‘Very,’ I agreed, shaking hands with the gallant gent, who introduced himself as Tim Farrow, a publisher I’d heard of slightly, but who certainly wouldn’t know me. He politely pretended he did, though, and we exchanged a bit of publishing small talk and then he excused himself and said he was off to lunch at the members’ table. He disappeared into the dining room, but not without giving Ingrid a last wistful glance. She was well out of his league.
Ingrid was one of those ice-cool Scandinavian blondes who would have been ravishing in her youth and was still quite something. She had a slightly transatlantic lilt to her Nordic accent, having been brought up in various different countries by a rich industrialist father, but had married a fellow Swede, Lars Schroeder, who was in property, and they’d settled over here. But the marriage was shaky. Open, even. All this I’d gleaned from her manicurist, after Millie Taylor let slip she and Ingrid had a regular Tuesday slot at a nail bar in Parsons Green. See what I mean about research?
Obviously, there were quite a few nail bars in Parsons Green, but it didn’t take long to breeze into some of them, claim Millie had recommended the joint, and then, after three had shaken their heads, locate the right one. Fourth time lucky. I’ve never been to a manicurist in my life, but according to Fatima, who filed, buffed and polished me, it was high time I did. She also told me how lovely Millie was, and how she admired Ingrid’s style. But the crucial nugget came when she told me Ingrid was writing a book, about interior design. This was a gift from God, as far as I was concerned. All prospective authors were wide-eyed at the prospect of an introduction to an agent or a publisher, which, of course, was exactly what I suggested when I rang her. I’d opened with the Scandinavian kitchen makeover, and she’d said she’d come round and give me a quote. She’d asked where I lived and, when I’d told her, she’d sounded surprised: said she was literally round the corner. Obviously I didn’t want her popping round, so I said I’d love to see her work first, and she’d blithely directed me to her shop, and her manager, Helmut, as I thought she might. I’d agreed to go – and later, of course, decide, with regret, it was too expensive – but wondered if there was anything I could look at? A website, or even a brochure? The rest was easy. She’d bitten.
I settled myself beside her now at the bar and we chatted a bit about the club: how cosy it was, albeit a bit run-down. And then Ingrid glanced around, blue eyes searching.
‘Is she here?’ she asked, referring to my agent, Sonia, who was in fact in Hampshire seeing her newborn grandchild for the first time. ‘Or did you say she’s meeting us later?’
‘Later,’ I agreed. ‘If she can make it. But she did actually send a text saying she was slightly held up with an author. She said she’d do her best, though. Ingrid, you look amazing, have you been away?’
‘Portugal,’ she said shortly. ‘Just a long weekend in Lisbon.’ She frowned. ‘So … maybe we should make it another day? Rearrange? I could easily do some shopping today.’ She began to gather her suede bag with its slinky gilt chain from the bar.
‘Oh, you never know, she may yet show. Just a tonic water, please,’ I said to the barman, who was raising his eyes enquiringly at me. ‘And could we see the menu, please? I’m starving, aren’t you?’ This with a beaming smile at Ingrid, who was looking a little disgruntled.
‘Well, I suppose we may as well eat now we’re here,’ she said petulantly. Lord, she was bad-mannered. What did Michael see in her? She was gorgeous, of course; sleek and shiny and with long silky hair, too long, possibly, for late forties, and she’d had some work, I decided, looking at her very smooth brow. Not that a man would probably notice. It was subtly done, and she’d sensibly avoided her lips. We ordered a salad apiece. Then we moved to a little table in the corner, and as we chatted about how nice the Taylors were, she became a bit more genial. After the salads arrived, I glanced surreptitiously at my phone, which wasn’t actually allowed in here.
‘Oh.’ I pocketed it quickly. ‘Sonia’s definitely not going to make lunch,’ I explained, ‘but she’s going to try to join us for a coffee later. Now. Tell me all about it. The book! It sounds amazing. Do you have any pictures?’
She brightened and pulled out a tablet, then hid it quickly under the table as the barman frowned. I swivelled around to take a closer look. Shot after shot of typical Scandi room sets whirred past, all blond wood and bleached floors but with a twist, she told me, in case I hadn’t spotted it, in that the walls were flocked velvet, suede sometimes, and the upholstery too, making the juxtaposition all the more vivid. And all the more alarming, I thought privately, as I oohed and aahed, gushing extravagantly, thinking – only rich industrialists, surely? But Ingrid was encouraged by my laying it on thick and began to thaw a little. She even managed to smile when, on learning she’d taken the pictures herself, I declared she could be a photographer, too.
