The Perfect Life

by Nuala Ellwood

  The footage is clearer than I imagined and I flinch as I watch a woman, clad in a pale-pink sundress, enter the office and stride over to the desk. She talks to the estate agent – a young man called Edward Carter-Vaughan – for around five minutes. The footage then shows him making a call, while the woman sits at the desk opposite him.

  ‘Do you remember now?’ asks Bains, zooming in to my face.

  Of course I remember. I remember every little detail. The layout of the office: two desks on either side of the room, one for sales, one for lettings; the smell of lilies and fresh coffee. The ringing of phones and the cut-glass accent of the lettings agent as she answered each call: ‘Good afternoon, Price Burrows, how may I help you?’ And Edward finishing the call then looking up at me with a smile: ‘We’re in luck. Mr Rivers is free to show you the property at 1.30. Does that work for you?’

  ‘Miss Adams?’

  I don’t reply, though it’s clear to anyone with a pair of eyes that the person on the screen is me.

  ‘Okay,’ says Bains, shaking his head and grabbing the iPad. ‘I’d like to show you another piece of CCTV footage, this time from the northern end of Hampstead High Street at 2.14 that afternoon.’

  My stomach knots as Bains opens up a new screen then places the iPad back on to the table, pushing it towards me.

  ‘Miss Adams,’ he says, emphasizing my surname as though it’s a lie, ‘I believe this footage shows you running down Hampstead High Street after leaving Holly Maze House. You look to be in a state of extreme agitation.’

  He leans across, pauses the film, then zooms in.

  ‘Can you see?’

  I nod my head. Beside me, Frank Solomon shuffles uneasily in his seat.

  ‘For the benefit of the tape, Miss Adams, was that nod of the head an affirmation? Are you confirming that the person on the screen is you?’

  I freeze. Why had I nodded my head?

  We sit in silence for what seems like an eternity before Bains takes the iPad and switches it off.

  ‘Miss Adams,’ he says, shuffling forward in his seat, ‘we have CCTV footage of you entering the offices of Price Burrows Estate Agency on the 11th of August 2018, where you booked an appointment to view Holly Maze House at 1.30 p.m., using the false name Iris Lawson, though you – helpfully for us – gave your sister’s address.’

  I wince as I recall Edward Carter-Vaughan asking me for a contact address. I knew I’d have to give him a valid one, despite the fake name, but I had thought it was just a formality. No one was going to follow up this appointment or make use of Georgie’s address. But then, I had no idea what was about to happen in Geoffrey’s house and that the police would come looking for me.

  ‘You are then shown emerging on to Hampstead High Street via the side street that leads to Holly Maze House,’ continues Bains, his eyes fixed on me. ‘You are clearly in a state of agitation and distress.’

  I stare at the table where the iPad had been, watching the space as though the film is still playing. And if it was, it would show me running to the tube, terror and panic burning inside me, tears running down my face.

  ‘The estate agent who dealt with you, Edward Carter-Vaughan, tells us that he remembered you because you were making rather a lot of fuss about viewing the house.’

  Bains’s words rip through me as I sit staring at the empty space.

  ‘Mr Carter-Vaughan says that you told him, and I quote, “It’s rather important I see it as soon as I can. It’s a matter of urgency.”’

  I flinch as I recall myself saying that to the bemused young man. But it was true. It was a matter of urgency that I saw Holly Maze House.

  ‘It really is in your best interests to answer these questions, Miss Adams,’ says Bains, his voice softening somewhat. ‘The evidence is right here in front of us. You were there in the offices of Price Burrows Estate Agency at 1 p.m. on the 11th of August, using a false name, and you were there on Hampstead High Street one hour and fourteen minutes later. Weren’t you?’

  I look up at him. His face is getting more flushed. I’m exasperating him.

  ‘Miss Adams, your refusal to cooperate and to answer these very simple questions is rather concerning,’ he says, his eyes bulging now. ‘Particularly as we have clear evidence of your being in the vicinity of Holly Maze House in the hours surrounding Geoffrey Rivers’s murder. Miss Adams, I shall lay this out for you in basic terms. According to the pathologist, Geoffrey Rivers died some time between 1 p.m., when he spoke on the phone to Edward Carter-Vaughan, and 3 p.m., when Mr Rivers’s window cleaner spotted his body through the window.’

