company in the City and the boss asked me to sew a button on his shirt.’

  ‘Christ, what a dinosaur,’ he says, shaking his head.

  ‘Yep,’ I say, remembering those years. Jobs like that had left my confidence battered. ‘It was the last straw. A couple of days later I saw the job ad for Luna London and decided it was now or never.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I’ve always been rather shy,’ I say. ‘When I was a kid I used to be scared of meeting new people, putting myself out there, even when it was for my own good. I realized I was still doing that after university. I was playing it safe, not daring to go for what I wanted in case I made a fool of myself.’

  ‘I understand that,’ he says, taking a sip of beer. ‘Those first few years after uni are pretty tough. You have to develop a thick skin.’

  ‘I knew I’d have to do that or else spend the rest of my life trapped in dead-end jobs,’ I say, recalling how nervous I’d been when I turned up to the interview at Luna London. ‘Though I still felt like an imposter those first few months.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ he says, narrowing his eyes. ‘Do you still feel that way?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘And that’s down to Anne.’

  ‘Anne?’

  ‘My boss. She’s amazing, a real inspiration. She took a chance on me, someone with very little experience, and spent the next year mentoring me in every aspect of the job. I’ll always be grateful to her for that.’

  �
��Everyone needs an Anne in their life,’ he says, smiling. ‘She sounds great.’

  I go to speak but I’m interrupted by Lottie tapping my arm.

  ‘Sorry to be a pain but our table’s booked at Rossi’s for 9 p.m.,’ she whispers. ‘Unless you want to cancel it.’

  She darts her eyes towards Connor and smiles. I feel my cheeks redden.

  ‘No, of course we should go,’ I say, draining my wine. ‘It was really nice to meet you, Connor.’

  ‘Likewise,’ he says, running his hand through his hair. ‘We should have a drink sometime, maybe.’

  ‘Um, sure,’ I say, watching as he takes his phone out of his pocket.

  As I give him my number, Damian appears behind me.

  ‘Nice to see you two getting along,’ he says, placing a hand on my shoulder. ‘Connor’s a lovely chap.’ He whispers this last bit in my ear and I get a waft of beer and peanuts.

  ‘See you on Monday, Damian,’ I say, shaking my head as he winks playfully at me.

  As we walk out of the bar, Lottie squeezes my arm.

  ‘God, he was a bit intense, wasn’t he?’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘I would have rescued you, but Damian was telling me a long-winded story about his sister who works for an animal charity in Tanzania.’

  ‘I actually kind of enjoyed talking to him,’ I say, aware, as we step out on to Sloane Square, of an invisible gap widening between myself and Lottie, like I don’t really want to break the spell by telling her the way Connor made me feel. ‘Anyway, let’s get a move on or we’ll be late to dinner.’

  As we hurry towards the restaurant, Lottie chattering beside me, I feel an overwhelming sense of loss. I could quite easily have talked to Connor all evening. He had made me feel so at ease, like I could be completely myself. It was strange and lovely in equal measure.

  When we’ve ordered our food, Lottie takes her phone and shuffles up next to me.

  ‘Come on then, let’s check him out,’ she says, opening up Instagram and holding the phone up so I can see. ‘Your Mr Wonderful.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so dramatic,’ I say as I take a sip of sparkling water. ‘He was just a nice guy, no need to stalk him.’

  ‘This isn’t stalking,’ says Lottie, looking up at me, her large amber eyes sparkling in the half-light. ‘This is trying before you buy.’

  ‘Oh God, Lottie, that’s terrible,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘How the hell did people manage before social media?’

  ‘Er, they got big surprises,’ she says, raising her voice above the Ed Sheeran song that has just started up. ‘Like, “Ooh, I had no idea Colin used to be morbidly obese. He never had any old photos lying about.”’

  ‘You’re evil,’ I say, laughing, as she thrusts the phone at me.

  ‘Here we are,’ she says as Connor’s Insta profile looms in front of me. ‘Connor Dawkins. Art Director @TurnerMathersPR. Foodie. Runner.’ His profile photo shows him standing against a tiled doorway. It looks like Spain or Portugal. He’s tanned and wearing sunglasses and a crisp white shirt.

  ‘Right, let’s see his dirty secrets,’ says Lottie, scrolling further down the page. ‘God, it’s all work stuff. Drawings of sports people and banners. Ooh, hang on, what have we here?’

  She passes me the phone. There’s a photo of Connor, with shorter hair, wearing a navy suit and holding hands with a slim, blonde-haired woman. She’s wearing a tight-fitting, shimmery pink dress and is holding a glass of champagne. It looks like they’re at a wedding as she’s got what must be an order of service in her hand. I barely know this man yet I get a twisted feeling in my stomach looking at him holding hands with a woman.

  ‘Well, he definitely has a type,’ says Lottie, taking the phone from me. ‘Blonde, blue-eyed, slim. Let’s see when this was taken. Ah, January of this year. And no other photos of women since. Looks like he’s single, at least. Now, what about Facebook.’

  ‘That’s enough, Lottie,’ I say as the waiter arrives with our food: Spaghetti Carbonara for Lottie, Penne Arrabiata for me. Our usual. ‘I feel awful stalking the poor guy like this.’

