But she had always had the house. She felt safe in this house. Her cocoon.
Alice sighed, silently praying for someone with a magic wand to appear, sweeping around, singing and saying wise things, somehow making everything alright, a bit like a fairy godmother. Dragging herself back into the kitchen, she picked up Kathy’s postcard and allowed herself to smile. Adventurous, exciting Kathy. Living in Portugal. Making things happen.
I used to be like that, she thought sadly. Wonder what happened to me. Her eyes fell on Adam’s card again and her teeth involuntarily clenched. She knew she couldn’t shred this one. Or set fire to it. Or drop it from a bridge. She had to keep it to keep the anger; she needed to keep the anger so she could decide what to do. Because this time he had gone too far.
This time she had to do something. But she didn’t know what that something was.
The fury engulfed her, so she threw on a jacket, left the house and turned her iPod on full blast, hoping some fresh air would give her some clarity. Usually music helped, but for once it was all just white noise accompanying Alice’s angry steps, driving her across the road and into the park. With every movement a small voice began to grow louder and louder.
No. it said.
No.
No. It’s not your house. It’s my house. You cannot sell my house.
No, no, no, no, no.
The path arched through the lawns past a tiny playground next to a café. A little girl in a red coat was soaring high on a swing, chuckling joyfully like a tinkling scale on a piano. Her father was pushing her higher, and with every movement she laughed even more, thrilled with the excitement of flying through the air, as high as the cherry trees bursting with pink blossom next to the stream.
Alice paused to watch, momentarily captivated by the girl’s vitality, longing to be like her, just living in the moment, free of all of the worries she’d been carrying around for so many years. She thought of Kathy in Portugal – Kathy in Portugal relaxed and happy and having an adventure – and as she did so it was like she saw a chink of light. An escape from waking up at three o’clock in the morning just to panic about the future and how to pay the bills, from years of working just to stand still.
‘A break. A break. I just need a little break from it all,’ she whispered to herself.
It seemed so obvious. Adam couldn’t do anything if she wasn’t there, could he? He couldn’t sell the house if she didn’t agree with it, not for a while anyway. He couldn’t persuade her if he couldn’t find her. He couldn’t have it. The house they’d bought together. The dishevelled building they’d begun to lovingly bring back to life. The house Adam had stopped paying for ten years ago because the freelance work was a bit up and down. The house Alice had therefore paid the mortgage for because someone had to. The house she had painted and papered and scrubbed and loved. The house he had finally and completely abandoned two years ago.
The house that Alice built.
And for the first time in many, many years, Alice Dorothy Matthews did something spontaneous. She phoned Kathy, her heart beating fast.
‘Hi, you’ve reached the voicemail of Kathy Fonseca. I’m not available to take your call at the moment, so if you leave a message I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’
So much for seizing the moment, thought Alice. She took a deep breath, and after the beep, the words spilled out.
‘Hi Kathy. It’s me, Alice. Can I come and stay for a few weeks? I mean in a hotel for a holiday. Not in your place, just near it. I’ve been made redundant and I can’t concentrate on looking for another job. Think I need a break to unfuzz my brain. It could be for two weeks, three, or four. Can’t make up my mind … and, and—’ a stray sob caught in her throat ‘—and Adam – whatever he wants the money for he can go and whistle for it. Sod him.’ She took a breath. ‘Bye. Speak soon.’
She walked home, checking her phone every two minutes in case she’d missed a call from her friend. Opening the front door, she kicked her shoes off and paused for a moment, the enormity of what Adam was expecting her do slowly dawning on her. Her breathing quickened as she panicked, then slowed again as she noticed a scuff mark on the wall next to the front door. She rifled through her cleaning shelf in the kitchen and picked out the sugar water and a cloth, then noticed several more marks and lost herself in cleaning until she was interrupted by the phone.
‘Alice!’ Kathy almost shouted down the phone.
‘Kathy,’ replied Alice more quietly.
‘Right. You said you wanted to come over and visit but weren’t sure how long for?’ said Kathy.