  His voice is getting louder and louder. It’s scaring me. I want him to stop.

  ‘Between those two things occurring – Rivers talking to Carter-Vaughan at 1 p.m. and his window cleaner arriving at 3 p.m. – you, Miss Adams, were booked to view Holly Maze House, which I strongly suspect you did, as you were shown on CCTV running like the clappers back on to the high street from the direction of the house.’

  ‘Stop,’ I whisper, digging my nails into my forearm. ‘Please stop.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Bains, clapping his hands together. ‘So you do have a voice? That’s wonderful. Now, maybe you can use that voice to tell me what happened at Holly Maze House because it appears, Miss Adams, that you were the last person to see Geoffrey Rivers alive.’

  It is 1996. I’m ten years old and have just woken up in my yellow bedroom. I like the way the sun, coming through the yellow curtains, makes the room look sepia tinted, like an old photograph. I love old things: historic houses, ghost tales, antique furniture, things with a story attached to them, a meaning. The past is a comforting place. A safe one. It is the present – school in particular – that I find most problematic, though I’ve never told my mum that. I always say everything is fine, that I’ve had ‘a lovely day at school, thank you very much’. I don’t want to worry her. I want her to think that I’m happy. But the truth is that friendships, and all the things involved in making and keeping them, are a mystery to me. It feels like everyone else has received a set of instructions on how to be, what to say, how to dress, what music to like, how to navigate life, and I have somehow missed the memo.

  4. Then

  30 September 2017

  ‘Happy birthday, baby.’

  I feel Connor’s breath on my neck as I lie curled up against his chest. It’s still dark outside though I can hear the faint throb of Sunday-morning traffic on Queenstown Road.

  ‘That was a very lovely birthday surprise,’ I say, recalling the heat of Connor’s body as we made love earlier, his fingers exploring every little part of me. I’ve never had this kind of physical chemistry with a man before. There was Tony, back at university, who I’d been quite serious about before he decided he wanted to go travelling in Australia to ‘find his purpose’. After that I had a few short-lived relationships and a succession of disastrous dates but I wasn’t all that bothered as I had a job I loved and a great flatmate in Lottie. I knew that one day I would find the person I was meant to be with but I could never have imagined it would feel like this. It’s like some strange and powerful drug.

  ‘What? Lovelier than Lottie’s surprise?’ he says, gesturing to the silver-and-pink helium balloon floating, ghostlike, at the end of the bed. It had arrived in a box delivered by courier last night while Connor and I were having dinner. A card was attached to the string of the balloon. Inside, Lottie had written: Happy Birthday, you old fart! Now hurry up and come home. Love you, Lottie xx

  It was typical Lottie, masking her true feelings with humour. Yet it’s true I’ve been spending more and more time at Connor’s place these past couple of months. Most of my clothes are here, hanging in his large wardrobe, and I’ve got duplicate sets of toiletries and make-up in the bathroom. I’m still paying rent on the flat I share with Lottie and I make sure I spend at least three nights a week over in Fulham but when I’m away from Connor it feels like I’m missing a limb. It’s a strange feeling, one I’ve never experienc
ed before.

  When we met for brunch that day in Battersea Park, the morning after the Royal Court play, I knew that something incredible was happening. I’d ordered my staple fare of toast with jam and orange juice, and he’d smiled and said that when he was a little boy his mum would make him toast with strawberry jam if he was feeling ill. ‘Sugar lifts the spirits,’ he said, taking a piece of my toast and feeding it to me, almost without thinking. After brunch we went to the little petting zoo in the park and spent the afternoon watching the otters playing. When I tried to tell Lottie about it later that day, it had sounded trite and uneventful. That’s the problem with love: it makes no sense to anyone but the two people in it.

  Beside me, Connor has fallen back to sleep. I gently ease myself out of his arms and get out of bed. It’s a cold morning. I take Connor’s fleece dressing gown from the hook on the back of the door and wrap it round me, then head down the passageway to the narrow galley kitchen. The kitchen has a little door that leads out to a small but beautiful roof terrace. I unlock the door and let in a blast of morning air as I fill the kettle. While I wait for it to boil I go outside and sit on the bench, looking out across the rooftops of Queenstown Road and Lavender Hill.

