‘Hi,’ she says in a quiet voice. She is uneasy at being centre-stage. She uncoils a silken Hermes scarf from around her neck and lets her eyes wander. Susan, as the hostess, is given special attention and is kissed confidently on both cheeks. I try to stand up, pushing the Swedish designer chair away from my body and stumble against the log burner.
‘Ouch,’ I scream. It is scorching hot. All eyes turn in my direction.
‘Oh no. Are you okay?’ Susan exclaims. ‘Here let me help you.’ She is by my side immediately, anxiously concerned and bordering on the manic. I say I’m happy where I am but she insists.
‘You’ll be much more comfortable up here. Come on.’ She leans over, proffers her arm, and guides me to the kitchen bar, a large slab of shiny black granite. The ladies are lined up on swivel stools, and Susan’s keen for me to be involved. ‘Also you’ll be able to join in the conversation better.’ She helps me up to sit on the end of the counter, next to Caroline.
‘Caroline. This is Alexis. Our very own private detective,’ Susan announces as she agitates to get me involved in proceedings.
‘Hi,’ says Caroline. I think she already knows that I’m a PI as she doesn’t pass comment. I imagine Susan has read out snippets from each of the guests’ individual CVs, sharing backgrounds and personal information, when extending the invitations to each lady in turn. I’m wondering what Caroline’s story might be when my phone pings again. She gives me a knowing smile when I ignore the alert. Perhaps she’s surmising that I don’t have children otherwise I would have worriedly extracted my phone immediately to check the message.
The Prosecco flows and as my mood mellows, I become less aware of my red eyes and itchy calf. One of the cats is perched on top of my foot which is encased in a sensible flat pump. The animal appears to be avoiding the other drinkers. The ladies all seem to be married but my marital status isn’t discussed and there seems to be an unspoken acknowledgement in the air that I’m living alone. I wonder how much they already know, and if our hostess suggested beforehand that prying might not be a good idea. Adam’s name isn’t mentioned.
Susan darts around the kitchen, cleaning, lifting and tidying while she tosses meaningful little conversational questions and asides up into the air. Her OCD is hiding something and her borderline anorexia is highlighted by a refusal to taste her own food. On the other hand she is drinking copious amounts of alcohol.
Before long I’m wondering how I am going to extricate myself from the situation. It’s not going to be easy jumping up and disappearing to the toilet, reappearing with coat and bag at the ready to make an early exit from the party. The cat on my foot has fallen asleep and is purring loudly. I reluctantly accept a top-up, allowing the excessive bonhomie to help stave off my unease. Our house has become bizarrely quiet without Adam around but deep down I’m filled with dread. Although he’s always worked long hours, there’s a threatening silence about the rooms without his usual presence.
I watch Caroline out of the corner of my eye. She is sitting primly on the end of the counter, drinking but not eating. There’s something controlled about her under the heavy make-up and bright lipstick. She doesn’t fit the usual bored housewife mould and isn’t adding anything of substance to the conversation. There’s no mention of a husband.
I finally push myself up off the stool and sympathetic eyes follow my struggle to the toilet. Offers of help abound but I politely decline steadying hands. On my way back, heading for the front door, I feel a soft tap on my left shoulder.
‘Here. Take this,’ Caroline whispers, thrusting a business card into my hand. ‘Call me, please.’ She nudges on past towards the cloakroom, having being careful that no one has seen the transaction. She needn’t have worried as the other ladies are not looking, continuing their steady buzz of conspiratorial gossip.
‘Here. Let me help,’ Susan says, as she opens the front door wide to let me out. ‘Thanks for coming.’ She kisses me goodnight, shivering suddenly from the cold invasion of night air. ‘When does the cast come off?’
‘A couple of weeks still. Sorry I’ve been such a nuisance, but it was lovely to get out. Thanks a lot.’
‘A pleasure.’ Susan gently closes the door behind me once I’ve assured her I can make the short walk home.
