The Face At the Window

by Ruby Speechley

‘No, nothing about it here if they are.’

  They drive off and I’m left with a weird feeling that I’ve missed my chance to get him back by walking across the road and chatting to his wife right in front of him.

  ‘Come on, let’s go home. She’ll have fed Missy this morning, so we’ll come back later.’ I touch the heart pendant around my neck. He gave it to me to celebrate our first month together. It’s almost seven months ago. The mouse had left him and he was on his own. Maybe he really didn’t know she was already pregnant. But I don’t understand how he can turn his back on me like this. I won’t let him.

  It’s 9 p.m. when we return to their house to feed their cat. There’s no sign of Missy. It is almost dark but the yellow glow of light shines in one of the bedrooms. No movement downstairs. No kitchen or bathroom light. I guess the light must be on a timer, a burglar deterrent.

  A couple of kids cycle past in labelled joggers and hoodies pulled over their heads. I grip the key tighter. They get a good look at us and vice versa. All up to no good or pretending not to be.

  In the house on the right is a large noisy family. I lose count of how many kids they have. All their lights are on and the TV is blaring a game show so loud no wonder they have to shout at each other. On the left is an old couple, their faces lit up sitting so close to the TV screen in an otherwise dim room.

  ‘Let’s go in.’ Even though Gemma has given me the key, I feel like an intruder. And I am I suppose. Intruding on her life.

  Amy nods.

  We eyeball each other but don’t say a word. She scans up and down the street as I slot the key in the door. A cat meows somewhere nearby and something clatters to the ground making me jump. I nearly pull the key back out, but as I turn it and push, the door cracks from the heat of the day. We pause, then inch it wider. A second later and we’re in. I shut the door quietly behind us.

  We’re statues frozen in the hallway. Something clicks and spits. I grip Amy’s wrist. Is someone there? A strong artificial floral smell fills the air. Amy coughs and splutters. A white tower of plastic from the top of a shelf has squirted fragrance over us. We stretch our ears for any other noises. I close my eyes to concentrate harder, ears cocked and straining for any movement as we creep down the hallway. Nothing, except the ticking kitchen clock, its moon-face glowing in the dark. We know they’re not here, but it still feels weird walking into their lives. This seems too easy. I half expect them to jump out, tell me the game is up, they know I’m pretending to be Rosie, befriending Gemma on false pretences.

  The cat flap in the back door rattles and we practically jump into each other’s arms. A black cat with a grey smudge on its head stalks towards us then stops. This is not their cat. Here we are, face to face with a fellow intruder.

  I peer round the living-room door. It’s tidy except for an empty mug on the coffee table. If it’s warm, someone else has been here, someone to keep an eye on us. I reach out and touch it. Stone cold. Of course it is, I’m being paranoid. Amy stays close behind me, and I picture us looking like Daphne and Velma in an episode of Scooby-Doo and I almost give in to a fit of giggles. There are jumbo-sized canvas photos of Cole and Gemma on the main wall in nauseating poses, lounging against each other, cupping each other’s faces. And a recent one, more cringeworthy than the rest, the one mouse posted on her Instagram page, showing her bump, her fingers resting on it in a heart shape and Cole on his knees kissing her taut bronzed skin.

  The kitchen is immaculate as though it’s never used. I open the fridge door. Prosecco, a pack of sliced cheddar and a bar of Dairy Milk. I feel peckish but on second thoughts, I shut the door.

  Amy is opening cupboard after cupboard of neatly arranged tins, packets, pots and pans. She’s taking pictures of everything. I wonder if I should stop her but she likes uploading random photos to Instagram and Snapchat. I peer out of the back-door window and scan the fence but there’s no sign of Missy.

  I find a calendar on the back of the larder door. I flick through it for the baby’s due date – 8 August – five days’ time. I take a picture of August, so I know their movements.

  Amy shoos the intruder cat out and we put food down for Missy.

