Pulling out my swimming costume from an overburdened drawer, I think of the article I read somewhere in Cornish Lives, apparently, a burst of cardiovascular exercise helps to de-stress, reset the nervous system, or something to that effect. Wandering down the landing area I collect a pink and orange towel from the airing cupboard and make my way down the spiral staircase. Is there a chance I set up the agent’s appointment, in a drunken moment of anger? Surely, I’d remember. But why or who else would do this to me? I pull back the kitchen bi-fold doors and step into the heat of the back patio. Paul has left, I’m pleased, it would have felt uncomfortable in the pool with him working around me. With heaps of work to get through myself, I don’t need anyone to make me feel any guiltier. Draping the towel over the reclining lounger, I pad my way across the slate grey marbled slabs to the outdoor shower and rinse off, I haven’t showered today. Moments later, I’m swimming vigorous lengths up and down the pool. Could it be a prank, one of the parents from school? No, far too childish. And why would they? I’ve pretty much kept myself to myself, not offended anyone. Could it have been Kyle? Intending to have the conversation with me, to sell our home and with all the disquiet of our recent conversations, he’s forgotten to mention it, now thinks it easier to deny any knowledge of it. I reach the deep end, grabbing hold of the infinity edge, as the above water feature splashes cooling water over my face. No, he sounded genuinely surprised, didn’t he? Maybe it’s someone who’s read one of my articles, researched me, found my details online, didn’t approve of my recommendations or denunciations? It seems a bit extreme though. But then people do strange inexplicable things from time to time.
I push myself off from the wall, swimming under water as I hold my breath. A moment of panic pumps up my heart rate, struggling, I clamber to the surface, pushing against the force of the water, mere seconds feel more like minutes. Gasping for air I break the surface, struggling to place my feet on the tiles beneath me, I’m in too deep. Oh God, why hadn’t I considered the obvious? My stomach flipping against the clear water. What if this has something to do with the tweet, from the very person pretending to be her? Stealing the identity of a dead person is the only possible explanation for the tweet, I’ve decided, I’ve read about how easy this is to pull off. This could be the same nutcase. A stalker?
Suddenly, I’m very aware of being alone, of the quietness, I no longer feel safe. To the contrary, half naked in the pool, I’m completely vulnerable. I swim to the shallow end, climb from the steps hidden under the surface, then head for the shower, grabbing the shampoo from the table as I pass. What is happening to me? Here, in my own back garden, somewhere that once was my sanctuary, the very place I raced to return to, to close the door from the world. Now look at me, I’m physically shaking and based on what exactly? A tweet? A bad feeling? A mistaken appointment? A ladder?
I lather the coconut infused foam through the lengths of my hair, breathing in deeply, as warm water cascades over my body. A little voice whispering to me, telling me I need a glass of something cold to feel better, stop the paranoia from taking hold. I push the warming thought away, though to be honest it’s past lunchtime. I wouldn’t think twice if I was at an event, at work, sitting in a luxurious dining establishment. So what’s the difference? I’m debating the issue from all perspectives when I hear something. Footsteps? I hold my breath. Definitely footsteps. Female footsteps, almost timid, unsure? My eyes are full of suds, panicking, I face the shower to wash them away. My towel is some feet away near the table and whoever it is, is now creeping around the back of the house, towards me. The corner wall of the house is all that separates us. I let go of the breath I’m holding as I hear my voice, sounding pathetically small, ‘hello?’ Silence. The footsteps stop. Just the sound of the shower. I’m fumbling behind my back to turn it off without turning my back to the origin of the intruder. One, two, three, dart for my towel, I need to cover myself. I’m in full view of the back of the house, ‘hello?’ I try again, securing my towel tightly around me. Still nothing. With my heart pumping in my throat, my eyes are drawn to the open bi-fold doors.
Did they go in my house?
