The notion of an actual house, however, in London W5, is not only a dream of a different order but also an unexpected one, because we have already agreed to buy another property. Angus was insistent, however. Apparently, the estate agent had hinted, rather bluntly, that the owner has money problems and is very keen to sell. As Angus relayed this information his voice flashed with the excitement of a man with a bargain in his sights, a killing to be made.
I ring the bell and wait. Eventually the door opens, but not to an estate agent. The man behind it is quite old, mid-forties, I guess. He has, dark hair with threads of grey that flatter rather than age, brown eyes and a lean, tanned face suggestive of travel and money – and instantly more compelling than the pasty complexions of my civil service colleagues. He is average height and wearing jeans with a white, immaculately laundered shirt that looks like it belongs behind a suit but is unbuttoned at the neck, and he is cradling a large glass of red wine. We consider each other for a long, unnerving second.
‘I suppose it’s safe to let you come in?’ he says, eventually.
The words are sardonic, of course, spoken with humour, but flecked, I come to realise later, with vigilance.
My face must register shock or anxiety, or possibly both, because the man’s shoulders immediately drop, he laughs and pushes the door further open so that a mechanical drone from a radio or television spills on to the pavement.
‘I’m sorry. A joke. A bad one. Come in.’
Although it is summer, the city dusk has already fallen. An invisible sun is slipping beneath the earth, the air turning mauve as the classy cars and buildings light up like fairground rides. A few doors further up the street a couple is leaving one of those ubiquitous pasta places. A conversation drifts over their retreating footsteps; the man is jovial, slotting his arm around the woman’s waist.
‘I’m Mark,’ he says, because I haven’t moved. ‘Mark Tyler.’ And he holds out his hand.
I can’t help but stare at him.
‘The estate agent had to leave, but it doesn’t matter because I got back from a business trip earlier than I was expecting. Really,’ he adds, ‘I don’t bite.’ He gestures at the wine. ‘I opened this a while ago. I got a little bored waiting for you.’ He smiles again, but when another moment passes a frown begins to crease the space above his nose. Actually, I’m not reacting to what he’s said. At the time, I barely register the oddity of his opening remark. The reason I am paralysed, rooted to a spot between the bins and a tub of shabby geraniums, is because he looks exactly like an older, more intriguing version of Daniel. Finally, I shake myself, mutter an apology – something about work and getting lost – and then I step over the threshold.
Inside the place is striking, just as Angus promised on the telephone. He’s gutted the entire ground floor to make it one big space, the kitchen at the far end with white cupboards and grey tiles, the front all taupe carpet and magnolia woodwork. Bookshelves have been fitted either side of the fireplace. One has been modified to accommodate a flat-screen television and somewhere on the far side of the world racing cars are screaming around in tarmac circles. It looks to me like a room from a magazine that only lacks a celebrity sprawled over a sofa.
Mark walks over to the television, switches it off, and we are stranded suddenly in the middle of an awkward silence.
‘A glass of wine?’ He angles the bottle over an empty glass, pauses and cocks his head to one side. ‘Or perhaps you’re the type who doesn’t drink during the week?’ He is teasing me already, his voice a singer’s baritone with an accent that slices square the end of his words. I should feel uncomfortable or patronised, instead, absurdly, I am flattered at his familiarity. I take the glass and let him lead me towards the back of the house.
He maintains a steady chatter, describing where he sourced this fabric, why he used Romo rather than Sanderson, or Ross rather than Conran. The labels trip from his tongue like the names of family members. I open cupboard doors, run my hand along the breakfast bar, and ask the usual questions about how long he’s lived here and whether the roof is OK and are there any damp problems, but by the time I follow him upstairs I already want to buy the house so badly I am formulating phrases I can use with the estate agent as to why we are pulling out of the purchase Angus and I settled upon two weeks ago, and ignoring the stabs of guilt that are needling the insides of my stomach.
