by Paula Daly
She’s about to say something more when she notices the paper in my hand. She doesn’t ask what it is, but I hold it out to her anyhow.
She pulls a pair of glasses from the breast pocket of her uniform and slips them on. They still have the sticker in the corner displaying the lens strength +2.00. They’re the type of specs you pick up from the petrol station or from next to the tills at Sports Direct. Jackie looks very schoolmarmish with them perched on the end of her nose.
‘Where did you get this?’ she asks.
‘I just found it. Must have been delivered here sometime last night.’
‘Who’s it from?’
I shrug. ‘No idea. I think the sender wants to remain anonymous . . . or else they would have signed it?’
She nods. ‘Strange thing to say, don’t you think? What does it mean, she’s done it before? Done what before?’
‘I assume it means stolen a husband.’
‘What you gonna do, confront her? Ask her who else she shacked up with?’
I swallow, not sure whether to divulge yesterday’s events. My dad will tell her anyway, so I may as well come clean. ‘I’m in a bit of a fix, actually,’ I begin. ‘I crashed into Eve’s car yesterday—’
‘On purpose?’
I grimace, about to answer, but before I have the chance, she says, ‘I bloody hope so. She deserves some grief after what she’s done to you. If it was me I’d have gone the whole hog and—’
‘There’s more to it,’ I cut in. ‘She reported me to the police.’
Jackie pulls a face as though to say: Well, they won’t be bothered. Stop worrying about it.
I look down. ‘It’s not that straightforward. I did something else, something a long time ago. I’ve got a criminal record.’
Jackie’s eyes widen, before she retracts her chin in surprise. After a moment of consideration she gives a bark of laughter. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘aren’t you the dark horse? I had you down for Miss Butter-Wouldn’t-Melt. Yer kept that quiet. Does yer dad know?’
‘No one knows,’ I say firmly. ‘Well, he does, obviously . . . but we don’t like to talk about it.’
Mad Jackie removes her reading glasses and mimes zipping her mouth shut with her index finger. ‘Safe with me,’ she says.
When she’s poured the tea Jackie disappears upstairs to get my dad moving. I hear the combi boiler firing up as she runs the hot water, and I hear them laughing.
Twice a day a carer comes in and does the necessaries for my dad, and he’s friendly, amenable, never shy or difficult. With Jackie, though, the tone is different. It’s cheery, jovial, and I wonder how he’s really felt about being on his own all this time. He’s always brushed it away when I’ve enquired in the past, professing to enjoy his own company. When pressed, he’d even go as far as to say he relishes his solitude. Now, I’m not so sure. Now I wonder if it was for my benefit, and I feel a sting of shame that I took his proclamations as genuine.
I hear my dad come down the stairs on his bottom – the physios at the hospital insist it’s the safest way. When he reaches the last step the gentle banter between them ceases and I sense they are discussing me. I hear the metallic crunch of his elbow crutches as he makes his way into the lounge and, hearing him exhale with relief as he sinks into the chair, I go to say good morning.
He’s wearing black jogging bottoms and a red fleece. His knees are still twice their usual size, the swelling visible through the fabric, and now I’m feeling guilty for haranguing him last night about getting stoned. It must be dreadfully painful.
‘Morning,’ I say.
Before he can reply, Jackie’s behind me, announcing, ‘I told him about your poison-pen letter.’
‘It’s not a poison-pen letter,’ I mumble. ‘It’s a note.’
‘Who sent it?’ he asks. ‘How did it get here?’
I shrug.
‘Let’s see it, then,’ he says.
I hand it to him, and he looks at it, perplexed. ‘That’s it?’ he says after a moment. ‘That’s all there is?’ I nod. ‘Well, that could have come from anyone, anyone with an axe to grind.’
‘You don’t think it’s strange?’ I ask. ‘That she’s done it before?’
‘Not really. Women who commit adultery tend to make a habit out of it . . . I’d be surprised if she hadn’t done it before. Nothing weird there,’ he says, and hands the note back.
I go to speak – and stop.
