4 Riverside Close

by Diana Wilkinson

  ‘Happy birthday,’ I repeat and set the parcel and envelope on the coffee table. ‘For afters.’ He pulls me down onto his lap and tries to kiss me. I pull away.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘For everything.’

  If I was going to feel remorse this would be the moment but I don’t.

  ‘I’ll put some music on and you can tell me about your day,’ he suggests. I think he’s wondering whether to give in to the moment and make love to me by the hearth in a devil-may-care fashion, like lovers in a cheesy romantic movie. He’s so sure that he’s in control.

  I sway my hips in time to the music, drunk from all the champagne and shimmy with abandon. Adam picks me up, swirls me round and pulls me towards him before running his hands over the sheer fabric of my dress. A zip runs all the way from top to bottom. He toys with it for quite some time, slowly undoing it notch by notch, teasing me with his patience. I plan to stop him when he reaches my coccyx.

  ‘What’s that?’ Adam spits out the question.

  ‘What’s what?’ I play along. He turns away and snaps the main light on. He points down at my lower back.

  ‘Shit, Alexis. Is that a tattoo? What the hell?’

  ‘Don’t you love it? It’s a detective with a magnifying glass. I thought it perfect.’ I spin round, drunk on wine and adrenaline when the realism of what I’m doing warns me to sober up.

  ‘I think that’s a bit over the top. You know I hate tattoos and they’re a medical nightmare to remove.’ He assumes I’ll want to remove it and he will be responsible for the procedure. I manage to pull the zip up again, relieved that the sexual pantomime at least is over.

  ‘Let’s forget it for now. Here, calm down and open your presents.’ There’s only one apparent present but the large card envelope contains something much more exciting. I move to the chair opposite, no longer at ease on the sofa beside him, as he rips open the small package. The box is dark green and hints at something expensive; jewellery, a ring perhaps. He’s trying not to look excited as that would negate his irritation over the tattoo. A stern upper lip is his choice.

  At first he’s not able to make out what the cufflinks represent as he peers down at the silver accessories but eventually realises they are exact replicas of the tattoo on my lower back. A picture of a detective with magnifying glass is embossed onto each small square of sterling silver.

  ‘They’re not expensive but it’s the thought that counts,’ I say.

  He doesn’t know what to say. That works for me.

  I then hand him the white envelope, having dulled the mood sufficiently for the final blow.

  I must say Gary is very good. The black and white images could be Andy Warhol originals. They’re evocative, sensual and vivid. Debbie is curled around Adam with her legs high in the air in the first photo. In the second, their lips are locked, tongues slithering in and out the wet crevices. The third one is the best. It was taken from the street outside Waverley Mansions with the long zoom lens and shows Debbie’s naked breasts pressed hard into Adam’s bare torso.

  Suddenly there’s a knock at the front door.

  There it is again, persistent; louder. Before Adam has time to speak and stop me, I move past him towards the hall, relieved of the distance presenting itself between us. I unfasten the latch and pull the door open. It’s Olive.

  ‘Hello, love. I remembered you said it was Adam’s birthday, so I baked a cake. I could see you were at home so thought I’d drop it over.’ Olive beams proudly down at her creation. It is covered in blue and black icing and there’s one candle in the centre.

  ‘I didn’t like to ask how old he was going to be,’ she whispers. She hovers on the doorstep, waiting, hoping to be invited in. I take the cake and thank her, saying that we’re in the middle of dinner but what a lovely thought.

  ‘Thank you, Olive. Adam will be delighted. He loves cake,’ I lie.

  Olive turns to leave, visibly disappointed at not being invited in, but she understands. She has been watching us.

  ‘My pleasure,’ she says before winding her way slowly back down the path.

  16

  Susan

  I stand on the scales, after wiping them furiously first to clean the surface. Roger’s wet feet have left behind huge dirty webbed outlines. I look in the long mirror and don’t recognise the person staring back. Although the image is skeletal, it’s still too fat. Perfection requires dedication, self-control. I grit my teeth before I dare to look at the numbers which slowly flicker to life. I am two pounds up. I decide to try again as I know I didn’t eat any of the calorific canapés and starved myself all day yesterday. The bottle of wine on its own surely couldn’t have inflated the figures by so much.

