The Last Day

by Claire Dyer

  He concentrates hard, thinking only of Honey as he leaves the house and walks out on to the pavement. He doesn’t think of the countless other times he’s left for work from here, the sound the key makes turning in the lock, Vita’s flowers providing a kind of guard of honour each side of the pathway. He doesn’t think of Vita.

  Colin, the guy from next door, is also leaving for work, or so Boyd presumes. He doesn’t know what Colin does for a living. ‘Good morning,’ Boyd says.

  Colin says good morning back.

  ‘It’s going to be another hot one.’

  ‘Sure is.’

  And that’s it. Honey is getting in the car as Colin strides off up the road, a small, neat knapsack on his back.

  It’s the summer holidays so traffic is light.

  ‘Did you see Vita this morning?’ Honey asks as they turn into Castle Street.

  ‘Yep. She seemed fine.’

  ‘She working today?’

  ‘Yep, in her studio I think.’

  ‘We won’t all have to eat together tonight will we? Shall we go out for dinner instead?’

  ‘We can do, but we mustn’t make a habit of it. We can’t really afford to.’

  ‘I know, but …’

  Boyd pulls up outside the office. Inside he can see Trixie at her desk. ‘She’s in early,’ he says, then adds, ‘But what?’

  ‘It might send a message that we’re our own bosses.’

  ‘OK, I’m sure she knows we are, but I’ll text her anyway and let her know.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she says and kisses him lightly on the cheek. ‘See you in a bit,’ she says. ‘Good luck in Morris Road.’

  ‘Thanks. Just going to pop the car through the car wash first.’

  ‘Sure you don’t want me to join you?’ she asks, licking her lips and giving him a lewd wink.

  He laughs. He knows what she’s referring to. ‘Get away with you, you minx, and let me go and do my job the way it should be done: maturely and with probity.’

  She opens the door to the office and walks in. He hears her say, ‘Hi there,’ to Trixie, who raises a hand in greeting but doesn’t look up from what she’s doing.

  Boyd indicates and pulls out into the flow of traffic.

  He’s a few minutes early for the valuation and so parks round the corner from Morris Road. He opens the car window and leans an elbow out. The morning around him is busy and already the air is warm.

  If he can, he always parks away from the house in question. When houses are put on the market it can unsettle a neighbourhood, so he likes to check with the vendor first whether it’s all right to be an obvious presence. He likes to know whether the move is prompted by something good such as a promotion, or an older couple moving closer to their daughter and her family maybe or, in some cases, a new start in a completely different part of the country. When it’s due to death or divorce, it’s never as pleasant and it’s good to find out what the neighbours know before he parks his big blue car outside a house and walks his obvious estate-agent walk up the path.

  As he’s pondering, he watches a cat hop over a garden wall and swagger along the pavement, keeping close to the wall. The cat gives off an aura of not giving a fuck but his ears are pricked and his tail is twitching. For all his bravado, he is watchful and wary.

  Droplets of water from the car wash are clinging on to the car’s bodywork. Against the paint they are shaped like cabochon jewels. Boyd wonders where he knows that word from. It must be from Vita and her crosswords he thinks. There’s a strange tightness in his chest at the thought of Vita and he feels a bit like the cat he’s just seen. To all intents and purposes he’s swaggering through this experience of taking Honey to live in the same house as his wife whereas, in reality, maybe he too should be more wary, more watchful.

  He checks the time. Five minutes to go – and so he lets himself remember the valuation he did at ‘Chimneys’ last year, the valuation after the car wash when he’d been alone with Honey for the first time.

  * * *

  Boyd had been dubious when Trixie recruited Honey. He hadn’t seen the need for an office junior, but thought maybe he was being blinkered and didn’t realise just how much work Trixie was doing. Anyway, Honey had arrived: a cautious, shy, dowdily-dressed girl who was far too thin and nervous. She’d reminded him of a wild bird – a sparrow, or something like that.

