I tried to laugh but it came out wrong, sounding forced and fake. ‘Honestly, you two. Ann thinks I’ve changed because of Toby, you think because of the books I write! Maybe I’m simply older and wiser.’ I brushed a hand down the front of my Armani linen jacket. Did it smack of desperation? Was I – that awful condemning phrase – trying too hard?
‘Anyway, Toby is out of my life now. And no, Urs, I’m not going back to writing romances. I make a much better living from my twisted tales.’ I reached for the menu. ‘Maybe we’d better order before we drink any more?’ Before I drank any more… before alcohol, irritation with them, my situation and the realisation of my utter stupidity, made me say something I’d regret.
After we’d made our choice from the extensive menu and placed our order, I directed the conversation to safer channels by asking Ann about her youngest child, Teddy, who was having a tough time at school. The chat flowed organically to her other child and from there to Ursula’s three and when it flagged, when there was the slightest danger that it would twist back to me, I asked another leading question.
Their children, their husbands, their perfect lives. There was always something to ask.
8
Misty
Back home, I changed into one of the many kaftans I had bought over the years. It was time to start my next book. I sat at my desk, opened a new page on an A4 pad and sat it on the desk to the right of my computer. On the pad I’d keep a rolling total of my word count every day. It kept me focused which was necessary for the tight deadlines I worked under. It was the end of July. My next deadline was the end of October. I should have finished the last one and started this one days before. But life… for that, read ‘Toby’… had got in the way.
It was time to get back into the rhythm of writing, the three or four thousand daily word count I was used to doing, sometimes staying up till after midnight because I couldn’t abandon my characters mid-catastrophe.
Sufficient alcohol imbibed over lunch had loosened my thoughts but didn’t affect the speed at which my fingers flew over the computer keyboard. Headphones in place, relaxing music kept external distractions to a minimum. But it wasn’t the car noises, shouts and laughter from people passing outside that disturbed me that afternoon. It was Toby who forced himself into my head, appearing before my eyes until I blinked him away. Even my fingertips were complicit, my eyes widening when I saw his name appearing on the screen.
Delete.
If it were only that easy to wipe the memories.
All of the memories, the good and the bad.
When I’d written Toby’s name instead of Peter for the third time, I crashed my hands on the keyboard and sent a stream of random letters shooting across the screen. I left them there, saved my work and shut down. My hair caught in the headphones as I tugged them off roughly. It was the pain that made my eyes water.
Before I stood, I reached for a pen and filled in my word count for that day. A miserably low six hundred. I had a fairly good idea, too, that what I’d written was rubbish and would probably need to be deleted in the morning.
It was almost midnight. The house was quiet. No sounds drifting from the street outside. Bunching the hem of the kaftan in my hand, I went downstairs. The stairway was uncarpeted, the wood rough under my bare feet. Scandinavian style, I’d explained to Toby who’d asked why I’d not carpeted it.
I’d thought the cream track painted down the centre of the stairway was chic and classy, but he’d turned up his nose and suggested carpet would look better and give the house a more luxurious feel. Toby never seemed to be happy with the way things were. Maybe if I’d agreed to get a carpet… I stopped that thought before I completed it.
In the kitchen, I opened the fridge and took out a bottle of wine. Then with a sigh, put it back. Getting drunk was too easy an option and I’d never been one for taking the easy way out. I shook the kettle. Enough water sloshed against the sides for a cup of tea. With a flick of my thumb, I turned it on, then twisted around with an ear cocked. Without looking I snaked my hand out to switch off the kettle and listened again.
Seconds ticked by. A chill from the floor tiles crept over my feet and I shivered in the thin fabric of the kaftan. The house was silent. I’d imagined the sound.
Tea seemed suddenly too much trouble. I turned out the lights and went back upstairs.
Toby was gone but I could still smell him in the bedroom. His scent. It was there. Lingering in the air, in the fabric of the chairs, the mattress, the summer-weight duvet, the wallpaper, the bedroom carpet. Every-bloody-where.