‘D’you think? Well, you’re very kind. You must come and see it, if you really like it. My shop, I mean. It’s in Chelsea Green.’ Of course it was.
‘I’d love to,’ I enthused. ‘I’m hopeless at interior design. I could really do with some good ideas. Did you study it for years?’
Clever Lucy, clever. She hadn’t, of course; she was self-taught, and had been set up in a jiffy either by Daddy or her husband, but loved that I thought she was a professional and not just a rich housewife filling her days. So off we went again on her ‘instinctive eye’ and ‘unfailing feel for colour’, so that before long I knew exactly what she and Michael had in common: themselves. And actually, I was disappointed. Usually they were nicer than this. I began to have a slight sinking feeling. Conscience, my trump card, was not feeling so strong.
‘Will you open another shop?’ I asked eagerly, as if I simply couldn’t wait and hoped it was next door. ‘You know, expand?’
‘I might,’ she said, pale eyes widening, and I could tell it hadn’t occurred to her, but she was encouraged I might think she could make an empire out of her plaything. Perhaps an upmarket IKEA? She was beginning to thoroughly warm up and even gave a tinkly little laugh as she knocked back her wine. I admired her hair and she ran a hand through it. Normally at this point in the proceedings – indeed, long before – the other party might politely ask me a question, albeit, in the case of Tara, the actress, in a bored, offhand fashion, but not our Ingrid. As I moved on to the rocks on her fingers, gazing rapt and appreciative at the glittering spectrum, she ran me through each heirloom. Only when we’d exhausted this did I ask about her children, which usually had to lead to mine, together with a chummy, self-deprecating eye roll about our adored but impossible offspring. A sharing of photos and tips. But Ingrid didn’t conform.
‘One, a girl, Sophia. Rather spoiled and princessy at the moment.’ I waited, but she didn’t expand. Neither did she reciprocate.
‘I’ve got two,’ I volunteered, rather desperately. She nodded. Sipped her wine. ‘And … how old is Sophia?’ I ploughed on.
‘Seventeen. She lives mostly with her father in New York.’
I felt my heart pound. ‘You’re divorced?’
‘Oh no, that would not be financially viable, but we lead separate lives. It’s much easier.’
She smiled thinly and I was about to agree warmly that this was, of course, the ideal scenario, when I real ized this was the only thing I should absolutely not agree with her on. I was slightly floundering now, to be honest, when luckily, a friend of mine, a smiley Irish author called Maggie Healy, chose that moment to interrupt. She swept across from the bar and materialized before us in a long floral dress. She kissed me warmly on both cheeks, bending down to squeeze my shoulders.
‘Lucy! It’s grand to see you. I was wondering where you’d been hiding yourself! Sorry to interrupt,’ she shot a wide, apologetic smile at Ingrid, ‘but I couldn’t resist beating you to it. Look what Sonia’s just sent me!’ She had her phone hidden in her bag and glanced back to check on the barman, who was luckily distracted. ‘Lucy and I share an agent,’ she explained to Ingrid. ‘Ta
ke a look at that, now. Isn’t that the sweetest babe you’ve ever seen?’
I looked. At a very lovely, smiling photo, which became a video, of a beaming Sonia. She had a newborn wrapped in a shawl in her arms and looked every inch the proud grandmother. I felt my throat tighten. ‘Isn’t she the most gorgeous bundle of joy? Augusta Sarah, born last night, on the stroke of midnight.’ Maggie turned her phone inclusively, so Ingrid could see.
‘So … that’s your agent?’ asked Ingrid, peering, confused. ‘With the baby?’
‘Taken two minutes ago. She hotfooted it down there this morning when she heard the news. But you knew that, didn’t you, Luce? You’re in the WhatsApp group?’
It seemed I had neither breath nor words to draw on. An awful lot of blood seemed to be leaving my face. My mouth opened mutely.
