The Girl in the Red Dress

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The Girl in the Red Dress Page 23

by Elaine Chong


  What do I actually remember?

  I remember walking from my bedroom to the head of the stairs. I remember becoming aware of the scent of ‘Je Reviens’ – it struck me like a blow to the back of the head, left me feeling shaky and fearful. I was anxious to get out of the house. I remember setting my foot on the first step and that’s when I felt it – the pressure of a firm hand in the small of my back.

  Even now I’m not certain if I fell because I was shoved, or if I fell because I couldn’t move my feet fast enough, because I was terrified of what I might see if I turned around.

  As I fell, I caught just a glimpse of her: a woman in a red dress.

  This is why I don’t want to go home, because if Aggie did it once – pushes me or scares me so much that I fall down a flight of stairs – then she can do it again and I might not be so lucky next time.

  I’ve had a lot of time to process this experience.

  If I’m not going gaga, then Aggie’s presence in my house isn’t a product of an atrophying mind – and I’m pretty certain everything is still functioning in that department – so it has to mean that Aggie really is a ghost. I can live with that even if it flies in the face of everything I’ve believed about life and death up till this point. What I can’t live with so easily is the idea that she wants me dead as well. Aggie was my friend. I was her deathbed companion. Why does she want to kill me?

  I can only think of one explanation. It’s hardly rational, but having listened to her tell me why she felt she had to end her father’s life after he had a stroke, and why she allowed her mother drown in the bath, never mind running George off the road in that old Volvo – well, there can be only one explanation: she thinks she’s saving me again.

  Never was there a more dysfunctional form of empathy, but I’m certain that’s what it is.

  In the days before she died, we spent a lot of time together reminiscing although she didn’t tell me about Mr and Mrs Bagshot until the very end.

  During those days, we had many intimate conversations, some of them about life and death.

  “I’m not scared of dying,” she said one day. “I’ve thought about it quite a lot and I’ve come to realise that it’s a natural conclusion so there’s not much point fighting it.”

  “Well, nobody lives forever, I know,” I said, “but I’m not sure I agree with you about not fighting it.”

  Her bright blue eyes probed my face. “Is that a dig?”

  We were sitting as we usually sat: Aggie propped up against a mound of pillows on the bed and me sprawled in the chair. It was early evening, that time of the day when the late summer sun is sitting like a huge, golden globe on the horizon; no hint of darkness yet but somehow you can feel it gathering in the corners of the room. A bit like death itself, just waiting for the moment to arrive when it can creep in and extinguish the light.

  I smiled. “I’ve forgiven you for choosing to leave me like this.”

  Her expression was serious. “I don’t want to leave you, Lenora. In fact, I’m really worried about you.”

  “Well, don’t. Worry, that is.”

  “But I do,” she insisted. “You’ll be all by yourself.”

  “I’ve got Richard and Julia.”

  “Not really,” she said.

  It was the kind of comment from Aggie I’d grown used to. It wasn’t meant to offend. It was just a statement of truth, and I couldn’t deny that I no longer ‘had’ Julia in any sensible sense of the word – she’d been living her own life in Singapore for many years and I didn’t have a place in it. Richard, on the other hand, still kept in touch. Not as often as I would have liked, but I don’t think he had many happy memories of living at home, so he phoned, or we met somewhere for lunch.

  However, when other people draw your attention to something, which you’d prefer not to dwell on, it hurts. In the past, I would have been stung into offering some waspish response, but Aggie was dying a slow and painful death and I wasn’t going to add to her pain. It took me several minutes to think of a suitable response.

  “Birds always fly the nest. That’s how it’s meant to be.”

  She grimaced. “You’re having another dig at me, aren’t you?”

  I jumped to my feet and slid onto the bed next to her; gently took her hand in mine. “I’m not having a dig at you. You’re right. Julia isn’t really part of my life anymore, and Richard is usually too busy to do more than eat the occasional meal with me.” I squeezed her hand. “But I’ve had your friendship all my life, Aggie. That’s been a blessing. And you’ve had my friendship too. We’ve had each other.”

