The Girl Across the Street

by Vikki Patis

  My mascara is flaking; small black feathers fall on to the cotton pad. I remove the rest of my makeup then moisturise. Drying my face with a towel, I finally meet my own gaze in the mirror. My eyes are red-rimmed, smaller without the make-up, and when I put my glasses back on, I can see that I look exhausted, with faint purple bags under my eyes.

  I glance away quickly from my reflection, tossing the cotton pads into the small bin. I brush my teeth leaning against the sink, trying to block out the memories from last night. In the bedroom, I slip out of my dress, the silk brushing against my bare skin, and pull an oversized T-shirt over my head. When I climb into bed, the sheets are cool, and as soon as my head rests on the soft pillow, I can feel myself falling into a deep sleep. I hope it will be dreamless, but it never is.

  Two

  Isla

  ‘Isla!’

  The voice reverberates through my skull, dragging me into the past.

  ‘Get Isla!’

  I roll over, kicking the covers from my legs. My skin feels clammy. The sun is streaming through the bedroom window, hot rays cutting through me.

  I open my eyes, blink. The dream recedes slowly, the voice I remember so well. My mouth is dry; I snatch up the glass of water from the bedside table and gulp at it. Drops spill down my chin, on to my shirt, the pillow beneath my head.

  I glance at the Fitbit on my wrist: 12.05. My stomach growls, dissatisfied with just the water. I need food.

  I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, my feet touching the soft rug. It’s faux-fur, PETA-approved. I rub my toes against it, delighting in the small pleasure for a moment, before standing and making the bed. I grab a pair of leggings from the wardrobe and check my hair is presentable before going downstairs.

  I make myself a fresh pot of coffee and slide a couple of slices of bread into the toaster. In the fridge, there’s soya spread and organic strawberry jam. I’ll never manage to go vegan or zero-waste – I still ask for a straw in pubs sometimes, to my own chagrin – but I do what I can. Reusable shopping bags. Meat from the local farm. Organic milk in glass bottles from the milkman.

  I ponder over the term as I spread jam on my toast and crunch through the first slice. Milkman. Are they always male? I consider other, similar terms – policeman, postman, fireman. They have all been extended to include female employees. Milkperson doesn’t work. Neither does milkie, like postie.

  My mobile vibrates on the kitchen counter, startling me from my daydream. I don’t recognise the number. Wiping my hands on a tea towel, I pick up the phone and answer it.

  ‘Hello?’ I brush crumbs from my lips, as if the caller can see me.

  ‘Hi, is that Isla?’ An unfamiliar female voice comes through the speaker.

  ‘Yes, speaking,’ I say, propping the phone between my shoulder and ear as I plunge the cafetière.

  ‘It’s Beth.’ I am momentarily stunned. Beth? How did she get my number? I try to remember the night before, which had, thankfully, been pushed to the recesses of my mind while I slept. Beth, with her dark hair and feverish eyes, her fingernails bitten down to the quick.

  She coughs. ‘From last night?’ she prompts, taking my silence as a lack of recognition.

  ‘Hi,’ I say finally. ‘How are you?’ The question slips out, an automatic politeness.

  ‘Fine. Well. Y’know.’ She laughs nervously. ‘You?’

  I blow out a breath. ‘Same.’

  ‘I just wanted to check if you were all right,’ she says after a pause. ‘You seemed pretty shaken up last night.’

  I frown as I pour coffee into my second-favourite mug. As I recall, it was Beth who was stunned into inaction. I last saw her being led away by a paramedic, a blanket draped around her shoulders.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I manage. I don’t know what else to say to this woman I barely know. What does she want?

  ‘Did you recognise me?’ she asks. I pause, unsure what she means. The question hangs in the air, the growing silence becoming awkward.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand,’ I finally say.

  Beth laughs again, but now it is tinged with hurt. Or is that my imagination? ‘I didn’t think so. I was the waitress, last night. At the restaurant?’