Or have they scampered back around the other side of the house? My feet stuck to the spot, what should I do? Run to the driveway, the gates must be locked, have they leapt over the side hedge? If so, I’ll still catch them. But what if they’re in the house? I tighten the knot holding my towel and begin to creep towards the exposed kitchen area, reaching for the pole used for securing the pool cover. With wet feet on the kitchen floor, I take in the vast open space through to the sitting area, there isn’t anywhere to hide in here. I check behind the large sofa then carry on through to the ground floor snug, then on to the spare ground floor bedrooms. Flinging open doors, pressing them against the walls, expecting them to bounce back with the force of a hidden body. I open wardrobes and peer into semi-deep cupboards. Nothing. Silence other than the humming in my ears. Upstairs? I begin to climb, anticipating a dark shadow roaming around at the top. Then, moving down the landing, ticking off bedrooms and bathrooms one by one, nothing. From the landing window, I can see up to the top gates, maybe they didn’t come in the house, then whoever it was will have cleared the gates by now.
No one to be seen anywhere.
Did I imagine it? With my imagination in constant state of overdrive recently, feeding a hungry paranoia, I begin to doubt myself. Can you mistake the sound of footsteps? How sure I am? Could I hear properly with the shower running, soap suds in my ears? Think, rationally. Perhaps the estate agents have already given out my details, attempting to sell my property before it even hits the print cycle? Maybe someone was having a cheeky nose around, thinking it was as many other properties along this coastline are, an unoccupied holiday home. But wouldn’t they have answered when I shouted, hello? Apologised for the confusion?
I tiptoe back down to the kitchen, then back outside to double check, slinking around each side of the house. Incredibly aware of the isolated spot where we live. Feeling vulnerable, I need to get some clothes on. Put the radio on, fill the empty space with sounds. Back upstairs I quickly wedge damp skin into shorts with trembling hands, yes – I must have imagined it. Desperately needing a drink, something small to steady my nerves. I wanted to research my article today for the best coastal eatery, the magazine is pressing me, hoping for it to be in next month’s edition, ready to entice the seasonal influx of visitors. What is it they say in head office, write drunk, edit sober. I’m guessing research is the same as writing, or near enough. It’s not as if I’m going to end up blotto on a glass or two, just enough to settle myself.
Back in the kitchen, I take the remainder of the bottle of Pinot Grigio from the fridge, fill my glass sitting ready on the side and wander back outside. I have one more look around the extended patio areas before reconciling myself under the parasol with my laptop, mobile and writing pads. It’s not as if I was in any danger, at worst, it was someone hoping to rob me, who’s now scarpered, realising I’m here, the house is not as empty as they believed. If I think about it, how often are properties like this checked out for this very reason? We wouldn’t even know about it, it’s only when we have an intimate understanding it disturbs us. Sometimes, it’s best to be oblivious. I take a long swig, instantly feeling better. One more deep gulp and I can begin to push it all to the back of my mind. To be honest I probably did imagine it.
An hour later, I’m full swing into research, eyeing the most stunning of coastal bistros, humming away to the soft tones filling the air from the kitchen. I’m back in control, completely relaxed, I can’t say I’m even too perturbed by the little blue bird that has just flashed up on the top of my screen. Another notification I see. I click on it, with a full mouthful of wine and swallow hard. Yet another tweet from the perverted stalker? Or just another ordinary notification? I open up the tweet I’ve been tagged in.
A stunning beach with giant stepping stone rocks fills the screen.
How about here? it suggests. Such
a perfect setting, wouldn’t you agree? Despite its tragic history. How could you?
31
Blinded by her own self-interest, unaware that I’m watching her, sitting outside with a glass filled to the brim. What kind of person takes to alcohol at this time of the day? An alcoholic? Someone with a troubled mind? Someone with heaps of stress? Or someone with a guilty conscience? The very same person who has no right to indulge in their self-inflicted stresses, someone who has it all but without the insight to appreciate it? A self-indulgent princess. Calls herself a mother too? Lady of the house? Or just another tramp?
Now she stretches out, seemingly unperturbed, wondering how best to undo the wrongs. If I wait a little longer she’ll be falling into restful sleep. Time to finish what I came to do. But the stupid bitch decided to go for a swim instead of her usual tipple. Pity she hadn’t already had her tipple and drowned. Still, I couldn’t help but have a giggle, knowing how much I spooked her, creeping around her own house, calling out in a pathetic attempt to find her intruder.