Ingrid fixed me with her cool blue eyes. ‘I don’t believe we were ever meeting your agent here,’ she said quietly. ‘I think you got me here to divert me, in some insidious way, from something else.’
Maggie looked horrified. Also baffled. She dropped the phone back in her bag. Then, making wide, apologetic eyes at me, she muttered her excuses and melted away.
‘I’m not interested in your husband, Lucy,’ Ingrid went on, never taking her eyes off mine. ‘He took me to lunch yesterday, and we had a nice time, but I shan’t be going again. And not because I’ve been warned off by you, or because in some weird way you tried to befriend me, but because he’s not my type. Believe me, though, if he had been my type, I wouldn’t let a little ruse like this stop me.’
She shot me a defiant look. Then she gathered up her suede bag and got to her feet. She adjusted the gold chain over her shoulder and turned on her heel. I watched as she threaded her way through the room. Despite the great legs, her skirt was a bit short and tight, although none of the men in the bar would have agreed with me. Their eyes all strayed from whosoever they were talking to, to follow her out. A female editor I knew smiled and rolled her eyes despairingly at me. But I couldn’t move my face at all. I just sat there, in the corner, frozen.
Maggie, sweet Maggie, beetled back. She took Ingrid’s seat beside me, and then my hand, distressed. She asked me quietly, ‘What on earth …?’ I licked my lips and told her, in halting, whispery tones, what I’d done. Or had tried to do. She didn’t speak. Didn’t judge. She just squeezed my hand. As my eyes welled up, she led me out of the bar to the Ladies. There I had a bloody good cry in her arms. Later, sniffing and balling bits of tissue from the loo roll she handed me, I assured her I was fine. She saw me downstairs and got me an Uber. And she wouldn’t say a word, not to anyone. She promised. I knew she wouldn’t. I trusted her. An old friend, who actually wouldn’t be a bit surprised. Not really. She watched me go, sadly, into the London traffic.
Michael was waiting for me when I got back and he’d been drinking. As I closed the front door behind me, I knew at once this was a very different atmosphere to the one I’d encountered yesterday. I walked down the hall to the kitchen and he came towards me from where he’d been waiting. A muscle was going in his cheek and the familiar anger vein was throbbing in his forehead. He’d called the club, he said. I’d been so long, he was worried. Asked the doorman who I was lunching with, who’d signed in as my guest. He said he knew my nasty little ways of old. Knew exactly what I was up to. He began to shake with fury, his face florid. He said he was mortified, thoroughly ashamed of me, that I was a complete embarrassment. And then it started. How nobody liked me, nobody. I had no friends; people only accepted me for my association, by marriage, with him. His friends all pitied him, wondered why he stayed with me, this timid soul who churned out drivel. Terrible disposable book after disposable book. I was a laughing stock. He said pity was the only reason he stayed with me. That he knew I’d be destitute if he left me. The house, in a covenant organized by trustees of his parents, belonged solely to him. He knew I’d be on the streets. He said he despised me. All this, as he prowled around me, whisky on his breath, hissing in my face, leaning in now and then for my ear. Michael was always careful now, not to make too much noise.
I groped for a stool. My legs were wobbly and I always physically shrank under the verbal abuse, often with my head bowed, my eyes shut. Still he prowled, and hissed: about what a pathetic creature I was. Overweight, fat, ugly. An insult to my sex. And all this, actually, I could take. As long as I took cover, thus, in silence. I knew, from his sister, that when they were younger she’d suffered similar insults when he’d been thwarted in some way. She’d repeated some of the things he’d just said to me word for word, so although it left me breathless, I could take it. I waited, mute and trembling, on the kitchen stool, for him to finish. In the past, of course, when I was younger, I’d retaliated: shouted, screamed even, but that would only kick-start something extra – something he’d yet to say, about the children – so I didn’t. Finally he bent right down to put his face close to mine, that vein pumping in his forehead, to deliver his last insult.
‘And don’t you ever think of leaving, you sad little bitch. Because you know what I’ll do. You know I’ll find you. Or someone else.’
I froze, waiting for him to elaborate. To tell me about the accidents that happen daily. A girl who fell from a high-rise window only a block from Imo’s in Manhattan. How, in Ned’s church, a huge lump of plaster had dropped from the ceiling, wounding a parishioner. He didn’t. Just a lot of heavy breathing, the whisky fumes revolting. Still I waited, though, and when I knew he wouldn’t go away until I glanced up, I did. He spat in my face. I didn’t brush it away, I knew the rules.