  We creep upstairs, and I go on straight up to the room with the light on. As I thought, there’s a standard lamp on a timer, next to an inviting easy chair. The walls are lined with books right up to the ceiling, all in colour co-ordinated order. I step back. Although I’ve seen it on her Instagram, I’m slightly creeped out. Who has time to do that to this many books? I’d love to stay and browse, maybe mess up the colour scheme, but I need to see what Amy is up to.

  She’s snooping in the wardrobes of their master bedroom. Nick’s clothes are mostly the same, grouped together. Countless white T-shirts and black jeans. One dark navy suit, Armani. Three white shirts, Paul Smith. In one draw is a pile of polo neck tops. I’ve never seen him wear one. All his socks and boxers are designer too. Amy is flicking through the mouse’s clothes. No order there. Clothes of different colours are packed in so tight it’s hard to pull anything out. I rummage through her underwear drawer, nothing of any interest, no sexy underwear. I take my new pair out of my pocket and drop it in, then mix them all up.

  Amy is on the floor, searching under their bed.

  ‘Nothing there, not even a speck of dust,’ she says.

  I check out their reading material on their bedside tables. His is exceptional, of course: Proust, Marlowe, Atwood. Hers is a good selection of female writers: Maggie O’Farrell, Louise Doughty and Hilary Mantel, although nothing he would read, and it still makes me wonder why they’re together.

  We go into the third bedroom, which has a guest bed made up. Two large cupboards along one wall are full of vinyl records. It’s mostly 80s and 90s albums, R.E.M, Culture Club, INXS, The Pet Shop Boys, stuff I’ve heard Mum play, but it’s all so ancient.

  The fourth bedroom is the nursery. All the new furniture has been put in place. The changing table has a mat to match the curtains, and the shelf underneath is already packed with newborn’s nappies, Sudocrem and a pile of muslin cloths.

  Large blue and green felt letters on bunting have been hung in the window, spelling ‘NEW BABY’. Below on the window sill are the wooden blocks spelling ‘Thomas’ I’ve seen in her Insta posts. Next to it is a new baby cam monitor still in its box. Amy spots it at the same time as me and our smiles spread across our faces.

  She picks the box up and pretends to read the back. ‘From your very own smartphone in the comfort of your armchair, watch the darling little sprog sleep, even if he isn’t yours.’ Her head tips to one side and we both laugh. It’s a bit creepy but we only want to keep an eye on them, hear what they say.

  ‘Cole’s nought per cent techie so chances are they won’t even think to change the default password.’

  ‘Perfect. Them and half the population.’

  In the living room, Amy pulls the tab out from under their wireless router and takes a photo of the default password stuck on the piece of plastic. Missy comes in and eats her food. I stroke her and give her some clean water. We make sure we leave everything as it was.

  We get back to mine around midnight and go straight up to my room. Mum’s got Marvin Gaye on loud in the living room. It sounds like she’s having a bit of a party; I don’t really want to know who with, and I don’t really care. Mostly, I don’t want her asking any questions about where we’ve been.

  After a quick de-brief, Amy gets on with hacking into their router.

  ‘Easy enough to get into, now we just have to wait for them to switch it on.’ Amy pushes her glasses up. Her grin is wide like the Cheshire cat.

  ‘Brilliant.’ I push the window open wider. The heat of the day has yet to cool completely. Across the village are the skeletons of houses being built on a new part of the estate, their scaffolding bones shine eerily in the moonlight. The sky is red beyond them and the traffic on the M1 drones in the distance, whatever the hour. Amy goes to bed and is asleep in a few minutes.

>   Part of me is nervous about spying on them in their home. What if they really are planning to stay together? I’m not sure what I’ll do if they are. I don’t think I can handle being rejected again.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  4 August 2018

  Scarlett

  We go back to their house on Saturday evening. This time Missy comes to greet us with little cries. Her bushy tail flicks from side to side when I stroke her back, and she rewards me with a satisfied purr. I’m jumpy about staying too long, even though it’s after 10 p.m. when most people are in front of the TV or tucked up in bed. I still wonder if Cole has got one of the neighbours to keep an eye on the place. He likes to be in control, so I don’t think he’ll be able to rely on Gemma organizing it, whatever he’s told her. Perhaps it’s the old couple next door. What if they have a key too? I don’t want them seeing my face or Cole might recognize their description and how will I explain that?