Four doors lead from the landing. First, at the front, he shows me the main bedroom, awash with creams and pale yellow. Next a room that is perfect for a cot – though instinctively I choose not to draw attention to the ring on my finger, my soon-to-be wedding. The third door he opens with a flourish. Inside is a bathroom. The bath, the size of a bed, is sunk into black marble, the shower has a vertical line of body-jets and a floor-length mirror along the inside wall. Standing in the doorway I find I am blushing and whether it is association, premonition, or simply the effects of alcohol on an empty stomach, is impossible to tell. In any case, Mark has already moved towards the other, fourth, room. Here the door is slightly ajar, the darkness inside diluted by the soft gleam of a night light. He holds it a little further open to a single bed and a child-size form nestled under the duvet. Without him doing anything, I understand that I am not to go in.
‘Normally my ex-wife has custody of him during the week,’ he says. And shuts the door.
Back downstairs, he tops up our glasses and sits on a beige leather sofa. He gestures at the other, facing him.
‘So, Claire, what do you think?’
I take another mouthful of wine, buying time, but I cannot see a reason not to tell him. I explain that my fiancé and I have agreed to buy a flat already, from an elderly woman who is moving in with her son; that all has been agreed and solicitors instructed; that I only came to view the house because Angus was so insistent. I hear my words, earnest and concerned – and empty. I stop and he smiles, clearly amused.
‘But you did come didn’t you, Claire?’
When I say nothing, he raises his eyebrows encouragingly, as if he is prompting a child in a nativity play. I nod slowly, caught moth-like by his gaze. I think this is how Daniel would have looked in fifteen years’ time.
‘And you have no legal obligation to buy the other property?’ Mark continues.
I shake my head obediently.
‘Well then…’ He shrugs dismissively, reaches for the bottle, and begins to ask me questions about my work.
An hour later, I am still talking. We have covered the Department – its external and internal politics – my home, even Angus. Curled within a golden pool of meticulous lighting, the hateful shoes kicked beneath the sofa, I am feeling quite loquacious. There is no stopping me, although my enunciation, thickened by wine, requires increasing attention. Mark seems enthralled by the minutiae of my job and I am still in full flow when he glances, rather suddenly, at his watch.
‘Goodness,’ he says.
I look at my watch too. ‘Goodness,’ I repeat. I gather my things in a clumsy rush. At the door there is a large rectangular mirror set within an ornately carved frame. I see my face, flushed along the cheekbones, my mahogany-coloured hair, flattened by the earlier walk, like wings against my face, my eyes which are green, and the brown, rather rumpled, cloth of my suit.
‘Beautiful, don’t you think?’
For a wild split second I think he is referring to me.
Then he says, ‘It’s Spanish. From before the civil war.’ He runs a reverential finger around the edge of a pale walnut rose petal.
‘Yes,’ I say, feeling stupid. I touch the mirror too, my heart pounding unaccountably. And then, because he seems to expect something more, ‘How lovely to own something so special.’
There is a small pause before his fingers slip from the wooden frame and onto the sleeve of my jacket. ‘You must give me your phone number,’ Mark says. ‘Just in case’ – finding my eyes, he holds them captive – ‘we need to speak some more about the house.’
* * *
Back in our rented apartment, Angus is standing in the kitchen, still in his suit. He seems to be watching the entrance, waiting for me.
‘What did you think?’ he asks, the moment I close it behind me.
‘I like it,’ I say carefully. ‘I like it a lot, but can we afford it? It must be much more expensive than the apartment on Warrington Road?’
Angus turns his head away from me to loosen his tie, pulling at the knot with the fingers of his left hand. ‘It’s not actually been formally put on the market yet but the estate agent is sure we’d get it at a knockdown price because the owner needs to move in a hurry.’