The night air is sharp, crisp and bitter. A deathly hush covers the close like a heavy blanket. The night has closed off our dead end from activity other than its own. I glance back over my shoulder at Susan’s house which is bright and brimming with life and false merriment but across the street our own home is in darkness.
I hobble warily on the crutches, trying to avoid any invisible patches of black ice. My head swims, my eyes itch but relief at escaping from the overpowering atmosphere is welcoming. The sky is clear and cloudless and millions of stars glisten overhead. I grip Caroline’s card, desperately trying not to drop it on the ground as I manoeuvre my leg one inch at a time. I manage to pocket the card, gingerly sliding it into my coat, as I reach the front door. I’ll phone her in a couple of days to see what she wants.
The house is very quiet. The little red light on the answerphone in the hall is flashing and, leaning the crutches up against the banisters, I delete the six messages which I know will be from Adam. I’m no longer interested in his edgy pleading. The anger and venom have started nudging back to the fore, swallowing up his early insincere apologies.
23
Alexis
I boot up my laptop in the lounge, not ready to go to bed. I turn the wooden blinds halfway so they are neither open nor closed, and turn on the side lamps.
Riverside Close is not yet asleep. The lights blink on and off in the neighbours’ homes. Blackness envelops the empty house for sale at number four. It is sandwiched between Susan’s house and one similarly constructed 1950s property on the other side. It’s only been on the market a week but it is eerily haunting with its black eyes and empty soul.
I shiver and look at the small white envelope which was lying on the mat in the hall on my return. My name is scribbled in Adam’s near-illegible handwriting. He will have popped it through the letterbox when I was at Susan’s; more vitriolic ranting no doubt. I tear it up and throw it in the bin before pulling ajar the door on the little mobile fridge which is neatly slotted under the small console table. Gary, bless him, brought it over. It’s on loan from his bedsit so I wouldn’t need to hobble to the kitchen for emergency supplies and a nightcap.
I pour a small measure of whiskey malt, filling the glass with ice, and settle back in the chair. It’s hard to believe that it was only a few weeks ago that Adam and I moved to the close together and introduced ourselves to the neighbours. Yet now I am alone, dreading him coming back. But I know he’s waiting.
Adam doesn’t know that Gary has popped back to his own flat for a few days. He was furious that I had taken in a lodger. Deep down, he knows I installed Gary both for my own security and to act as a potential witness should Adam go on the attack again. My husband is playing for time, methodically trying to inveigle his way back into my good books, assuming that I will eventually capitulate as he thinks I don’t have any other real options.
The first email in my inbox is from Adam. Rather than texting he’s assuming the formal approach is more likely to get my attention. He’s determined to talk, force me to listen. Ignoring him might not be wise, but until I’m mobile again I can’t risk a face-to-face confrontation, certainly not on my own.
Alexis. We need to talk. I’ve said I’m sorry but I’m not going to crawl through any more hoops. I’ll keep coming round until you let me in. Changing the locks was childish in the extreme. You can’t keep me out of my own house. I notice he doesn’t use the word home. His tone has hardened. I’ll be round tomorrow so you’d better let me in. Adam
My inbox alerts me that I have two messages on Join Me. I log in. I have been flitting between Facebook, Twitter and Join Me to stem the boredom since coming out of hospital. The random flyer through the letterbox was intriguing enough
to pique my interest and has helped me pass some time. Where Would You Like To Go? is a smart tagline.
Hi. What’s new?
The first message was left at 8pm. It’s by a guy called Eddie 300, the number part like an alias surname. He’s in Manchester tonight apparently but the weekend conferences will not last much longer, he tells me. He’s trying to persuade me to take a riverboat trip on the Thames. We’ve both put it on our ‘to do’ list. He seems determined for me to join him. The second message had been sent only fifteen minutes after the first one.