I watch on as she re-fills, then stretches out golden tanned legs, pushing back against the chair, reclining its position. I creep a little closer. Perfect skin, the product of so much pampering, without the scars of life. She is completely perfect.
Now her head slowly tilts to the side, long chestnut tresses hanging loose over the edge of the sun chair as she nuzzles in closer. Almost pulling herself into a foetal position, slightly lifting, turning those flawless legs to achieve it. Not long now. Off you go, nighty night, sleep tight. I quickly scamper from my observing position. Tip toeing, barefooted across the pale oak floorboards, up the stairs and along the corridor to find her room. She has something hidden somewhere, I just know it.
Now, where would I hide something from potential eyes? Finally, I drop to my knees, lowering my head to the floor. Under the bed, not so hidden, careless, stupid, stupid girl. I reach out, pulling the enclosed box to me, I can almost feel what lies inside. Carefully now, opening the lid, my heart beat quickening, the taste of anticipation. I feast my eyes on the jewels of the crown. Beautiful, beautiful bingo. Finders, keepers. Want not, waste not, a bird in the hand, all of these. Cradling my treasures to my chest, I creep from the room, down the stairs, closing the front door ever so carefully behind me.
Sleep tight, sweet Andi, I’m watching over you now.
32
Cornwall 2017
Andi
Half walking, half jogging down the school road, I’m late, not outrageously but enough for the nagging voice to kick in. I couldn’t have dozed off for long, I only had a few glasses, one minute I was flicking through web pages, then, like someone took a hammer to my head, gone. A shiver jumps down each vertebra as I recall the image of me, spark out, exposed… if it hadn’t been for the trill of my mobile. If Kyle hadn’t called, I’d still be asleep now. Neglecting my children. Shirking my responsibilities. Am I even cut out to be a mother? No matter how much I fight to love my children, am I ever going to be as good a mum as these, already here, children collected, smiles and shared happenings in full flow?
‘And?’ Kyle had said, something questioning in his tone.
My stomach tensed as the defensive wall built. ‘Yes, what?’ I snapped. Because of my own inadequacy. What was it Eve said about needing to own the problem in order to change it, taking responsibility? Easier said than done. So hard not to feel defensive when life keeps backing you up a corner.
‘Steady on,’ he said, me imagining the look of exasperation scrawled across his brow. ‘I expected to catch you in the car on the way to school. I waited until now so as not to disturb you from your work.’ I jumped up from my chair, flying in through the patio doors, securing them behind me, not answering Kyle but holding my breath. ‘Shouldn’t you be on your way, by now, to pick up the monsters?’ he continued.
School, bloody hell! I shot through the kitchen into the hall and back again, hunting for my car keys, dragged a brush belonging to Dotty through sundried dishevelled hair. ‘I’m on my way now, just leaving the house,’ I told him. I noticed the pause as he ticked things over, mentally calculating the chance of me not being late, both of us understanding I should have left twenty minutes ago. ‘I’m late,’ I said. ‘Had to come back to the house, didn’t I,’ I tapped my head as if he could see me, rushing out of the front door, the mobile squeezed between my head and shoulder. ‘Forgot Trey’s letter, needed to sign it, it’s the last day to hand it in today.’ I was aware of my cheeks blushing further.
‘Got you,’ Kyle said slowly. ‘So what’s it for this time? The letter. There’s so many of them.’
I began reversing up the drive, avoiding the last question, what with my brain not working astutely enough to come up with a feasible reply. ‘Sorry, Kyle, lost you then, the Bluetooth kicking in. Do you need me? Anything important? Only I really need to concentrate on getting to the school, shall we speak later?’
‘Sure, so long as you’re okay? I was only calling to see how you were doing?’
Kyle has always been considerate like this, always calling to say hello, in rare spare moments. But for some reason just lately, this feels more like I’m being checked up on, less caring, more judgemental.
‘All’s hunky dory.’ I told him.
