‘Alice,’ I call, and she pushes the shed door open. ‘What are you doing out there in the dark?’
A pale yellow scarf covers her head, her face is smudged with dark streaks and her beautifully manicured hands are filthy.
‘Hi,’ she says as she switches the light off in the shed and comes into the house. ‘I didn’t notice it had got dark outside. I’ve been clearing out the shed. There are some tools in there I can make use of. I’ve loaded that wheelbarrow up with stuff. I’ll put it back again tomorrow once I’ve finished.’
‘You gave me a fright. For a moment there I thought someone had broken in.’
‘This will save me buying a new set of tools. There are a couple of trowels and a large fork and spade. Would it be OK to use those?’ Her face is sallow in the harsh kitchen light, and I switch the lamp on.
‘You look done in. I’m surprised you managed to get into the shed. How did you know where the key was? I’d have had to hunt for it myself.’
‘I scoured the kitchen and found these in a drawer.’ She holds up a key ring with two keys on, a Yale and a large, old-fashioned key.
‘Oh well done, you’ve done me a favour. The other one is for the cellar – I was wondering where that was. I’ll put them in here.’ I drop the keys into the drawer that is stuffed with takeaway menus, loose coins and elastic bands: a mess that used to drive Chris mad.
Alice rubs her eyes, stifling a yawn. ‘I’m off to bed, I’m exhausted. Are you working tomorrow?’
I nod. ‘I’m tired, too, I’ll be going to bed shortly.’ But first I’ll try Chris one more time.
‘I’ll make sure I put everything back in the shed and leave it tidy. I’ve had some ideas of what I want to do – we could go through them this weekend if you like.’
‘That sounds great.’
* * *
I fix myself a hot chocolate and take it up to my room, wrapping myself in a blanket and curling up in Nancy’s rocking chair, as if I can protect myself from this difficult call I wish I didn’t have to make. Images flicker through my mind as I wonder whether Chris is snuggled up too, with her. I’ve convinced myself she’s the one sending me nasty packages, and that he knows nothing about it.
‘Ella.’
On hearing his voice the fight drains out of me. ‘I’ve been calling you all day, Chris.’
‘I was at work. What do you want?’
I swallow down the hurt, determined to keep this businesslike. ‘I had to get Mr Whiteley round, there’s some damp in Al… Nancy’s room,’ I correct myself. ‘The roof needs fixing, so I’ve booked him in but he’s not free straight away. I’ll need to pay him, Chris. And I’m worried about the mortgage.’
‘Shit, I forgot. I’ll sort it tomorrow, I promise.’
‘All this is so unlike you. Having an affair—’
‘I don’t want to talk about that. What we should be talking about is why you’ve changed the locks. I can’t believe you’ve done that.’
‘Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I was angry. And scared. Strange things have been happening.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘My car got scratched. And yesterday someone sent me some rotten meat in the post. It was disgusting. Was it you?’
‘You are joking? Are you sure you’re not imagining things? We’ve been there before, haven’t we? You getting anxious about everything,’
‘That’s got nothing to do with it. This is different. I’m not imagining things. Is that what this is about? You’re trying to set me up, aren’t you? Make out I’m crazy. Anyway, Alice was here, she saw how upset I was.’
‘Who’s Alice?’
‘My friend from the gym. Or maybe it was her.’
‘Your friend?’
‘No, of course not. Her. Your other woman.’
‘That’s ridiculous. It was probably kids messing around. I’m sorry that’s happened, but it had nothing to do with me.’
I want to believe him. ‘Maybe you’re right, I panicked and perhaps I shouldn’t have changed the locks, but… my emotions are all over the place. I still can’t believe this is happening. Worrying about money doesn’t help, and I can’t help worrying about you. Plus, I told you before, didn’t I, Geoff rang and said you haven’t been answering his calls. Why haven’t you been at swimming club?’
‘Not this again. Because I fell off my bike and injured my neck. I had to go to A & E and I was told not to swim or do any kind of exercise for at least a month. Geoff must have my old number. I’ll ring him.’