  A single teardrop rolled down her cheek. “When I die, you won’t have me anymore. You’ll be all alone. I can’t tell you how sad that makes me, Lenora.”

  “I’ll have you in my heart, Aggie,” I said. “You’ll always be with me.”

  Well, those turned out to be words of breathtaking prescience – ‘You’ll always be with me’. The trouble is I think Aggie now wants me to follow her into the afterlife. She thinks I’m sad and lonely and that actually I’d be better off dead.

  Julia

  I hear Colin before I see him. His stertorous breathing rumbles from the direction of the foot of the bed. I untangle myself from the bedclothes and crawl towards the sound. He’s sleeping on his back on the floor, head supported by one of the pillows from the bed and from somewhere he’s found a blanket. I didn’t hear him enter the room last night, but I made use of the minibar after he left, and a cocktail of spirits is as good as any sleeping pill.

  I tiptoe to the bathroom, trying hard not to wake him, but when I return to the bedroom, he’s sitting on the end of the bed. I’m trusting, hoping that last night’s argument will be dealt with in the usual way: by not referring to it and acting like nothing has happened, but Colin takes up where he left off last night.

  “I don’t know what your plans are, Julia, but I’ll be staying in London for at least a week.” When I open my mouth to respond, he quickly adds, “That wasn’t a question. I have no interest in your plans – either immediate or long-term.”

  “I don’t know what my long-term plans are either,” I say. “My immediate plan is to check out of the hotel and move in with my mother. She’s being discharged from hospital today.”

  He looks surprised. “So that really is the reason you flew back here?”

  “Yes! I’ve told you Richard can’t look after her. She’s had a hip replacement and she needs someone to stay with her until she’s independently mobile.” I have no idea what those two words actually mean in practice, but it seems to make an impression on Colin because his face softens. I try to take advantage of this change of disposition by asking him if we can discuss the issue, which he raised yesterday evening. “Like sensible adults,” I say, and I throw in a hopeful smile.

  “Sensible adults,” he repeats back to me. “I don’t think you’ve ever been a sensible adult. What is there to discuss, anyway? And please don’t do me the discourtesy of continuing to pretend that your relationship with John Tan is a professional one. You owe me that much.”

  I sit down on the bed next to him and he doesn’t move away so I take his hand and hold it in my lap. I keep thinking, I can put up a convincing defence. I can talk him round even if I can’t persuade him that he’s completely wrong, but I need to get a grip on the situation before it spirals out of control.

  “Colin,” I begin in a calm voice. “I’m not going to lie to you. I have been seeing him … romantically … but it’s only been for a few months. I was telling you the truth when I said that he’s been a client of Glück Glass for about eight years. And that he’s an avid collector – that’s how I’ve got to know him so well. We’ve had dinner together, I promise you, that’s all.”

  “Oh, Julia…” Colin stifles a sob, squeezes my hand and then withdraws it.

  I throw my arms around his neck. “I’m so sorry, Colin. It shouldn’t have happened, but I haven’t been happy for so long. I know you’ve always wante
d us to come back here; spend our last years together somewhere quiet on the coast when you retire but I can’t bear the thought of it. I want to stay in Singapore.”

  I feel certain that he’ll relax this seemingly implacable stance until I realise that, although he hasn’t pulled away from me, his whole body has stiffened. It’s like holding a corpse that’s still in the grip of rigor mortis. I close my eyes and wait for the explosion but when he speaks his voice is little more than a whisper.

  “I spoke to Tan’s wife. I saw her at The Americanas Club the same evening I spoke to Nancy. She knew all about you. She used the word ‘qiè’ to describe you. My Mandarin isn’t great, but it didn’t matter because her English is excellent, and she translated it for me. She said it means ‘concubine’. I actually apologised to her, but she just shrugged her shoulders. It was such a small gesture, but it spoke volumes. Shall I tell you what it meant, that shrug? It meant your Julia is the bit on the side that can be discarded like a dirty rag, but I’m the ‘forever wife’.”

