The Perfect Life

by Nuala Ellwood

  He laughs then jumps up from the table and heads across the bar to the loos.

  I sit at the table, my heart racing. The way Connor has been talking, he thinks I’m some self-centred, jealous girlfriend. But I do care about his work and it was him who brought up Sam, a woman I didn’t know existed until just now, and the fact that they had been to a boxing match together.

  ‘Here we are,’ says the waitress, placing the second bottle of Rioja on the table. ‘Enjoy.’

  She slinks away, clearly disappointed to have missed another opportunity to flirt with Connor. Yet as I think this thought, I ask myself if I am doing what Connor has accused me of: being paranoid. This woman is just being friendly, doing her job, chatting to the customers.

  Loosen up, Vanessa, I tell myself as Connor returns to the table. Show him that you’re not being a boring, paranoid sap.

  ‘Right,’ I say, pouring him another glass of wine as Spanish guitar music strikes up. ‘Let’s start this evening again. I’m sorry I’ve been a grouch, baby. It’s just been a long week and I’ve missed you.’

  ‘I missed you too,’ says Connor, his eyes twinkling in the half-light. ‘Let’s not waste another second arguing over things that don’t matter.’

  I smile and take a glug of wine, but it burns all the way down my throat.

  15. Now

  I walk back to Georgie’s house in a daze and I’m trembling so much it takes me three attempts to get the key in the lock. When I finally get the door open I’m greeted by the sight of Jack rushing towards me, his face flushed.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he says, the colour fading from his cheeks. ‘We thought it was … quick, come in.’

  Georgie appears behind him and puts her hands round his waist.

  ‘Hi, darling,’ she says to me, smiling. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Make sure the latch is on, Vanessa,’ says Jack, looking intently at the door.

  He’s scaring me now. And after the shock I’ve just had, this is the last thing I need.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I say, the grisly photo of Geoffrey’s dead body seared into my mind. ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Not sure really,’ says Jack, smiling unconvincingly. ‘It seems there was an intruder spotted in next-door’s garden last night. Number 1. Old Mrs Haverleigh’s place. Her son came round this morning to let us know. It’s probably just kids – or even, dare I say it, Mrs H’s mind playing tricks on her. She’s almost ninety and gets easily confused. I caught her putting out full milk bottles instead of the empties last week. Still, it wouldn’t hurt us to be a bit more vigilant. Anyway, I need to do some work, I’ll be in my study if anyone needs me.’

  I glance at my sister as Jack disappears down the passageway. She looks tired.

  ‘Is Jack all right?’ I say, putting my own concerns aside for a moment. ‘I’ve never seen him like that.’

  ‘He’s fine,’ she says, displaying her ‘responsible big sister’ demeanour: shoulders back, smile fixed. ‘He just got a bit unsettled by the … by the intruder thing, that’s all.’

  I take off my jacket and hang it with my bag on the antique metal coat rack. I haven’t looked at my phone since I deleted the message and blocked the sender at the station. It now sits, switched off, at the bottom of my bag. I feel that if I don’t think about it then the message, the sender, Geoffrey’s dead face, cease to exist. Though I know I’m just fooling myself.

  ‘Let me cook tonight, Georgie,’ I say, thinking how a few hours’ distraction is just what I need. ‘Give yourself the night off.’

  ‘Oh, darling, that would be lovely,’ she says, her face brightening. ‘But let me come and sit with you so we can chat. I get so bored when Jack locks himself in the study.’

  In the kitchen I take the pan to the sink and fill it with water. Behind me I hear Georgie opening the French doors. I don’t feel safe having them open like that. Though the garden is pretty private, with fencing on both sides, there is a public walkway at the end of it, with only a low hedge between it and the garden. Anyone could climb over that hedge and then …

  I try not to imagine that scenario. Instead I take the pan to the hob, add olive oil and salt and turn on the gas flame.

  ‘So did Mrs Haverleigh’s son say anything else about the intruder?’ I say, watching as Georgie takes a bottle of white wine out of the fridge and places it on the counter. ‘Did they get a description of him?’

