‘Sometimes it’s better to let it all out. Come here.’
She puts her arms around me and I give in to the emotion, loud sobs followed by silent tears, until I’m spent. I rest my pounding head on her chest and close my eyes. For the first time since Chris left I feel a glimmer of hope. At least I have Alice.
* * *
The next morning I hear the toilet flush, movement downstairs, the front door closing. I pull up my blind and see Alice running down the street, sleek in Lycra, taking long, purposeful strides. Cold air tickles my arms and I grab my white towelling dressing gown and fasten it tightly around my waist. It’s so early. The bathroom door is open and an unfamiliar citrus smell hangs in the air. I hesitate on the landing, fighting the urge to look in Nancy’s room. The nursery. No, Alice’s room, I correct myself. A car engine revs outside and roars down the road, too loud at this time of the morning. When it’s gone I become aware of a tapping noise. I pull my belt tighter and listen. I’m sure it’s coming from Alice’s room. The door isn’t shut properly and it swings wide when I push it. The window is open and the wooden blind is rapping against the window frame. Half listening out for sounds of Alice returning, knowing I shouldn’t be here, I look around the room. Tap, tap, tap: the noise plucks at my nerves. Alice’s clothes hang neatly on a rack: dark trouser suits, elegant garments in bursts of deep orange and yellow. Books line the shelves, a thick Spanish dictionary, some Spanish fiction. A whole shelf of books on gardening, flowers and trees. A painting of three tall sunflowers reaching up to a blue sky rests against the wall. The smell of Chanel No 5 hangs in the air. A framed photo by Alice’s bed snags my attention: a dark-haired woman, glass in hand, laughing. Who is she? Olive-skinned, she has almond-shaped eyes that seem to follow me, making me feel like an intruder. The tapping gets louder. Alice’s bed is unmade, her pyjamas are folded on the duvet and a pang of shame hits me. I shouldn’t be in here. I pull the door closed and go into the bathroom, dousing my face in cold water.
Downstairs, a door bangs and I hear pipes gurgling from the kitchen. For a split second I imagine it’s Chris, back from one of his bike rides. Drinking a glass of cold water while he stands at the sink, sweat glistening on his forehead. I twist my gold wedding ring around my finger, remembering his cruel words at the office. ‘We’re over, Ella, and the sooner you accept that and move on, the better.’ Disappointment sticks in my throat.
Chris is gone and he wants me out. How quickly my life has changed. Suddenly I have no one. My pale face gazes back at me from the mirror as I scrape my hair back into a band. Feeling sorry for myself is not going to get Chris back.
* * *
The coffee machine is a fancy Nespresso one which arrived with Alice. She swears she can’t live without it. It’s gurgling and the smell wakens my taste buds. Alice is crouching on the floor under the sink, looking into the cupboard.
‘Hi,’ I say, ‘everything OK?’
She pulls her head out from under the sink. ‘The cold tap isn’t working properly. If I see a problem, I like to fix it.’
I frown. ‘I’ve not had any problems before. Mind you, I’m not great with DIY. Chris took care of all that. Not very feminist of me, I know.’
‘It’s easy when you know how. I can teach you the basics if you like. You might need to know this kind of stuff now your husband isn’t here.’
I clench my hands into fists. No, I want to shout. He won’t leave me, he can’t.
‘Are you feeling better today?’
I nod, embarrassed at the memory of sobbing on the sofa.
‘Where did you run to?’ I ask, changing the subject.
‘The heath. I hope I didn’t wake you. It was so hot in Spain I got used to going out early, otherwise it was impossible.’ Alice finishes her glass of water. ‘Right, time to get ready for a day at the garden centre. By the way, I’ll be out late tonight.’ She disappears upstairs.
The idea of being alone all evening makes me want to go back to bed and stick my head under the duvet.
As soon as the front door slams I check the cold tap. It’s all very well being determined to stay but not if I can’t afford extras like replacing faulty taps. But the water runs out fine. Alice must have fixed it. She’s making herself indispensable already and my mood drops as I acknowledge how much harder it would be for me if she wasn’t here. I wish she wasn’t going out tonight. I used to think that about Chris in the early days on a swimming night. I can’t believe he’s been missing swimming club for her.
