by Jane Fallon
I’m so absorbed I wouldn’t hear if Angie was shouting about man-eating tarantulas. I peer out from behind the desk. Everything is quiet. I can hear the faint noise of crockery clanking from the direction of the kitchen. I dig deeper into the drawer. Find another letter from the bank, this time about a new account in the name of Mr A. J. Thornbury. And another about a transfer of one million pounds from his joint account with Stella.
Something strikes me. I go back and look at the paperwork about the loan. Skim through the details. Angie’s right, it’s an additional loan on the house. The total now owed is just shy of ten million pounds. The monthly repayments are extortionate. Then I notice something else. The money for the flat – the three and a half million – has to be repaid by the end of this year. I take a few quick photos, start flicking through the rest of the pile.
‘What have you found?’
I jump, throwing everything I’m holding up in the air.
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘Sorry, sorry,’ Angie says. ‘I just thought I’d better check on you.’ She helps me scrabble everything back up, but the pages are all out of sequence now.
‘I don’t know.’ I start putting them back in order. ‘At least …’ I reach for the stack I’ve already looked through. There’s something hovering at the far edge of my brain. ‘Hold on.’
I check back through them. Angie picks up the others and finishes straightening them up.
I recheck the contract for the Battersea flat. It’s in Al’s name only.
The remortgage is in Al’s name only.
The new bank account is in Al’s name only.
‘Something’s off with this,’ I say. Angie looks at me, big-eyed. ‘I just can’t work out what.’
14
I’m sitting looking through the photos I took, waiting for the kettle to boil. Last night I fell asleep almost before my head hit the pillow, despite the twenty billion different thoughts that were buzzing round my brain. It was as if they blew a circuit. I had too much to think about, so better if I thought about nothing. I don’t even remember dreaming.
I try to make sense of it but, if I’m being honest, I’m blinded by the amount of zeros after each number. If Al’s taking out a loan against the house, then the house must be in his name. I’m pretty sure that if he and Stella owned it jointly, then she would have to sign too. I suppose he could have lived there before with his ex-wife, bought out her share when Stella came on the scene. I assume they didn’t have kids, because I’ve never heard anyone mention them. Why would he burden himself with massively increased debts just to buy a new place? Why is he transferring money out of his and Stella’s joint account? Something to do with tax, maybe? Perhaps he’s a money launderer, although why he’d need to launder money the bank had legitimately given him I have no idea. I don’t think that’s how it works. I wish I’d stuck with Ozark.
There’s a tap on my door. I didn’t even hear anyone coming up the stairs. I stuff my phone in my pocket, stabbing at the buttons to hide the photos first. Gail is standing on my top step. It must be another working-at-home day.
‘Hey. Come on in …’
‘I don’t want to disturb you,’ she says, but she follows me inside anyway.
‘It’s fine. Tea? Coffee? The kettle’s just boiled.’
‘OK, then, coffee, please. It’s looking nice in here.’ I look round, trying to see the studio through her eyes. It does look homely. Lived in. ‘Messy,’ someone less charitable might say. Cramped. She sits on the sofa while I dig another mug out of the cupboard. ‘It’s only instant, is that OK?’
‘I actually prefer it. Don’t tell Ben. Our machine cost the same as a small car. He doesn’t even drink coffee.’
She’s probably not even joking, but I laugh anyway.
‘So,’ she says, ‘I thought you’d like to know, I asked Stella about the book.’
I stop pouring out the water and look round. ‘Oh. Tell me.’
‘She brought it up, in a way. You’re right – she’s pissed off with you. I tried to mitigate it a bit, but she wasn’t having it. I think it’s a defence mechanism, if I’m being honest. If she can paint you as the villain, then it means Al hasn’t done anything wrong …’
I don’t even react. I know this is exactly what Stella is thinking, even if she doesn’t realize it.
‘… Anyway, she was talking about the book – it’s a novel called Murder in the Marais, by the way, and she found it when she went snooping through his work bag one night. God knows why he took it home; he mustn’t have realized – and how out of order it was, and I just asked her outright what you’d written. I mean, what whoever had written, obviously, but as far as she was concerned, I meant you.’