There’s a memory of a thread of a conversation playing around the edges of my thoughts.
It takes me a few moments to retrieve the words spoken, but what remains clear to me was how ruthless Eve could be, even then.
She and I had just returned to the halls of residence after a night out together. We were in her room and I was lying on her bed, a little drunk, flattered by all the attention I’d been receiving from Will Goodwin, saying, ‘Oh, I do hope he likes me.’
‘He likes you,’ Eve answered bluntly as she brushed her hair, ‘but you want to snare him fast if you plan on keeping him.’
‘Snare?’
‘Hmm-mm.’
I sat up, immediately on the defensive.
‘You’re saying I need to trap him?’
‘Yes,’ she replied.
I scoffed at this idea, it totally going against my notion of romance. ‘You think I need to trap a guy into liking me?’
Eve made a face to imply: Yes – God, you’re naïve.
‘But I want a guy to fall in love with me – the real me.’
‘Prepare to be on your own, then.’
I felt pretty offended, but Eve continued on, unabated, as if she considered it her duty to instruct me in the ways of the world.
‘Do you really think Will Goodwin’s going to fall in love with you if you withhold sex until the third date?’ she asked. ‘Do you think he’s going to value you, respect you? Take you home to meet his mother?’ And she laughed openly when she saw by my face that, yes, this had in fact been my plan. ‘That’s all fine in theory, Natty,’ she said, ‘but these are men we’re talking about. They don’t operate like other creatures. The trick to making a guy fall in love with you,’ she declared, ‘is to find out what he wants . . . and become that.’
‘But he needs to love me for who I am,’ I argued.
‘No, he doesn’t. Become what he wants you to be. And when you’ve done that, find out how he sees himself and praise those traits. See him for the way he wants to be seen. The way he wishes he were seen. Respond to his opinions as if they are the most insightful, the most thrilling things you’ve ever heard. And, of course, give him lots of blow jobs in inappropriate places. Try it, Natty,’ she told me, ‘it’s the only fail-safe method.’
I look at my dad and Jackie now, and see they’re regarding me sceptically, waiting for me to continue.
‘What if,’ I say to them, ‘what if, for some crazy reason, Eve did set out to do this? What if she planned to steal Sean?’
And they exchange pitying glances.
Mad Jackie claps her hands together. ‘How about a nice bit a breakfast?’ she asks.
‘No, thank you,’ I reply. ‘I’m going out.’
My dad’s expression falters. ‘You’re doing what?’
‘Going out.’
‘But what about the police?’ he stammers. ‘Shouldn’t you be lying low? The police might see your car and—’
‘I’m glad you mentioned that,’ I answer brightly. ‘Okay if I borrow the van?’
18
JOANNE FLASHES HER warrant card. ‘Detective Constable Aspinall. I spoke on the phone to Martin North.’
‘Ah, yes,’ replies the supervisor. ‘Follow me, I’ll take you through to the office.’
Booths supermarket is not open to the public at this hour; its doors are unlocked at eight. Joanne decided to come straight here this morning rather than the station. If there’s anything on the CCTV, she can pick up Natty Wainwright directly. Save doubling back.
As she makes her way through the store Joanne says hel
lo to three people she knows. Half of Windermere works here, but it wasn’t always that way. The building was converted from the old Victorian railway terminus in the eighties. Joanne remembers the outcry from local shop owners at the time, but that’s all changed now. She still hears the objections from the death-of-the-high-street brigade when another bakery is replaced by a gift shop, another butcher’s by a holiday letting agency. But Joanne wonders just how many people would actually be willing to work six full days a week now. And do their bookkeeping, trips to the wholesaler, on their days off. Not many, she suspects. She suspects part-time hours, holiday pay, sick pay and a regular wage will probably win out with most in the end.
‘Hi, Martin,’ Joanne says as she enters the office. ‘Been away? You’re nice and brown.’
‘Turkey,’ he replies.
‘Any good?’
‘I believe it’s nice at Christmas.’
Joanne groans, and Martin adds, ‘So sorry, terrible joke.’