  But gradually, she’d relaxed. He’d come across her humming to herself as she washed up the cups, or filled the photocopier with more paper. She’d started to dress differently too. Gone were the plain woollens, the knee-length skirts. Instead she’d begun to wear brighter colours, her skin glowed, she’d had her hair cut and dyed and when she walked, she reminded him less of a bird and more of a wild cat: long-limbed, graceful, powerful.

  He’d had no idea then what would happen. How could he, when it came out of the blue the way it did?

  ‘What star sign are you?’ she’d asked him.

  It seemed all they’d said so far was ‘I shouldn’t …’ and ‘I know …’

  ‘Um, I have no idea.’ His hand was itching to touch her leg again. He felt magnetised.

  ‘Well, when’s your birthday?’ She looked at him, the lilac of her eyes almost purple in the low light. The car was being rocked by the whirr and whizz of the mammoth brushes.

  ‘April 27th,’ he said.

  ‘That’s OK then.’

  ‘Why?’

  It was hot, the car airless and each sound seemed magnified. He could feel sweat prickling his neck under the collar of his shirt.

  ‘We’re compatible then.’

  ‘Why, what’s yours?’

  ‘Virgo. Mine’s the 7th September.’

  There was a pause after this and Boyd could sense her thoughts veering away from the there and then of them in the car. He had no idea what she might be thinking.

  ‘So it’s my birthday first?’ He tried to make a joke of it. ‘I expect cakes in the office, you know. Trixie always remembers.’

  ‘Does she?’ Honey asked. Another pause. ‘That’s nice,’ she added.

  At ‘Chimneys’ it was as though the air between them was charged with static. Mrs Chambers bustled around them, making tea, offering them biscuits on a plate with a doily underneath them. She was a short, compact woman with impeccable hair and a sweet, round face. However, her eyes betrayed a sadness; they spoke of grief, of love lost too soon.

  Boyd scanned the room for photographs; there weren’t many but there was one, on the mantelpiece in the lounge, of a man leaning against a farm gate, a dog at his feet. Behind him, fields stretched away to the horizon. The sunshine, although in black and white, appeared fierce and the man was holding a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of it. To Boyd it could have been a gesture of welcome or farewell.

  As the valuation progressed, Boyd was acutely aware of Honey. They were in Mrs Chambers’ bedroom with its perfectly-made bed, its dark wood dressing table with a triptych of mirrors reflecting themselves back at one another. Honey’s reflection moved in and out of view and every time she came back into view, his breath caught in his throat.

  Eventually it was over. They agreed on an asking price and all the other practicalities.

  ‘Thank you,’ Mrs Chambers said, ‘for coming, for being so gentle with the house.’

  Even then, even after the innumerable houses Boyd had bought and sold, he tried never to lose sight of the fact that his job was predicated on people leaving the homes they were used to and going somewhere else. There is a huge difference between the word ‘house’ and the word ‘home’. This was the kind of estate agent he wanted to be.

  Honey had been quiet on the journey back to the office.

  ‘You OK?’ he asked as they drove into the car park at the back of their building and he pulled up by the Grundon bin.

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘It’s just been a bit of a morning. A lot to take in.’

  ‘I hope not too much?’

  ‘No. I’m a resilient soul,’ she an
swered, smiling at him. But it was a tight, unsure smile.

  ‘Look,’ he said. He had no idea what to say but just that something definite needed to be said. They needed to agree on a plan. So far their time alone together that morning had been beautiful but insubstantial – achingly insubstantial. He needed something concrete to hold on to. He felt as though there was a butterfly cupped in his hands, beating its wings against his palms. ‘Look, before we go in, there’s something I need to know.’

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked, her voice an almost-whisper.

  ‘Can I woo you?’

  ‘Can you what?’

  ‘Woo you.’

  She laughed then, a loud, carefree laugh. She threw back her head so he could see the smooth, pale skin of her neck.

  ‘What’s funny?’ He switched off the engine and shifted in his seat. The silence was almost deafening. Shit, he thought. I’ve blown it. What the fuck made me say something so corny? It had been years since he’d last done anything like this, he was obviously very rusty.

