‘It’s complicated,’ she said, and burst into tears again.
By the time I’d squeezed her shoulder, topped up her glass and pulled a flower-embossed tissue from a box in the living room, she’d obviously made up her mind to confide in me.
‘I’ve just found out he’s having an affair.’ Ella blew her nose, which by now was quite pink, giving her an air of vulnerability.
That old cliché. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘I don’t know who she is. She sent me an anonymous note. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t have kept it from him – it would have eaten me up. I’m used to sharing everything with Chris. He admitted it straight away.’ Ella’s lip was still wobbling and she bit down into it, sniffed. ‘I just can’t believe it. And he won’t tell me who it is – a client, or so he says. Jamie…’ She drained her glass and emptied the bottle – it was a good job I’m not much of a drinker – ‘you know, from work, said that it didn’t surprise him. I had a bit of a go at him and then I realised I was defending Chris when Jamie’s only ever been a good friend to me. But I am his boss and I need to remember that. I know I could have talked to you, but I was worried you wouldn’t want to move in with an emotional wreck.’ She stopped and took a long breath. I’ve got used to the breathless way she talks.
‘Don’t be silly. You can tell me anything. I need somewhere to live and I like the house. And you, of course,’ I added, because she probably needs to know that. And I want her to tell me everything.
Ella chattered on and it became evident she was obsessed with this other woman. At this point she was too blinded to understand it wasn’t going to help, and I was happy for her to offload.
‘I bet she sent the card just so I would find it. She’s insecure – he obviously didn’t want me to know. The man never actually leaves his wife in these situations, everyone knows that. He says he will, of course, makes all sorts of promises when he’s getting what he wants, but it never happens.’
Ella opened another bottle of wine – it tasted better than the New Zealand gooseberry in my opinion. I was only on my second glass of the evening – two glasses is always my limit. Ella, on the other hand, was looking a little wild around the eyes. I got the impression that she wasn’t usually much of a drinker either.
‘I’ll pour,’ I said as she rather clumsily went to grab the bottle, which could have ended up catapulting off the table and spilling over the shiny, new-looking white floor tiles. The house appeared to have been recently decorated. Only the furniture seemed like it could tell a story, from the rocking chair upstairs to the grandfather clock standing creepily like a sentry behind Ella.
‘I feel for you, I really do. Don’t be hard on yourself. What a shit he is, doing this so soon after your mother-in-law’s death. I’ll move in straight away, if it helps. My parents will be glad to see the back of me.’
Ella swallowed. ‘I’d like that. I hate being on my own in the house.’ She collapsed into sobs and I thrust more tissues at her. She almost knocked her glass over again.
‘How about I make us some tea? I might as well start working out where everything is in this kitchen.’
The cupboards were crammed with food and everything was neat and labelled. I found some Earl Grey teabags and colourful Orla Kiely mugs. She went off to the bathroom and looked better when she came back. She cradled the mug in her hands and blew on the steaming tea.
‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘I’m more of a tea girl, normally. Please don’t think I’m going to be sobbing into my cups every night, because that isn’t going to happen. It’s the shock, you see, the thought of losing my husband, and our home.’
‘So who owns the house?’
‘We own it jointly. It’s a complicated situation. Heath Street has been in the Rutherford family for a long time and when Nancy died Chris assumed the house would be left to him.’
‘Please don’t tell me she left it all to Battersea Dogs Home.’
Ella sipped at her tea and managed a smile, ‘No, but Chris had a sister, who left home years ago and they lost touch. Nancy left the house to her and Chris was gutted, but Nancy stipulated that if her daughter couldn’t be found then it should go to Chris. So it took a while, and after that was sorted out we had to remortgage because the inheritance tax was so high. My business was doing well so I offered to take on my half of the mortgage. I’m so glad I did now.’ Ella’s voice faltered, ‘He wants me out – but please don’t worry, if there’s no way we can get back together then I intend to fight this. He knows how much I love this house. Number 46 is the first proper home I’ve ever had, and I can’t tell you how much it means to me. I haven’t told Chris about you moving in, by the way. I’m scared he wants to move her in.’ Ella’s green eyes flashed, determined. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes, hire a solicitor, there’s no way I’m letting that happen.’