  He stands up and walks to the bathroom. When he gets to the door he turns around and says, “I don’t think I’ve ever known a greater humiliation in my entire life. Now I’m going to take a shower and then I’m having breakfast. When I get back to the room, I expect you to have packed your suitcases and checked out of the hotel.”

  My heart starts to beat wildly in my chest and suddenly I feel like I’m drowning. I try to suck the cool, dry air of the hotel room into my lungs, but they don’t respond. I think I must be having a panic attack. Colin watches me impassively from the doorway of the bathroom. “I can’t breathe,” I manage to grind out between my teeth.

  “You’re fine,” he says. “It’s just the shock.”

  After several agonising minutes, I manage to calm myself. This isn’t how it was meant to be – I was supposed to be the one calling the shots. My mind races trying to piece together this new puzzle because I don’t understand why I’ve reacted like this. So, Colin knows about Jian. So, what? Mentally I try to reproduce Lí Huà’s nonchalant shrug, but it won’t work because what I feel is … fear.

  It’s a moment of revelation. I know I don’t love Colin. I know I want to be with Jian, but the truth is that I’m actually terrified of ending my marriage.

  Colin is still standing, waiting. His face is a picture of unrelieved misery. “You need to go now,” he says.

  “But I don’t want to leave you,” I protest.

  “You left me a long time ago, Julia,” he replies. “I just didn’t realise that you’d gone.”

  I’ve been left with no choice but to do exactly what he says, and as soon as he’s showered and dressed and closed the door of the room behind him, I begin to pack. I’m not sure what to do with my card key but when I return it to reception, the girl behind the counter tells me that the account has already been settled in full by my husband. She gives me an odd look, so I’m guessing that Colin has checked out of my room and checked into another one on his own.

  I hail a taxi and ask to be taken to Liverpool Street station. It’s a slow journey from one side of the city to the other and it gives me time to contemplate my situation, but can I seriously contemplate leaving Colin? Where would I go? A picture pops into my head and it isn’t a pretty one. It’s me sitting on my own at Jian’s Elizabeth Heights apartment, watching the clock, waiting for him to decide whether he’ll go home, or whether he’ll steal away for a few hours to be with me, his mistress. It takes two seconds to work out in which direction he’ll be heading.

  I try to reassure myself, tell myself nothing would fundamentally change. I’d still be working at the gallery each day, still meeting Nancy for lunch, still seeing Jian – when he isn’t with his wife and new baby.

  I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, but a tear escapes, and the picture is still there. Oh, God … I really didn’t think this through.

  Richard

  Still smarting from my surprise encounter with the indomitable Jackie from Hutton Home Help, I nearly forget that I need to pack some clean clothes for my mother to change into before I leave Hillcrest to drive to the hospital.

  I go back up to her bedroom and search through the wardrobe for something suitable. The weather is noticeably cooler than it was when she was admitted two weeks ago, but it occurs to me that pulling on trousers over a recently replaced hip might be difficult, so instead I choose a soft wool dress.

  I’m congratulating myself on my foresight and good sense when I hear a door slam shut. It sounds like it’s somewhere downstairs and it really unnerves me because I know – because I’ve only just checked them – that every window is not only closed but locked so it can’t have been caused by a gust of wind through an open window.

  The silence after the loud slam is even more unnerving. I stand in the bedroom and listen. I can’t hear a thing, but I gradually become aware of a strange tension in the atmosphere – it reminds me of the eerie sense of oppression one sometimes senses before the outbreak of a storm.

  When the door slams a second time all I want to do is grab the bag I’ve just packed and head for the front door, but if someone has got into the house then I’m going to have to confront them.

