Our House

by Louise Candlish

  No need to be grumpy? Was this woman serious? As she craned to kiss me on the mouth, I pressed my lips shut. The traffic braked at the changing lights, the drizzle turning the usual roar into a kind of asphyxiated howl.

  ‘Spoilsport,’ she said. ‘If I’m your wife now, I should demand my conjugal rights, shouldn’t I? We’re not too far from your place.’

  ‘We just stole a house together,’ I said grimly, ‘we didn’t get married.’ I thought, fleetingly, of Christmas night.

  Shove the thieving bitch under a bus, I thought. The way the traffic was accelerating from the lights, bearing down on us right up against the kerb, drivers unseeing behind steamed-up windscreens, passengers staring at their phones, it would be easy.

  Okay, so I’d be wanted for two deaths instead of one, but what was the difference?

  *

  I had one last meeting with Mike, a surreal affair that began cordially enough for me to experience the illusion of mixed feelings, as if we were partners winding down a business about which we’d once been equally passionate.

  ‘What about Fi?’ I said. ‘You said you were going to take her away but she hasn’t said anything about it to me yet.’

  ‘All in hand,’ he said. ‘I’ll take her from Wednesday afternoon to Friday evening. As soon as the money lands, early Friday afternoon at the latest, Wendy will deliver your bits and pieces to the flat. Then you can skedaddle.’

  For once his cavalier language was soothing. ‘Bits and pieces’, not illegal passport and blackmail materials he’d dangled over me like a noose for three months; ‘skedaddle’, not flee for my life. Presumably, he and Wendy would be skedaddling off to Dubai on the final Friday night to cash in their winnings, buckling themselves into their seats at Heathrow as Fi arrived to find strangers living in her home.

  ‘Where are you taking her?’

  ‘Let me check the kitty,’ he said, ‘see what we can afford.’

  The kitty I had supplied.

  I’d already begun a fund of my own and had cashed in my last remaining investment, an ISA. Between now and my last day, I would withdraw every last penny from my current account, minus the portion to be debited to the joint account at the end of the month. The joint account I wouldn’t touch – clearly no noble act, given what I would be taking, but still, a gesture, however minuscule.

  ‘So, on the Thursday,’ Mike said, ‘you’re all booked for taking the day off work and getting the place cleared?’

  ‘Yes, but we should expect Fi to get messages from neighbours that something’s going on. I’m not going to be able to empty a huge house without being noticed.’

  ‘Good point. Tell any nosy neighbours you’re redecorating as a surprise for her and if they speak to her they should keep schtum. Will that work?’

  Yes, that would work. Those on the street who knew about the separation would know we were cordial. They would also know I was the guilty party – it wasn’t so extraordinary a leap for me to try a grand, symbolic gesture to win her back. ‘What if Fi can’t take days off at such short notice? And so soon after Christmas?’

  ‘Then I’ll persuade her to pull a sickie. Shouldn’t be a problem.’

  I stiffened. He was offensively confident of his powers of persuasion, offensively confident that he could take my house from me and, at the very moment that he took it, distract my wife by checking her into a hotel and fucking her.

  ‘Oh, Bram,’ he said, sensing my dip in mood and taking pleasure in lowering it further. ‘Who would have thought you’d end up as much of a loser as your father?’

  Any illusions of camaraderie vanished at a stroke and I grabbed him by the collar, my knuckles pressing into his throat. Had I been the stronger I would have taken his head in my hands and smashed it into the wall. But I was not and he held me at arm’s length like a weakling until I shook myself off and staggered back. ‘Why did you deliver that list to the house?’ I hissed.

  ‘What? It was addressed to you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Did you think Fi doesn’t know? Of course she knows, she knows everything about me.’

  ‘Not everything, Bram. Not the assault conviction, eh? And not us. At least I hope not.’ He chuckled, genuinely amused. He was venal, completely and utterly immoral. Almost as horrific as what he was doing was the knowledge that none of it, not a single penny from the house, not a single moment with Fi, was personal.

  I could have been anyone.