Joanne’s dealt with Martin North a few times; he’s always been very accommodating during investigations. Last year she arrested a woman from Booths’ accounts department for embezzling funds; the year before that a driver was caught stashing marijuana in containers inside one of the large freezers. And six months ago one of the café staff stabbed her husband with a bread knife. She leapt from behind the coffee machine when she saw him exiting the store carrying a bag of Pampers he had bought for his ex-wife’s baby.
Martin North motions for Joanne to sit down in his office chair, its vinyl beginning to split, while he remains standing. He’s comically thin. He wears plain-fronted Farah trousers – in what Joanne reckons must be about a 26-inch waist – and a polycotton white shirt and plain tie. He always wears a vest beneath his shirt, whatever the weather, like an Italian waiter ordered to by his mother.
‘Kids all right?’ Joanne asks, and Martin nods, flushes with pride at the mention.
It’s not something Joanne’s always done – ask after people’s children. But it’s a useful tactic in getting people to talk. To get the most out of them. She began noticing how DS Ron Quigley started almost all conversations with a personal enquiry, and she saw how people responded: guards down, faces relaxed.
‘Do you want to take this with you?’ Martin asks, meaning the CCTV footage.
‘Okay if I look at it here instead? I’ll have to make two trips if I take it with me to Kendal.’
‘No problem.’ He lines it up for Joanne to see. ‘It’s pretty funny, actually,’ he says.
When Joanne doesn’t comment, Martin looks abashed. Apologetically, he adds, ‘I do hope she wasn’t too badly hurt.’
‘She’ll live,’ says Joanne.
Joanne watches as the Maserati pulls alongside the recycling bins, watches as the brake lights go out. Moments later the car is slammed from behind by a Porsche Cayenne.
Martin sucks in his breath as the driver reverses and hits the railing of the trolley park to the right. ‘Bet that’s expensive,’ he says quietly.
The Cayenne goes out of shot for a second, then it’s back again. There is no movement from inside the Maserati. Eve Dalladay must be sitting, shocked and injured, because anyone with their wits about them would have jumped from the car, trying to escape the onslaught.
The car is rammed twice more, and then nothing.
Martin says he’s got footage of the Cayenne leaving the car park from another camera if Joanne wants it, but she tells him not to bother. There’s no doubt it’s Natty Wainwright’s Porsche.
No doubt it’s her, and no doubt she didn’t run into the rear of Eve Dalladay’s car while driving through Windermere, as she claimed to have done, either.
My dad persuades me to wait until later before heading home and brandishing the note at Eve. It’s one thing to turn up when they’re half asleep, he says, quite another to do it with accusations flying. He thinks I’m jumping the gun, thinks I’m behaving in the quintessential wronged-wife fashion, and I should forget all about the note.
I don’t take his advice, though, because I’m buzzed and eager, ready to confront. I spend the next hour twitching, checking my watch and tutting at the banality of breakfast TV. At eight I’m on the road, driving my dad’s van. It’s jammed full of tools, even though he has one of those ‘No equipment kept in here overnight’ stickers on the rear door. It’s the only embellishment on the aged white Transit.
The van’s interior reeks of cigarettes and some kind of lubricant – a WD40 type of smell – and the inside of the driver’s door is covered with tiny circles of ash. Eyeing the burn marks brings back memories of being small, of Dad taking me along to a job somewhere. He would open the window, just a fraction, and it always amazed me the way the smoke and ash was sucked out when the van got up to speed. That, and how he managed to steer with his knees if he needed to roll another.
I join the main road, crunching the gears a little, as the clutch is heavy, and drive down the hill towards Bowness. I wouldn’t usually be in the village at this hour. After getting the girls out the door, typically I hightail it to the hotel, greet the guests for breakfast, then spend the morning in the office dealing with problems, anticipating potential problems. Often I spend way too much time heading off the various sales people who call throughout the morning, only to reach 11 a.m. not having achieved anything I set out to do. I need to get back there. I can’t hide myself away for ever. Perhaps I’ll call, make an unscheduled visit like an AA inspector, keep the staff on their toes.