  The memories come flooding back: the meal with Jake’s colleagues, having to entertain his slimy boss. And then Beth, serving our drinks, balancing too many plates, hair flopping into her eyes. Jake’s wandering hand, brushing over her thigh. I turned away, refusing to see my husband’s treatment of the waitress, of another woman. Disgusted at his arrogance.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, my voice quiet, my cheeks heating up. ‘Sorry, I didn’t…’ I trail off. I didn’t notice you. I didn’t see you.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Beth says. Her accent is local, rougher than mine. It brings back memories I’ve spent years trying to forget, a voice that has haunted my dreams since I was a child. ‘I just wondered if you wanted to meet up?’

  I stir sugar into my coffee and take a sip. Meet up? Why? I want to ask, but I don’t want to be rude.

  ‘Erm…’ I say instead, dithering.

  ‘I live across the street,’ Beth says quickly. ‘Over the main road, on Pinehurst? That’s why I was there last night.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say again. It makes sense. Why else would someone be in that part of town at three in the morning? The McDonald’s is closed at that time, I’m sure of it.

  ‘I finish work early tonight, around seven,’ Beth continues. ‘We could grab a drink?’

  My head is starting to hurt. I remember the wine I drank the night before, at the restaurant. How many glasses did I have? No more than four, surely. But I can handle my drink. I’m used to it.

  Why is this woman calling me? What does she want? But I realise that I haven’t been out with a friend for so long; years, in fact. Not since we moved here, to Hertford, to this house.

  She isn’t your friend, a voice inside my head says.

  ‘What about a coffee?’ I ask, ignoring it.

  ‘In the evening?’ She sounds perplexed.

  ‘The Coffee Lab is open until five. But I didn’t mean today,’ I add quickly, realising my error. I have no idea when Jake is due back; he won’t like it if I’m not here. ‘What about Monday?’

  ‘Mondays are my day off,’ Beth says brightly. ‘We could meet at three?’

  I think that’s a stupidly late time to meet, but I don’t say anything. I just hope they have some of their cakes left at that time. My belly rumbles, reminding me of the rest of my uneaten toast, growing cold on the plate in front of me.

  ‘Okay, why not?’ I agree, and Beth laughs. She seems to laugh easily. This carefree woman doesn’t match up with the woman I met last night. But that was under different circumstances, of course.

  ‘Should we meet there?’ I ask. I can park at Sainsbury’s and walk through by the river. It’s one of my favourite spots. I love pausing on the bridge to watch the ducks, listen to the music pouring out of the Old Barge pub.

  ‘Okay, see you then,’ Beth says, then abruptly hangs up.

  I place the phone face-down on the side. Only now do I realise that I should have offered her a lift. Should I call her back?

  But you barely know this woman, the voice in my head says. How do you know you can trust her?

  An image from the night before slides into my mind. Jake’s hand on Beth’s thigh, the look of disgust in her eyes. Or am I imagining that? I remember how I averted my eyes. Did she notice?

  I push the voice away and eat the rest of my toast, though I’ve lost my appetite. Placing the plate in the sink, I wash my hands, then pick up my coffee and cigarettes and wander into the garden.

  Seated on the cool metal bench, I feel something close to excitement. The horror of last night is already receding, draining away from the front of my mind. Instead I think about Beth, wonder at her boldness. I would never have sought her out, tried to make contact with a woman I barely know. It’s been far too long since I had a friend. Maybe we can be friends, Beth and I. />
  Buoyed, I wonder if she is on Instagram. What was her surname again? Cox, that’s it. I type in Beth Cox and am dismayed to get hundreds of hits, but I can’t see anyone who looks like her. Maybe she has Facebook, I think, switching apps. There I do find her, my Beth. The picture is a nice one: she has her hair up in a messy bun, heavy make-up lining her eyes. She’s in a bathroom in what looks like a pub, the mirror smeared with dirty fingerprints. A taller woman stands next to her, her tongue stuck out, her body angled towards the camera. Beth is laughing, her eyes twinkling. She looks happy, alive.

  The front door slams and I jump. Jake. I put the cigarette out and head back inside, leaving the patio doors open. I glance at the clock in the hall: it’s two o’clock.

  ‘Did you manage to get some sleep?’ he asks as I take his gym bag and move to empty it into the washing machine.

