The Yellow Villa

by Amanda Hampson

  She reluctantly puts her phone down but prevaricates; her vermin instinct senses something is off. ‘Do we really need more wine? Won’t I need a coat?’

  Dominic grabs a throw rug from the sofa and wraps it tenderly around her shoulders as he walks her towards the conservatory door. ‘We’ll only be a minute,’ he assures her.

  As they walk down the back path, she continues to protest lamely. ‘I honestly think I’ve had enough wine for one day. I have a long drive in the morning.’

  Dominic keeps his arm firmly around her shoulders as he reaches for the key hidden in the brickwork near the door. He opens the door and switches on the light. ‘The Sauternes are along here to the left,’ he says, guiding her deeper into the cellar. Now she’s here, he can’t even be bothered discussing her treachery, her criminal ambition. He simply leads her to the rack, places a bottle in her hands and while she’s distracted, flicks off the light and leaves, taking the spare key from the hook with him and letting the door slam shut behind him. That’s her out of the way for the moment. Now for his treacherous wife.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The atmosphere in the Harringtons’ house is toxic and, on top of being up most of the night, it’s making me feel sick. Ben is still so distant with me. Roxy is acting cheerful. Susannah’s all over the place. And Dominic – there is something really frightening about him. He has this underlying aggression, like a dangerous animal waiting for its moment to pounce. It feels like we are all on the brink of a disaster that can’t be avoided. Dominic and Susannah have both been drinking heavily and it doesn’t take any imagination to work out how things might go as the day wears on. To be here with these awful strangers at Christmas, it’s like we have put ourselves into purgatory.

  Dominic and Roxy have now both disappeared and Susannah, for some strange reason, is explaining to Ben in painful detail how to make an authentic cassoulet. He looks like he’s going to lose consciousness at any moment. While that’s going on, I leave the table and go to the kitchen to assemble the pavlova. As I cross the living room, I notice Dominic standing on the patio with a small chainsaw in his hand. What could he possibly be doing with this right in the middle of lunch – cutting more wood for the fire? He starts up the chainsaw. For a moment it looks as though he’s doing a bit of pruning, but why now? Then I realise what’s happening and shout for Susannah.

  Susannah and Ben rush in from the dining room just in time to see Dominic systematically demolishing the pergola. He hacks through each of the thick stems of the climbing roses then attacks the latticework. It’s getting dark outside but we can still see his furious expression. The only sound is the shriek of the chainsaw straining in its work.

  We stand watching in silent shock. As soon as Ben makes a move for the door, Susannah comes to life and grabs his arm, screaming, ‘Don’t go out there! Oh my God! Where are the dogs? Where are the dogs?! Lock the door!’

  I find the dogs cowering under the sofa. ‘It’s all right, they’re here.’ I wonder where Roxy is, not that I really care, but her handbag is on the floor and her phone on the table, so I assume she’s in the bathroom.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ says Ben, rubbing his head the way he does when he’s agitated. ‘He’s gone completely mad. What’s wrong with him?’

  Susannah cries out as the chainsaw rips through her beloved arbour seat, reducing it to kindling. Dominic moves on with a sense of urgency, leaving a trail of destruction; smashed pieces of lattice and rose canes cover the ground. As he cuts through one of the posts holding up the pergola, a piece of the archway swings down and catches him across the forehead, leaving a bright red slash of blood. Ben sees his moment and, in a flash, he’s out the door and across the patio. Before Dominic realises what’s happening, Ben hooks his forearm around Dominic’s neck, jerking his head backwards, forcing him to drop the chainsaw.

  Ben pulls Dominic to the ground, holding him there while he turns off the chainsaw. For a moment, all is silent, then Susannah starts making the most horrific wailing sound. I wish I could say something comforting but there’s nothing to be said, it’s not going to be all right. Dominic has gone completely insane.

  Ben takes Dominic’s arm, gets him on his feet and helps him inside. The cut on his forehead drips blood down his face, his shoulders slump, and he looks less like a dangerous maniac than a pensioner who’s taken a tumble. Both Susannah and I stand back as he passes, as if we think he’ll lash out at us. Ben leads him to the sofa, gets his jacket off, and sits him down.