‘It’s OK. I understand.’ I hand her the mug. There’s nowhere to sit unless I perch next to her on the tiny sofa, which feels way too intimate, so I go back to leaning on the kitchen cabinets.
‘So … wait, I wrote it down after I left, because I thought it might be important for you to have the exact wording.’ She fishes around in her pocket, pulls out a folded piece of paper. ‘Voici a Paris! Vers les etoiles et retour.’
‘I have no idea what that means. I mean, I recognize most of the words …’
‘It’s pretty basic and not even grammatically correct. It’s definitely not written by a French person, anyway. More like Google Translate.’
Au revoir, Fifi, au revoir, Félice. Hello, Faith, hello, Fiona.
‘Yes, I guessed as much. So …’
‘It’s basically meant to mean, “Here’s to Paris. To the stars and back.” I think.’
I’m starting to wonder if F is a would-be astronomer. She definitely has an obsession with the planets. ‘Jesus. No wonder Stella’s pissed off with me. I hope you know I would never write something that cheesy anywhere. Let alone in a book I was giving to a married man. To anyone.’
‘You’re preaching to the converted,’ she says. She puts her coffee near her lips, puts it down again. Too hot. ‘She told me off again for letting you move in in the first place. Anyway, for what it’s worth, I told her I couldn’t imagine you genuinely making a pass at him. I said you were still hung up on your ex – I hope you don’t mind?’
‘I probably am,’ I say. ‘It’s probably true. Um … are they happy, do you think? I mean, I know they’re planning the wedding but …’ This is as close as I dare come to telling her my suspicions. For all Gail’s insights, I think she’s the kind of person who likes to assume the best in people. Which is a great quality, don’t get me wrong. But I think it means she’d rather not hear negatives.
Gail gives a wry laugh. ‘I would never try to fathom the dynamics of anyone else’s relationship. But yes, I think it works for them. And, who knows? Maybe after they’re married he’ll calm down.’
‘I don’t get it,’ I say, but then I think maybe the drama is what gives them the passion. Maybe you need the lows, the fights and jealousies, to get the highs. Maybe a doomed marriage is one like mine that just plods along on an even keel. It’s too depressing to think about. Because isn’t that exactly what a relationship should be? Me and you against the world. Compromise and consideration. A united front. I’d always thought so.
‘It wouldn’t work for me either, but who are we to judge?’
‘Well, I think I can a bit, since he dragged me into it …’
‘True.’ She pours a bit more milk into her coffee from the carton I’ve left on the coffee table. A jug was one of the things I considered surplus to requirements when I boxed up my worldly goods. I wasn’t expecting to be entertaining. ‘I don’t think it’ll happen again, though. And I know it’s ghastly having her think you made a play for him, but it could have been worse.’
I’m not sure it could, from my point of view, but I don’t say that.
‘I’m just going to keep my head down. Try and forget about it,’ I lie.
‘Good idea. These things have a way of blowing over.’ She wants everything to go back to norma
l, and I understand that. This is her home. Her life. She’s done me a favour and now I need to return it by pretending everything is fine. All forgiven. I get it. I’d probably be doing exactly the same if I were her.
The thing is, I’m not her.
15
‘What I can’t get my head around is the wedding,’ I say to Angie on the phone later. I’ve texted her over all the photos I took of the documents, and I’ve spent most of the morning since Gail left looking at them again, my face screwed up, as if that might help me make out the tiny, blurry print. There’s only so far my fingers can stretch the pictures to read the fine type. I’m walking through the woods, towards the open spaces of the heath. I need to clear my head. ‘Why is he going along with it if he’s buying up sneaky flats and siphoning money out of their joint account?’
‘Maybe that money is to pay for it? Maybe the flat is his wedding present to her? They sound like the sort of people who might think something like that was normal.’
