The Girl Across the Street

by Vikki Patis

  ‘Okay, sure,’ her dad says, surprising her, and they get out of the car.

  As Beth fits the key in the lock, she hopes Kyle hasn’t trashed the place in her absence. She opens the door and the smell of weed hits her in the face. She doesn’t turn to see her father’s expression.

  ‘Kyle?’ she calls, stepping aside to let her father in. ‘Dad’s here.’

  ‘Hi, Mr Cox,’ Kyle shouts from the living room. Beth slides past her dad to get into the living room first; she sees the airer still up, her bedding flapping in the breeze from the open window.

  ‘I’ll just…’ she says, grabbing it and dragging it into the bedroom. When she returns, she sees her dad standing in the middle of the room; Kyle is stretched out on the sofa, a spliff burning in the ashtray on the table.

  ‘Kyle!’ she snaps, and he jumps.

  ‘What?’ he says. It comes out as a whine.

  ‘Let Dad sit down,’ she hisses, then flashes her father a smile.

  Kyle grumbles as he moves his legs, and her dad perches on the seat next to him.

  ‘Tea?’ she asks.

  ‘No thank you,’ her dad says stiffly, and Beth deflates. The happy two hours spent in town together are disintegrating before her eyes, as her father takes in the grubby flat and her waste-of-space boyfriend.

  She opens her mouth to speak again, but her dad stands up, rubbing his palms on his trousers.

  ‘Actually, I’d better be going,’ he says, and strides out of the living room. Beth’s shoulders slump as she follows him, out of the front door and down the stairs, into the sunshine. She knows he’s never liked Kyle, has never understood what she sees in him, but she has always wondered if her dad’s attitude isn’t, at least in part, due to his own snobbery, some repressed racism even. But no. Now she understands his point of view; her rose-tinted glasses have finally been knocked away, revealing a truth she has been hiding from herself all along. She deserves better.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she says as her dad unlocks his car. She has never apologised for Kyle before, she realises. ‘He’s, you know… it’s difficult, I…’ She trails off. He turns back to face her.

  ‘Elizabeth,’ he says, his voice gentle. ‘You need to find yourself someone who’s worthy of you. He’ll bring you nothing but trouble, I’ve always said so.’ He has, Beth remembers. But only now does she believe him.

  ‘Dad, I—’

  ‘Is it money?’ he asks. She looks up at him in surprise. ‘Is that why you stay?’

  ‘No, Kyle doesn’t even work, he—’

  ‘Then what? Does he hit you?’

  She remembers Kyle’s fingers pulling at her pyjamas, her silent screams into the pillow. ‘No,’ she says after a beat. Her father raises an eyebrow, then rummages in his pocket and pulls out his wallet.

  ‘Here,’ he says, handing her ten crisp twenty-pound notes. She takes them with shaking hands. ‘An emergency fund. Keep it separate, away from him.’ He jerks his head towards the block of flats. ‘Use it to get yourself away, when you can.’

  Beth folds the notes and tucks them into her pocket. ‘Thanks, Dad,’ she says, tears pricking her eyes. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  Her dad sighs heavily, opens the car door. ‘Take care of yourself, Elizabeth,’ he says, and with that, he’s gone, peeling away from the kerb and disappearing, back to his house and his other family, his other life.

  Beth stands on the grass verge for a few moments, a hand tented over her eyes as she looks up at the block of flats, at the window of the living room where Kyle sits, smoking, wasting away. Something has to change, and only Beth can make it happen.

  Eleven

  Isla

  A week later, I am in the bedroom, stripping the covers from the bed. Sam is due at three; I have to get a move on to finish all my chores in time. I quickly make the bed with fresh sheets, pulling them tight and tucking them under the mattress. I run a hand across the top, smoothing out the lines. A memory flashes through my mind: Jake’s hands gripping my thighs so hard they left bruises, his desperation leaching through.

  Jake longs for a child. In all our years of marriage, barely a day has passed without him mentioning it.

