The Women: A gripping psychological thriller
Page 5
I could live here, she thinks. In his house on the hill. This would be my home, my life. She imagines it, this life, unfurling before her. In her mind, it takes the form of the last twenty-four hours: intimate conversation and fine wine, listening to him talk, passionate sex the moment they walk through the front door, clothes strewn in the hall. A little reading, an afternoon glass of wine, a ragout simmering on the range, Massive Attack through the ceiling speakers in the bedroom, more wine, more sex, her body attended to with sure hands, an expert mouth. And on … Conversation. Theatre trips. Travel. A home to return to. Not the village, not the city. Here.
‘All right,’ she says. ‘I will.’
Five
Lottie, Lancashire
The Stevensons arrive on the dot of ten. At the end of the long tarmac drive, iPad clutched against her chest, Lottie watches them park their bronze Audi at the kerbside of the cul-de-sac. She smooths out her pencil skirt, checks her name tag is straight and, seeing a spot of muck on her court shoe, gives her foot a quick rub against the back of her shin. Never explain, never complain and always look your best, her nan used to say. Wise words – not that Lottie’s got anything to complain about. It’s a lovely day.
The Stevensons are smartly dressed. Clean-looking. Lottie shakes their hands with a firm-but-not-too-firm grip and wishes them a good morning.
‘I’m Lottie,’ she says, her best professional smile in place. ‘We spoke on the phone. Keith? And you must be Bev, is that right?’
They return her greeting and together they wander up towards the detached four-bed new-build.
‘It’s a corner plot, as you know,’ Lottie says, really for conversation. They have the schedules in their hot little hands, but it doesn’t hurt to emphasise the unique selling points. ‘There’s roughly thirty per cent more garden, so that’ll come in handy if you have a family – extra playing space, washing line and what have you. There’s a patio to the rear, ample flower beds for planting if either of you have green fingers and the rest is laid to lawn.’
She unlocks the front door. It’s one of her favourite bits, this: the sound of the key sliding into the lock, the click of the turn, and Open Sesame! In these moments, it’s as if the house is hers, as if she’s coming home after her day at work, and she has to stop herself from calling out: Cooee, Joanne! Mum’s back!
She doesn’t do that, obviously; that would be nuts. Instead, she shows the Stevensons through to the fitted kitchen, the double reception room, the under-stairs loo and hand basin.
‘The garage you can access from the drive via the door, obviously,’ she says. ‘Which incidentally has its own remote. But there’s also an internal door here, to the immediate right of the front door, which is very practical.’ She throws open the door and stands back to let them have a nosy. ‘The back of the garage has enough space if you wanted to set up some kind of utility arrangement, washing machine, dryer and what have you, give you more storage then in the kitchen, if you needed it.’
‘That is spacious,’ the woman, Bev, says, nodding at the empty garage. ‘Plenty of room for shelves, isn’t there, Keith?’
If Keith reacts, Lottie misses it.
‘Shall we look upstairs?’
She bends to slip off her court shoes. The stair and landing carpets are cream, some developer’s bright idea. She’s not about to point out how impractical that is, obviously, just hopes that when they see her … Ah, bingo, they’re following her example, taking off their winter boots and dropping them onto the more durable laminate floor of the hall.
‘It’s a four-bed, is that right?’ Bev is obviously the chattiest, bless her. The women usually are.
‘That’s right.’ Lottie goes up ahead, sliding her hand lightly up the pine banister. ‘I don’t know if that suits your situation, but it’s always good to have spare rooms. Depends what you need, I suppose. I’m in a two-bed flat myself, but there’s plenty of room for me and my daughter so it suits us perfectly.’
‘How old is your daughter?’
‘She’s coming up for nineteen. She’s at uni, actually.’
They’ve reached the top of the stairs. Bev gives her a warm woman-to-woman smile and says, ‘Nineteen! You don’t look old enough!’