  ‘Fi’s Story’ > 02:38:27

  New year, new level with Toby. He was taking me to a smart hotel in Winchester for a few days. I won’t use the term ‘romantic getaway’, not now. I realize the horse has bolted in terms of any credibility I may have as a judge of character. Can I just say that it was by no means a foregone conclusion that I should go? I did waver: our regular Saturday nights were one thing, but two nights away from home was another. I even chose Polly as my advisor, subconsciously expecting her to discourage me.

  ‘Go,’ she said. ‘What’s the big deal?’

  ‘You’ve changed your tune,’ I said.

  ‘It’s a holiday! If I were you I would use it.’

  ‘Use it?’

  ‘Yes. To dig for the truth. Look in his wallet, check his phone.’

  ‘What for, Polly?’

  ‘For photos of his wife, Fi.’

  I groaned. ‘Maybe I could wear a wire as well?’

  ‘It’s a no-lose situation. If you find out he’s not married, great. If you find out he is, and I mean living with her properly, not bird’s nesting or some other trendy set-up, well, it’s better to know.’

  ‘Perhaps you should go in my place,’ I laughed.

  She reminded me of that later. ‘Bram could never have done what he did with you in the house full time,’ she said. ‘He used your custody arrangements against you.’

  ‘Hindsight is 20/20,’ I said.

  Was I falling in love with Toby? I don’t think so, no. Oh, I don’t know. Maybe a little, during that trip away. But what does it matter? Other than talking to you, I’ve done my best not to think about him.

  As for work, the timing was perfect in that a presentation I’d been working on with Clara was about to go to our design agency, with feedback due the following week, creating a natural break for me.

  ‘I’ll need to sort out cover for the boys,’ I told Toby. ‘Otherwise I won’t be able to do it.’

  ‘Your ex’ll step in, won’t he? I take it he’s moved on from his initial disapproval of us?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  If Bram couldn’t, I knew one of the grandmothers or neighbours would help, but he agreed without question, happy to prioritize family over work and handle every detail of their care. Even so, I lined Alison up for contingency.

  ‘You didn’t tell me how it went at Christmas,’ she said, when I popped in for a coffee. ‘With Bram?’

  ‘It was good. To be honest, I’m still trying to forget how good.’

  ‘I see. But nothing’s changed?’

  I paused, admiring the polished stone of her breakfast bar, the vintage roses arranged in the flared vase I’d chosen from our recycled ceramics line a few years ago.

  She gave a rueful sigh, forked fingers through her blonde hair, like mine highlighted to deny the grey. ‘I’m not saying I held out hope, but, you know, when you arrived at Kirsty’s together after the carol concert . . .’

  ‘I know. It felt like old times.’ I looked up. ‘But no, nothing’s changed. It’s too late.’

  We lapsed into silence then, almost in tribute.

  You know, speaking of falling in love, it’s almost as difficult to say when you’ve fallen out of it, isn’t it? I feel very strongly that just because you do, it doesn’t give you the right to deny the love existed.

  I may be many things, but I’m not a revisionist.

  VictimFi

  @DYeagernews So heartfelt, so true. Starting to wish they might get back together . . . #Bram&Fi

  @crime_addict @DYeagernews Are you
kidding me? You’re as bad as she is!

  Bram, Word document

  The solicitor emailed to say that contracts had been exchanged. The vendors’ ten per cent deposit – £200,000, a sum that the medication helped me visualize in Pokédollars – had been received and the final statement sent out to their solicitor. Completion was confirmed for Friday, 13 January (it was far, far too late to note the unluckiness of the date), the balance – minus mortgage settlement, estate agency fees, legal fees and other reimbursements – expected to land by 1 p.m. It would be close to £1.6 million.

  Rav met the Vaughans at the house on Saturday 7th for a last check of fixtures and fittings, but I elected not to be there, taking the boys straight from their swimming lesson to Pizza Express for lunch.

  It’s not real was my new mantra.

  *

  The next day, my final Sunday morning at the house, Sophie Reece came to the front gate as I was letting the boys back into the house after a bike ride in the park.

  ‘Everything all right?’ I said, approaching.