‘I’m not taking his side,’ I had to say it, ‘but if it’s his family home, wouldn’t you feel bad staying here?’
‘I’ll feel terrible,’ she said and her face crumpled.
‘But not as terrible as he should for cheating on you. Men are bastards, as far as I’m concerned. And remember this – this other woman will be feeling threatened by you too. Anyway, you’ve got me to look out for you now.’
Ella’s face lit up and she asked me if I’d ever been through a difficult break-up, but I’m not ready to share that with anyone yet. No matter how sweet she is. Verbally we agree on a three-month stay. Three months should be long enough for what I need to do.
Eight
ELLA
All I can think about is her. I pull on a sweatshirt and my old, faded jeans and make a strong brew of tea in Nancy’s red china teapot. While the tea settles I open my laptop and drum my fingers on the table. The Other Woman. Do I know her? Think, Ella.
He met her through work. I open the website for Rutherford Carpentry, shaking my head at the screen at the ridiculousness of my quest. Chris’s blue eyes staring out from the home page catch me unawares, and I look up at those same eyes in the photo of ten-year-old Chris which sits on the mantelpiece – he’s grinning widely as he holds up the runner-up certificate for ‘Best Young Carpenter’. He told me that as the photographer packed his camera away his father muttered in Chris’s ear that he should have won first place. That stopped him smiling. He’d never forgotten that comment, despite his success.
Rutherfords is a tiny company with many clients and a good profile locally, and the award Chris won for ‘Best Start-up Business’ is proudly displayed below his photograph on the home page. I felt like I’d burst with pride when he got the news; we’d ended up spending a passionate afternoon in bed, unable to keep our hands off each other. The photo of Chris accepting the award alongside his PA Jessica Taylor-Scott offers me the first candidate, but for Jessica to be the other woman would be too easy. My stomach swoops as I look at her friendly smile and auburn bob; she’s wholesome-looking and has always been incredibly friendly to me. I can’t bear the thought that it could be her, I just can’t see it. She’s been with her boyfriend Rob since her university days and is currently planning her wedding. According to Chris, she’s been in bridezilla mode for the past year. The sympathy card she sent me when Nancy died lies in my bedside drawer.
Next is Sara, the admin assistant with short, spiky hair. She’s married to Daisy, blissfully happy living in a warehouse near east London’s Victoria Park. There’s no way it could be her. I pick at the skin around my nails as the face of the only other female employee opens. Tanya joined the company as receptionist a month ago and I’ve never met her. I look at her photo on the website. Long, blonde, professionally highlighted hair falls down past her shoulders and her thick painted eyebrows give her a permanent air of surprise. She’s twenty-five at most. Chris hasn’t mentioned her much. Haughty, is how I’d describe her expression, the fussy frills of her cream blouse not to my taste. My stomach lurches as I acknowledge her as a possibility.
By now the tea has been br
ewing for a while and I hope a strong cup will zap my headache away. My stomach growls and I realise I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning. Part of me wants to crawl back into bed and bury myself under the duvet, but I won’t give in.
Dust has collected on the surfaces in my absence over the weekend and I occupy myself by cleaning the house. Most of the people on this street have cleaners, but I wouldn’t let another person look after my house. Chris laughed at me when I first moved in, said I was like a kid in a sweetshop, but he would never understand what growing up in care was like. I was brimming with pride the first time I put my key in my very own front door. Keeping the house clean is my way of looking after it, of loving it. The hoover whines as I work up a sweat running it up and down the parquet wooden floors. But sucking up the dust doesn’t delete the other woman from my thoughts. She’s become a temptress with bouffant blonde hair, red lips, a pencil skirt and stilettos, digging her long, sharp, painted fake nails into his flesh. There’s no way I am letting her get her hands on this house. Not our home.