‘Yes,’ said Alice. ‘I hope that’s okay.’
‘Of course it’s okay. I’ve been asking you to come over for years. But this open-ended thing, that’s not like you. You like everything organised and arranged.’
‘No. But it used to be like me. I used to be like that, didn’t I?
‘You did. Over ten years ago.’
‘Well, after a long hiatus, that Alice is back.’
‘Is she?’
Alice paused. ‘Christ, I hope so.’
‘Alice …?’ said Kathy slowly.
‘Yes?’
‘What else has happened other than losing your job? What did you mean about Adam and the money?’
Alice didn’t speak for a moment. She couldn’t.
‘Alice, what are you doing? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, just putting the kettle on to make some more chamomile tea.’
‘Right ...’
‘It’s to calm me down. I bought two boxes with 140 tea bags in. I read about it online.’
‘So, what did you mean about Adam?’
Alice paused again. ‘I’ll tell you when I’m there. I’m fed up of thinking about it to be honest.’
‘What’s he done?’
‘Is there a hotel near you with a lovely view?’ asked Alice quickly. ‘I honestly would stay with you in your apartment, but I feel I need a bit of independence. Can’t really explain it. I’ll stay in the hotel for two weeks and if I want to stay any longer I’ll find a cheaper one. See you on the 27th. Hope that date’s okay. I have to go.’ She put the phone down and leaned wearily against the wall. Discussing Adam and the house made her feel physically sick. Every time she had talked to her mother about it a debilitating nausea enveloped her and she just wanted to crawl under a duvet and hide.
Later that day she took the bus to her parents' house and explained her plan.
‘What are we going to do when he comes looking for you Alice?’ her mother asked.
‘Tell him I’ve gone to Borneo.’
‘I’m not sure he’ll believe that, darling. But more to the point, what shall we say about the house?’
‘Nothing. Say nothing. Feign ignorance about everything.’
Her mother smiled. ‘Can’t stand the man,’ she said. ‘I am going to enjoy this.’ She put her hand on Alice’s wrist. ‘Please stop playing with those bracelets, Alice.’
‘Sorry, I’m just a bit wound up.’
‘Well you’ll break them if you’re not careful. It’s a pity you don’t make your own any more. They were a lot nicer.’
‘Right, well, will you pretend you haven’t got the keys? I changed the locks just after he left without telling him so he can’t get in on his own.’ Alice placed the new keys on the table.
‘Even more fun!’ Her mother clapped her hands. ‘Let’s make the pig pay for breaking your heart and stealing your money.’
‘Mum!’
‘Sorry, dear. I got a bit overexcited. Do you want that last Hobnob or can I have it?’
‘All yours.’
‘Anger is a great galvaniser,’ shouted her stepfather, Joseph, from the conservatory. ‘Nurture it a bit and turn it on him!’
‘Good to know I have your support,’ she replied.
‘Although Alice, you will have to deal with this at some point. He will have rights to the house you know, whether you like it or not,’ Joseph said, walking into t
he room.
‘I know, I know. But not yet. In my own time. I just need some time.’
‘This is very unlike you, Alice,’ he said, sitting down next to her. ‘You always like to do the right thing. Do things the right way. Adam will be expecting you to behave rationally.’
‘I’m not being irrational, I’m just—’
‘That’s not an insult,’ interrupted Joseph. ‘I think it’s an excellent strategy.’
Her mother dunked the biscuit thoughtfully in her tea. ‘Of course, I’ll tell Tara. Your sister needs to know. We have to have a family story for this. I do like a bit of intrigue. A nice plot, you know.’
Alice hugged her. ‘I love you, Mum. But remember, this isn’t a film. I haven’t written a script. There is no plot.’
‘Really, Alice Dorothy Matthews, I’m not stupid.’
‘No, I know,’ she said.
And why are you called Alice Dorothy Matthews? muttered the voice in her head. Alice is in Wonderland. Dorothy is in The Wizard of Oz.
‘My mother’s film fixation, not mine,’ said Alice out loud, closing the front door behind her and stepping onto the street.