‘We’ve agreed to buy Warrington Road,’ I persist. ‘Do you think we can really pull out now? Won’t the seller be terribly upset?’ I hope my protest is because I am a nice, ethical person who considers it important to keep her promises whether or not I am legally obliged to do so, but I suspect it might be because of Mark, an animal-sharp instinct that is telling me to stay away from him. I wonder if my plea sounds as half-hearted to Angus as it does to me.
A cloud appears to cross Angus’s face but it clears so quickly I immediately doubt whether I saw anything at all. Instead he smiles, crosses the kitchen and cups my chin between both his hands. ‘Dear, sweet Claire, I really do think you would buy an apartment you didn’t want, just because of what you’d told some old lady.’ His mouth touches mine, but his eyes stay open, our gaze locked. Then his hands fall and already he’s moving away from me, towards the bedroom, which is no distance from our sitting room, which is no distance at all from our kitchen. I think of the space in Mark’s house. I imagine my mother’s reaction when she sees it.
‘I’ll call the estate agent in the morning,’ Angus says. ‘Tell them we’re withdrawing our offer on Warrington Road and making an offer on a different property.’ I see him take off his jacket, dust the back of it with the flat of his hand, and reach into the wardrobe for a coat-hanger; he is a tidy man, all of the debris in the bedroom, the heap of worn-once clothes, the random, discarded knickers, a half-empty packet of Oreos, is mine.
‘What about Mark?’ I say in a rush.
‘Mark?’
‘Mark Tyler. The man who’s selling the house. Mr Tyler,’ I correct myself quickly, refer to him as an estate agent might have done when speaking to me. As the words spill out of me, I realise that I’ve been wanting to say Mark’s name since the moment I got home.
‘What about him?’ Angus is standing very still, dangling his jacket.
‘Nothing,’ I say and contemplate my hands, the solitaire diamond pressing on the third finger of my left hand. I consider telling Angus that I have met Mr Tyler and decide, intuitively, against it. ‘I suppose he’ll be pleased, that’s all, since we’re buying the house.’
When I look up Angus hasn’t moved. He is wearing a strange, searching expression, the expression of somebody peering into shadows at someone they might, or might not, recognise. Since my stepfather’s indiscretion at our party I’ve noticed that Angus looks at me that way quite often. Eventually he slots his jacket into the wardrobe. ‘Yes, I imagine he will be pleased’ – he appears to mirror my choice of words deliberately – ‘if he really needs to get rid of it that badly.’
‘Do you think,’ I say, ‘we should see if he accepts our offer before we withdraw our one on Warrington Road?’
Angus shakes his head. ‘There’s no need. Not from what the estate agent told me.’
‘Do you know,’ I persist, ‘why he is so desperate to sell?’
Angus shrugs and mumbles something non-committal and indecipherable, his voice muffled by the soft folds of his suit. I wait for his head to turn back towards me, so he can reply properly, but he is entirely preoccupied with the arrangement of his jackets as if to make clear he has no further interest in the financial predicament of a stranger.
After a second I go to the bathroom, slide the comforting bolt and splash water on my face. I tell myself it is irrelevant why Mark needs to sell the house so quickly, and it is irrelevant that he looks like Daniel, the only thing that matters to us is that Angus and I can buy a beautiful house for a bargain price, but my stomach is two, maybe three steps ahead of me, and it is jumping with nerves.
When I reappear Angus is talking on his mobile. ‘A large bunch,’ he’s saying. ‘To be sent to a Mrs Foxley at 14 Warrington Road, W13.’ Then, after a moment, ‘I don’t know. Whatever you think best. Roses? Or lilies perhaps?’ He catches my gaze and raises his eyebrows, making it a question for me as well.
My mother always says that lilies are for funerals but it doesn’t seem appropriate to mention this now. Roses, I tell him. Roses would be best.