  ‘Try before you buy,’ she says, raising her glass of water at me. ‘It’s the only way.’

  Later, when we’ve paid the bill, Lottie heads to the loo. I’m just getting my coat on when my phone vibrates. It’s a text.

  I was going to play it cool and wait a few days but then I thought, sod it, I’ve never been cool. Would you like to have brunch with me tomorrow at 11? At the cafe in Battersea Park? Do tell me to piss off if you want, Connor

  My stomach does a little fluttery dance as I type out my reply.

  Ha! I’ve never been cool either. Brunch sounds perfect. See you then.

  I quickly put my phone away as Lottie returns to the table, but she has clocked me.

  ‘Who was that? Surely, not Mr Dawkins? If it is, he’s certainly keen.’

  ‘No, it was just Georgie, asking about the play,’ I say as we make our way out of the restaurant.

  I feel bad for lying to Lottie. I don’t even know why I did it, exactly. I just know I want to keep him to myself. Just for a while.

  3. Now

  West Hampstead Police Station

  I can see Georgie through the glass panel. She is pacing up and down the corridor, her phone clasped to her ear. When the police told me I had to go to the station to be interviewed under caution she totally lost it. I’d never seen her like that before. My calm older sister suddenly screaming and shaking her fist, remonstrating with the officers as they led me to the car, telling them that they had made a dreadful mistake, that my name was Vanessa Adams, not Iris Lawson, and that I had nothing to do with the murder of Geoffrey Rivers.

  If only that were true, I think to myself, as DS Alan Bains shuffles in his seat on the other side of the table, his arms folded across his chest.

  ‘So, Miss Adams,’ he says, fixing me with a stare so cold I flinch. ‘Now that we have ascertained your real name we would like to continue to interview you under caution. Do you understand what that means?’

  I nod my head, remembering what I was told when I got here: the fact that I have not been arrested, that this is a voluntary interview, that I am assisting the police with their enquiries. It all sounded a lot less terrifying than I had imagined but then, as we sat down at the desk, Bains had stated the phrase that I’d only ever heard on cop shows – You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence – and I had started to shake. Defence. Court. Evidence.

  ‘As you have now consulted with your legal representative,’ continues Bains, gesturing to the elderly man beside me, Frank Solomon, a family friend of Jack’s, ‘we can commence the interview.’

  I glance back through the glass panel and see Georgie, still talking on her phone. When I’d been placed into the back of the police car she had run up to the window and mouthed to me that she would get in touch with Frank, and that all would be fine. ‘He’s the very best,’ she’d said, her lips visibly trembling. ‘He’ll get you out of there.’

  I’d nodded my head as I was driven away, though inside I felt an odd sensation, one I hadn’t felt since childhood in the weeks after my mother’s death. It was a feeling not unlike weightlessness, as though I had left my body and was floating above the scene, calmly observing myself and the police officers and my frantic sister.

  As Bains sets up the tape recorder I think back to the afternoon of the 11th of August. The sunshine pouring on to the driveway, the talismans of my childhood lined up along the path, Geoffrey’s smiling face as he opened the door.

  Then I remember something.

  The glass bird.

  The bird that all Geoffrey’s readers would have been familiar with, as each story was narrated by it: ‘The Bird of Truth’.

  I hear Frank Solomon clear his throat; Bains clicks a button on the tape recorder but I’m not in the room any more. I’m back there, at Holly
Maze House, remembering. I see sunlight pouring through the window and the glass bird looking at me from its perch on the sideboard.

  ‘Miss Adams.’

  Bains is speaking and gesturing to the tape recorder but all I can think about is the bird.

  ‘Miss Adams, are you ready to start the interview?’

  I nod my head and fold my hands in front of me as he begins to speak.

  ‘Miss Adams, can you tell me where you were on the afternoon of the 11th of August 2018?’

  Bains fixes me with an unblinking gaze as he asks the question. I look down at my hands, which are clasped in front of me, as a fleeting image of the body appears before my eyes. I try to block it out, try to summon a comforting image, but all I see is him.

  ‘Miss Adams, could you answer the question?’

  I try to speak but my throat is dry. I would like a glass of water but I dare not ask, for if I speak at all then this nightmare becomes real.

  ‘We believe that you visited the offices of Price Burrows Estate Agency in Hampstead at 1 p.m. that day,’ he continues. ‘Is that correct?’

  I look beside me at Frank Solomon. He shakes his head. At our brief consultation half an hour earlier he told me that I was not under arrest but here voluntarily and was under no obligation to answer any questions, though failure to do so might add to their suspicions. Does the shake mean I shouldn’t answer?

  ‘Miss Adams, it’s a simple question,’ says Bains with a sigh. ‘You would be doing yourself a favour if you work with us on this.’

  I catch his eye for a moment. His expression lifts. He thinks I’m relenting but instead I look down at the desk and shake my head.

  ‘Okay,’ says Bains. ‘Perhaps this might jog your memory.’

  He takes his iPad, swipes the screen, then pushes it into the centre of the table for me, and Frank, to see.

  ‘For the benefit of the tape I am showing Miss Adams CCTV footage from inside the offices of Price Burrows Estate Agency, Hampstead, taken at 1 p.m. on the 11th of August 2018.’