I’m back next week if you fancy it? If you’d rather meet up first to introduce ourselves, let me know. Eddie
I check out his profile again as I sip the warm malt, and wait for its soothing effect to take hold. From his profile pictures, this guy is unbelievably handsome. Although I only joined up to while away the time and plan some fun trips around the capital when Adam has finally gone and my life has to move on, it’s hard not to be personally interested in this guy. I zoom in on his face and increase the image size, drawn to his dark piercing eyes. His lips curl with a hint of sarcasm, showing off a row of perfect white teeth.
I envisage Adam’s crooked front set which cause him to talk with a slight lisp when he gets angry; an endearing trait when we first met. Now all I see is the angry spittle that escapes past the uneven bite in my direction.
Suddenly a loud squeal from outside breaks the silence. Something is being attacked. A cat will have trapped its prey; most likely a bird or perhaps a fox is the predator. The sound of pain is unbearable. I will the noise to end and suddenly, as quickly as it started, the silence returns. Something is dead, killed by a strong determined enemy. I reach for my jumper, pulling it on over my head. The heating has cut out and the temperature is plummeting.
While I am mulling the possibility of meeting up with Eddie when my cast comes off, my inbox pings again. Spam offers of gadgets I don’t want vie with communications from online companies pestering me for custom. Through the flow of rogue emails the name Caroline Swinton floats by in the ether. I leave Join Me to check what she wants.
As I lean across to close the slats on the window blinds, I hesitate when I notice that one of the close’s residents has arrived home and is staggering around outside their house. A light snaps on upstairs as someone runs down to let them in. I don’t really know the neighbours apart from Susan Harper and Olive from next door but decide to leave the blinds open, letting the outside world keep me company a while longer.
I open up Caroline’s email and read.
Hi. It was lovely to meet you tonight. Sorry if I acted a bit strangely. I wonder if we could meet up. I need your help. It’s rather urgent.
The word rather hints at politeness, eager not to pressure but the word urgent gets my attention. She’s emailing me in my role as PI, of that I’m certain.
Are you around tomorrow? I could pick you up at the Post Office in Church Street around 11am? I’d be really grateful. Best regards, Caroline Swinton
She hasn’t told Susan, is my first thought, otherwise she would have offered to pick me up from home. Something tells me that she doesn’t want to be seen with me donned in my private detective’s hat. I wait a minute and then email back, smiling to myself that I might have found a paying client. I’m a busy sleuth working into the small hours. Dad would be proud.
Hi Caroline. Yes, nice to meet. I should be fine for tomorrow at 11. I can’t go far with my leg in plaster but should be able to hobble as far as the post office. See you then. Alexis
I sit for a few more minutes, finishing my drink in the gloaming, and swill the melting ice cubes round my mouth. I can get back to Eddie another time. There’s no urgency until I’m more mobile.
Once I close down the computer, I feel the shadows lurking in the corners of the room but remind myself that the unsettling night-time fears are a small price to pay for Adam’s absence.
The Harpers must be asleep as their house is at last in darkness. The empty house alongside is no longer alone in the gloom but sits in companionable silence with its neighbours. A faint night light next door glows dimly at the Thompsons’. Olive doesn’t sleep and says it’s her arthritic pain that keeps her awake. She comes down in the night.
I join my neighbours and finally turn out the lights, glad to be sleeping downstairs. It’ll only be for two more weeks until my leg is free again. The silence is deafening but oddly comforting as I stretch out on the sofa bed.
My mind is alert in the dark, and gradually ghostly images invade my imaginings. Adam’s laughing at me but when I get a better look it is Eddie. He’s not laughing. He’s smiling. It’s a trick of the light. Caroline is dressed as a nurse, drinking champagne and grinning. Her glass is raised in celebration. It has been achieved. She smiles as she produces a bottle which she’s been hiding behind her back and lifts it high in the air. The shattering of glass outside awakens me with a start and breaks the nightmare. The cats are out prowling again.