  Sure enough, there’s a spoon on the draining board I’m sure wasn’t there yesterday. The feeding bowl is near the cat flap still with food in. Maybe I’m imagining things.

  ‘You sit near the top of the stairs in case someone comes. If you hear anything, run up and find me. I’m going to have a look at Cole’s paperwork. We might be able to use some private info when we clone his Facebook page.’

  ‘How about a few recent photos and some older ones, like from when he was at school or on holidays? I can copy and paste most of his personal stuff from his current page, where he went to school, jobs etc. But it would be good to add some embarrassing ones he wouldn’t want to share.’

  ‘Good idea, but something only those close to him would recognize and know is real.’

  ‘Didn’t you say he has a birthmark on the bottom of his foot?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Amy sniggers. ‘Any other intimate secrets you want to share about him?’

  ‘Not the kind you’re thinking.’ I grin and go up, leaving her on the stairs.

  I have my little torch with me this time. I don’t want to chance putting on the lights. I go back to his reading room and check the drawers in the coffee table. There’s nothing in them except pens and bookmarks. I hadn’t realized how particular he was about his possessions.

  I check their bedroom again. I can’t quite believe it, but there’s definitely nothing under the bed, even though it’s a huge space and a prime storage area in our house. I suppose when your home is as big as this, you don’t need it. By rights, I should be the one living here with him enjoying all this space, not her. I open both wardrobes. The bottom of hers is full of boxes of shoes and his contains nothing except a guitar and a football. I try the vinyl room. At last, I find something. The bottom drawer is a filing cabinet. I pull out mortgage papers, a personal loan for the car, bank statements, bills, but nothing personal to him alone.

  I’m about to go downstairs when I stop and look back at the nursery.

  ‘I think we should go in a minute,’ Amy whispers behind me, ‘I heard something outside.’

  ‘Hang on a sec.’ I creep into the nursery and pull open the bottom of the new chest of drawers. In there are two old photo albums. Bingo. I open one and flick through the crackling plastic pages. It’s full of pictures of Cole as a little boy holding an ice cream, sitting on a steam train, riding a horse on a merry-go-round and building sandcastles on the beach. Same cheeky face but his ears really stick out like Prince Charles’. He must have had them pinned back because they are definitely not like that now. How cruel can I be? How angry am I? It depends whether he comes back to me or not.

  There’s a date on the back of one but it doesn’t add up. I look at the photo of his fifth birthday again, blowing out candles on a batman cake. The date is 9 February 1977. It’s definitely him, his name is on the cake – Nicholas. Cole. Nick. How can that date be right? That would make him forty-six. He told me he was thirty-eight. He’s been lying. He’s really old. More than twice my age. It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t change him as a person. Except why did he need to lie to me? Maybe he’s really sensitive about his age. I snap away with my phone camera, not really wanting to use these against him, but more as insurance if he pushes me too far.

  Amy hisses, ‘There’s definitely someone outside. I can hear them talking. Can we go out the back?’

  ‘I’m not sure I’ll make it over the fence.’ I tiptoe to the front window and peek round the edge of the curtain, trying not to disturb it too much. Who’s out at this time of night? Two women are standing on the pavement by the bins they’ve just wheeled out. Shit, is it bin day? At the weekend? Gemma didn’t say anything about that. One of them looks up, it feels like she’s looking right at me. I move back, knocking over one of the books on the bedside table. It thuds to the floor. I’m sure they must have heard it outside. I look again. The other woman is pointing in my direction. I pick the book up, fumbling it in my hands. It’s a copy of The Great Gatsby. A photo of me falls out of it. The one of me reading this novel on a beach in France when I was nineteen. I gave it to Cole when we met at a hotel in Tring for our first proper date. Does this mean he really does still want me? Why else would he keep my photo close to him? I put it all back carefully and dash to the stairs.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ I say, my heart thudding with joy.