‘So you’re not in any kind of trouble?’
‘Of course not. Why would you say that?’
‘He said you owe him mon
ey. Have you paid him back yet?’
‘He had no right to tell you that.’
‘Are you sure nothing is wrong? We have to make sure the mortgage is being paid, we don’t want to lose the house.’
‘I’ve told you, I’ve had a lot on my mind, what with the bike accident… You don’t need to worry about the mortgage, I promise to sort that in the morning. But we do need to talk about the house. It might be best to sell up: that way we can both have a fresh start.’
‘No, Chris, no way.’ I sit up and throw the blanket on the floor. ‘I thought we were happy here.’
He sighs. ‘You have to face facts, Ella. Things haven’t been right between us for a while. Since Mum died. Accept we’re over, think about moving on. The house is too big for you on your own. Wouldn’t you prefer a nice flat somewhere?’
‘No, Chris. Besides, I’m not on my own. Alice is staying here.’
‘Staying for a couple of nights, you mean?’
‘No, she’s staying for as long as I need her.’
‘You can’t do that.’
‘I am doing it. I can’t afford the bills on my own.’
‘For God’s sake, why are you making this difficult?’
‘Me, making it difficult? It’s not me who’s having an affair. Who is she, Chris? Why are you doing this? Were you seeing her when Nancy was alive? Did Nancy know?’
‘I might have known you’d bring my fucking mother into this. I will not discuss her with you. This is pointless. I need a new set of keys cut.’
‘Pay the mortgage and then we’ll talk about it.’
I put the phone down and collapse, sobbing. Sleep eventually descends but in the early hours of the morning hunger wakes me and I remember I didn’t eat again last night. My stomach is too churned up to rest and I lie awake going over my conversation with Chris. Why won’t he tell me who she is?
* * *
I hear Alice’s alarm sound from her room when I eventually go downstairs to put the kettle on. As I pad down the stairs I rub my eyes, seeing that the postman has been early this morning. There’s something waiting for me on the doormat. All I can make out with my blurry eyes is a fuzzy brown and red shape. But as I get closer the object comes into focus and I let out a cry, recoiling in horror. A dead, bloody mouse lies on the doormat, and I cover my mouth with my hand, shocked. My heart thuds as Lady appears in the hallway, staring at me with unblinking eyes.
‘You bad girl, you scared me,’ I say, going into the kitchen to get a dustpan. She’s never brought anything like that into the house before, but I guess there’s always a first time. Yet when I bend down to scoop the broken body into the dustpan, I realise it’s lying on a piece of paper. Confused, I pick it up and see that there’s one word scrawled on it: LEAVE.
Nineteen
ELLA
Alice finds me on the bottom step, unable to move. I point a shaky finger to the mess on the doorstep. She bends down to look and then flinches, stepping back.
‘Ugh, that’s gross. You go into the kitchen, I’ll deal with it. That cat needs training.’ She hasn’t seen the note.
‘Look closer, underneath.’
‘Bastards.’ She shakes her head as she reads it. ‘Unbelievable. Go on, you go. I’ll sort this out.’
I rest my head in my hands at the ki
tchen table, sweat dribbling down my back.
‘Someone’s trying to frighten you,’ Alice says after she’s disposed of my disturbing gift.
‘It’s working.’
‘You mustn’t let them know that, that’s exactly what they want. It has to be Chris, right?’
‘I spoke to him last night and he denied everything. Surely he wouldn’t do this.’ Would he?
‘You didn’t think he’d have an affair, or try to force you from your home.’
Alice is right. I don’t know him any more. The Chris I thought I knew, my husband, has gone forever. Does he hate me that much?
She fetches two glasses of water and sits opposite me. I twist my wedding ring around my finger.
‘Maybe it’s time to stop wearing that.’
I shrug, tears threatening to spill over.
She pulls a face. ‘Is Chris still wearing his?’
‘I don’t know.’ Another thing I don’t know. ‘Maybe I should go to the police.’