24
Alexis
The Next Day
I see Caroline’s car sitting twenty or thirty yards up from the post office. She told me to look out for a red Audi sports model. I notice its engine is still running as I hobble along, cautiously steering my crutches over the wet pavement. She waves out the window with an elegantly gloved hand.
‘Hi.’ I tap gently on the window when I come alongside. She leans across and opens the passenger door and motions for me to get in. If we are trying to be discreet, this is rendered difficult by the manoeuvring of my cast into the cramped space of the sleek two-seater.
‘Ouch.’ I grimace. ‘Bloody thing. Only another two weeks,’ I say once I’m safely ensconced on the heated seats.
‘How did you do it?’ Her disinterest is palpable. She concentrates on guiding the car out into the road, checking all mirrors several times. Perhaps we’re being followed. I’m unsure if her agitated scrutiny is necessary for the few cars that drive along Church Street.
After a short journey, when conversation is limited to small talk about the weather and climate change, we end up in a café in Golders Green; an odd out-of-the-way place down a back alley. Our meeting seems strangely covert.
‘Here, let’s sit by the window,’ Caroline suggests enthusiastically as if we are being offered an interesting vista of a fountained piazza or a chic designer precinct full of busy interesting shoppers and ladies who lunch. Instead the window backs out onto a side street, dull and dingy, with grey rubbish bins lined up along the kerbside awaiting collection.
She orders coffees and launches without preamble into why we are here.
‘Jason and I’ve been married for nearly three years. Jason’s my husband, by the way.’ She relaxes, relieved, I think, to have got started. ‘He’s charming, good-looking, extrovert, caring and successful. Women are drawn to him.’ I try to visualise her husband. I once thought Adam was all these things. Infidelity, however, soon chips away at perfection. He now seems rather pathetic, and his ineffectual attempts to inveigle his way back into my life are pushing me further away and making me immovably judgemental. I no longer want him back. I wonder at Caroline’s loyalty.
‘Since we got together, he’s had a few casual affairs. Nothing serious, a couple of one-night stands but I’ve turned a blind eye. What’s the alternative?’ She drops her eyes, the lids of which are heavily coated with russet-coloured eye shadow, and stirs her coffee. She’s in love, in thrall to her husband. I think she’s trapped between a rock and a hard place, desperate to hold on to an errant partner when letting him go doesn’t seem to be an alternative.
Her earrings are large expensive gold hoops. I admire them while I finger my simple silver studs, before asking, ‘Is it different this time?’ She looks up with doleful eyes. I’m not fooled. Behind the windows of her soul lies a steely resolve. Caroline’s no pussycat.
‘I’m not sure but that’s what I want you to find out. I’m certain he’s seeing someone new.’ Outside, the view is dark and depress
ing and reflects our mood. As a light rain begins to fall, she drops her bombshell.
‘I think he’s seeing Susan. Susan Harper. I’d like you to follow them.’
25
Caroline
I squirm into my black satin dress and slip on the patent red stilettos. Tonight I’ll be his prostitute again and he’ll remember how it used to be; the erotic role-playing that once turned him on. It’s our third wedding anniversary and tonight I won’t be sharing him. ‘Hi.’ I sidle provocatively into the kitchen. I spot the red roses before he spots me. They match my shoes.
‘Caroline. Oh my,’ is all he says. He’s shocked by my appearance. I can’t tell if he’s happy or disgusted because Jason doesn’t do emotional displays; years of practice. I move up close to land a kiss, pushing my breasts into him and bend my left leg nimbly in the air behind me. I strike a pose. The false posturing sums up our life. His body tenses. He doesn’t respond but pushes me gently backwards.
‘Doesn’t it bring back memories?’ I put my leg back firmly on the ground, waiting for a reply which doesn’t come. I turn away, biting my lower lip hard in an effort to control the hurt. I hear the pop of a champagne cork behind me and feel his arms circle my waist as he hands me a bubbling flute filled to the brim.
4 Riverside Close Page 12