  ‘Can you get a towel and some water?’ Ben asks Susannah while he examines the wound. ‘Then we can see how deep it is. Do you have any painkillers?’

  ‘Does he need an ambulance?’ I ask, hoping they might cart him away.

  ‘No, I don’t bloody need an ambulance!’ snaps Dominic. ‘What I need is the gendarmes to lay charges against you three!’

  Susannah arrives with the towel, water and a blister pack of tablets. But Dominic bats away Ben’s attempts to mop up the blood on his face. ‘Get away from me, you bastard!’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ asks Ben, more confused than angry. ‘Maybe we do need an ambulance.’

  ‘This is what happens when you mix with the criminal classes,’ says Dominic furiously. ‘Next thing you know they’re pilfering the silver or, in this case, thousands of pounds’ worth of my wine. Scum, filthy thieving scum!’ He turns on Susannah. ‘And you, you evil bitch – where’s my fucking chair?’

  Susannah covers her face with her hands and collapses into an armchair sobbing loudly.

  ‘Hold it. Are you accusing us?’ asks Ben. ‘What are you talking about? You’ve got your wires crossed, Dominic.’ He gestures helplessly towards the destruction outside. ‘Is this what all that was about? I don’t even know what you’re talking about.’

  Dominic turns his gaze on me with a grim smile. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? Not him. He knew nothing about it. I suspected as much. You thieving little bitch.’

  Ben takes a handful of Dominic’s shirt-front, twists it and half lifts him off the sofa. ‘Hey! Listen, mate, I know you’re pretty pissed but that’s enough, one more word —’

  ‘She was helping me!’ interrupts Susannah. ‘Where do you think the money for the food came from? The electricity? Petrol?’ She stops abruptly and looks around. ‘Where’s Roxy? Dominic! Where is she? She’s got nothing to do with it.’

  ‘She’s in London, as it happens,’ says Dominic, snatching the towel from Ben and dabbing at his wound. ‘That woman is an imposter. A journalist from the gutter press.’

  ‘What?! You have absolutely lost it,’ says Ben. ‘You’ve definitely got that wrong. That’s not possible.’ He turns to me with a helpless look, as if I can shed some light on this confusing situation but I’m staying right out of it.

  ‘Who told you that, Dominic?’ asks Susannah.

  ‘Michelle. She rang earlier. It’s no good arguing with me. It’s a fact.’

  ‘What’s her real name then?’ asks Ben, reaching into his pocket.

  ‘Joanna Smyth.’

  Ben taps the name into his phone. He stares at it for a moment and slowly puts it back in his pocket. ‘He’s right. She’s a journo. Writes for Exposé magazine.’

  ‘What have you done with her?’ Susannah shouts. ‘Dominic! Where is she?’

  ‘Oh, stop your caterwauling, you stupid woman. I haven’t chopped her up, much as I’d like to. She’s in the cellar, which is a desecration in itself. Key’s in my jacket. Send her packing before I’m tempted to do something violent.’

  Susannah fumbles in Dominic’s jacket pocket and goes stumbling out the back door. Dominic pops out painkillers, one after the other, and stuffs them in his mouth and throws down the glass of water. He stretches out on the sofa with a groan and mutters angrily under his breath about the treachery he’s suffered. ‘Let’s just get one thing clear,’ he says to no one in particular. ‘I am the victim here.’

  I grab Ben’s arm. ‘Let’s
go home.’ He nods, still looking bewildered. Just then, not-Roxy comes storming into the room. She is almost unrecognisable. It’s not just that she’s been unmasked and all pretence of niceness has fallen away; her face is red and swollen from crying and her hands are filthy as though she’s been trying to dig her way out. She looks around wildly, sees Dominic lying on the sofa, and shouts: ‘I have claustro phobia, you fucking lunatic! I could have you charged for that. Abduction!’