  ‘A bit. Good gym session? You were there ages.’ I look up to see his eyes narrowed, and I feel a cold spark run through me. I try to smile brightly. ‘You must be knackered.’

  He returns the smile after a beat, and my heart slows a fraction. ‘You don’t look like this without hard work!’ he declares, putting a hand on his hip and posing. I laugh, because that’s what’s expected of me.

  Jake’s eyes are trained on me as I load the dishwasher with my breakfast things. I can feel them assessing me.

  ‘What are you wearing?’ His voice is light, but I can hear the undercurrent. I am not how I should be, not how I usually am. I glance down at the oversized shirt.

  ‘I haven’t showered yet,’ I say. ‘I’ve had an awful headache. I was actually going to head back to bed.’ This is a lie, but it feels like the safest option.

  He looks at the clock. ‘It’s too late for that,’ he says irritably. ‘You should go and shower. I’m going to ring Mum, invite her round for dinner tonight.’

  I nod, trying to keep my face neutral. There’s no point in arguing. Shutting the dishwasher door with a click, I walk past him and up the stairs.

  The warm water revives me somewhat as I lather the coconut shampoo into the long hair that Jake loves. It was my hair he noticed first, he told me on our second or third date. It’s long and blonde with soft curls, making it bounce around my shoulders. I spend a lot of money on my hair, and my skin, now that I can afford to.

  I rinse the shampoo out and repeat, then condition the ends, squishing water into the curls to rinse it out. I wash my face and body, rubbing the fruity shower gel down my legs and up my arms, wriggling my toes in the water as the suds flow down me, my pink toenails bright against the foam.

  Every two weeks, a woman called Sam comes round and applies gel to my nails. Every six weeks, I have a spray tan and my brows waxed and dyed. Every ten weeks, I have a lash lift and tint, and my legs and underarms are waxed. Sam is like clockwork, always coming on a Tuesday at three, before Jake gets home and I have to start the dinner. I need her to keep me looking how Jake expects me to look.

  Every three months, I visit a salon nearby to have my hair done. I have my roots dyed a deep copper colour, slowly turning to a lighter blonde towards the ends. Ombré, my hairdresser calls it. I take my Kindle and read, hair in foils, people talking all around me. Hairdryers flaring, scissors clipping. I find it peaceful, the noise and the bustle. I like being surrounded by women all there for the same purpose. Sometimes I wonder about the other customers: the older lady with her hair dyed pastel pink; the teenage girl with a wonky fringe she cut herself, and a stern mother sitting on the sofa, reading a magazine. And there are the hairdressers themselves. Do they enjoy their job? Or do their feet hurt at the end of the day, their backs ache? Are they paid well? Do they live alone or with boyfriends, girlfriends, parents, friends? I am never brave enough to ask.

  Clean, I step out of the shower and swathe myself in a fresh towel, carefully wrapping my hair in another. I brush my teeth again, staring into the fogged mirror, then pad into the bedroom. I throw my dirty clothes into the washing basket, which is already half full, even though I did the washing on Wednesday. Keeping this house running to Jake’s liking is a constant job.

  I remember when Jake didn’t go to the gym on Saturdays or work late into the evening. When we first got together, I lived in a poky flat shared with five others, and he still lived with his parents in a posh house in Ware. I moved in with him, and his parents, after we’d been together for six months, and there we stayed until we bought this house. Was it really three years I lived with Judith and Jim? Three years of formal dinners at a table far too big for the four of us, Jim’s dogs lying at our feet, ears pricked for scraps. Three years of sharing a bathroom, even though Jake’s parents had their own en suite. Judith loved having a bath, she said, but I always secretly suspected that she just wanted to poke around in my things, and make herself a general nuisance.

  We got married the summer before we bought the house. It was a lavish ceremony at a manor house in the countryside, which no one on my side attended. They were all long gone. I wore a full-length white dress, lace running down the arms, but rather than feeling special, beautiful, radiant, all the adjectives one uses to describe a bride, I felt like a fraud the entire day.

  I pull clean underwear out of the drawer, then open the wardrobe. I grab a loose dress, short-sleeved, knee-length, and slip it over my head, leaving my legs and feet bare. The dress flows around my thighs, catching the breeze coming through the window.