‘I know it’s horrible for you, but I’m not sure the police would bother with it. Besides, the dustmen were emptying the bins when I took it outside, so the evidence is gone.’
‘You’re right. It’s too trivial. I’d like to think it was kids messing around, but what with everything else that’s been happening that doesn’t seem likely. It has to be her, the girlfriend. If only I knew who she was.’
‘Whatever you decide, don’t let Chris see that he’s getting to you. My mother taught me not to tell everyone my business. If the wrong people know you’re hurting they can use it against you.’
‘It’s the first time you’ve talked about your parents. Did they mind you moving in with me?’
‘I’m an adult, of course they didn’t mind.’
The shutter has gone back down and Alice turns away from me, her dark brown hair swinging in one neat movement. You don’t give much away. I wish I had even an ounce of her composure.
‘Right, work beckons.’
She heads outside.
I clear away the cups and glasses from the table and pull on my rubber gloves to give the kitchen a good clean. Scrubbing the counter down, I imagine the mangled mouse and rub the cloth so hard on the surface that I build up a sweat. Even though the mouse didn’t get further than the doorstep, the house feels contaminated. I empty the cupboards and stack everything on the table, washing the insides, hoping the smell of pine cleaning fluid would erase the mouse from my sensory memory.
I take a hot, lingering shower, wanting to scald the stench off me. Chris’s half-full shower gel is still in the cubicle and I throw it in the bin. I want him out of the house and out of my memory. Opening the window to let in some air, I see Alice bent over the rockery in the corner of the garden. Dungarees would look scruffy on anyone else but Alice has the height to carry off the cropped, casual look and the faded denim contrasts well with her dark hair. Her flowery gardening gloves make me smile.
To take my mind off everything I fetch the piece of embroidery Mr Whiteley found, sit on a cushion on the floor against the radiator and study it. 1997. Chris’s dad would have been alive then.
Chris mentioned his father to me once and once only. It was the first time he brought me back to Heath Street. His mother had invited me for afternoon tea. I’d spent ages choosing a new dress; it was a summer evening and I’d worn a cotton dress decorated with large red poppies. Chris had met me in Hampstead Village. He’d taken my hand and walked me down towards his house; butterflies fluttered in my stomach. Once we got to the wooded area which runs beside the street, he’d led me gently away from the path. ‘You look beautiful,’ he’d said, pushing me gently against a tree, kissing me hard. He’d brushed a little piece of bark from my back before we’d rejoined the path. ‘The house is the first one you see when you go round this corner,’ he said and propelled me forward so I saw it first. And there it was: number 46, an old-fashioned lamp post directly to one side, making the bright red front door shine. A tall woman stood in the front garden and waved, the light picking out the silver in her hair: Mrs Rutherford.
‘Please call me Nancy,’ she’d said, clasping my warm hand in hers, which was tiny, her bones delicate and birdlike.
The fire was burning in the front room where a table was set out for tea.
We ate tiny square sandwiches and cakes from a tiered stand decorated with flowers. Nancy poured tea from a bright red pot. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. A regal woman, she bore no resemblance to Chris with her ramrod-straight back, tweed skirt and frilly, high-necked blouse. Her long, thin fingers, emerging from the ruffles around her wrists, betrayed how frail she was. She was as delicate as the china teacup and saucer she drank from. She asked me lots of questions and I found myself telling her the truth without the usual shame I could feel bearing down on me whenever I thought about being in foster care, and my birth mother, who at that point in time I hadn’t tracked down.
There was only one awkward moment. Waiting with Nancy while Chris went off to get our coats, I admired a photo on the old-fashioned mantelpiece of Chris as a child and another of Nancy with an older Chris, scowling behind his glasses. ‘Do you have any photos of your husband?’ I asked. Nancy’s face appeared to shut down.
‘No,’ she said, and left the room. Despite standing in front of the blazing fire I felt a chill sweep over me. Walking back down Heath Street with Chris five minutes later, I told him what had happened, asking him if I’d done something wrong.