‘Then why is it in his name?’ I pass a woman with a Jack Russell. We give each other that ‘we don’t know each other but it would seem rude not to, given as we’re the only two people here’ smile.
‘Because it’s a surprise. He’ll transfer it into her name once the wedding’s over.’
‘Why is he buying her a flat as a present?’ I’m not even concerned about the idea of Al spending three and a half million on a gift. They’re nothing if not flash. It’s more that it seems odd he would gift her something she could never show off, as opposed to, say, a Ferrari or a small yacht. ‘It’s not very romantic.’
‘Because he’s a flash git?’ Angie says, and I guffaw.
‘Well, there is that.’
‘Even without the flat, why is he going ahead when he’s got F on the side?’
‘Because he’s the kind of man who always has someone on the side. That’s all F is to him. In his head, she’s not a threat to his relationship with Stella. So long as Stella never finds out. But F … We can’t keep calling her F, we need a name for her …’
‘Fanny,’ I say, without thinking. ‘I will never unsee that Polaroid …’
Angie snorts. ‘OK. My guess is that Fanny might not be satisfied with being a bit on the side and that’s why she gave him a book with something written in it. She was marking her territory. Hoping that Stella might find it.’
I trudge on through the woods, going over it all again. What am I missing?
‘Are you still there?’ I realize that Angie has been talking and I haven’t heard a word.
‘Yes. Sorry, what did you say?’
‘I said all this speculation is pointless anyway as you still have no idea who Fanny is.’
‘I know. I’m wasting my time.’
‘There’ll be something,’ she says, but it’s not much comfort.
‘Maybe.’
I distract myself for the rest of the afternoon by swiping aimlessly through Tinder, dismissing every potential mate without a second look. I’m lonely, but I can’t raise either the courage or enthusiasm to start yet another conversation with yet another soon-to-be lost cause. Then I scroll through PrimeLocation, revisiting everything that comes up in the right area at the right price, even though I’ve already dismissed them all for what seemed to me good reasons.
I pick up the phone and call Rahina. It goes straight to voicemail, as it always does when she’s with a client. I don’t bother to leave a message. I should give myself a deadline, I decide. Even if I found the perfect house tomorrow and the sale breezed through without a complication, it would still take the best part of three months. I have no intention of renewing my lease on the annexe. No intention of not being my daughter’s main caregiver for more than the six months I allowed myself. I make myself a promise – if I haven’t found my dream home by the beginning of June, I’ll settle for whatever I can get that’s safe and in walking distance of her school.
As ever, whenever I call Rahina my finger hovers over the name that’s next to hers in my contacts. Rebecca. Rebecca was the closest of my ‘couple friends’. Married to David’s best mate from his uni days. We hit it off immediately. She was funny and feisty and a bit clumsy. She and I soon became close. Not bosom buddies exactly, but we had a relationship that was outside of our coupledom. A coffee here and there. The cinema a few times. Playdates with our kids. I mistook it for real friendship. I let my old friends go. Gradually. Unconsciously. I got sloppy with returning calls, remembering birthdays, being free to chat on the phone, let alone meet up. I didn’t mean for it to happen; it just did. And then, when they all eventually stopped trying, I told myself that that was how life went. You moved on. Mine and David’s social lives were now inextricably linked. They’d merged. I never even realized until recently that I’d brought no one to the table. Rather than our old friends joining to make one big happy family, I had just adopted his. I didn’t even notice it was happening. I think about sending Rebecca a text. Something short and sweet like ‘Coffee soon?’ but I know there’s no point. Even if she could find the time for me, I don’t want to torture myself by hearing about David’s new life and, outside of our husbands’ friendship, I can’t now remember what we had in common.
For the first few weeks after David left, I told myself he’d be back. It was a midlife crisis. However much he protested that it wasn’t, I was sure it was all about sex. Painful though it was to think about, I assumed he’d dip a toe into the scary world of dating – which had changed beyond recognition since we met – have a couple of soulless and empty encounters and then realize he’d made a huge mistake. He’d come crawling back. I told myself I’d forgive him. We’d get past it.