  Since I’ve been trying to control my weight, aiming at perfection, I’m eager to watch other people overeat. It makes me feel good, strong and superior. The cholesterol buttery-filled offerings which I prepared for the ladies last night were calorie laden but they were all eaten. This memory calms me down. My hands are shaking, with a persistent tremor, and I scrub them clean while I wait for the scales to reboot.

  I’ve become increasingly gaunt but Roger doesn’t seem to notice my demise and diplomatically avoids the subject of my appearance by telling me I need more fresh air. I pinch my cheeks until they redden and notice a very small broken vein on my left cheek. I follow its line with my finger which comes to rest on a small cold sore on my upper lip. I should be ecstatic that my weight has dropped so much in the last few weeks but I don’t feel particularly healthy, wondering when the dizzy spells will abate. I know my strict regime needs me to cut back on alcohol but it’s my comfort blanket; it helps me cope.

  I dress quickly, scrunching my hair back from my forehead. There’s an eerie silence about the house. I go downstairs and remember the relief, peace and quiet I had felt when the kids first started school. Whole days of nothing beckoned to be squandered at will: shopping trips, languid lunches with the girls or a game of tennis. I grip the banister to steady myself from the dizziness. Tilly has dropped ‘Beanie’ on the stairs. I pick up the tattered bear, smelling its dirty scent, sweet and familiar.

  The safe is located in the understairs cupboard, right at the back. It’s bolted in to the floor. Roger is determined that no one will ever touch anything that is his. He thinks I am his. The cupboard is cramped and I bang my head on the overhead beams. My knees bend further and further down as if I’m sinking into a quagmire, until I’m crawling the remaining few inches to the corner. The code to the safe is Noah’s birthday. Tilly questioned why it wasn’t hers. Our next safe will have her unique code which she’ll choose herself and not share with anyone else. Secrets are such fun.

  I pick up the torch beside the mat which covers the top of the huge dial and illuminate the space. The mess disturbs me. I frantically move odd shoes and tatty files around in an attempt to create a semblance of order. I stack the files and scrabble around for matching shoes. Tomorrow, not today, I’ll clean out the cupboard. The thought makes me panic as my list of cleaning and household tasks is becoming too long. I’ve no time for what needs to be done to bring order back into my life. I make empty promises to tackle fruitful activities. Perhaps this task tomorrow will delay the early glass of wine.

  There are several large brown envelopes in the safe. I take the first one, the one on top of the neat pile. Roger keeps our documents meticulously filed and the cash envelopes are carefully labelled in black marker pen. Five thousand pounds will not be missed. He squirrels money away more readily than he spends it. Roger will not be near the safe until the end of next month and then I’ll offer to hide his petty cash for him.

  Sweat is streaming down my forehead and small strands of hair have worked their way loose. My fingers are dirty, and dust motes attack my eyes and make me sneeze. The explosion echoes in the dark as I fiddle with the dial. A large black spider scuttles out from under the skirting board and I bang my head again, screaming in the silence. I wonder at my fear of the spider. It is ugly but har
mless. Tilly shares my phobia. It has something to do with the animal’s speed and dark hairiness. Noah happily pulls their legs off if he’s clever enough to catch one and taunts us with his prize, seizing on the pleasure of hard-earned control.

  The clock in the hall has started its hourly wind-up sequence. I don’t need to be told the time. I’m living in a new dimension where I can hear the seconds, minutes and hours tick by. I count them, willing them to pass, until I can meet Vince again. Although deep down I know survival depends on crushing my animal instincts, I’m unable to quell the all-consuming obsession which is controlling my life.

  I crawl backwards away from the safe and slam shut the cupboard, locking it behind me. My knees ache from kneeling; there’s no flesh to pad out my bones. I put the key back in the small bureau behind the door and pick up my handbag.