* * *
Later that evening I call my mother to give her the news. She answers after two rings and immediately puts the handset on speakerphone so that my stepfather can hear too. I picture the pair of them perched on the sofa in front of the lounge fire, which consists of a plastic replica of a pile of logs lit by a constant syrupy red glow. They always sit close together. I expect my mother retains a lingering dread that Andy might one day walk out of the house and buy a one-way ticket to the other side of the world like my father did. Not that my stepfather has ever shown the slightest inclination to rove further or longer from home than the local dominoes club on a Thursday night. Now my disembodied voice speaks, so I imagine, from the cushion propped between them.
‘And how is the Home Office?’ my mother asks.
‘Busy,’ I say.
‘But not too busy?’ She always likes to monitor the price of my success, to check I am not becoming strained or unbalanced by the demands of my working life; to reassure herself there is nothing, any more, to worry about.
‘No,’ I lie, and glance towards the door, where my suitcase-sized briefcase is waiting. I was supposed to have started work by now but I know tonight my thoughts are too distracted to focus on the labyrinth complexity of the immigration rules. I’ll have to get up early instead. Glad to have a reason to change the subject, I tell them about the house. The new house I saw today.
‘I thought you and Angus had already bought a flat?’
‘We didn’t buy one, Mum. We just agreed to. But we can still change our minds. This is an actual house, and much nicer.’ As I’m speaking, the memory of the taupe-and-cream sitting room, and of Mark’s face – his Daniel-like eyes and his Daniel-like smile – is like incense, sweet and heady.
‘Oh…’ my mother is saying doubtfully. ‘Are you really allowed to do that? It doesn’t sound very fair to the poor seller of the first place you liked. I thought you told me she was an old lady.’
‘People do it all the time, Mum,’ I snap. ‘Anyway, we’re sending her some flowers. To make up for the disappointment.’
‘Oh…’ my mother repeats. She is not convinced, and I can see why. Flowers are nice, but they are only a gesture, a sop, a derisory plaster, that don’t really compensate for anything at all.
Chapter Four
Three weeks later I come back from lunch to find Agatha bent over my desk, peering at something through black-rimmed glasses. She steps smartly to one side as I approach.
‘Your phone has been bleeping, Claire.’
It’s lying on top of a document entitled ‘Assessing the Credibility of Asylum Seekers’, but I know it was left underneath the file, which is why I didn’t see it when I gathered my things. Now, miraculously freed from its papery covers, a text message is pasted in the middle of the screen.
Claire – call me. Mark
The words are a crackle of static, a brush of flesh against an electric fence. Agatha watches as I zip the phone into the side pocket of my bag. She has the desk opposite mine; they butt on to each other and are divided only by a low Perspex screen. If my eyes stray from my computer I sometimes find myself looking straight into Agatha’s round, pale blue ones, and when my telephone rings I become aware of the sudden hush, the fixed set of Agatha’s shoulders, and the gentle fingering of her papers so that not a word is m
issed. Recently I have taken to conducting my personal telephone conversations in the toilets.
Go on, I dare her silently, ask me who Mark is. But she won’t have the nerve. Agatha is in her thirties, single, and wears A-line skirts from Marks and Spencer that fall a good inch below her knees. I suspect that underneath we are not so far apart, she and I; the difference is mainly show, and a finger’s width of fine wool cloth.
After about forty-five minutes, I pick up my bag and head for the ladies. The building where I work when I am not conducting cases in the tribunal is in the heart of London. It boasts an elegant stone facade and overlooks a backstreet near Tottenham Court Road. But it, too, has been gutted. The work areas surround the central lift shaft and are arranged into a series of open-plan stations separated by full-height partitions. When I first arrived I would often circumnavigate the entire floor without managing to identify my desk amid the maze of wood veneer. This time I find my way without incident, passing, en route, a meeting room, though possibly ‘room’ is inapt to describe the transparent, box-like structure in question. Inside, I can see my colleagues; one is jabbing his pen at the points on a graph of rising numbers. The others have the glazed expression of passengers on a long-haul flight. One of them, Lucy, catches my eye and briefly taps three fingers to her lips. I pull a sympathetic face.
The Couple: An unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist Page 3