Finally I sensed him moving off. There was a rustling behind me as he collected his door keys from his desk in the corner. Then he blundered heavily past me through the kitchen. Down the passageway he went, and then the front door slammed behind him, rattling in the frame.
I raised my head and wiped my face. My hand was trembling. He’d be off to Soho to meet his buddies: a few alcoholics, out-of-work actors, none of whom had families any more, all of whom had been deserted. Boozing, ageing luvvies, who would have been there all day. And there he’d stay, until they were finally chucked out, in the early hours. Michael would pour himself into a black cab and trundle, expensively, home. He wouldn’t come up to the bedroom, I knew – thank God. He’d prostrate himself on the sofa in the study, and there I’d find him in the morning.
And then, the nightmare would continue: for days, weeks sometimes. A different sort of treatment: silent, deadly, brittle and tense. No words would be exchanged, and during that time, I’d determine to leave him, once and for all. Go to the police. Tell them about his threats. No bruises, of course, he was too clever for that, and I could almost hear the police sighing in my head. Telling me many people threaten to do things when they’re angry. Still, this time I’d do it. And just as I’d be building up to it, with Helena there too, for moral support, he’d come home beaming, almost as if he knew. The sun would come out and he’d have flowers in his arms and tickets in his pockets for Venice, just the two of us. And I can hardly bear to tell you this, but something inside me would crumble. My resolve. All the tension of the last few weeks would dissipate, and I’d feel such ridiculous relief flood through me. And I’d try not to picture Helena’s face, contorting in disgust and incredulity, as I found myself on an EasyJet flight a few days later. I’d text her, assuring her all was well, and that I was having really rather an amazing time. She wouldn’t reply.
But not this time, I thought, as I sat there chilled and still, for what, I realized, when I glanced outside, must have been ages. It was getting dark. This time it would be different. I’d actually report him. And then disappear. Go abroad, maybe. To America, to Imo. Aware I’d resolved this countless times before, I climbed the stairs to my bedroom. Neither hungry nor thirsty, I drew the curtains and got undressed. But I couldn’t face brushing my teeth. That mirror in the bathroom, so shaming. I just crawled into bed.
Some time later, I heard him return: his key in the d
oor; it slamming shut. Then a shuffle down the hall towards the kitchen, and thence the study. A light appeared around my door frame for a few minutes, then darkness again. I shut my eyes, exhausted but sleepless. And then, an hour or so later, when I was still wide awake, I heard a crash. Breaking glass. I lay still, shocked. Then I heard a voice, Michael’s voice, a shout. And then a cry and a thud. I sat bolt upright in bed. What the fuck? Had he woken for a pee and crashed, pissed, into that glass coffee table? Knocked a lamp over? Silence, now. I leaped out of bed and flew to the door in my nightie. Terrified at what I might find, I froze, my hand on the knob; but then, resolute, I opened it and crept down.
The house was in darkness. I passed the children’s old rooms on the next landing, then their bathroom on another, and stole on down the stairs to the hall. The kitchen was very dark, but I felt my way through and pushed open the door to the study. A bright stream of light, a torch, suddenly swung round and was in my face, blinding me. The light was dazzling in its intensity and stopped me in my tracks. There was heavy breathing too. I was terrified. I stood, frozen. Then came to my senses.
‘Hey!’ I shouted, instinctively covering my eyes with my arm.
All of a sudden, it was gone. Snapped off. Darkness fell, and as my eyes acclimatized, the intruder, who I instantly realized I’d disturbed, was off. Out the way he’d come, flying through the open French door, a pane broken where the latch hung. I fleetingly saw him leg it down the garden. Just as the moonlight had briefly illuminated him, it was also enough to reveal Michael. He lay motionless, face up on the floor, between the sofa and the coffee table. Beside him was a bucket, which already had vomit in it. His face was deathly pale and there was a small pool of blood beside his head. I stared. Didn’t immediately move. Don’t ask me why. But the room still had the air of someone fast-moving and violent passing through it. And that dazzling white light. The breathing. So close. I felt violated.
Behind Closed Doors Page 3