  But she turned to him and rested her hand against his face. ‘Yes please,’ she said, adding, ‘I’m sorry I laughed. It’s just that no one has ever asked me that before, not ever.’

  ‘So, dinner? Tonight maybe?’

  ‘Tomorrow night. Tonight, I’m washing my hair!’

  She was teasing him.

  ‘OK. I’ll book somewhere.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She let her hand fall. He wanted to reach across and kiss her mouth but forced himself to open his door and get out of the car.

  ‘Best not say anything to Trixie, for the time being at least,’ he said.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Business as usual then.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  But when they got back to the office, everything had changed. All comfort and certainty was gone. He was a schoolboy again and every minute that ticked by seemed to carry something huge and portentous along with it.

  The biggest change though was in Trixie. Normally she’d bring him a coffee and custard cream and say, ‘So, how was it? Spill all.’ And then she’d sort the paperwork in her quiet, efficient way, updating him on the calls he’d missed while he was out and maybe telling him that the searches on the property in Makepeace Avenue had come in. But not that day. That day she stayed at her desk, staring resolutely at her screen. Boyd had assumed she’d had bad news at home. He would ask her about it later.

  He didn’t. He forgot to.

  And the dinner with Honey the following night had been torture. He was clumsy and, he believed, boorish. Out of his mouth came all the things he’d vowed not to talk about: their age difference, the fact they worked together, the fact he was still, technically, married.

  But Honey had dismissed all of it. She’d listened to him, her chin resting on her upturned hand, the candlelight making shooting stars of her eyes. And she’d said, ‘Bollocks to the lot of it, Boyd. Who cares? It’s nobody’s business but ours.’ Then she’d leant across the table and whispered, ‘And you’re going to fuck me tonight, OK?’

  Out of the car and away from the office, she seemed a different person. It was as though she were the adult and he the twenty-something-year-old.

  ‘Come on,’ she said when he’d paid the bill. ‘Let’s do this then. It’ll be better after we do.’

  And it was.

  ‘Touch me here,’ she said, her hand resting on her belly.

  She was lying on his bed, naked and beautiful. Moonlight made her skin the colour of milk.

  He pressed a fingertip on her belly button, she groaned. She lifted her hips a fraction and he watched her.

  She was slender and long, her waist a shallow curve. He bent his head and kissed her breasts.

  She opened her legs for him. She guided him towards her. He covered her body with his.

  It was like nothing he’d ever experienced before: that jolt, her gasp, the way she held on to him, drawing him in.

  ‘I won’t break,’ she said, smiling up at him, her breath hot on his chest.

  He came fiercely, suddenly. She was the first since Vita. She was different from Vita and the violence of this difference shocked him.

  ‘Now my turn?’ she said.

  ‘With pleasure, madam!’

  And, still inside her, he moved his hand down.

  After she came, she kissed him on the lips. She tasted of wine and sugar. She tasted of honey.

  * * *

  Boyd checks the clock again. It’s time to go. He gets out of the car and starts walking down Morris Road. His heart is full of his rememberings and a bursting, nameless love for this girl who has brought this change to his life, this fresh start.

  All they have to do is get through this next little while living in the house in Albert Terrace with Vita, pay the tax bill and, although he hates the thought of it, wait for his mother to die so he can give both Honey and Vita the lives they deserve: proper homes, income, security. He owes it to Vita and to Honey. For all Honey’s sweetness, there is still something fragile about her; something that tells him that one day he could wake and find her gone. He believes he must do everything he can to stop this from happening.

  Boyd has promised himself he will make amends to his wife and love Honey the best way he can. This is the man he wants to be.

  * * *

  When he gets back to the office, Honey is out at lunch and Trixie is staring at her screen, her fingers poised over the keyboard. Boyd switches on his computer and while it’s turning on, he texts Vita to say he and Honey will be eating out that evening. She doesn’t reply.

  Next, he puts his phone down on his desk and swivels his chair round so he’s facing Trixie.

