Two Doors Down: A twisted psychological thriller

by Collette Heather

  “If you’re into that sort of thing? In other words, she was a goddess, and just looking at her made you feel like complete shit?”

  She sits down on her chair, which matches the other two high-backed chairs, and pops her feet up onto the desk. I watch her cross her ankles in the long, laced-up, black cloth boots with the pointy heels and toes.

  “Yeah, thanks, that makes me feel so much better.” I clear my throat, suddenly sheepish and staring at her boots instead of her face. “I might have seen her naked.”

  That got her attention. The back legs of her chair connect with the floor, as do her feet, and she is sitting ramrod straight in the chair, her expression wide-eyed and incredulous.

  “It was an accident,” I add lamely.

  “An accident? How is that even possible?”

  Now I wish I hadn’t said anything, but it’s too late now.

  “It was late, and I was walking Bertie along the prom, and I might have accidently happened to glance up at his bedroom window, and there she was, in all her glory.”

  “Oh my God, so you’re out walking Bertie in the middle of the night – something, by the way, you never do, ‘cause you only walk him in the morning – just so you can snoop in his windows?”

  “No! It wasn’t like that,” I protest, even if it was sort of exactly like that.

  “Did you see them shagging, or something?”

  “Jesus, no, nothing like that, what do you think I am? No, don’t answer that. She was just standing there, stark naked, in the window. I think she was flashing me.”

  “Flashing you? You stalk your neighbours, and then you blame her for being naked in her own bedroom?”

  “It’s not her bedroom,” I say quickly, quite well aware that I am missing the point entirely, but I can’t seem to help myself.

  “My God, sweetie, I know how you feel about Mark, but don’t you think that you’re letting things get a little bit out of hand? I mean, I know I’ve always said that I thought you guys might end up together, seeing as the best relationships are built on a solid foundation of friendship, but I said this when he was still single.”

  “He hasn’t been with her long. He barely knows her.”

  “Maybe. But that doesn’t make her any less his girlfriend.”

  “Whose side are you on?” I huff.

  “Yours, sweetie. Always yours.”

  “It was just weird, the way she was standing there like that in the window, completely starkers, just staring at me.”

  “I should imagine she was wondering who the weirdo with the dog was, spying on her in the rain in the middle of the night.”

  “God, don’t say it like that, you make me sound crazy. I’m serious here, she was the weird, slutty, exhibitionist one, not me. She could be a complete nutter for all we know.”

  “I hate to say it, but Mark’s a big boy – he can make his own decisions about who he dates.”

  “But what if she is crazy? He told me that her surname was Butler, but I can’t find her on Facebook. I mean, there are plenty of Holly Butlers out there, but none of them are on Mark’s friend list.”

  “So? Maybe she doesn’t have a Facebook – not everyone does, you know. I guess you’ll find out more tonight. Mark still loves you, as a person. As a friend. He still wants you in his life, and you never know what the future holds. But in the meantime, I think you should get back into the dating game. There’s plenty more fish in the sea.”

  For some reason, I am annoyed by her mini-lecture – I didn’t want her advice; I just want a sounding board.

  “In Broadgate? When was the last time you went on a date with any man from this town?”

  “I’m not suggesting that you should date a Broadgate man, per se. I know you don’t drive, but there is such a thing as Tinder, and public transport, and men that drive. You should cast your net wider.”

  I love Blythe, I do, we spend many happily-miserable hours together, naval-gazing and dissecting our feelings and life in general. But, as nice as she is, I’ve always had the impression that she is secretly rather disapproving of my forever-crush on Mark. She’s always seems to be encouraging me to get over him.

  “How about you?” I ask, deciding that it is time to change the subject, keen to dodge her veiled, faint disparagement of my infatuation with Mark. “There must be someone that you’ve got your eye on?”

  “After Craig? Are you kidding me? I am so over men.”

  I don’t believe that for a second – at the age of forty – almost five years older than me, Blythe is rather the maneater, to put it politely. She is wholly against having children and shows no signs of changing her ways anytime soon. Craig was the latest in a long line – a lothario builder from out of town who had kept secret the fact he had a wife and two children waiting for him back in Lancaster.