  ‘Yes, fine. Except I almost called the police yesterday!’

  Why the fuck would you do that? ‘Why?’

  ‘There were some people standing right in your front window and I knew you were out at swimming. They looked innocent enough, but burglars are very sophisticated now, aren’t they? Carrying tools as if they’re on a plumbing job, pretending to measure up for curtains, that kind of thing.’

  I smiled at her. ‘That must have been my friend Rav. He runs a decorating business. He’s doing some work for me next week, so you might see some of his team then as well. He was here with some other clients, talking them through his plans.’

  ‘Ah, that makes sense. Just as well I left it, then. They say you can’t be too careful, but actually you can, can’t you? He’s very well-dressed for a decorator,’ she added.

  ‘Yes, isn’t he?’ Decades of sales work had taught me that there was no more efficient way of shutting down an unwanted line of enquiry than to agree. ‘He’s more of a creative director, he doesn’t get his own hands dirty. By the way, I wanted it to be a surprise for Fi, so if you don’t mind . . .?’

  She did that wide-eyed thing women do when a secret is spilled, breathed a little ‘Ooh!’. ‘Of course. I haven’t bumped into her for ages. You know how it is.’

  ‘Everyone’s so busy,’ I agreed.

  *

  All that remained was to book the storage space and removals service and pack up our lifelong possessions without the other members of my family, or my colleagues, knowing anything about it.

  Though I did my best to be discreet, Neil overheard me taking a call and hovered by my desk, waiting for me to finish. ‘What’s this? You’re not moving house, are you?’

  ‘No, no, just helping my mum out. She’s putting some stuff in storage.’

  Might the police interview him, I wondered, and discover there’d been no such arrangement? It didn’t matter. He could tell them what he’d heard verbatim; I’d be long gone.

  ‘Might as well bin it,’ he said. ‘I know that sounds harsh, but apparently the vast majority of people who put stuff into storage never bother getting it out again. Surprised she doesn’t donate it to charity, a good Christian woman like her?’

  ‘It’s just knick-knacks,’ I said vaguely. ‘No one would want it.’

  ‘Is that why you’re taking Thursday and Friday as holiday?’

  ‘Partly.’

  He narrowed his gaze. ‘Nothing wrong, is there? I mean health-wise.’

  ‘No, she’s fine. Other than the delusions of eternal life, of course.’

  ‘Not her, you mug, you. And I don’t mean this mystery virus.’

  What he did mean was the booze, I supposed. The loose jowls and bloodshot eyes, the afternoon beer breath. ‘No, I’m much better now,’ I said.

  He was keeping an eye on me, that much was clear, and not only as a revenue-protecting sales director, but as a mate. The fact that I was going to let him down on both counts was somehow worse for knowing that he would bear no malice. He might even find a way to grant me pardon.

  45

  ‘Fi’s Story’ > 02:41:48

  It’s one of the well-known ironies of parenting, isn’t it, that to arrange time away alone with someone who isn’t your spouse is a thousand times simpler than with the one who is. In the old days, a trip with Bram spanning three school days would have called for Churchillian cunning and an army of helpers, but now he was my ex all I had to do was issue a five-minute briefing and I was free as a bird.

  On the Wednesday morning, after school drop-off, I popped into the flat to retrieve a pair of boots I’d left there at the weekend and needed for Winchester, assuming, correctly, that Bram would already have departed for work. Given the strict rules regarding access to Trinity Avenue on an ‘off’ day, there were laughably few, if any, for Baby Deco. Why would we want to go there unless ejected from the house? That had been the original thinking and yet this tiny studio flat had, in its own way, become a home.

  Letting myself in, I was struck immediately by the smell of cigarettes. Bram was still smoking, clearly, and must be going to some lengths to air the place each time he left since I never noticed the smell on my Friday arrivals. The bathroom door was open, water pooled on the tiled floor from his shower, and worn clothes scattered on the floor by the unmade bed. On the nearby table lay a green-and-white paper bag from the pharmacy on the Parade.