  ‘Hey there,’ he says, smiling at her. ‘You going to say hello or what?’

  The last day

  On the last day Graham Silverton’s alarm goes off as usual.

  Shit, he thinks, rolling onto his back and staring at the crack in the ceiling.

  Next to him, his wife stirs, her hair dark on the pillow case.

  ‘Morning, sleepyhead,’ he says, reaching over and kissing her lightly on the lips. Her breath is musty and tastes faintly of garlic. They’d had chicken Kiev for tea last night.

  At the bottom of the bed, Henry the cat lifts his massive head and stares malevolently at Graham. The two of them have never really got on.

  His wife grunts in reply but doesn’t wake up fully, so he slips out of bed and pads along the landing to the bathroom. Around him the house is quiet; the kids are still asleep. He’d promised that he’d go to B&Q before his shift started and get the new bath panel she’d been on at him about for months.

  In the shower, the water pricks his skin like a million hot needles and it feels good. Perhaps he should get some stuff to patch up the crack in the bedroom ceiling as well, while he’s out, he thinks.

  Honey

  It’s only their second night in Albert Terrace and yet, already, Honey feels as though she’s lived here for ever. Waking up in Boyd’s flat yesterday morning is like a distant dream, almost as though it happened to someone else.

  They get back from dinner around nine. It’s Friday night and the restaurant was busy; the men wore chinos, pale shirts and loafers and the women were tanned, dressed in tight white jeans and nautical tops. It seems this is the uniform here. Most of the men had expensive watches on their wrists, the women had huge diamonds on their wedding fingers. But she doesn’t envy them. She has enough, sometimes she thinks she has too much.

  Vita’s not home. She can sense it as soon as they walk in the door. But she’s not as worried now; not now she’s seen the whites of her eyes.

  Yet still Boyd calls out, ‘Vita, you home?’

  Silence.

  He turns to Honey, his eyebrow does that strange lift and fall.

  ‘While the cat’s away!’ she says, pressing her body against his.

  She senses he’s going to saying something, but he doesn’t. Instead he bends his head and kisses her neck.
r />   ‘You’ve changed your tune,’ he says at last. ‘It was a different matter last night!’

  ‘That was then. This is now,’ she says.

  She wants him. Here. Now. She wants to do it with him in the house he used to live in with Vita. This, she believes, will help her establish her claim here. She rests her hand against his groin.

  ‘Come on then,’ he says. His voice comes out as a breathless rush and, for a second, she takes this as hesitation and has to work hard to banish the image of him and Vita from her mind, all the times they must have been together here in the past: the closeness, the whispered secrets, the laughter. She banishes other memories, the things she’s done before too. They have no place here, not now.

  She takes his hand and they run up the stairs.

  ‘I wish we had a lock on our door,’ she says as Boyd shuts it behind them and she pulls the curtains to.

  ‘I’ll put one on it as soon as I can,’ he says, moving a chair and lodging the top of it under the door handle.

  ‘I feel like a naughty schoolgirl,’ she says, stripping off to her underwear. Her stomach is full of fine food and her limbs liquid from the wine they drank with dinner. Outside the evening is drawing in, it’s amazing how quickly summer turns. One day it stays kind of light, that luminescent, pearly light, until ten, ten-thirty and then you blink and the sky is the colour of sapphires at a time when it shouldn’t be and, when only a few days before, it wasn’t.

  Boyd knows her body now. He knows when she likes it fast and when she likes it slow. Tonight, they fuck quickly, expertly. She has her knees by her ears and is holding on to her thighs when he comes. She rocks in time with his thrusts and then stretches her legs out while he’s still in her. She feels safe and treasured; perhaps too safe. It seems she is losing her ability to stay alert, ready to run.

  ‘Hey,’ he whispers. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yes, sure.’

  ‘You’re not normally this quiet!’ He kisses her mouth, pulling on her lips with his teeth.

  ‘It’s just it’s the first time here, you know. We haven’t made it ours yet.’

  There’s a mumble of voices from the bedroom in the next door house.