  “Sure, you are. You’ll be singing a different tune by next week.”

  Blythe was out most weekends, either here in Broadgate, or in the neighbouring towns. It was how I met her, a few years ago. I was down the pub with some old schoolfriends, none of whom I’m now in regular contact with. The girls I found most interesting have long moved away to pursue careers in more exciting towns and cities, and the rest seem to have migrated to the surrounding council estates and got busy churning out children.

  On that night out, Blythe was there with some work acquaintances from the office job that she’d had back then. We’d bumped into each other at the bar, and instantly clicked, the banter flowing. I quickly found out that she had moved to Broadgate from the Midlands after meeting a man online and moving in with him. The man hadn’t lasted, but the love affair with Broadgate had. We mostly bonded instantly over the fact I ran and owned a B and B, which she was intrigued by. We had a lot in common, for it was her dream to have her own clothes shop.

  “No, really, I’m done with men,” Blythe is protesting – a bit too strongly, me thinks. “In the relationship sense, that is. I mean, look at the state you’re in, eating your heart out over a man you can’t have. You should come out with us next weekend, let your hair down, maybe even let yourself meet someone else.”

  “I don’t know,” I begin. Mark will more than likely still be around next weekend, and I don’t want to miss out on any opportunity of potentially spending time with him – imagine being invited round, and then not being able to go. That would be nothing short of my worst nightmare. “I’m not sure I’m in the partying mood.”

  Blythe shrugs her slender shoulders. “Suit yourself, but you know you’re welcome.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  But the truth is, I’m not so keen on Blythe’s girlfriends. They’re okay, I guess, but I know for a fact that Blythe isn’t that fussed about them, either, as I am the one she invariably turns to – sober, I might add – when she feels the need to talk about stuff. Her three cronies are just good-time girls who work in the filter factory on the industrial estate on the edge of town.

  “Seriously, Claire, give it some thought. You’re letting yourself slip into a funk. Your aura’s looking kind of grey and dingy, you know?”

  No, I didn’t know. Blythe is into some pretty whacky stuff, as far as I’m concerned. Auras and chakras and crystals, and all that rubbish. Her love of such things is one of the reasons she stays in Broadgate. She says this place is a hotbed of mystical energy, largely due to the fact the town is built on ley-lines – as in, alignments drawn between various historic structures and landmarks across Britain that are supposedly infused with energy from the earth, or wherever.

  I don’t buy into any of it, and half the time I have no idea what Blythe is talking about once she warms up to this subject. I find it all faintly ridiculous. I mean, the only things I believe in are things I can see and touch. Real things, not airy-fairy, new age, star sign, religious anything.

  “Right,” I say, draining my coffee. “I should go.”

  I don’t want her to start banging on about my aura, or some rubbish about the moon stage, or whatever. I’m fe
eling unsettled enough as it is, what with Mark being back.

  “Okay,” she smiles. “I’ll call you later. Maybe I can pop round sometime over the next few days?”

  “Sure.” So long as it doesn’t interfere with my precious Mark time, I silently add.

  We say our goodbyes, and Bertie and I brave the chilly October day, heading straight for the beach.

  EIGHT

  That Evening

  Holly looks exactly as she had appeared in my dream. I am disturbed by this, for her dream face was a made-up face, but there it is, looking right at me across Mark’s kitchen-come-dining-room table.

  And she’s beautiful. Sickeningly so.

  “You’re so lucky to have grown up here,” Holly is saying to me. “I love it here, it’s such a fascinating, decadent little town.”

  “Yeah,” I say, my heart pounding uncomfortably hard in my chest and my mouth sucked dry of all moisture.

  I feel…strange. I can’t forget that this is the woman who flashed me from the bedroom window. And even it was an accident, does she recognise me as the person standing in the rain, spying on her? If she does, she shows no sign of it. Maybe it’s because I don’t have Bertie with me – I left him at home because he’s rather conveniently having a flea treatment – and therefore she hasn’t made the connection that the person last night was me.