* * *
I shower and dress before walking across town to his office. It’s early afternoon but the sky is dark and the pavements glisten with the rain that fell throughout the night. I lay awake listening to it pouring interminably, battering against the windows. A car swishes by and a spatter of rain hits my tights. I swear under my breath, watching the car drive off, oblivious.
There’s no sign of Chris’s car yet, but the café opposite is open. I order a large cappuccino and on a whim select a pain au chocolat, remembering a magazine article I read reminding me to look after myself in times of stress. Nothing could be more stressful than this. I sit on a high stool at the counter that runs along the window and focus my gaze on the building opposite. The barista has carefully crafted a heart on the top of my coffee and I dash my spoon through it until it disappears.
The building is fairly new; there’s a small Waitrose on the ground level and office space above. Chris hired an interior designer when he moved in and the first time I visited I was still living in my bedsit. I squeezed Chris’s arm tight, checking this new life of mine was real. He’d kissed me passionately and we’d ended up making love on the sofa in his office. The memory tastes sour as I look up at the building. His office is in the corner on the first floor and from where I’m sitting I can see his desk. The lights are off and there’s no sign of life. I sip at my coffee and try to forget the feel of his stubble grazing my skin as I break off a little of the pastry, nibbling at it. Café sounds fill the space behind me, whooshes of steam from the coffee machines, the whirring of the fridges, the clinking of spoons against mugs. A steady stream of people go in and out, and each time the door opens a gust of air blows my way. I lick pastry flakes from my fingers, eyes focused on the building. I’ve been here an hour now and there’s still no movement across the road. I stir the dregs of my coffee. I could drink another, but I don’t want to leave my spot.
A pink Fiat 500 pulls up outside the office and two elegant legs appear from the driver’s door, a polished exit like something from a movie. The woman lifts her curtain of sleek, long blonde hair and rearranges it down her back. In her neat suit and stilettos she looks like she’s going for a job interview. Her hair swings as she checks up and down the street, then crosses the road to the café, heading straight towards me. It’s Tanya.
I pretend to look for something in my bag so that she doesn’t see my face. Although we’ve not met, if she’s the other woman then she’s probably got a good idea of what I look like. A waft of musky perfume tickles my nose and her heels clip across the tiled floor. I risk a glance now she’s got her back to me at the counter and she’s ordering a takeout coffee. She emits a throaty chuckle at something the barista says. I try to check if I recognise her voice from the phone call, but I can’t make out the conversation. Her heels clip away again and she pauses outside, holding two cups in a cardboard tray. Is one of those for my husband? Her eyes flicker over me, not seeing me. As she walks across to the office I take out my phone and snap a photo of her buzzing into the building. Evidence, just in case. Then I wait.
Ten minutes pass before the lights go on. I reason with myself that she wouldn’t be taking coffee in if she was planning a passionate encounter, but the little voice whispering doubts in my head doesn’t fall for that. A waitress is wiping the table down next to me and she looks at the half-eaten pain au chocolate on my plate. I smile apologetically and push it towards her; the churning in my stomach has made me lose my appetite. Next time I look up at the window I spot Chris seated at his desk, his back to me, coffee in one hand. How did I miss seeing him go in? He doesn’t move for the next half hour. I look around. I’m the only person left in the café and I stand up abruptly, realising I’m being ridiculous.
Back home I go straight to my laptop and look up Tanya Redmond. I find her on Facebook. I learn that she’s ‘in a relationship’ but not with whom. She likes posing for the camera and posting cute pictures of dogs. Chris and I prefer cats. As if she can read my thoughts, Lady jumps onto my lap, purring loudly, blocking the screen. Her warm body soothes the thoughts sending a shiver down my spine.