  ‘Sarah at work is pregnant again!’ I remember him exclaiming at dinner with his parents one autumn night last year. ‘That’s her third.’ His mother tutted, and Jake looked at me with barely concealed disdain, so disappointed that I was not – am not – as capable of bearing children as Sarah.

  But I do not want a child. A child would bind me to Jake for ever, would trap me inside this house and this marriage until I die. Yet I am fooling myself. I am already trapped, after all. But I won’t trap someone else, not an innocent child who has no say in the matter. No, I will not become complicit.

  The doorbell rings and my head snaps up, confused. It’s barely one o’clock; Sam is never this early. I jog down the stairs and pull open the door, words of greeting dying on my lips as I see a young man dressed in running gear. The night of the hit-and-run flashes through my mind; the victim, dressed in his shorts and reflective armband, bleeding in the road.

  ‘Hi,’ the man says. I stay half hidden behind the door, nervous. He looks so much like the other man, whose features will be burned in my mind for ever now.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, my voice crisp. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Yeah, hi, I’m Tom,’ he says, holding out a hand. I take it, his fingers closing gently around mine. ‘I just moved in up the road. Number twenty-eight?’ I nod; I saw the letting sign up the week before. ‘I just wanted to introduce myself and meet some of our new neighbours.’

  I let out the breath I’ve been holding. Our. So he isn’t living alone. Twenty-eight is only a one-bedroom place – I saw it on Rightmove a few days ago, wanting to find out what it looked like inside.

  ‘Ah,’ I breathe, and allow myself to smile. ‘Hi, I’m Isla.’

  Tom smiles back, his rosebud lips curving upwards, his eyes crinkling. ‘Lovely name,’ he says.

  ‘And your partner…?’ I ask, deliberately using the gender-neutral term.

  ‘Emma,’ Tom nods. ‘She’s at work right now. She’s a paramedic.’ His eyes light up as he speaks of her. I find myself warming towards him.

  ‘Wow. An important job.’

  ‘Yeah, she works hard. I’m a teacher, just took a job at Richard Hale. But I have a week to get settled in, thank the Lord.’

  ‘So you’re enjoying some time off?’ I ask. Tom laughs.

  ‘If by enjoying you mean spending my days building flat-pack furniture…’ He makes a face, and I laugh. Tom is attractive in that rugged kind of way. I can feel my cheeks heating up. Get a hold of yourself. What would Jake say? That thought casts a chill across my skin, and I step backwards, holding the door between us like a shield.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Tom,’ I say, not allowing my eyes to meet his. ‘Welcome to the neighbourhood.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he grins. ‘See you around?’

  I make a noise I hope is non-committal, then shut the door firmly. Through the peephole, I watch Tom put his earphones in and start jogging up the road, in the opposite direction to his house.

  Did he knock on anyone else’s door? I wonder, trying to calm my breathing. Or did he single me out?

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I say aloud, pushing off the door and heading back upstairs to shower.

  Sam arrives at three on the dot, smiling broadly and chattering away the minute she steps through the door. She accepts a glass of water and begins to remove the gel from my nails. She talks about her two children, and how she wishes she could get on a plane and spend a week on a beach by herself.

  ‘I wouldn’t change them for the world, though,’ she adds, as if I am judging her. I’m not. I don’t blame her for wanting to get away from it all. I often wish for the same thing.

  The week has passed without me hearing from Beth. I’ve wanted to text her, but Jake has been in and out since coming back from Sheffield, barely leaving me alone. I fee
l on edge, trapped inside the bubble of our life together. Since meeting Beth, I feel the urge to pop it.

  On impulse, I decide to redecorate the bathroom one afternoon, continuing the coastal theme from the living room. I dig a tin of paint out of the shed, a deep sea-blue I bought months ago and never opened, and drag the stepladder out from under the stairs. Dressed in a long T-shirt, I throw open the window and flick on the radio.

  I am amazed at how quickly I manage to paint the wall opposite the bath. I roll the paint on with ease, and my vision soon begins to take shape before my eyes. First coat done, I take a step back to admire my work. The deep blue complements the white tiles and matches almost exactly the bath mat on the floor. I hope Jake will like it, but I know he probably won’t even notice.