When I’d been seeing Chris for a few weeks, high on infatuation, I remember how hard it was for me not to see him on his swimming nights. One Wednesday, when I couldn’t get him out of my mind, when all I could think about was the way he made me feel, I decided to surprise him. The club met at the leisure centre in Swiss Cottage, and the café there was perfectly placed for watching the swimmers. I put on my new little black dress and waited for him in the foyer. When he’d emerged from the changing room, pink-faced and hair still damp, chatting to one of his swimming friends and wearing a blue sweatshirt instead of the checked shirts he wore most days for work, he’d done a double take. Just for a second I saw a look of consternation cross his face, which swiftly turned into a grin. He said goodnight to his friends and took me out for dinner. But lying in bed that night, he told me it had to be a one-off. He loved me but he couldn’t let me distract him from swimming. Exercise helped him process his thoughts, it was a necessity. I understood, and I found ways of occupying myself until I moved in and it was no longer an issue. But Geoff’s call scared me, because whoever she is, she’s obviously more important to him than his precious swimming.
Is he with her now?
I pick up my phone before I can change my mind. When he answers I’m lost for words initially as I’d expected him to ignore my call. Hope flutters. Stay calm.
‘Hi Chris.’
‘Hi.’
‘Are you at work?’ I can hear chatter in the background.
‘Coffee break. I needed to get out for a bit, clear my head.’
‘Are you OK to talk for a minute?’
‘Yes.’ He sounds wary. ‘I am sorry, you know. How it happened.’
‘I’m worried about you, Chris, is everything OK? I went to the garage and Ron said you were thinking about selling your car. Is that true?’
‘Not selling. I was thinking about upgrading but I’ve changed my mind.’
‘That’s a relief. You need a car for work, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Look, I’m glad you rang, actually. I don’t want us to fall out.’
‘Me neither. I miss you.’ I swallow hard. ‘Are you still seeing this woman?’
He sighs. ‘Just because we’re talking doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind. I haven’t been happy for the last few months, and this is for the best. I’m sorry, but it is.’
‘What about marriage guidance?’
‘I don’t need to talk to anyone. I’ve made up my mind, Ella. You have to accept that.’
My stomach plummets. ‘Geoff rang,’ I say, trying to take control of the conversation.
‘Geoff?’
‘Yes, from swimming. Said he hasn’t seen you there for ages. You never miss swimming. Can we meet, have a proper talk? I still don’t understand what went wrong. Geoff said you owe him some money. Are you in trouble?’
‘Of course I’m not in trouble. He had no right telling you that.’
‘I’m your wife. He’s worried about you too.’
‘Well, he’s got no need to be. I suppose you told him we’ve separated. I don’t want everyone knowing my business.’
The word ‘separated’ stings. ‘Why are you pushing everyone away? Can we talk, please?’
‘I’ve got to go, this isn’t getting us anywhere. And look, you should know, I’m thinking about putting the house on the market.’
‘You can’t. It’s my home, too.’
‘And I’ve given you plenty of notice. I won’t change my mind, Ella. Don’t make this
difficult.’
The phone call leaves me reeling. He can’t mean it about selling the house. This has to be her idea. I have to find out who she is, and what exactly is going on, starting right now.
Thirteen
ELLA
At five o’clock I’m parked outside Chris’s office. I’ve taken the car, which I picked up on the way over, instead of the shop van as it has our distinctive logo on the side. Workers are scurrying out of buildings, hurrying ant-like along the pavement towards the tube. I’m paid up for the next hour, just in case. A parking attendant eyes me, one hand on his camera, and I look pointedly at the ticket displayed prominently on the dashboard. I almost miss Tanya, who emerges from the office door, chatting and laughing with a man. She’s wearing a striking red suit. If she disappears into the tube this is a pointless exercise. But she crosses the road and aims her hand at her bright pink Fiat 500, making its lights flash. She slings her bag into the back seat and climbs in. I rev my engine and slide into the traffic two cars behind her.