Lottie bats off the compliment, even though it’s true. It’s just something people say, isn’t it? Like, if you said guess my age to someone, they’d lop off at least ten years, wouldn’t they? So it’s not as if Bev was going to say, bloody hell, I thought you’d have grandkids by now, you old bag. Nah. No way. People are much more polite than that, especially in professional transactions. Along with the moment of the key going into the lock, it’s another one of her favourite aspects of the job: the politeness. There’s never any need to be rude – another of her nan’s old sayings – and the more professional you are, the less chance there is. If there’s one thing Lottie can’t stand, it’s rudeness.
It’s probably why she’s won Nash and Watson Regional Agent of the Year from 2010 through to – and including, she hopes – 2016, which will be announced soon, what with it coming up for December. She’s smart, she’s clean, she’s literally never late and she knows the houses like the back of her hand. When a client comes into the office, all they have to do is describe what they’re looking for and she doesn’t even need to get the files up. It’s like they’re all stored in her head. She knows how to make conversation with the clients without getting too familiar, so to speak, and she knows how to share a little about herself without bombarding them with personal information. It’s funny, because if you met her outside work, you’d say she was quite shy. Not snotty or anything, just keeps herself to herself. She doesn’t go out, only stays half an hour at the work Christmas drinks. She’s happier at home with a book and a hot chocolate, or a Baileys if it’s Friday. But once the work shoes go on, the uniform and her badge, she’s a different person. She’s a professional, that’s what she is, from her head down to her toes.
Professional.
Six
Marcia is gaping at her like a goldfish. They are in the shabby kitchen of their Vauxhall flat. If you stand on a chair, you can see the MI6 building. Well, a corner of it.
‘But you’ve only just met him,’ she offers.
‘I know. I know that. But it feels right. I can’t explain it. And he’s so sure too. He says he’s never felt like this before.’
‘Does he now? Do you love him?’
‘I love the way he makes me feel. I love the way I can see I make him feel. Does that make sense? So yes, I love him.’
Marcia is still unsure when she helps Samantha move in a week later. Greets Peter at the door with a wary eye.
‘I told you I’d come for your bags,’ Peter says as Samantha stumbles down the chequerboard hallway, beckoning Marcia to follow.
‘I only had two,’ she says. ‘And Marcia wanted to see the house.’ She giggles. ‘That sounds wrong. Marcia wanted to meet you, didn’t you, Marcy?’
When she looks back over her shoulder, Peter is shaking Marcia’s hand, telling her he’s heard a lot about her, which Samantha doesn’t think he has, not really. Marcia is still on the step.
‘Come in,’ Samantha says. ‘Stay and have a cuppa.’
Marcia thrusts her hands into her pockets. ‘Actually, I have to get going. I’ll see you soon, yeah?’
Samantha follows her down to the front gate, onto the street. ‘Are you OK?’
Marcia is staring at her trainers. ‘I’m fine.’ She glances up, one eye closed, a freeze frame of a wink. ‘He’s quite a bit older, isn’t he?’
Samantha shakes her head, defensiveness flowering in her chest. There is something in the air that she can’t name, something final.
‘He’s not even forty yet, but yes, he’s a … a grown-up,’ she stutters, strengthens. ‘And that might not be what you want but it’s what I want, OK?’
‘I just wish you could have waited a bit longer, made sure of your feelings, yeah?’
‘I am sure.’
Out on Richmond Hill, the light is falling. It is the end of October, barely five o’clock. This time next month, it will be dark at this hour, and when Samantha looks back on this moment, she will wonder whether it was now that the subterfuge started. As it is, she feels only the setting of her bottom lip, the burgeoning resentment at her friend passing comment, passing judgement. Her relationship with Peter has nothing to do with anyone – not her mother, not Marcia, not anyone. In future, she will keep it to herself. She turns away from the empty brow of the hill, heads back and moves in with Professor Bridges.
And yes, it is darker in November, darker still in December. The air turns chilly. At the end of term, she takes the train to Yorkshire, drinks strong tea in the kitchen of her mother’s aggressively clean two-bedroom flat.