  I decide to have a cup of tea while the paint is drying. I lean against the kitchen counter, sipping the tea, rubbing at a paint speck on my bare leg. For a moment, I feel content. Then I remember that Jake will be home tonight at seven, a little later than usual, and the bubble of contentment bursts.

  I remember Beth’s wide eyes when Jake came home to find her sitting in the living room. I’m convinced I saw something more than recognition there; maybe even fear. But that’s ridiculous. Surely she just recognised him from the restaurant. He did touch her up, after all.

  The house phone rings, startling me. I frown at it before picking it up.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Isla?’ The voice on the other end is grating. I suppress a sigh.

  ‘Hi, Judith,’ I say.

  ‘What’s wrong with your voice?’ my mother-in-law snaps. I wait a beat before responding.

  ‘Nothing. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I just wanted to confirm what time you’ll be arriving on Saturday?’

  I glance up at the calendar hanging in the hall. It’s Thursday today, and Saturday’s box is empty. Judith huffs at my silence.

  ‘For Jakey’s birthday, of course.’ I cringe, as I always do, at the childish nickname. ‘We’re throwing a party, remember?’

  I am ninety-nine per cent sure that she has never mentioned a party before now. But this is her way; she just can’t help herself. She loves to catch me out, prove that I’m a bad person, a bad wife. Prove that I’m not good enough for her precious Jakey.

  ‘I don’t know anything about a party,’ I say, running a hand over my hair. ‘Does Jake know?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Judith’s voice is shrill. ‘It’s a surprise party. It’s his thirtieth, after all. We have to do something special.’

  ‘Sounds great, Judith,’ I say brightly to cover my irritation. ‘What do you need me to do?’

  ‘Oh no, we’ve got everything covered,’ she replies quickly. I can almost see the smirk on her face.

  ‘But I’d like to contribute.’ I can imagine her on the day, letting everyone know how she did everything and I didn’t lift a finger. I can’t have that. ‘I’ll get the cake,’ I say decisively.

  ‘I don’t think that’s necessary, Isla, I’ve—’

  ‘No, no,’ I cut in. ‘I’ll have a special cake made. And cupcakes. I know exactly what to do. I insist.’

  Judith is silent for a moment, then she sniffs. ‘Very well,’ she says, her voice colder. ‘You should bring Jake round at four. We’ll be having afternoon tea in the garden, then a meal.’

  ‘How many people will be there?’ I’m thinking about a cake design. Should I do something personal, or generic? Will it need to be gluten-free, vegan? I barely know Jake’s friends, colleagues, family even, beyond Judith and Jim.

  ‘About fifty.’

  One cake and fifty cupcakes then, or should I get more? A variety maybe?

  ‘Wonderful,’ I say, forcing a smile into my voice. I catch sight of myself in the hall mirror; it looks more like a grimace. ‘We’ll be there.’

  After Judith says goodbye, I slam the phone down with unnecessary force. I grip the console table in front of me, forcing myself to breathe deeply. In, one two three, out, one two three. I close my eyes and try to empty my mind, but the memory digs in, refuses to be pushed aside. My mother, her long curls wild around her face, lips pressed against my father’s stubbly cheek. They are never far away, my parents. They always come back to remind me of what I did, what I lost. What I can never hope to find anywhere else.

  I force myself to concentrate, pushing the pain away. I will not go there, not today. A few moments later, I feel calmer, more in control. First things first: I have to sort out these bloody cakes. I found a woman on Instagram only a few days ago, a local woman who makes cakes out of her flat round the corner. I flick through her feed, full of photos of mouth-watering cupcakes. I see some amazing unicorn designs, and snort at the idea of ordering those for Jake’s birthday.

  I fire off a quick message asking about gluten-free options, just in case, and request a large Victoria sponge with buttercream icing, and sixty cupcakes of varying flavours. I’ve decided to keep it simple.

  Message sent, I wander into the living room and step outside for a cigarette, shading my eyes against the sun. I wonder if the weather will hold for the next few days.