We only drive for about twenty-five minutes before she pulls up outside a house in a tree-lined street in north London, Finsbury Park, not far from the park itself. Victorian houses stand to attention along this small street that backs on to the railway line. I drive slowly along the road, noting the door number – 12 – as she lets herself in. I drive out of the street and then return, noticing that this time the light has gone on in the front room downstairs. My guess is that the house is divided into flats, but I can’t be sure without scrutinising the letter box. I park the car further down the road and walk back towards the house, pulling my jacket hood up. I wonder if this is the first marriage she’s wrecked. Anger quickens my pace and I hurry up the steps to the house before I can change my mind. There are three bells: Flat A is Barry Hutchinson, Flat B is T. Redmond, Flat C is Ali Hussein. What would happen if I were to press the bell and confront her? Would she deny it?
A loud clattering noise sends my heart racing before I realise it’s a train trundling by. I hurry back down the steps to the safety of my car and drive off past Tanya’s pink car, which looks like a blob of bubblegum compared to the other cars on the street. I’ve got what I came for. I have an idea.
* * *
The next morning in the gift shop is non-stop. It’s my first time working with Sam and as Jamie said, she’s a good worker. She deals with a steady flow of customers who are mostly buying greeting cards, chatting away with them as she takes payment and wraps gifts. My new card range is a hit and my cheeks flush as I hear Sam bigging me up to a customer – ‘yes, Ella here makes them all herself’. Between orders she manages to tidy the shop and I’m free to get on with admin work in the back room, which smells of roses – Jamie has thoughtfully left a vaseful on the desk, a little card tucked underneath saying ‘Smile, I love you xx’. I stick it in my pocket as I don’t fancy explaining my situation to Sam. I can’t stop worrying about the house conversation I had with Chris. She has to have put the idea into his head. I add Tanya’s name and address to our customer database before settling down to the accounts from last week.
The idea that was fermenting as I drove back from Tanya’s is now in the front of my mind. I’ve got nothing to lose. I ask Sam to gift-wrap one of my premium notebooks with Someone Special embossed on it in gold letters. I’m banking on Tanya being chatty. It’s a crazy plan, but I can’t think of anything else. Doubt niggles at me: what if it’s not Tanya? In that case, at least I’ll know and I can eliminate her. Jamie is the ideal person for this task. He can make the delivery at the end of a working day. Chris never finishes work early; even in the beginning when he was smitten with me, he wouldn’t stop work for anything. Although I also thought he’d never compromise about swimming. After Sam leaves I flip the sign on the door to show we’re closed. But I stay inside, reluctant to go straight home to an empty house.
On the way home I hope that despite what she said earlier, maybe Alice will be in and I’ll walk through the door to find heavenly smells in the kitchen, wine breathing on the side. But she isn’t and my loneliness ricochets around the house. I take my laptop to bed with me, not wanting to sit in the silent, empty kitchen; the room that should be full of laughter and love. Sitting alone in the huge bed with only virtual company I can’t help but remember the old days. I imagine Nancy bumping around upstairs, pipes clanking from the bath, a house full of life. I feel a pressure on my leg as Lady lands on it. She’s taken to sleeping up here with me and I don’t discourage her; I’m grateful for her presence. Chris used to insist on closing the door at night so she couldn’t get in, but what Chris likes doesn’t matter any more.
It was Lady who first alerted me to the fact that relations were strained between Chris and his mother. I’d not long moved in and was still pinching myself whenever I came home to Heath Street. Every time I stepped into the hall I’d pause and look up at the high ceilings, following the sweep of the red carpet with my eyes, up the spiralling stairs towards the beautiful bedroom we shared. On those first few days excitement woke me around six every morning and I’d drink a cup of steaming tea by the bedroom window, looking out over the misty green of Hampstead Heath. Could this really be my life?
One evening when Chris was out at swimming club, I’d made up a fire in the living room and I was looking at the tired paintwork, wondering if Chris would mind if I offered to decorate, restore the neglected interior, when I heard Nancy calling me from upstairs. She’d pulled herself up in bed on her twig-like arms, a hopeful look on her face.
‘Would you read to me?’