* * *
I spend the afternoon finishing cleaning the house, getting it ready for Alice to move in. Chris won’t throw anything away and his paperwork going back years is stashed in boxes piled in the corner of the dining room where I do my crafts. I’ve wanted to shift them for ages. For the first time in a while I go down to the cellar, lugging boxes as there’s nowhere else to store them. Chris doesn’t like me coming down here: everything that belongs to his parents is stashed away in this chilly space, waiting for him to sort out. Another thing he never gets around to doing. It smells damp and it’s so cold goosebumps appear on my arms. I can’t wait to get back upstairs.
I’m just putting the keys back on the hook by the front door when a piercing sound screeches into the air and I drop the keys on the floor. I stand rigid and it takes a couple of seconds for me to recognise my car alarm. I grab my car keys and rush out into the street. The road looks deserted save for the black cat from the house on the corner who stands rigid, fur on end, staring at me. I turn and look at the car. A window opens across the street and a topless man leans out.
‘Turn that fucking racket off, will you!’
His words break the spell and I zap my fob at the car. Silence descends but the ringing continues in my ears. The cat miaows and I realise what I’m looking at. The side of the car has been scratched. I stare at the jagged lines where five letters have been gouged into the side of my car: L E A V E. I look up and down the street, but it’s deserted. My head is pounding with disbelief. Chris wants me out of the house, but surely he wouldn’t have done this? A voice whispers in my head, the silky voice on the phone asking for Chris. The Other Woman – this has to be her doing.
Nine
ELLA
The scratch on the car looks worse in the morning light. I could report it to the police, but what’s the point? Such a trivial crime in a city like London. My niggling suspicion won’t go away. It has to be her, Chris’s other woman. Jealous of me, lashing out. What if this is just the beginning? I lock the front door with shaking hands, dropping the keys twice and grazing my finger on the gravel before finally locking the door.
Ordinarily I enjoy my walk to work but today everything feels as if it hides a threat. Shadows lurk behind parked cars, and when a man steps out from behind a tree I cry out loud and his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. I stop at a café and order a strong tea, adding extra sugar – it’s good for shock, which is what I feel at the way my life has changed overnight.
After leaving the café, my shop on the corner is a burst of colour and I pause to admire Jamie’s latest display. Vibrant orange paper flowers dominate the window, and my mood dips a little when I spot that the centrepiece is a tiny wooden chair Chris made specially for my shop window. I cross the road but the sharp stench of urine outside the door makes me bury my nose in my sleeve;
I’m furious that someone has used my doorway as a urinal. I unlock the door and go to deactivate the alarm. But it isn’t set. It’s unlike Jamie to make such an error; he’s usually meticulous. I hover on the doorstep clutching my nose to block out the smell and my heart beats in my throat. What if somebody’s inside?
The door squeaks as I push it open and my pulse knocks even faster. The only sound is muffled traffic; the shop is silent, waiting. I take a long, deep breath and step into the room. Sunlight streams in through the windows and illuminates a bucket of pink roses.
I text Jamie to ask if there was a reason he didn’t set the alarm, then I roam around the shop switching the lights on. The safe is locked and the till undisturbed. Cards and gifts are artfully arranged. Displays immaculate as ever. Ten o’clock registers on the clock and I’m spurred into action. Time to open. I turn the sign on the door and switch some music on. Classical piano notes tinkle into the air and render everything back to normal – or almost. I can’t quite rid myself of a sense of unease.
A bell rings and I jump. A young woman wheels a pushchair into the shop and the baby facing me gurgles. My stomach cramps as if in direct response. The weekend’s disappointment feels like a lifetime ago – Chris’s revelation had almost eclipsed it from my mind. I was driving home early to surprise him when the tell-tale pain had forced me to turn off into a service station, flying to the bathroom, already knowing my hopes had been dashed. I wasn’t pregnant – the cramps in my stomach were evidence of that. How could I have forgotten the crushing blow I’d felt? I’ve wanted to start a family ever since I can remember. Once again the fact that Chris has left me slams like a right hook to my face. He can’t mean it. He can’t.
The Woman at 46 Heath Street: A twisty and absolutely gripping psychological thriller Page 5