  As I cautiously retrace my steps downstairs, I notice that every door is open including the door to my father’s study. Now, my mind begins to race, and a cold sweat breaks out on my face and neck. I feel every trickle of perspiration running down my back and my chest. Did I leave the doors open when I checked the windows? And how could someone get into the house when the both the front and back doors are locked?

  I stand at the foot of the stairs and strain my ears to listen for anything that might reveal an intruder: a footstep, a movement, even heavy breathing. Once again, I’m greeted by the sound of silence, but my eyes are suddenly drawn through the open doorway of the kitchen to where I can see a door that’s still closed. It’s the door to the garage, a door rarely used but which both Julia and I have opened recently because the garage is where my mother put the family photographs.

  I place the bag containing my mother’s clothes on the floor and as I do, I become aware of the old casement clock ticking away. It’s like the heartbeat of the house. As I move towards the kitchen, the space between each drawn-out tick and tock grows longer, as though time itself is slowing.

  My limbs feel heavy: I struggle to place one foot in front of the other, but I’m determined to reach the door to the garage because somehow, I know that’s where I’m supposed to go.

  When I reach the door, I take a deep breath, place my hand on the handle and push. The door is heavy, but it swings open easily. Light from the kitchen rushes in but it only illuminates the area immediately in front of the door and I can sense something moving in the far, dark corner.

  “Who’s there?” I shout.

  I feel for the light switch and press it down. It takes several agonizing seconds for the overhead fluorescent tube to flicker and then flood the garage with harsh, white light.

  There’s nobody there. The garage is empty except for my mother’s small car and a pile of boxes.

  Relief overwhelms me, but it’s soon replaced by nervous curiosity. Some unconscious unravelling of the mystery of the slamming door has propelled me in the direction of the garage. The answer lies here somewhere, I think. I look about me for something, anything, that will explain it but there really is nothing here.

  On an impulse, I check the up-and-over door, which opens out onto the driveway. It’s old, made from solid timber in a steel frame, and I have no doubts about its security until I notice that it hasn’t been pushed back into the correct position so that it locks. All you’d need to do to gain entry to the garage from the outside is pull on the handle and the up-and-over door would swing up and over into the roof space. In fact, if the internal garage door had already been left unlocked as well – which it evidently has – then anyone could get into the house. No need to break in; no need for a key.

  Is this what I was meant to find? Was it this doo
r from the garage into the kitchen, which slammed once, twice?

  All I can think after I’ve secured both garage doors is: what the hell has Maggie been up to? Because it has to be Maggie who’s responsible for all of this: the whiskey, the broken decanter and glasses, the garage door deliberately left unsecured. There can be no other explanation, but as I’m driving away, I can’t help asking myself, why would she do this? It really doesn’t make sense.

  On Sparrow Ward at the hospital my mother’s bed is empty, but I can see at once that it’s waiting for a new occupant because the overhead whiteboard has been wiped clean and the bedding has that freshly laundered look about it.

  The woman in the opposite bed who mistook me for Arthur calls out, “Hallo, Richard. Have you come to collect your mum?”

  “Yes,” I say, “but she seems to have left already.”

  “That’s right, dear. You need to go to the departure lounge.”

  “Departure lounge?”

  “It’s on the second floor. They need the bed, you see, and Lenora told them you were coming to collect her. I told her – I said, ‘You’re lucky you’ve got someone to help you out.’ My Arthur – that’s my boy – he’s abso-bloody-useless. They told him I’d be good to go this morning, but he said, he can’t take time off work, so I’ve got to wait here till they know they can book me an ambulance. I mean, you’d think they could organise something a bit quicker than this. I’ve been waiting here since half past nine.”

  I don’t quite know how to reply to this outpouring of discontent, so I just wish her well and hurry back the way I came.

  I take the lift to the second floor and a sign points me to the ‘Discharge Lounge’ so I guess I’m heading in the right direction.

  My mother greets me with an anxious expression on her face. “Did you go up to the ward?” she asks.

 

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