  The sun begins to creep above the skyline and as I watch the sky turn from deep violet to pinky blue my thoughts turn, as they always do on my birthday, to my mother.

  ‘Thirty-two, eh, Mum?’ I whisper into the air, hoping it will carry the message to wherever she is. ‘Who would have thought it?’

  The kettle clicks and I get up and head back into the kitchen, thinking how complete this day would be if Mum were here to share it. If she could see me, her little nervous, shy Vanessa, happy, with a great job, good friends and a man she loves. How perfect would that be?

  I close the door, shutting out the memories of my mother, for it does me no good to dwell on them, only makes me ache for her. I make two big mugs of coffee and take them to the bedroom. When I place Connor’s mug on the bedside table he opens his eyes and smiles.

  ‘You shouldn’t be making the coffee, not on your birthday,’ he says, pulling me down on top of him. ‘That should be my job. You’ll have to let me do something for you.’

  ‘I can think of one thing,’ I say, kissing him gently on the cheek and feeling him harden beneath me.

  He sits up, takes my face between his hands and kisses me deeply. Almost three months in, it still feels like the first time when he kisses me.

  Afterwards we lie in each other’s arms, warm, content, neither of us wanting to get up and break the spell.

  ‘I wish you could stay here today,’ he says, stroking my hair with his fingers.

  ‘I know,’ I sigh, nuzzling the soft fuzz of his chest hair, inhaling his musky scent. ‘But the birthday lunch with Georgie and Lottie is a bit of a tradition. They like to make a fuss.’

  Connor is quiet but I can feel his chest rising and falling. Every part of me wants to stay in bed with him, to chat, have a lazy brunch, make love, watch a film. Time seems to go so fast when we’re together. Morning comes too soon.

  ‘I think Lottie’s getting a bit pissed off that I’m not spending much time at the flat,’ I say, recalling her curt comment of, ‘Oh, hello. I thought you were a burglar,’ when she walked into the kitchen and saw me having breakfast last week. She’s been making comments like that almost every time I’ve seen her recently.

  ‘That’s rather childish of her,’ says Connor, stroking my hair. ‘Don’t feel bad. You’re allowed to have other people in your life besides Lottie, you know.’

  ‘I know. Anyway, thankfully, it’s only lunch,’ I say, sitting up. ‘It’ll be three, four hours max.’

  ‘Don’t worry, baby,’ he says, leaning back and watching me as I get out of bed and take the dressing gown from the floor where I dropped it earlier. ‘Of course they want to see you. It’s your birthday. It would be selfish of me to want you all to myself. Anyway, it’ll give me a few hours to get everything ready.’

  ‘Hmm, that sounds intriguing,’ I say, pausing at the door to look at him, to drink him in.

  ‘I love you, Vanessa Adams,’ he says, his face serious for a moment. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  I nod my head and smile. I do know that. I can feel it in my bones.

  ‘Make a wish!’

  I close my eyes but as I prepare to blow out the candles I realize that this year, for the first time, I have what I’ve always wanted. So I make a wish for the happiness I feel to last for ever.

  ‘Hurrah!’

  I open my eyes and see Georgie and Lottie, their faces beaming.

  ‘Happy birthday, darling,’ says Georgie, wrapping her arms around me. ‘I hope this is a wonderful year for you.’

  ‘Thanks, Georgie,’ I say, smiling as I open the card she has given me. It’s a picture of a little girl sitting in front of a mirror, lipstick smeared over her face.

  ‘Oh, and Dad and Lynda send all their best,’ she says, a hint of hesitation in her voice. ‘They’re at the cottage this weekend but Dad said he’ll call you when they get back.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I say, shrugging my shoulders. ‘In other words, when Lynda gives him permission.’

  I think about my dad. He had always been a distant figure even when Mum was alive but now he’s a stranger to me. When he and Lynda got together she made it clear that she should be his priority and though he made half-hearted attempts to be a dad it was Georgie who stepped in and looked after me when Mum died. Once I left for university he took early retirement and bought the holiday home in France with Lynda. On the rare occasions when we do meet up the atmosphere is awkward and the conversation stilted. Over time Dad has slowly retreated from my life. It’s sad but I can’t mourn for a relationship that never was.