‘So I’ve moved in with Peter,’ she says. ‘You know, that guy I’ve been seeing?’
‘Moved in? Haven’t you just met him?’
She gives a little laugh. ‘Not at all. We’ve been seeing each other on and off for a while. I just didn’t think it was worth mentioning until it was something, you know?’ She cannot look at her mother, cannot look anywhere near her.
‘Well, you’re a grown woman now,’ her mother says. ‘I can’t tell you what to do anymore.’
Later, much later, when she thinks back to this visit, the same feeling she had watching Marcia fade to black the night she moved in with Peter will come to her – that growing sense of going underground, as if she is hiding something from herself as well as them. She will be haunted by the expression on her mother’s face when she said goodbye. She will remember how ninety-nine per cent of her felt so happy, so exhilarated, so in love. She will remember a much smaller feeling, a tiny one per cent in her gut. And she will remember pushing that feeling aside.
But it is not much later. She has not yet lived through all the things that will make her look back on this moment and see it differently. And when her mother asks, ‘So you’re sure about this fella, then?’ she answers, ‘Yes, I am. Completely.’ Adds, ‘Why don’t you come to us for Christmas?’ Without her mother knowing that she’s trying to change the subject. Because, actually, Samantha already knows that her mother is going to her sister’s, since it is where she was supposed to be going too. So she stays another couple of days, to try to even things out, and doesn’t return to Peter until Christmas Eve.
At the station, her mother pushes a twenty-pound note into her hand and gives her a kiss on the cheek.
‘Bye, love,’ she says, and Samantha feels her heart split in two.
‘You’re back,’ Peter says when she gets home and leaves her in the hallway. A moment later, the door of his study shuts and doesn’t open again until evening, when it is time for their glass of wine, by which time he appears to have forgiven her.
‘So many presents!’ The next morning, Christmas Day, Samantha surveys the exquisitely wrapped pile of gifts under the Nordic pine that Peter bought from a garden centre out near Feltham because they sell the best trees and he doesn’t want needles dropping all over the house.
‘Our first Christmas together,’ he says, taking from her the one thing she has bought for him, a Swatch that cost her the rest of her loan.
It is eleven o’clock, later than she’s ever waited to unwrap her gifts. Peter doesn’t like to rush, says it isn’t civilised. And so he brought coffee up to bed, they made love then took a long shower together, followed by a breakfast of smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. After that, he relaid the fire and lit it, and now here they are.
He has wrapped her gifts in thick single-sheet paper, tied them with red ribbon. She opens them one by one: a book, a red cashmere hat, scarf and gloves. A black parka coat, by a brand he tells her makes the finest arctic gear. The weather in the south of England doesn’t strike her as anything like arctic; it is much warmer here than in Yorkshire, but she doesn’t say this to Peter.
‘Oh my God, thank you,’ is what she says and sips her Bellini. It is over an hour later, when they are out walking hand in hand to build up an appetite, that he suggests, kindly and politely, that she refrain from punctuating her speech with oh my God all the time.
‘It’s not that I object on religious grounds,’ he tells her. ‘But it makes you sound stupid. And you’re not stupid.’
He has already taken off the watch. It is cumbersome for cooking, he says, in a way that his leather-strapped Breitling is not. And he has the bird to prepare. By bird, he means the goose, which he bought from a specialist butcher in Strawberry Hill.
‘Can I help you cook?’ she offers, but he tells her he prefers to do it himself.
She sets the table, for something to do, but later finds him realigning the cutlery, adjusting the glasses, and pretends she hasn’t seen. She returns to the living room, picks up the book he has bought her: What a Carve Up! by Jonathan Coe. It is very funny, he tells her. He can’t believe she hasn’t read it.