  The phone in the lounge rings but I leave it. I need to get going; Vince will be waiting for the promised bank notes. As the clock chimes its last stroke, I exit the front door and step out into the afternoon sunshine. I scan the circle of our cul-de-sac, an almost-perfect ring. I’m scared people might be watching and someone might guess what I’m up to. I scrunch up the plastic bag containing the wad of notes and stuff it into my handbag, wishing I’d done this inside away from prying eyes. The claustrophobic enclosure of the houses makes me feel as if I’m encased in the glass bulb at the end of a thermometer. My skin is see-through and fragile.

  Lara, a neighbour on the other side of the close, is in her garden and she waves. Did she see the carrier bag I was holding as I left the house and is she wondering where it’s gone? I spot Olive Thompson, in the house next to Lara’s, sitting by her window, net curtains veiling her ghostly form. She makes me uneasy. Lara is trying to coax her dog into her car, probably to walk it through Porters Wood, and this gives me the chance to hop into my own car and start the engine. I need to get away.

  As I drive round the circle to get out the other side, Lara waves merrily in my direction. I wave back before putting my foot down hard on the accelerator.

  A week has gone by since I handed across the clean crisp bank notes in the Waitrose carrier bag but the disappointment that there have as yet been no strings attached is gnawing away. We met on Hampstead Heath and walked round the lake. After I had handed over the money, Vince told me he couldn’t stop for long as he had to make the trip into London to deliver the cash. However, true to his word, he texted back the next day and promised that today’s treat would be on him. At the end of his text he mentioned casually that he’s been offered more investment opportunities and can’t wait to tell me about them. He thinks we’re sharing them together. For now I’m managing to put the unease at the amounts involved to the back of my mind. All I seem able to think of is ways to keep on meeting him.

  I’m back on the train rattling towards London with my nose pressed close against the glass. Outside, the lush green countryside has given way to a concrete jungle. The train is chugging between stops and we pass characterless tower blocks, apartments defined by individual rows of washing trailed across steel-rimmed balconies. Potted plants are sporadically threaded through ugly railings. I wonder where all the people are, the inhabitants of these hideous shells. Windy Pines, our brightly named home, suddenly seems palatial, belonging to another world.

  Perhaps if the train had carried on as far as Brighton or continued westwards towards Somerset or even as far afield as Cornwall, I might have stayed aboard. But the London terminal called a screeching halt to such wild imaginings and after a short tube journey in the bowels of the earth, I find myself in some back-street mews not far from Hyde Park Corner, again trying to get my bearings.

  ‘Can I help you?’ A tall suited gent stops and offers encouragement. He probably thinks I’m a tourist and I’m tempted to shrug, feign a language barrier and scuttle away.

  ‘Burton Mews. It doesn’t seem to be marked on the map,’ I say, keeping my head down. I turn the map towards him, wishing I didn’t have to say the street name. He might be a witness at some future date, telling Roger that he did indeed talk to me on the day in question at the junction to Burton Mews. The hammering in my chest is threatening to break through the walls and I can feel a random bout of tinnitus ringing in my ears.

  ‘It’s down there on the right. I’m walking that way. I’ll show you.’ He takes the lead and I follow in silence a couple of paces behind. He halts and points down the small cobbled street indicating my destination. ‘Here you are. Have a good day.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I immediately spot the restaurant sign hanging up ahead, swinging merrily in the sunshine above a small intimate-looking bistro. When I reach the door, I stop and peer in through the frosted glass. I can make Vince out standing by the bar, talking and laughing with someone at a nearby table; a woman on her own. I experience the most excruciating pang of jealousy. His image is distorted but his manner is evident; flirtatious and assured despite the vaguely grotesque outline. I think of Dorian Gray.

  I gingerly push the door open and Vince’s attention immediately transfers in my direction.

  ‘Hi,’ he says. ‘Susan.’ He raises his hand in greeting and moves towards me, quelling any romantic notions the lone woman might have been harbouring.