I drive past the rows of shops and cafés setting up for the day, hanging baskets being watered, pavements swept, delivery vans blocking the road, and it feels strange to be incognito in the Transit. I pass a number of pedestrians I know by sight, as well as drivers who would ordinarily raise their hand, flash their lights, upon seeing my car.
I pass two women from the girls’ school, walking dogs I didn’t know they owned; pass the hotel gardener, chatting outside the sandwich shop. He’s with a plumber I sometimes use when I can’t get hold of my regular guy. They are laughing together, and I wonder what Sean has told them about me. About us.
The hotel staff are paid to be discreet, but of course that doesn’t mean they don’t gossip. Has Sean taken a leaf out of his mother’s book and told them I’ve had a nervous breakdown? I suppose, in a way, I have.
A few minutes later I pull on to my driveway. I leave the van in gear as I cut the engine and, because I forget to keep my foot on the clutch, it lurches forward unexpectedly.
I feel like a fool.
I have the urge to go in there and fight for what is mine. But am I being absurd?
All at once I’m not so sure about this. Perhaps this is one of the stages of grief. Have I gone from Denial to Anger to Bargaining and then to Irrational without even realizing?
But someone left me that note, wanting to help me see the truth. Or, what if it was Eve who sent the note? What if she sent it knowing I’d come here, further cementing my craziness by throwing accusations at her?
Or am I being completely crazy by even thinking that?
I don’t know.
My heart is pounding the way it does when you’ve had a close call with a lorry on the motorway or nearly fallen down a flight of stairs. A cold sweat has sprung between my shoulder blades and for the first time in my life, I am questioning my sanity.
Then the front door opens and out comes Eve.
She is walking towards the van, and her face is set. She walks with such purpose you’d think this was her house, and it is I who am trespassing.
Instinctively, I lock the door. She approaches and stands at the driver’s-side window in her dressing gown. Her eyes are blacker now than yesterday, but she has removed the lint from her nose and it doesn’t appear broken. I look at her out of the corner of my eye but keep my head fixed forward. ‘Natty,’ she says in an almost bored manner through the glass. ‘Why are you here?’
I don’t respond, so she taps on the window.
‘I’ll
call the police,’ she threatens. ‘Is that what you want?’
Instantly, I’m riled by her air of propriety. I wasn’t expecting a welcoming committee, but still.
Without speaking, I slap the note hard against the window. She recoils backwards then frowns slightly as she reads it.
‘Well?’ I mouth at her.
And she shrugs dispassionately as if to say: Well what? So what if I have done it before?
Incensed, I fling open the van door and march inside the house. Eve is trailing behind, can’t keep up in her slippers, and if she’s speaking to me I can’t hear her – so intent am I on finding Sean.
I head to the kitchen first, but he’s not there. Nor in the living room, or the utility, where he sometimes shines his shoes before work.
So I run upstairs, two steps at a time, and find him in the guest room. He’s perched on the edge of the bed, trimming his toenails. The sight of this stops me dead. What an utterly normal thing to do. How can he perform such a pedestrian task when my life is in tatters? I stand in the doorway until he registers my presence.
‘Nat?’ he says, concerned, knitting his brow.
‘This came.’ I shove the note towards him.
Eve is now in the hallway, so I spin around. ‘You stay put,’ I warn, and she doesn’t argue.
Methodically, Sean gathers the nail clippings and places them in a neat pile on the bedside table. He reaches for the note. After what seems like an eternity, he says, ‘I don’t know what you want me to do, Natty.’
I try to keep my voice steady. ‘She’s done it before, Sean.’
‘I know,’ he answers. ‘Eve has been fully clear about her past. I’m aware of the extramarital affair that happened early in the relationship with Brett.’
We’re supposed to be friends, and this is the first I’ve learned about her stealing someone’s husband. What else has she kept to herself, I wonder?
Trying to mask the hurt I’m feeling at this – another betrayal – I ask, ‘But what if she planned all of this?’
‘Planned all of what?’