She reads forty pages but doesn’t laugh once. She can see what he means, how someone of his age might find it funny. The book lolls in her hand and she thinks about the months she has lived in this house. It is nothing she can tell Marcia, and certainly not her mother, but living with Peter is taking a little more getting used to than she anticipated. There’s still plenty of wine and good food and a surprising amount of sex, given his age. In fact, these things form the basis of a comprehensive evening routine, in that strict order. Not one of the three, it seems, can be missed, unless the circumstances are extenuating. There are other things that must be adhered to as well. There is the matter of the shower screen. She keeps forgetting to go over it with the squeegee, which is kept in the cupboard under the bathroom sink. When she does remember, she leaves the squeegee in the shower tray, which also annoys Peter.
‘Everything in its place,’ he tells her, not unkindly, ‘and a place for everything.’
He has lived alone all his life, she thinks. He is not accustomed to sharing his space with another human being. They both have a lot to get used to. So she does her best. Keeps her laptop and books tidy, always hangs up her clothes, never leaves her knickers on the bedroom floor. Even if it is he who has taken them off during the night and thrown them there, she creeps out of bed in the dark and hides them in the laundry basket before morning.
Mornings, she learns, he likes his first cup of coffee in bed, his second in the kitchen with his hot buttered soda-bread toast. The first few times, he brings coffee upstairs to them on a small tray, a precursor to their morning lovemaking, since that was what happened the first time they woke up together. It will be over a year later that she’ll realise how quickly this coffee–sex routine turned from spontaneity to simple expectation. How one morning, about a week after she moved in, when he kissed her shoulder and whispered, ‘Hey, don’t suppose you fancy making the coffee for a change?’ she was only too happy to oblige.
‘Of course,’ she said, almost leaping out of bed and pulling on his Japanese silk dressing gown.
She had no idea, none whatsoever, while she was waiting for the coffee to bubble through the pot, that Peter had just effected a permanent change. From that day on, it would be her who brought their morning coffee to bed, who would ask if it tasted OK, who would close her eyes when he slid the silk robe from her and pushed her back into the soft white pillows.
She doesn’t complain. About anything. It is his house and she still feels like a guest, keen to be sensitive to her host, to make herself welcome. Once the morning coffee–sex routine is established, he begins to go running immediately afterwards, explaining to her that he has let this habit lapse because of her but that he must now pick up his training. He puts on his kit, talks her through the special breathable fabric of the T-shirt, the trainers that he had professionally fitted at the specialist
running shop in Teddington. She can’t understand why he thinks she would find this interesting, but she smiles and tells him it sounds amazing. He seems pleased and leaves her to read in their large white bed.
The moment he has gone, she feels the emptiness of the huge house surround her. Restless, she runs downstairs and grabs her phone, taking the opportunity to cruise through Facebook while he’s not there to pass comment. When she hears the front door slam, she hides her phone beneath the covers and, not wanting him to think she’s lazing around like a sloth, quickly jumps into the shower before he reaches the bedroom. A mistake, as it turns out.
‘Did you wait until I’d got back to have a shower?’ he asks when she returns to the bedroom wrapped in a towel.
‘What?’
His feet are bare. She can smell them, sour in the humid room. He pulls his special breathable T-shirt over his head, releasing a strong, weird whiff of sweat and something like nylon. ‘I was wondering if you’d waited till the exact moment you knew I’d need a shower just to piss me off, or if it was simply sheer thoughtlessness?’
She scrutinises his face, sees that he’s serious.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, feeling the burning heat of shame creep up her cheeks. ‘I … I thought you’d need to cool down first.’ This is a lie; he is right, she didn’t think, but she doesn’t want him to know this. ‘I was only in there for a few minutes.’ That at least is true. She’s already in the habit of timing herself after he remarked that she was taking too long, wasting the planet’s resources. She’s got it down to three minutes, including hair wash and express leg shave, no mean feat. ‘Sorry,’ she says again.
Wordlessly, he leaves her to get dressed. A moment later, the luxurious rush of the German Raindance shower head reaches her from the en suite. Miserably she resolves to be reading, or at least pretending to read, when he gets back from now on, or better still, to grab her shower the moment he leaves so that she can prepare breakfast once he returns.