  Oddly, she seems more like his daughter now than she ever did when she was pretending to be. There’s a delayed reaction from Dominic and I wonder if it was a good idea for him to take so many painkillers on top of all the alcohol he’s had.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he slurs, all the fight gone out of him. ‘Do your worst, it’s all copy, isn’t it? Substandard … third-rate, I’ll warrant. Is there a reason you’re still here? Don’t you have what you need? Get out.’

  ‘I will do my worst, and you can judge for yourself when the story comes out.’ She grabs her bag, rifles through it and looks around the room.

  I’m the closest one to her phone. I pick it up and hand it to Ben. He can decide what he wants to do. He snaps the back open and removes the sim card. ‘There you go,’ he says, tossing the phone to her. ‘You heard what he said, get out.’

  She’s pretty tough but for a moment she looks wounded. Then she turns away and walks down the hall without looking back.

  Through the windows we can see Susannah standing among the ruins of her pergola clutching Lou and Chou in her arms. Much as I want to go out and comfort the poor woman, I need to go home much more. I want to feel Ben’s comforting arms around me and never set foot in this house again.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Susannah is so broken she barely has the strength to climb the stairs to her room but the fear of Dominic waking now that she’s alone in the house with him is incentive enough. Her bedroom door is wide open and papers from her desk are scattered on the floor. She locks the door behind her and sinks to her knees, her body racked with uncontrollable sobbing. When it passes, she curls up on her side, drained of emotion. She wishes that something would happen, that some greater power would take her life from her and it would end here. Lou and Chou fret and whimper, licking her hands and face. She can’t abandon them. She has to find the strength to move. And she has to find it now.

  She gets to her feet and looks out the window: it’s pouring with rain and darkness is falling. Driving back to England tonight is beyond her capability, but the time for excuses is over. She doesn’t need to drive all the way. Toulouse is an hour away, she can stay the night there and leave first thing in the morning. She’d rather sleep in the car tonight than stay here. She’ll be home by nightfall tomorrow. The prospect of entering her father’s safe, predictable world has become so overwhelmingly glorious, that’s what she needs to hold on to.

  She quickly gathers her things together. Two suitcases only, she’ll abandon the rest for the moment. Dominic being conked out on the sofa actually suits her purpose. She can slip downstairs and out through the kitchen door without detection. With a frenetic energy, somewhere between purpose and panic, she rams the rest of her clothes into the suitcases and forces them shut. Not wanting the dogs to whimper and wake him, she carries them downstairs first. In the kitchen she packs snacks and a bowl for water for them. She settles the pugs in the back seat of the car and tucks a warm blanket around them. ‘We’re going on an adventure, my darlings,’ she whispers, fervently wishing she believed it.

  Back upstairs, she takes a final look around her room and wonders if she has spent a single happy moment there. Not that she can remember, but this is no time for reflection, it’s a time for action. She throws the bank statements and personal papers into a bag and slowly, carefully and quietly, carries the suitcases downstairs. She takes a quick peek into the darkness of the living room, lit only by the dying embers of the fire. No movement. No sound.

  The car is packed, all is ready. She runs through a mental checklist and stops to wonder what she did with the keys to the cellar. She had been so frantic and upset when she let the pretend Roxy out, the order of events is confused. She remembers having both keys in her hand. Remembers propping the door open. Did she leave them on the alcove table for Dominic as she meant to? He will really go berserk if she leaves with the keys. She takes the torch from the boot of the car and walks quietly down the side path to the cellar. A quick flash of the torch into the alcove confirms both keys are on the table, and she hurries back to the car.

  Consumed by fear, she takes off at a clip and drives into the night sobbing so hard she frightens herself, as well as the dogs who stand on the back seat barking shrilly. She has to stop herself somehow, or pull over before something terrible happens. Slowing down, she flicks open the glovebox, feels around inside, finds a CD and pushes it into the player. Breathless half-formed words tumble from her lips. By the second chorus, somewhere between laughter and tears, she’s yelling the lyrics she knows off by heart, drowning out Fleetwood Mac at the top of her voice, and for three and a half minutes she feels a little better.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Peering through the tiny ventilation grille of the cellar, Dominic sees the brake lights of the Audi suspended in the blackness. Gravel explodes beneath the tyres as the car accelerates at speed, out of the yard and onto the road. The night is silent apart from the sound of his car receding into the distance.