Chapter Three
Alice moved slowly through each room taking photographs of her home, brushing her hands against the fabrics, unable to smile at the memories of the years she had spent there because of the rage she felt at the prospect of having to fight for it. ‘I’ll be back in a few weeks,’ she said to the kitchen. And there was that ceramic bowl again – the one they had bought before any thought of tables or chairs or beds. She picked it up and pushed it into the rucksack she’d left by the stairs. ‘The neighbours will keep an eye on you while I’m gone, house. Adios.’
Then she strode out of the door and clambered into the taxi without looking back. By the time she was ready to get on the plane the anger she had been nurturing for the past few weeks was so strong she was almost high on it. But, it began to dissipate somewhere over France, and was slowly replaced by a much more disturbing mantra. What are you doing? What ARE you doing? Oh no! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? You should be at home looking for work to earn money. You can’t afford a holiday. You bloody stupid woman. By the time she stepped off the plane and walked along the concourse to passport control the words had developed into a throbbing headache. As she queued to get through Alice began to glance at the people standing around her, wondering why they were there. Anyone else dodging responsibility and failing to face up to things like a grown-up? she wondered.
Standing next to the luggage belt to collect her case, she had to stop herself impatiently hopping from foot to foot. The departure lounge could be seen through a glass wall, and for a second, Alice imagined herself somehow climbing over it and getting the next flight back home. No harm done. Then sanity took over. ‘It’s only a holiday,’ she muttered. ‘Calm down. Just an open-ended one. But it’s a holiday.’ Her case appeared, and she grabbed it, almost running towards the exit, repeating in her head over and over again: It’s a holiday, just enjoy it.
Pausing briefly before the automatic doors towards the arrivals hall, she bowed her head and took several deep breaths. Alice Dorothy Matthews had never run away before. ‘Here we go,’ she muttered as the door opened and she walked into the bright, white light as crowds of people slowly came into focus. Kathy wasn’t there, just a sign with Alice Matthews scrawled across it held by a tall, smiling man with striking blue eyes and hair like a hedgehog’s prickles. She waved at him, relieved. ‘That’s me,’ she said.
‘Ah, welcome, Alice.’ His smile got even wider. ‘Welcome to Portugal.’ Taking her suitcase, he guided her towards the exit. ‘Kathy had to deal with an emergency at the spa at the hotel, so she has asked me to collect you. It was one of her regular customers being a total cow. I think that’s what Kathy said.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Alice, scurrying to keep up with his long, swift strides as he guided her through the arrivals lounge towards the car park.
‘That meant that she couldn’t leave on time to meet you,’ he continued. ‘Kathy is a very loyal customer and this is on the house.’
‘That’s very kind of you, said Alice, following him outside. The bright blue sky and the midday heat wrapped themselves around her like a warm blanket, with the familiar flutter of excitement she had always felt on family holidays in faraway countries as she had stepped off the planes into enticing other worlds. It was the first time she had felt anything other than panic for the past few weeks.
‘Kathy suggested I drive you along the sea road to Cascais – The Marginal – rather than the motorway. It’s much prettier,’ he said as they weaved around cars and taxis and hordes of people dragging their suitcases towards the terminal.
‘Sounds lovely to me,’ said Alice, by now almost running to keep up.
‘I’m Ignacio by the way.’
‘Nice to meet you Ignacio.’
‘You too, Alice. May I call you Alice?’
‘Of course.’
‘Here we are.’
In front of them was a beautiful old yellow Rolls Royce with a black soft-top roof and gleaming lights.
‘This?’ Alice felt a smile widen on her face.
‘Yes,’ he said opening the door.
‘It’s a yellow Rolls Royce. Have you ever seen the film? It’s one of my favourites. It’s called The Yellow Rolls Royce –the part of the plot with Alain Delon and Shirley Maclaine is the best …’ She trailed off, realising she was sounding like her mother.
‘My airport collection car is at home. This is my wedding car. I was cleaning it up this afternoon when I got the call to come and collect you.’