  ‘Oh well,’ says Georgie, taking a sharp knife from the wooden block and handing it to me. ‘It’s their loss. I just can’t believe my baby sister is thirty-two. That makes me feel so old.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Georgie,’ says Lottie, taking a photo on her phone of me slicing the cake. ‘You look amazing for your age. Like Nigella Lawson.’

  ‘Ha, thanks, Lottie, but Nigella’s a lot older than me,’ says Georgie, handing us all a plate. ‘Still, she looks great and I doubt she’s plagued with crow’s feet like I am. Right, coffee time.’

  ‘If I look as good as you when I’m your age I’ll be a happy girl,’ says Lottie, laughing as Georgie heads back into the kitchen. ‘So, Vanessa, what did Connor get you?’

  ‘He’s giving it to me tonight,’ I say, taking a bite of the cake that Georgie must have spent most of yesterday baking. It’s the same recipe Mum used for all our birthdays. Strawberry milkshake cake, she called it, made with a spoonful of milkshake powder and lots of pink icing. Funny how Georgie still feels she has to do this for me, even though I’m thirty-two now and she’s got two grown-up kids of her own. But then traditions, particularly when you lose a parent so young, are hard to give up.

  ‘Well, Roger and Herbert and I are missing you at the flat,’ says Lottie, picking at a piece of strawberry icing. Roger and Herbert are the nicknames we made for two potted spider plants that live in our bathroom. ‘It would be nice to see you some time.’

  She says it playfully but I know she’s feeling sidelined. I wish I could split myself in two.

  ‘So, when am I going to meet this new man of yours?’ says Georgie, bringing in a tray laden with mugs, sugar, milk and her favourite antique pewter coffee pot. ‘Lottie was telling me about him before you got here. He sounds interesting, and very good-looking by all accounts.’

  I’m intrigued to know what Lottie told Georgie about Connor. On the few occasions they’ve met since that night at the Royal Court, the conversation has been rather stilted between them, which is a shame as I really want them to get on. Still, I suppose that’s just wishful thinking on my part.

  ‘He’s wonderful, Georgie,’ I say, indulging in the kind of straight, honest speaking that only a big sister can bring
out. ‘We get along really well. He loves art and theatre and I can talk to him about anything …’

  ‘Art and theatre, my arse,’ says Lottie. ‘What she means is the sex is great.’

  I shake my head at Lottie. I know she’s convinced that it’s all just a physical thing with me and Connor but she’s wrong. It’s more than that, much more.

  ‘Well, you certainly look good on it, whatever it is,’ says Georgie, pouring the coffee. ‘You look really well, better than I’ve seen you look for a long time.’

  ‘That’ll be the sex, eh?’ says Lottie, winking at me.

  ‘Sex?’ says Georgie, smiling ruefully. ‘Can someone remind me what that is?’

  We laugh but I detect a hint of sadness in Georgie’s voice. She’s still young though she had to grow up fast when Mum died. I think the pain of losing her made Georgie determined to have a family of her own as soon as she could. I remember how shocked I was when she got pregnant a year after Mum’s death, yet having Imogen didn’t stand in the way of her career – if anything, becoming a mother made her even more ambitious. When Harry came along two years later her family was complete and she and Jack became a force to be reckoned with in their respective fields. Now, however, she looks rather lost, as though Imogen and Harry leaving home has diminished her somehow.

  ‘But all joking aside, darling,’ she says, placing her hand on mine, ‘I’m delighted for you. If anyone deserves a happy ever after, it’s my Nessa.’

  It’s almost six o’clock by the time I get back to Connor’s flat. As I walk up the stairs I hear the faint sound of music and breathe in the smell of spiced roast chicken, my favourite.

  ‘Is that you, baby?’ Connor calls from the kitchen.

  ‘Yes, home at last,’ I reply, then check myself. Home? When did that happen?

  ‘Come outside,’ Connor says as I take off my coat and hang it on the hook in the living room.