There were fresh sheets on the bed. The pillows, piled one on top of the other, seemed to be taunting me. Sleeping alone again, Misty.
With a groan, I pulled off my kaftan, threw it onto the chair and, naked, moved to the window. The room was in darkness. The curtains open, the bottom of the sash window pulled up far enough to allow the cooler night air to slip into the room and over my skin. I shivered but didn’t move away or shut the window.
The road outside was quiet. It was a residential road of mostly older and retired people, all of whom would be tucked into bed at this hour. The sash window rattled as I pushed it up as far as it would go. I bent to rest my elbows on the ledge and leaned out, craning my neck to look up at the sky. There was too much light pollution for stargazing but the moon was there, full and fat and looking down on me. He looked amused or was that a sneer on his faraway face.
It was the slightest of movements that dragged my eyes from the man in the moon to a figure on the other side of the street. Partially hidden in the shadows, it was a tilt of the head that had caught my attention as if the person were trying, with a stretch of the neck, to get a better look at me.
I pulled inside, flattened against the wall and pulled the curtain around me, suddenly conscious of my nakedness. Myrtle Road wasn’t a shortcut to anywhere, wasn’t a road to attract a late-night footfall. There was no reason for anyone to stand there… and none to be standing there staring up at my bedroom.
I took a steadying breath, kept the curtain wrapped about me and peered around the edge of the window. The figure was gone. Pulling the drapes with me, I moved to look up the road. Apart from the bumper-to-bumper cars, there was nothing to be seen.
I reached for the other curtain, stepped back and pulled the two together, overlapping their edges, cutting out all the light from outside. The darkness held no comfort. There were no arms waiting in the bed to wrap around me and offer solace, no lips to whisper reassurances. No words to fill the emptiness.
And outside. Had I imagined the figure?
I didn’t think so, there’d been something vaguely familiar about it.
Then it came to me… it was the woman who’d attacked me.
Babs.
Was she looking for Toby?
Perhaps I should go out, run after her, naked apart from my tears and tell her he’d moved on, tell her that they had, at last, something in common.
9
Misty
Sleep came tantalisingly close but bounced away each time, my eyes flying open at every real or imaginary creak as my old house settled for the night. Daylight brought its own set of sounds, the pigeons landing noisily in the gutter outside the window, the early risers starting their car engines, leaving them to idle and pump out noxious gases as the drivers faffed with rear-view mirrors and seat belts.
By that stage, I’d given up any attempt to sleep and lay with my arm resting over my eyes listening to the sound of the world waking. Normality. My new normal.
I thought about the figure I’d seen outside in the early morning darkness. Had I imagined it… was it a figment conjured by the guilt I’d never really acknowledged, the real reason I’d not wanted to call the police following Babs’ vicious assault. I’d seen the way she’d looked at Toby, the love in her eyes, the disbelief that made her clenched lips quiver, the beseeching hand she’d stretched towards him.
I’d listened to Toby’s explanation – his insistenc
e that it had been over with Babs months before and his argument that he’d done right by her. Thinking back, I couldn’t remember if I’d truly believed him or not, because I hadn’t really cared. All I knew was that he’d chosen me. That was what I’d deemed important. I’d been consumed by him and nothing else, nobody else mattered.
Was that what the unknown woman in Knightsbridge was thinking now? Perhaps she didn’t even know about my existence. Toby, after all, had a history of keeping his previous life in the dark. He’d said he intended to tell me about Babs but would he have done if she hadn’t arrived with her fists swinging that day.
I threw the duvet back and got out of bed. It was foolishly pathetic to be wasting time thinking about Toby. We’d only been together three months. A blink of an eye. Not four years.
If it had been Babs outside, she’d soon realise Toby had moved on and would leave me alone.