Her request took me by surprise, followed by a flicker of joy – I was needed. She pointed me towards a book of Hans Christian Andersen fairy tales and I turned to the Little Match Girl, a favourite of mine since I found it during a lonely lunchtime in the school library at one of the many schools I attended. Nancy closed her eyes as I read, only to open them when Lady slipped into the room and jumped onto the bed before curling up on her chest. Once I’d finished the story I must have dozed off too, as I was awoken by the shutting of the front door and Chris calling out to me. Dozily I opened my eyes and imagined how pleased Chris would be when he found us like this. But all he saw when he came into the room was the cat on the bed.
‘Mum!’ His loud voice woke her up and Lady bolted out of the room, her fur brushing against my leg and making me shiver. ‘What have I told you about that bloody cat?’
‘Chris.’ I’d not seen him like this before, and I was shocked at him waking his sick mother up.
Nancy’s eyelids fluttered. ‘Cat?’ she said, attempting to push herself up.
‘No, it’s nothing, go back to sleep,’ I replied, tucking her back into bed.
‘She knows the cat isn’t allowed in here,’ he said and left the room. I settled Nancy back to sleep, holding her hands until her bony fingers went limp.
I found Chris at the bottom of the garden, staring out towards the pond. The garden wasn’t so overgrown then. He appeared not to notice me until I touched him on the shoulder.
‘I don’t know what came over me,’ he said. ‘I should never have come back here.’
‘What do you mean?’
He shrugged my hand away, but not before I felt a shudder ripple through his strong shoulders.
‘Nothing.’
Snuggled up with Lady, remembering Chris’s strange outbursts, I wonder about those moments when he’d flare up without explanation. Probing only made him withdraw, and Nancy feigned not to know what I was talking about. But there was something, I know there was.
Next time I’m in the shop I watch Jamie as he strolls back to work after his lunch break, crossing the square from his latest Tinder date. He’s smiling, which is a good sign. The last guy he met turned out to be at least thirty years older than his profile and had a missing front tooth, although Jamie does like to exaggerate. I’m sending him out on this afternoon’s deliveries, with Tanya neatly scheduled in the middle. Earlier this morning I’d logged on to her Facebook a
nd she’d posted about how she was going to be stuck in all afternoon waiting for a boiler repairman. The timing couldn’t be more perfect.
Fourteen
ELLA
I make a detour through the heath on my walk home, going the long way round, so I pass by the back of the house. I follow a trail that takes me up a steep grassy bank and leads on to a forestry path that twists its way up to the pond. I stop here, sitting on a bench that faces our house across the water. You can see our jungle garden from this point, the mass of weeds waving in the wind. I used to sit here when I first met Chris, pinching myself to make sure it was real. I knew then that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. I swallow back tears. How quickly things change.
Silence greets me when I enter the house and I wonder if Alice is out, but as I go through to the kitchen a breeze blows in from the open back door. For a moment I freeze. What if Chris has somehow got in? But I breathe in deeply, reminding myself he hasn’t got keys. I catch sight of a flash of blue and I spot Alice sitting on the bench at the end of the garden. For a second I’m transported back to a summer’s day before Nancy became bedridden, when I came home to find her sitting out there, gazing at the heath, her eyes glazed over. I’d taken a glass of iced water to her, and had gone to pull up a chair beside her when she’d shocked me by getting up and scurrying back across the garden and into the house. Her door had remained closed that evening and the next day she’d acted as if nothing had happened. That was the last time she ventured outside. I’d tried to talk to Chris about it, but he’d refused to engage.
I decide to surprise Alice, put the kettle on and make us some jasmine green tea. I slip off my shoes – it’s warm outside and the grass feels soft underfoot as I carry the tray towards her. As I get closer, her voice carries in the breeze – she’s on the phone, she’s agitated, waving her hands about as she talks. I want to know who arouses such emotion in her, remembering the way she’d held me the other night, how safe she made me feel. I don’t want to disturb her: it feels intrusive, her voice louder now. I step backwards, but a twig cracks under my foot and she spins around. She mutters into the phone and closes the call.
The Woman at 46 Heath Street: A twisty and absolutely gripping psychological thriller Page 8