‘We don’t mention my father,’ he said. ‘I should have warned you.’
Twenty
ELLA
The doorbell rings. It’s afternoon and Alice is out in the garden, so I wander into the hall hesitantly. Images of the dead mouse and the rotting pork chop flash into my head. I see Chris on the doorstep and step back in surprise. I will my face not to react, but my fingers whiten as I squeeze the door frame tight. For a split second I want to wipe out the past few weeks, fling my arms around him and welcome him into the home we’ve created together. I put the chain on, inching the door open. He forces the door, splitting the chain and barging past me. My urge to hug him evaporates as the door slams.
Chris holds his hands up. ‘I didn’t want to do that, but you gave me no choice. This is my house.’ He shifts about on his feet, clearing his throat. ‘Can we talk? Neither of us want to involve solicitors. I’m sure if we sat down and had an adult conversation we could sort this out.’
I don’t move and he clears his throat again. ‘Can we sit down?’
I’m stalling for time, grappling with the battle going on inside me. ‘How do I know I can trust you?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Ella. We have to sort this out. It’s my house too, remember.’
‘I’m glad you said “too”, because the last time we spoke you mentioned trying to force me out. Who knows what you might do?’
‘Ella, please.’
The lines around Chris’s eyes add years to him and his shoulders sag. This isn’t easy for him. Besides, Alice is in. He can’t do anything while she’s here. I shrug and relent, walking into the house, leaving him to follow me.
‘Alice is in the garden, I’ll just let her know you’re here.’ Warn her, is what I mean. He doesn’t need to know we’re developing a relationship, a friendship that is getting me through this, making the precarious raft I am floating on easier to navigate. ‘Put the kettle on.’ I want him to see this new assertive Ella who won’t let anyone boss her around. I almost believe my own hype, save for the weak feeling in my legs as I walk into the garden. I can’t see Alice, and the ground is damp from this morning’s rain shower. I slip my garden shoes on, not wanting to get my new mules wet crossing the muddy path.
‘Alice!’ I yell.
‘Behind the shed,’ she calls back.
I find her bending over a pile of weeds.
‘Chris is here.’
She looks alarmed. She cares about me.
‘It’s OK, he’s calmed down, wants to talk. I’m making a
point of letting him know you’re here, just in case. That way he won’t try anything.’
‘No worries. I’ll respect your privacy, but if you need me just shout and I’ll come to the rescue. Not sure I can promise to be civil, though.’
I laugh and I make sure I’m still smiling as I head back into the kitchen.
‘Who’s your friend?’
‘I told you, Alice. You know, from yoga class.’
‘I don’t remember her.’
Because you were never here.
Chris has got the mugs out and he’s sniffing the milk. His presumption makes me bristle.
‘I’ll have a green tea,’ I say, looking pointedly at the mugs. He pulls a face.
‘Since when?’
‘You walked out on me, remember. Things change.’ I don’t want him knowing everything about me. I’m being petty and childish, but this small victory keeps me from dissolving into a puddle and begging him to stay.
‘You’re not scared to see me on your own, are you? I’m me. I’m still the same person, Ella—’
‘No you’re not. My Chris wouldn’t have walked out on me, threatened me with homelessness, and most of all he wouldn’t be screwing someone else.’ My cheeks burn as I stare at him, but he doesn’t deny it. He’s still seeing her, kissing her red, pouty, glossy lips whenever he wants. I curl my fists up inside my pockets, not wanting to show my emotions to him, not willing to give him any part of me. Whatever he wants to talk to me about, I won’t make this easy for him. Chris sits at the kitchen table, flicking through his post, tea in front of him. He’s left my mug on the side. I never used to notice his selfish little actions. But I do now. He’s slumped at the table, shoulders hunched, with a hint of a protruding belly, no longer the fitness-obsessed man I first fell for. He doesn’t look happy.
The Woman at 46 Heath Street: A twisty and absolutely gripping psychological thriller Page 11