  Less than half an hour ago, he’d awoken from his stupor to find himself lying on the sofa, still a little drunk and dazed, and the house in darkness. He’d lain there for a while, clarifying the situation in his own mind and considering his next move. Clearly the guests had gone and Susannah had skulked off to her room. To say Christmas Day had been a disaster was an understatement. Even with a little distance, the whole experience was like one of those ghastly American comedies, only missing someone being electrocuted by decorative lights, which, all things considered, might have livened things up. He would have thoroughly enjoyed seeing Joanna–Roxy take 240 volts for her efforts.

  It was incredible how well she had ingratiated herself. How he so trustingly confided in her – read her excerpts from his memoir. Thank God his book was finished and his version of his story now intact. It dawned on him then, that much as having the Farash business dragged up again by the press was disagreeable, it would have publishers gagging for his memoir. He’d felt almost gleeful that fate had played into his hands. But the first priority was to make sure that that faithless cow of a wife didn’t help herself to any more of his cellar. To that end, he had abandoned the comfort of the sofa and, despite his throbbing head, slipped on his jacket. He could hear Susannah moving about upstairs and he quickly made his way out the conservatory door and down the back path.

  The alcove was dark and he thought it prudent to leave the outside light off. Susannah had carelessly left the door to the cellar propped open. He turned the cellar light on, quickly located a couple of cartons and began to pack some of his best vintages. It soon became obvious that Susannah had been rearranging bottles to hide her thieving. Who knew that she possessed the wit for such deviousness? He’d have to do a complete audit, find out exactly what was missing. In fact, once he sorted out the hiccup with the Tinkers, he’d get Ben to check the value of some of the better vintages.

  The safest place to store the wines was his study with its locking door. He carried the first carton out of the cellar but as he stepped out of the shelter of the alcove, he saw the bouncing light of a torch coming down the side path. In a moment of panic, he rushed back into the cellar, flicked off the light and pulled the door closed. He waited to see if Susannah had her own key and would open the door, in which case she’d get a nasty shock. But he would be ready for her.

  He absentmindedly patted his pocket to reassure himself that the key was there. It wasn’t. Putting the carton down, he plunged his hands into both pockets simultaneously, then his breast pocket and trouser pockets. There was a slow real
isation, and something half-remembered about the spare key. He turned on the light and stood staring for the longest time at the empty hook.

  The silence of the cellar, previously music to his ears, became immediately oppressive. There was no point in panicking. That’s what had got him into this fix. Sooner or later Susannah would realise that he was missing and liberate him. Unless she decided to leave him here. She wouldn’t have the intestinal fortitude to see that through.

  The temperature in the cellar was cold but stable. He wouldn’t freeze to death but it was hardly an ideal place to spend the night. Exhausted by his labours of the day, particularly the pruning exercise, he decided to flatten out some cartons to make something of a bed and cover himself up the way homeless people did.

  He had heard the sound of the Audi engine starting and went to the ventilation grille, which was just above ground level in the courtyard. He saw the reversing lights reflected off the wall and was seized by a feeling he had never experienced before. As though he was standing outside himself watching his own response. This must be what people described as a panic attack. He actually felt like screaming. Not just felt like it, enacted it. He shouted himself hoarse even knowing it was a waste of time. The only possible reason Susannah could be setting off at that time of the night was because she was leaving him. Her bags were already packed. She simply needed to zip them up and go.

  Now he finds himself standing on a crate gazing blindly out the ventilation grille into the thick gloom of the night. Now she has gone, nobody will look for him. No one will wonder about him. The Tinkers won’t come back. He has disgraced himself. An adjective that could equally apply to his whole life. He has imprisoned himself. Life imprisonment, in fact, because it’s highly unlikely that anyone at all will come to the house in the next few days, or even weeks.