  Twelve

  Beth

  ‘B?’ Kyle calls from his place on the sofa. Steve is sitting next to him, his filthy trainers resting on her coffee table.

  ‘Yeah, it’s me,’ she calls back. She kicks off her shoes and leans her forehead against the wall, closing her eyes. Her mind is stuck on Isla, and the police interview that night. She was already known to the police, and she groaned when the door opened and two officers she was familiar with walked in.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ one of them said, hoisting his trousers up over his gut. His thin lips spread into a smile. ‘Not in trouble again, are we, Ms Cox?’ She fought the urge to spit in his face.

  ‘I’ve just tried to help a bloke who was run over,’ she said angrily, still shaken by the events barely an hour before. The officer only raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Of course, you’re just an innocent bystander, trying to help.’ He smirked at his colleague, then reached out to turn the tape on. ‘The truth now, Ms Cox,’ he said, chubby finger poised above the record button. ‘I’m sure we don’t need to caution you, do we?’ He began speaking again before she could retaliate, identifying himself and his colleague then asking her to do the same.

  His questions were frustrating, and his attitude quickly became serious, almost combative. He wanted to get her for this, Beth knew, but she answered calmly and consistently. I don’t know who the victim was. I found him while I was walking home. I didn’t see what happened. I only caught a glimpse of the car. I don’t know who was driving.

  But only one of those statements was true.

  Her phone vibrates. She snatches it up, peers at the message. It’s from Isla, replying to a message Beth sent earlier.

  Jake’s birthday on Saturday, got a party at the monster-in-laws. He’s away on Monday though. Coffee?

  Beth smiles. Maybe she isn’t completely alone after all. Maybe her plan is working.

  Thirteen

  Isla

  I set off to collect the cakes on Friday afternoon. The woman only lives a few minutes away, in a neat block of flats on what looks like a new housing estate. I press the buzzer and wait, the slight breeze ruffling my freshly washed hair.

  ‘Hello?’ A voice warbles through the speaker.

  ‘Oh, hi, is that Amy?’

  ‘Yeah, hi, Isla? I’ll just buzz you up. I’m on the top floor.’

  The door buzzes and I pull it open. As I reach the top of the stairs, one of the doors opens, and a small, dark-haired woman peers out.

  ‘Isla?’ she says, a smile on her face. Her hair is piled up on top of her head, and her yellow jumpsuit clings to her small frame. I notice her nails are painted to match. ‘Come in, I’m just finishing up.’

  I follow her inside, the front door closing softly behind us. The flat is small but bright, sunlight streaming through the open blinds. Amy gestures to the kitch
en, which sits to the right of the living room. My cakes cover the kitchen surfaces, boxes and boxes of them neatly lined up.

  ‘Oh wow,’ I murmur, peering at them in awe. ‘You do everything in here?’ I look around the tiny room, noticing a second fridge in the far corner of the living room.

  Amy laughs. ‘I know, it’s a nightmare sometimes. But I love it.’

  ‘Thank you so much for doing this so quickly,’ I say, turning to her. ‘You’re a life-saver.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ She waves a hand. ‘So, the big cake is a Victoria sponge, and we’ve got red velvet, chocolate, carrot, and plain old vanilla cupcakes.’ She picks up one of the boxes. ‘About half of the cupcakes are gluten-free. I’ve labelled the boxes so you know.’ She points at a sticker on the top of the box. GF. ‘Sorry I couldn’t do any vegan ones.’ She smiles sheepishly. ‘I haven’t managed to get it right yet.’

  I smile back. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m not even sure if anyone is vegan.’ I suddenly feel foolish, standing there in Amy’s bright, tidy flat, facing this woman with her tanned skin and bright yellow toenails and wide smile. I notice a canvas on the wall, a photo of Amy and a man, similarly tanned, a swimming pool shimmering in the background. They’re smiling widely, their cheeks pressed together, sunglasses covering their eyes. I look away. ‘I may have to make a few trips,’ I say, smiling ruefully.