‘It’s beautiful.’ Alice put her hand out to stroke it.
Ignacio smiled. ‘I do that too. It’s my pride and joy. I’ve owned it for twenty years. Please, sit in. I will take your cases.’
As Alice climbed in her eyelids began to flicker. It had been a long, cold winter, and the underlying threat of redundancy had added to the gloom and torpor. Spring had been late, and was slowly coming to life, but she’d been so stressed and exhausted she’d barely noticed. Sinking into her seat as the weariness pulled her down, she slipped quickly into a light sleep, rocked gently by the low thrum of the engine, fuzzy images flickering across her tired mind of Adam pursuing her, waving a postcard, shouting ‘give me my house back!’ with her mother running after him brandishing a rolling pin and singing ‘Follow the yellow brick road’.
‘Madam … madam … Alice …’ Ignacio was smiling again as her eyes opened, the car paused at a set of traffic lights. ‘Alice, we are almost on the Marginal. This will take us all the way to Cascais. Look how beautiful it is.’
They turned onto the sea road, and she sleepily glanced, as instructed, out of the window, to where the sea sparkled and moved, and the sun caught the waves as if a field of sapphires was being blown in the breeze. To the right were yellow, white and blue apartments and bright pink houses wrapped in trails of red and purple flowers. In the distance was a long, golden beach. That morning, when she had left her house, the grey clouds were so low she felt she was actually walking through them. But now, suddenly, here was a place where the sky was so blue and clear it was as if someone had taken a brush and painted it onto the landscape. She sat up, curling her feet onto the seat and stared out of the window like an excited little girl.
Her mother used to sit at bedtime with her and her sister when they were tiny and living in the damp little bedsit they had fled to after their father had left them and their home was repossessed. She would read them Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by the light of the dim bulb in the mottled brown room, filling it with colour and fun and hope. Every night she had sung them ‘Somewhere over the Rainbow’, so when they finally went to sleep, they knew there was somewhere better. All they had to do was to find the right door or get blown by the right breeze and they would be in a place that was exciting and hopeful and full of life. They had only been there for a few months un
til her mother had swallowed her pride and they had moved in with her parents. But Alice had never forgotten that bedsit.
‘It is beautiful. Paradise,’ said Ignacio. ‘You cannot be sad for long in Paradise.’
For the rest of the journey Alice stared out of the window, captivated by the colour she saw around her. Ignacio eventually turned off the sea road, and Alice felt her heart beat a little faster. It was only two weeks since she’d made the uncharacteristically spontaneous and ill-thought out decision to come here, and the rest of the time had been caught up in all the practical preparations to make it happen. And now she was here. As the Rolls glided into the hotel entrance, Alice saw Kathy, who was standing at the top of the steps. When she saw the car, she waved. Next to her was a white-haired woman in a stripy pink dress.
‘Hello! Welcome!’ cried Kathy, almost tackling Alice to the ground as she climbed out of the car. ‘At last! I’m so sorry I couldn’t get to the airport.’
‘Lady Miseryguts, it was, wasn’t it?’ cut in the white-haired woman.
‘The cow,’ said Ignacio seriously.
‘It’s fine,’ mumbled Alice, slightly overwhelmed. ‘Ignacio explained. I’m here. Wherever here is?’
Kathy stepped back and smiled at her friend. ‘Welcome to Cascais,’ she said.
‘Welcome to Paradise, love,’ said the white-haired woman. ‘I’m Mary. Do you like cats?’
‘Hello, nice to meet you.’ Alice smiled, a little confused by the question. ‘And yes, I do.’
‘Mary is one of my closest friends,’ said Kathy. ‘She used to help me at the salon. And she does have a cat, but I can’t explain that question.’
‘Ignore her,’ said Mary. ‘There is an explanation.’
‘I’ll leave you now,’ interrupted Ignacio. ‘Did you enjoy your journey along the sea road?’
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘It was lovely, thank you. Beautiful. Much better than the motorway.’ Alice smiled nervously. She’d noticed Mary was staring at her.
The House That Alice Built Page 2