  I sit at the dressing table, towel still turbaned around my head. I cleanse and tone my face, then consider my make-up bag. It’s too hot for heavy make-up, so I opt for a light BB cream, pressing it into my skin before coating my lashes in mascara. I apply a pale-pink lipstick, blotting with a tissue, then spray my face with setting powder. There, good enough.

  I free my hair from the towel and apply argan oil, then squeeze a blob of curl cream into my palm and scrunch it in gently. I decide to let my hair dry naturally. The air is warm, and the sun is bright; my hair will smell of sunshine later.

  I pick up my glasses from the bedside table, grab my phone and go back downstairs. In the living room, Jake is sitting on the sofa with his feet on the coffee table. He looks up as I enter.

  ‘Much better!’ he declares. ‘Mum’ll be here around six. What’s for dinner?’

  I bite my tongue against my immediate response. ‘What would you like?’ I ask, keeping my tone light. ‘There’s chicken in the fridge.’

  ‘Yep, great,’ Jake says unhelpfully, looking down at his phone.

  I sigh and head into the kitchen, opening the fridge and peering inside. It’s such a warm day, I decide to make lemon and garlic chicken with a salad. I chop the garlic and squeeze the lemons, then butterfly the chicken breasts, freshly bought from the farm shop yesterday morning, and leave them to marinate. The clock in the hall tells me it’s almost half past three – too early to start cooking. I pad back into the living room and settle down on the sofa next to Jake. I tuck my feet underneath me and open my Kindle, trying to lose myself in a novel, but my mind keeps drifting back to Beth. Does she have another reason for wanting to meet? I glance at my husband, the memory of last night running through my mind again.

  I slide the chicken breasts out of the oven, turning them carefully. I’m just popping them back in when the doorbell rings. I open the door, still holding the oven mitts, and Judith breezes in.

  ‘Hello!’ she calls brightly, not glancing at me as she heads straight for the living room. Jim enters behind her, a bottle of wine in his hand. Red, my favourite.

  ‘Hello, Isla,’ he says warmly. ‘Smells good in here.’

  I smile at my father-in-law. A quiet man, Jim has always given me that steadiness I’ve craved ever since I was a child. Jim, the one good, constant thing. ‘Thanks. It’s lemon and garlic chicken.’

  ‘Yum. Though it sounds far too healthy for me. I hope there’s a nice big chocolate dessert for afters?’

  I laugh and take the wine from his outstretched hand. ‘Of course. Go through, I’ll be the
re in a minute. Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?’

  ‘I’m driving, so I’d better stick to tea.’ Jim winks and ambles into the living room.

  I fold the oven gloves neatly on the side and fill the kettle, then lean against the counter, taking a few deep breaths. As much as I like Jim, Judith never fails to test my patience. I close my eyes and try to think calm, charitable thoughts, readying myself for an evening with her.

  On cue, her voice rings out from the living room. ‘Isla! Where’s that tea?’

  I sigh, noting that she never actually asked for anything, then call back, ‘Coming!’ I quickly make the tea and carry the mugs into the living room.

  Judith is sitting next to Jake, regaling him with a tale from her fortnightly book club meeting. Jake is nodding, but I can tell he finds it incredibly boring. Her stories usually are. I will him to look up and catch my eye, smile in a knowing way like he used to, as if we could reach one another’s minds.

  Luckily for me, he can’t do that any more.

  I go back into the kitchen, scooping my hair into a ponytail, and check on the chicken, then begin to prepare the salad.

  ‘Dinner’s almost ready,’ I call after a while. I sense someone behind me and turn, knife in hand. Jake reaches up and pulls the band from my hair, letting the curls fall gently around my shoulders. He wraps me in his arms, pushing his face into my hair as I try to slow my racing heart. ‘You smell like summer,’ he breathes. I let out a laugh, twisting gently out of his embrace. ‘And that smells great!’ He sniffs the air appreciatively. ‘I’ll just do a wee.’ He bounds up the stairs while I get out the cutlery and lay the table. Jim and Judith are sitting on the sofa, Jim frowning at something on his phone, Judith staring out of the open patio doors, mug in hand.