I picked up the kaftan I’d discarded hours before, slipped it over my head and crossed the landing to my office. The curtains were shut. I pulled them back, put the heel of my hand against the top of the lower sash window and shoved it up. It went too far – flies would come in, buzz around and drive me crazy. I lowered it until I had the optimum half-inch gap that would allow air in and deter bug intrusion. Only then did I head downstairs for the first coffee of the several I’d drink through the day.
I drank the first one in the kitchen, resting my head in my hands between sips. The mug was half empty when I heard the doorbell peal and I lifted my head with little enthusiasm. At that time of the morning, it was likely to be the post; I wasn’t expecting anything but my publisher often sent gifts, as did my agent. Usually alcohol… or chocolate. They knew me too well.
It was tempting to ignore it and wait for the card slipped through my letter box to say I’d missed a delivery. But that would entail getting dressed and a journey to the post office where parking was often a nightmare. The bell pealing again made my mind up and I pushed to my feet.
The bell sounded again before I reached the door. More insistent as if someone was determined to get a response. ‘Hang on,’ I called as I slipped off the safety chain, thumbed down the catch and twisted the doorknob. I pulled the door open, expecting to find the usual postwoman on my doorstep, a smile of thanks waiting, a hand half-extended for whatever it was she’d not been able to fit through the letter box.
It took a few seconds to realise I was wrong, time to take in the elegantly dressed woman on the doorstep and to regret my own creased kaftan and uncombed hair. I shut the door over slightly in a vague attempt to hide my unkempt state. ‘Yes?’
Unexpectedly, the woman stepped back and looked up at the house, a frown creasing her brow. ‘What’s going on? I don’t understand…’ She brought her gaze back to me and took a step forward. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m the owner of the door you’ve been pounding on.’ I wasn’t in the mood for entertaining some lost female. ‘You’ve obviously got the wrong address, so if you’ll excuse me.’ I stepped back, my hand on the door pushing it shut.
‘No, wait.’ The woman put her hand out to stop me. ‘I’m looking for Toby Carter. Do you know him? Is he here?’
I stared, then I couldn’t help it, I laughed. The Knightsbridge woman, it had to be. ‘He’s left you already! That didn’t last long.’ I pushed the corners of my mouth down and made a big deal about letting my eyes drift from the expensive hair to the slim stiletto shoes. ‘If you think he’s come running back to me, you’re wrong. I wouldn’t take him back.’ I would have done, oh I would have done without hesitation, without question. The thought that I would be so foolish sent anger shooting through me and I clenched my hand on the door.
‘He’s not here?’ The woman’s expression morphed from aggressively demanding to pathetic desolation.
‘No.’ I looked at her face more closely. She was an attractive woman but older than me. ‘It looks like he’s moved on quickly this time. Has to be a record. Two nights.’
‘No, you don’t understand, he never arrived.’ The woman held a hand over her mouth, red manicured nails glaringly stark against her porcelain skin.
I wanted to shut the door, wanted to close the woman and her pathetic, desolate face from my view. Pathetic and desolate, wasn’t that exactly how I’d felt? With a sudden dart of understanding, I opened the door wider. ‘You’d better come in.’
The woman passed in a whiff of perfume I didn’t recognise but guessed it was expensive like everything else about her. I waved a hand towards the kitchen door and waited till she walked forward, her red-soled shoes click-clicking on the wooden floor.
I shut the front door, sorry I’d not followed my first instinct to ignore the doorbell. With a loud sigh I ran fingers through my hair and followed her.
She was standing in the kitchen, staring out the window, or maybe she was admiring her reflection. When I coughed to draw her attention, she turned. ‘He’s really not here?’
‘I wouldn’t take him back, believe me.’ My voice was firm, my heart chuckling at the lie.
‘But he did leave?’
Too little sleep, not yet enough coffee, my brain was mush. I pulled out a chair and sat. ‘Yes, he left. Night before last.’
The woman turned then. She folded her arms across her chest, hands gripping the opposite upper arms, long nails digging in. It looked painful.
‘That was when he said he was going to come to me but he never turned up.’
I frowned, trying to make sense of what she was saying. ‘Listen, I need some more coffee. I haven’t slept well. You want a cup?’