Of course, that hadn’t happened, and now I knew it never would. I missed him – missed being a family, a team – so much I wore the feeling like a suit of armour. Weighing me down, stopping anyone else from getting close.
16
For want of anything better to do, I’m back at AJT Music the next Monday, rifling through the detritus on the desks in the hope of finding potential Fannys. Not a sentence I ever thought I would hear myself say. I forgot to warn Angie I was coming, but I find her on the first floor, in the open-plan office, singing to herself as she wipes down what bits of windowsill she can access.
‘Very nice,’ I say, when she gets to the end of what might be ‘Chandelier’ by Sia, although she might have just dropped a heavy weight on her foot. She jumps and turns round, clutching her chest.
‘For fuck’s sake, will you stop doing that.’
‘Is that any way to talk to your boss?’ I say, laughing
She raises a scrawny eyebrow. ‘Is this a work visit?’
‘This is as good as my social life gets these days. I couldn’t stay away.’
‘Any more news on you know what?’
I shake my head. ‘That’s why I’m here. I thought I could have a look for any females beginning with F. You never know.’
She throws her duster at me. ‘Get on with it then. I’ll start at this end.’
By the time I’ve dusted my half of the desks I’ve found Grant, Naomi, Jay, Kate, Andi, Sam, Tanya and Martha. I’m guessing from Angie’s silence that she’s out of luck too. The work is strangely therapeutic. Back in the day, when I first started the business, it was just me and my first two employees, Angie and a woman called Martha, and I used to work alongside them every night at the one company we cleaned for. I’d chosen cleaning randomly, but in truth I’d always enjoyed it. Not in a ‘does this small heap of cat hair give me joy or not?’ kind of way, but because you saw results. You started with a messy space and ended up with a clean one. It was tangible, quantifiable even. I remember being exhausted but exhilarated that I was doing something for me, even though it really made no financial sense at that point. But I didn’t want to go back to full-time work. I couldn’t imagine spending all day chatting to people about medical-insurance claims, like I’d been doing before I got pregnant. I wanted to be there for my little girl. And David was ea
rning enough so that I didn’t have to. I was lucky. He used to tease me, call me Alan Sugar. I don’t think he thought I’d still be doing it six years later.
‘Nothing?’ I say to Angie.
She shakes her head. ‘I’ll do the ground floor tomorrow. Maybe she’s in Accounts.’
We both jump as the door swings open and a woman I’ve never seen before walks in. She stomps over to what, I assume, is her desk, picks something up and leaves again. She doesn’t even acknowledge us. My heart starts racing. That’s how easy it would be for Al to walk in and catch us snooping.
‘One of us always needs to be on the lookout,’ I say, once I’m sure she’s gone. ‘I might pop in again on Wednesday after I’ve dropped Betsy off.’
‘Jesus, you really do need to get a social life.’ She leans over and gives me a hug. I’m nearly crushed by her scrawny biceps. It’s an unexpected and sweet gesture. She’s not usually a hugger. Humiliatingly, I feel my eyes prick with tears.
On Tuesday I finally get around to sending out the reminders to all my office clients about their annual spring clean. Once a year they each get their employees to clear all their crap from their desks and the surrounding areas and we go in for a whole day or even two over a weekend and blitz everything. Wash the floors, clean the inside of windows. Take everything off shelves and put it carefully back again in exactly the same configuration. Empty all the cupboards. It’s a big job, but it pays disproportionately well.
Then I do a mail-out to the few domestic clients I have. None of them are weekly – our services are expensive compared to a regular cleaner – but they’ve all used us in the past for a yearly spruce-up. I had hoped I might persuade a few of The Close’s residents that they could do with a onceover, but I don’t think any of them are going to be letting me into their house any time soon. What if I flung myself at their husbands? What if I wrote them cringey notes in French and accompanied them with photos of my hooha? Still, I order flyers detailing our services that I can distribute to the nearby streets. Might as well try and nab myself some one-per-cent clients while I’m here.