  I shouldn’t have looked inside, you don’t have to tell me that – it was both an invasion of privacy and an act of hypocrisy – but I did. In it were half a dozen identical boxes of prescription pills and I slipped one out to take a closer look. I didn’t recognize the name of the medication – Sertraline – which Bram was being directed to take in a 50 mg daily dose, and of course by the time I’d reached for my phone I’d convinced myself that he was gravely unwell. The lies he’d been telling, his excessive anguish when confronted: had he been protecting me all along from something far, far worse than fecklessness?

  And that remark I’d made at the concert about him acting like he was terminally ill! How could I have been so callous?

  I googled ‘Sertraline’, thinking that if I was right I would cancel this break with Toby and wait for Bram to arrive, as planned, to pick up the boys; we’d talk through how we were going to manage the situation, get through this together.

  The search results were up: it was an SSRI, an antidepressant used to treat anxiety and panic.

  I sat on the bed for a moment, immobile. Anxiety and panic caused by what? My having left him? I have to say the thought provoked feelings of sadness rather than guilt; after all, he’d brought his losses on himself, as I’d rather cruelly emphasized on Christmas night, and he’d been lucky to be forgiven that fracas with Toby. But he was still a human being and we all made mistakes, we all hurt.

  I decided there was no need to cancel the break, but I’d talk to him on Saturday, as scheduled. I’d subtly discover if there was anything I could do to help lessen his load.

  By now I was running late. I gathered up my things and headed for the door, abandoning the pharmacist’s bag on the table where I’d found it.

  Bram, Word document

  On the last Wednesday, the day before I cleared the house and – unbeknownst to my colleagues – my final day in the office, I had a call on my mobile from an unknown number.

  ‘May I speak to Mr Abraham Lawson, please?’

  It was mid-morning and I was at my desk. I wasn’t hungover, at least not notably, and my brain was sparking normally. Abraham: no one used my full name, so this meant someone in an official capacity. It had to be the police. The caller was female, so not the detective who’d come to see me back in—

  ‘Hello?’

  Speak, Bram!

  ‘I’m afraid he’s not in this week,’ I said in my own voice, casual, courteous. ‘Who’s calling?’

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Joanne McGowan of the Serious Collisi
ons Investigation Unit at Catford. So this isn’t his mobile I’m calling?’

  ‘It’s his work mobile,’ I said. ‘Company policy is to hand in your phone when you go on holiday.’ A lie – what company in 2017 would require that? ‘I can leave a message with his team, though, and have someone call you if they have another contact number for him?’

  Don’t give her the landline at the house: Fi might still be there!

  ‘We have his landline number, but there’s no reply at the moment.’

  ‘I guess they’re not at home,’ I said with a polite sympathy that belied the succession of terror and relief her last remarks had caused. ‘Maybe his wife’s mobile?’

  Quick thinking, Bram. If she believes Fi’s away with you, she might delay any plans to phone her separately.

  ‘Thank you. We have her mobile number already. How long is Mr Lawson away for?’

  ‘I think someone said he’s back on Monday.’

  ‘Is he in the UK, do you know?’

  ‘Er, Scotland, maybe?’ Best not to give a destination that might send them checking the airlines’ passenger manifests.

  ‘Thank you.’ She hung up.

  I remained calm. They knew nothing, I reasoned. At most, they’d discovered the car and had a few additional questions for me – few enough to ask over the phone. Even in the worst-case scenario, they’d give me till Monday. They’d wait till I was back from the Outer Hebrides before clapping handcuffs on my weather-beaten wrists.

  *

  ‘Why are you putting everything into these boxes?’ Harry asked on Thursday morning when he and Leo came downstairs for breakfast. I’d got them up early so I could prepare them for the arrangements ahead.

  ‘I’m about to tell you, but only if you can keep it a secret?’

  They gave their word.

  ‘I’m arranging a surprise for Mummy.’

  If I’d anticipated that this would be one of the most unbearable moments, when I tricked my two sacrificial lambs into expressing delight at the prospect of slaughter, I needn’t have worried.

  ‘She doesn’t like surprises,’ Leo said, pouring his Shreddies into a bowl. ‘I wouldn’t do it, Dad.’