‘Yes. That would be good, thank you.’
Elegant, beautiful and so damn polite. I got to my feet, boiled the kettle and made a pot of coffee. ‘Sit,’ I said, putting two mugs on the table. The jug of milk in the fridge had solidified, I emptied it into the sink. Glug glug. The nose-crinkling smell of sour milk wafted until I turned the water on to rinse it away. It was the only jug I had, I hadn’t the energy to wash it, the Tetra Pak of milk would have to suffice.
The woman stood until the coffee was poured, then pulled a chair out and sat.
‘What’s your name?’ She’d probably always be Ms Knightsbridge in my head but it was better to know who I was dealing with. The name of the woman who had stolen Toby away… who was better than me… sexier, richer. Richer, that was the key, that’s what would have counted the most with him.
‘Gwen… Gwen Marsham.’
‘Well, Gwen Marsham. If Toby isn’t with you, and he’s definitely not with me, then where is he?’
10
Misty
I watched dispassionately as Gwen’s grey eyes filled with tears. What right had she to cry for his loss? She couldn’t have known him long after all… could she? Could she? It was better to know. ‘How long did you know him?’
Gwen’s fingers were wrapped around the mug. She lifted it to her lips but put it down without drinking, staring into it. ‘Two weeks.’ She looked up then. ‘You probably think I’m crazy asking him to move in with me after such a short time. To be honest, I thought I was myself, but…’ Her sigh seemed to deflate her. ‘I’ve never met anyone like him. I’ve never laughed so much or felt so carefree. He made me feel so special and the sex… well, it was incredible.’ A smile quivered. ‘Sorry, you probably don’t want to hear that.’
I stared at her, my hands curling into fists. Was this the same emotion that had surged through Babs and driven her frenzied attack on me? I shook my head trying to dislodge the image of Toby naked with this woman… a full colour image with a surround sound of moans and his whispered words of love. My voice cracked as I said, ‘Don’t want to hear that my boyfriend was sleeping with another woman at the same time he was sleeping with me… seriously, would any woman want to hear that?’
Gwen had lifted the mug to her lips again but my reply seemed to startle her. She jerked, sloshing coffee in an arc of liquid that hit her chest. It stained the front of the cream shirt she wore, drops pe
ppering the lapels of the beige jacket I’d not invited her to remove.
Putting the mug down, she jumped to her feet and stared at the mess then, helplessly, looked at me as if expecting me to do something.
I wanted to throw her out but I wasn’t Babs; my anger was already fading. I stood, grabbed a roll of paper towel, tore reams off it and handed the wad over.
Gwen dabbed the spillage and took my second offering, dropping the first onto the table, pressing the fresh paper over her breasts. ‘It’s all ruined,’ she said and dropped onto the chair. She pulled the wet silk away from her skin and flapped it uselessly. ‘I’m so sorry. Toby told me he was living with his sister.’
I barked a laugh. ‘His sister?’
‘Yes. He said you were going through a bad time, that you were emotionally very fragile which is why he couldn’t stay over with me any night. He’d come to my apartment, we’d make love, then after, we’d go for an early dinner before he had to go home to you.’
I had been so tied up with finishing my latest book, I remembered being relieved when Toby was late home, often not noticing. When I did, when I mentioned it, he spoke of meetings and overtime but I’d listened to his excuses without hearing them at all, my brain busy with people who didn’t exist and what they were up to. I explained to him that it was always that way coming up to my deadline and that afterwards it would be better. I never for a moment suspected that he was lying. Never considered that there wouldn’t be an afterwards. How naive I’d been.
Gwen was obviously trying to come to terms with the story she’d been told, her eyes wide, lips pressed in a tight line. ‘He lied to me.’ She bent her head to examine the stain on her shirt, plucking the damp material between her fingers again and shaking it back and forward in a vain and useless attempt to dry it.
The Lies He Told: a gripping psychological suspense thriller Page 4