Now, out of puff, I arrive at the school gates, take a deep breath in through my nose, exhaling loudly. Try not to look harassed, I think. Oh God, I’ve forgotten to clean my teeth. I scrap around in my pockets for a hopeless rogue mint, but I’ve left them in my bag in the car. Don’t get too close to anyone, avoid any unnecessary speech. Don’t want anyone to catch a whiff of alcohol. What a morning, then that blue bird incident. I clicked on the link, already knowing where it would take me. But what choice did I have? I had to investigate. It’s this that led me back in to the kitchen, opening a fresh bottle of wine. Those bloody images. That beach is etched into my mind as clear in detail as the photograph that filled my laptop screen. A spot of outstanding natural beauty, a perfect setting. I haven’t been back since, not for years, at least not in body I haven’t. Frequently in mind, snapping at me like an elastic band each time I push it away.
I spot Carol on the other side of the playground, then Trey and Dotty, her arms wrapped round Dotty’s shoulder, protectively. Thank you, Carol. She’s always there when I need her to be, even before I ask. The other parents simply passed me by as I scampered up the road towards the school, me rushing, them with a look of mock concern on their faces. Unspoken words on the tips of tongues, how could you be late for your children? Disdain, hanging between us, dividing us. How could I? They’re right, I’m a disgrace. But I can’t tell anyone: it’s because I’m being haunted by a stalker, threatening, always threatening. A tragedy, the newspaper article called it. An awful, sad tragedy. I wave to Carol and scurry over with my tail between my legs.
‘Carol, thank you. I’m so sorry, I got held up, a work phone call that dragged on and on, you know how it goes.’ But she doesn’t, she hasn’t a clue.
‘Don’t worry,’ she hands over hand drawn pictures and a pump bag, ‘apparently, the PE kit is absolutely minging,’ nodding at the limp bag of goodies. ‘Trey’s been gardening in it, haven’t you love,’ she peers down at a casual Trey looking all forlorn. ‘He needs it back tomorrow, Miss Watson asked me to pass on.’
‘Okay, thanks.’
‘Why are you late, Mommy?’ Dotty asks.
I laugh at her, ‘I’m not that late Dotty, only a few minutes,’ I realise this is late to a child, especially a natural worrier like Dotty. ‘I’m sorry, love.’ I offer, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, ‘Shall we go for an ice-cream on the way home to make up for it?’ As I say this, I feel Carol lean closer into me, slightly lifting her face to mine, is she checking my breath? On cue a small frown creases its way across her forehead.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks, ‘to drive. I mean.’
I feel the heat in my cheeks. ‘What do you mean?’ How could I? Why hadn’t this school run
occurred to me earlier? Did I think with it being daytime it somehow made it different, more acceptable? To be over the limit. How can I do this to my children? I don’t even know. I mean – how much did I knock back in the end? A bottle? More? Oh God, the shame – I’ve no idea.
Carol tactfully pulls me to one side away from the ears of our children. ‘And, you can smell it, drink, alcohol. On your breath.’ She waves her hand in front of her nose as if I need further clarification.
I’m gutted. Is this why the other parents were staring at me, was I swaying as I walked, did they catch a trace of the fumes as we passed? ‘If I leave the car, would you mind dropping us home?’ I whisper.
She gives me a resigned, what the hell are you doing with your life? look. ‘Come on, kiddies,’ she says, ‘we’re all going back to the big house with the pool for a swim.’
She didn’t get any arguments from my two or her children and minutes later we all cram into her smaller car, leaving my overly large four by four parked up. In the back, despite the squash the four of them chatter excitedly about the impromptu evening ahead. I still can’t find any words. I sense Carol is not pleased with me, even worse, she is disappointed in me, as I am too. How long will it be before parents, Carol included, stop allowing me to have Dotty and Trey’s friends home after school, to the house of the drunkard, the one who turns up under the influence at the school gates. She’s a swimming pool too, they could all drown under her watch, if she doesn’t pile the car into a gutter on the way home first. Why am I hand feeding them juicy gossip? Eve’s words come to mind, the more you try and push things away, Andi, the more they will bounce back at you.
Who I Am: A dark psychological thriller with a stunning twist Page 14