  Amy is already waiting by the front door.

  ‘I don’t have a back-door key and all these new houses have security lights. Someone’s bound to see us.’

  ‘We’ll have to sit it out until they’ve gone in.’

  ‘How long’s that going to be?’

  ‘Let’s wait ten more minutes. Come upstairs and have a look at some photos I found of Cole. It’ll keep us busy.’ I can see the problem clearer than ever. He thinks he needs to be a martyr, but I have to persuade him that he shouldn’t stay with the mouse just because she’s pregnant. They can split amicably and he can arrange to see his child every week if he wants to. Now I know for certain it’s me he really loves, I’ll do everything I can to help him leave her.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Monday 13 August 2018

  Gemma

  ‘The school advised the teachers not to use their own names on social media,’ Nick says. ‘Would be asking for trouble if pupils could see your photos and anything to do with your personal life.’

  ‘Okay, I understand. So there’s no chance a former pupil of yours could have guessed your handle and be targeting you?’ Greg jots something in his notebook.

  ‘Any of the brighter ones could have worked it out. It’s not rocket science, to be honest. All my pupils were aware that Truman Capote and F. Scott Fitzgerald are two of my favourite writers.’

  ‘You taught English then?’

  ‘Of course, best subject there is. Reading, writing is like nectar from the gods, it’s what sets humans apart from the animal kingdom.’

  ‘Is that so? Why did you leave the profession to work at the local council if you feel so passionately about it?’

  Nick side-eyes me again. I look the other way.

  ‘I’d had enough of all the political correctness. Plus, I never seemed to have a free moment with all the lesson planning and the piles of marking. Everyone assumes you get weeks and weeks of free time in the holidays, but it never worked out like that.’

  ‘I see. And how many years were you in teaching?’

  ‘About twenty. It was very rewarding.’ He smiles at me.

  ‘Shall I make us all a fresh drink?’ Becca stands up with the tray before anyone answers.

  ‘Thanks, Becca.’ Greg turns back to me. ‘Any more thoughts about people who may have a grudge against you, Gemma?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking more about Rosie. She came to see me at the hospital uninvited the day Thomas was born. It was so strange her turning up like that. The first day or two is for family usually, isn’t it? It felt like she was intruding but I dismissed it as her being overly kind. But thinking back on it now, it was more like she was checking up on me.’


  ‘You never told me this,’ Nick snaps.

  ‘What do you mean exactly, Gemma?’ Greg writes in his notebook.

  ‘She arrived when I was making a coffee so it was a shock to see her by the baby’s cot. She said that when she arrived, she thought Thomas wasn’t breathing and even wondered if he was dead, yet she didn’t call for a nurse or try and find me. And then she was in a hurry to go as though she’d only really come to see if there was a baby. She was there barely five minutes.’

  ‘I think we’re building up a picture here of someone who’d planned this several days if not weeks ago. We just need to find the reason why she targeted you. I’m expecting some more CCTV pictures and hope we can get a positive ID on the second girl.’

  Becca brings in a tray of cold drinks and a plate stacked with sandwiches. ‘I know you won’t feel like eating anything, Gemma, but just have half.’

  Greg’s phone pings. He clicks a few buttons and squints at the screen.

  ‘Here we are. There’s a good one here of both girls as they’re walking towards the supermarket this morning.’ He sits next to me and zooms in on their faces.

  ‘They’re much clearer pictures… I’m fairly sure that’s the same girl I saw with Rosie. Can you zoom out again?’

  Greg clicks back on the original image.

  ‘Yes, she’s the girl that followed me to work that day.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, because those are the yellow trainers she was wearing.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Nick holds out his hand and Greg gives him the phone. Nick zooms in on their faces. ‘Is this one Rosie?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Greg says, watching him closely.

  Nick swallows hard. For once he’s got nothing to say.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  5 August 2018

  Scarlett

  On Sunday morning, Mum comes down later than us. Her hair is swept up in a messy knot and she’s wearing a baggy T-shirt, off one shoulder.