  I am trying not to think about it. I also feel like I have landed in Mark’s kitchen in a whirlwind – whisked up and unceremoniously plonked down at his kitchen table. He barely even said hello to me when he let me in just now. All I got was a quick, perfunctory hug at the door, and a, I cannot wait for you to meet Holly, and now here I am, dropped at his kitchen table.

  It doesn’t help that I’ve done nothing all day. Sure, I’ve attempted to keep myself busy with a few household chores, but it was just a ruse, and being here now is nought to ninety in ten seconds flat. I’ve been secretly waiting around all day for the knock at the door that never came. I thought that Mark might pop ‘round and ask if I was still on for tonight. I thought that he might want to see me, just to say a quick hi.

  But he didn’t, and he hasn’t.

  “And I am so happy to finally meet you,” she gushes, all smiles. “Mark has told me so much about you.”

  I don’t trust that icily perfect smile. Reptilian, I think, reminded in that moment of my dream. Or maybe I’m being unfair; she can’t help being beautiful.

  In fact, I feel quite shabby sitting here opposite this goddess, and I have made a huge effort with my appearance. I am wearing one of my knee-length, flared-at-the-hemline skirts in a swirling blue pattern, which I have teamed with a lowcut, fitted jumper in a soft beige, and suede boots that stop mid-shin. She is wearing a skirt in a style remarkably similar to mine, but hers is black, as is her tight top with the puffy, short sleeves. She is wearing a thick black belt around her waist, and her waist is perhaps half the size mine, and mine isn’t exactly big. She is so tall, with slender, endless legs and a good-sized bust, that I feel like a little plump troll next to her. The most stupid thought occurs to me, that she is copying my style of clothes to prove to me that she can wear them better. To tell me that I am ugly and worthless.

  I shake off the ridiculous thought.

  “I hope it’s only good things he says about me,” I chuckle, but it comes out sounding nervous and strained. I wish that Mark would hurry up with that bottle of red wine he is uncorking over by the sink.

  “Oh, yes, he adores you, and makes no secret of it.”

  I catch something patronising in her tone, and I stare deep into her emerald green eyes, searching for the true meaning behind her words – a hint of malice, perhaps, or a flicker of jealousy. I get nothing – it's like staring into a still, murky swamp with the sunlight glistening on the flat surface and I can’t help but wonder about the potential predator that lives beneath it.

  At last, Mark approaches the long, old-fashioned, country-style table, the opened bottle of wine in one hand, three glasses in the other, held upside down by their stems.

  “Ladies,” he says, setting two of the glasses before Holly and me, then placing the third glass on Holly’s side of the table.

  A bitter stab of jealousy twists in my guts – unfairly, I know – that he has chosen to sit on her side of the table, rather than mine.

  He sits down, flinging a casual arm around the back of her chair, and I feel completely left out in the cold, like I’m there to provide a service for them, or something. Like I’m about to flog them an insurance policy, or perhaps double glazing.

  “So, how did you two meet?” I ask, feeling obliged to stick to the script.

  “Didn’t Mark tell you?” Holly simpers.

  No, he didn’t tell me, I think angrily. He hasn’t told me a bloody thing about you.

  “He only told me that he was even seeing someone a few days ago.”

  Holly playfully punches Mark on the arm, and inside I seethe.

  “Why haven’t you told your best friend about us?” she asks, managing to pout and frown at the same time. “Are you ashamed of me, baby?”

  “What? Are you kidding me?” he replies. “I didn’t want to curse us. I was scared that if I told anyone about you, it might jinx us.”

  So I’m just anyone now? I swallow down my hurt.

  “Oh, don’t be so silly,” Holly says with that sexy little smirk, that is part pout, part smile.