  ‘Hi. Hope you haven’t been waiting too long. I got a bit lost,’ I say. I struggle in the heat to get my coat off when a waiter once again appears out of nowhere to help. Vince leans over and we kiss lightly on the lips as the cheek-to-cheek custom no longer seems apt. The lady at the table returns to her menu.

  ‘Come. I’ve booked us the best table, over there by the window.’ A waiter leads the way and asks Vince how he’s been keeping. Perhaps it’s a stray polite enquiry but my neuroses make me wonder. I’m unable to decide if it is Vince’s easy manner that fuels random conversations but the waiter seems particularly respectful as if he’s serving a regular customer deserving of special attention. It’s a recurring pattern.

  17

  Susan

  ‘Vince.’ We’ve finished eating and the plates have been cleared away.

  ‘This sounds serious.’ He purses his lips with mock gravity and opens his eyes wide.

  ‘Can we talk?’ I ask. I need to hear his angle on what’s happening, to help me sort out a way forward. ‘I don’t think this is a good idea anymore.’

  ‘Why? I thought we were having fun.’ He takes my hand and looks into my eyes as if searching for a clue. I’m momentarily thrown off tack by his apparent surprise at the opening.

  ‘We are. It’s…’ I don’t really know what to say. I’m not prepared to own up yet about Roger and the kids. It somehow seems wrong, tarnishing any good impression Vince might have of me. This still strangely seems important.

  ‘Listen. I understand. It’s that I love being with you and thought we might have something special going on,’ he says. It sounds like a corny line from a movie. I think of film stars, play-acting, while the cameras roll. ‘If it’s the money, I’ll give it back to you. I promise.’ He moves slightly away. I again experience that sick feeling of loss.

  ‘It’s not the money. Look.’ I bend down and extract a chequebook from my bag, keen to show him that I’m willing to trust his investments. ‘Ten thousand pounds. I’ve already written it out. I don’t know much about property bonds but I trust you. This is it though. There’s no more.’

  ‘You’re a star. You won’t regret it, I promise. We’ll double our money, I’m certain.’ He leans across and pushes a strand of hair away from my eyes. ‘Thanks.’ He takes the cheque and folds it in two before slotting it into his wallet. For a bizarre moment I feel like I’m paying for his services rather than investing in some potentially profitable business scheme but his use of the word ‘our’ offers me some security.

  ‘I’ve left the name blank. I couldn’t remember the name of your broker. You can fill it in. Is that all right?’

  He nods before sharply flicking his fingers at the waiter who appears instantly alongside.


  ‘A bottle of champagne, please. We’re celebrating.’ He turns to me, smiling, once more entwining his fingers with mine and says, ‘You’re not in a rush, are you? Let’s talk over a proper drink.’

  I have a list of questions. Why me? Are you married? Do you have kids? What about your past? Have you always lived in North London? What about your parents? But I don’t ask any of them. Instead we let the bubbles go up our noses; laugh and joke at the motley selection of passers-by who motor past our vantage point by the window and let the sexual tension build up between us until it becomes unbearable.

  One hour later we leave the restaurant side by side like a couple of merrily drunk young lovers but the cold air outside sobers us into an awkward silence. We both know what’s going to happen but only Vince knows where. I let him lead the way, blanking rational thought from my mind, letting the champagne work its anaesthetic magic. I know I’m at that point of no return as we blindly push past people and shops. I spot the hotel, discreetly tucked between two large private residences, before Vince points it out.

  It is exquisitely chic adorned on either side of the entrance with vibrantly filled flower pots. A red, yellow and purple display fruitlessly vies for my attention. The ringing in my ears is back, the incessant cacophony of sound blocking out rational thought.

  I hover behind as Vince walks up to the reception and collects a set of keys. The woman behind the desk has been expecting him. This should make me uneasy but I don’t care.

  ‘Let’s walk. It’s only on the second floor.’ Vince takes my hand and leads me towards the stairs away from the lifts in the foyer. I feel like a child being led away by a stranger, someone magical and intriguing, to a special place somewhere far off that will be festooned with treats and rewards. I choose to forget the dangers of accepting sweets from strangers.