  I stare at her; I can’t help it. I hate how shockingly attractive she is, with her angelic, classically beautiful looks. Something about her face puts me in mind of a young Michelle Pfeiffer, but Holly’s features are stronger, more robust. Her wideset eyes slant upwards slightly at the corners and are the most dazzling shade of emerald green that I have ever seen. Her nose is narrow and straight, her mouth wide and full. Her top lip is slightly fuller than her bottom lip, which gives the impression she is constantly pouting. Her eyebrows are heavy, as is the fashion, her mid-brown hair seamlessly graduating to platinum blondes at the ends. It is glossy and full, styled in a deep side part that hangs past her shoulders. Her cheekbones are big and heavy, her jawline wide and her chin tiny and delicate.

  She makes me feel quite sick.

  “I’m not being silly,” Mark all-but coos, gazing lovingly at her as he pours out the wine. “I didn’t want to blow it.”

  He is so infatuated with her; it just shines out of him. I want to be happy for him, I do, but I still feel like crying.

  “You could never do that,” she says, gazing up at him through thick eyelashes, lightly laying an elegant, long-fingered, French-manicured hand on his upper arm.

  Is he blushing? I think incredulously. That’s preposterous. Just the smallest touch from her and his heart is clearly racing and he’s weak at the knees.

  Amongst other things, I think bitterly.

  I can’t say that I have ever found Mark annoying, but right now, I could slap the man, I honestly could. It would seem that there really is a first time for everything.

  I take a big slug of wine, draining half the glass in one go. It burns a soothing trail down my throat, going some way to making me feel better.

  But only slightly.

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” I point out in what I hope is a light tone. I think I nailed it and I drink more wine.

  Mark wrenches his gaze in my direction, and I can see that it is a struggle for him to do so.

  “What question is that?” he asks dazedly, that pink tinge still staining his cheeks.

  I picture myself slapping him across his stupid, turned-on face.

  “About how you guys met,” I reply brightly. “You still haven’t told me.”

  “Yes,” he says, visibly gathering himself together and shifting slightly in his chair, refocussing his attention onto me.

  I try not to stare at him as he speaks, but his face is like a drug to me. I have long memorised every curve of his face, but I still can’t get enough. Every last thing about his physicality is seared
into my mind as surely as my own DNA.

  I drink him in – his close-set, pale-blue eyes that make my heart sing, and his blood-red, wide, thin lips that curl up at one corner, regardless of his mood. His face isn’t classically handsome; his jawline is too weak, his nose too long, the bridge slightly bent, but to me, he is perfect. His face is so much more than the sum of its parts, coming together to make a whole that is uniquely him – the characterful, charismatic him that is my Mark.

  Holly aside, I’m not the only woman who thinks he’s gorgeous – there is just something about the languid, fluid way he carries himself, all long, slim limbs and loping, weirdly elegant gait. He has the uncanny ability to make any item of clothing look faintly scruffy yet simultaneously cool; even if he were to wear a stuffy, tailormade suit from Saville Row.

  “We met at my exhibition in London two months ago,” Mark is saying. Absently, he pushes his dark hair off his forehead – it is getting quite long on top and almost flopping into his eyes. It suits him, I think. I want to run my fingers through it so badly. “Holly was there on my opening night; she was only there for the free champagne and canapés.”

  He laughs, his smooth-skinned cheeks breaking out into deep laughter lines either side of his wonky smile. His equally wonky teeth make my heart flutter and I have to look away for a second. Staring at Mark for too long is akin to staring into a solar eclipse – stunning but deadly.

  “That’s not quite true,” Holly says, laughing along with him. “Okay, maybe it’s slightly true, but I was also curious to see the infamous Abandoned Places guy’s work up close and personal. I mean, Mark’s a big deal, isn’t he? I even had a framed print of his on my kitchen wall, long before I met him.”

  I nod along, doing my best to keep my expression benign yet interested, as I reach for my glass. It is empty. How did that happen? I wonder. I pour myself another glass, topping up their glasses as I do so, even though they’ve barely touched theirs.

  “So there she was at my exhibition, an angel, a vision of beauty, and we just got talking,” Mark says, staring lovingly into her eyes. “We hit it off instantly. It was love at first sight. For me, anyway.”