  ‘Only from what Mrs Haverleigh said she saw,’ says Georgie, taking two glass goblets from the pale-green French cabinet. ‘And as Jack says, she’s not the most reliable of witnesses.’

  ‘What did she see?’ I ask, taking a packet of pasta from the top shelf.

  ‘She said it was a man, medium build, and wearing some sort of hat,’ says Georgie, visibly shuddering as she pours the wine. ‘It’s a horrible thought, that someone could be prowling around like that. Let’s hope it was just a figment of Mrs Haverleigh’s imagination.’

  She takes a long glug of wine and pulls a dining chair over to the open French doors. I can’t help thinking we would all feel safer if she would just close them. As I look at Georgie sitting there, her blue linen skirt billowing slightly in the evening breeze, I get a flashback to Holly Maze House: Geoffrey standing by the open windows, his face almost obscured by the light of the sun.

  ‘I’m making penne arrabbiata for supper,’ I say, trying to erase the image, and everything it represents, from my mind. ‘I’m just hoping we’ve got enough basil.’

  ‘Sounds delicious, thanks, Nessa,’ says Georgie. ‘There should be a bunch of basil in the fridge but if not I can go and pick some from the garden pots.’

  A feeling of guilt sweeps through me as I walk over to the fridge. I should be contributing more, paying my way. I make a mental note to place an online grocery order in the morning.

  I open the fridge and find two large bunches of basil. I take one, along with an onion, three cloves of garlic and three red chillies, and bring them over to the chopping board.

  ‘More than enough basil,’ I say to Georgie as I start chopping onions. ‘No need to go out there.’

  Behind me I hear her pour another glass of wine.

  ‘I was thinking about Lottie earlier,’ she says, coming over to stand by me as I chop. ‘Do you think that was her you saw in the village?’

  ‘It certainly looked like her,’ I say as I press the back of Jack’s expensive Kitchen Devil knife down on to a fat clove of garlic. ‘Though it probably wasn’t. The sun was in my eyes and then that daft guy jumped out at us.’

  ‘Oh yeah, the pantomime horse,’ says Georgie, taking a slice of raw onion from the chopping board and popping it in her mouth. ‘The things people do for money. It beggars belief. Why don’t you give Lottie a call? See if it was her.’

  Though Georgie knows that Lottie and I have fallen out, I haven’t told her that Lottie went so far as to change her number, and I haven’t the energy to tell her now, not with everything that has happened today. Though I must admit it would be nice to see Lottie again, to tell her what’s been going on, to have her reassure me that it’s all going to be okay.

  ‘Like I said, it probably wasn’t her,’ I say, taking a frying pan from the hook above the hob and pouring a glug of olive oil into it. ‘And if she had come back to the UK for a visit she would have probably gone to Edinburgh to see her mum. There would be no reason for her to be in London.’

  I turn to look at Georgie. She has returned to sit by the open French window, sipping wine and fanning herself with a copy of Wimbledon Life.

  ‘You’re right. Plus, she would have called you if she’d been here. No matter how pissed off she might have been by you moving out of the flat. I’m sure she’s got over it by now,’ says Georgie. ‘God, it’s humid tonight. Perhaps we should eat outside.’

  ‘No,’ I say, rather too firmly.

  She looks at me and raises her eyebrows.

  ‘There were loads of midges out there the other day,’ I say, turning back
to the hob where the onions are slowly turning golden in the pan. ‘You know how I hate them. Anyway, it couldn’t have been Lottie because she hates Wimbledon. She only ever came here to see you and even then she used to say it brought back bad memories. You remember that business with Andy, the guy she met in the Crooked Billet?’

  ‘The married man who forgot to tell her about his wife?’ says Georgie. ‘Yes, that was awful. Men can be such bastards. They really can.’

  She gets up and goes to the fridge, taking out a pot of black olives which she tips into a porcelain bowl and places on the counter.

  ‘That sounds ominous,’ says Jack, walking into the kitchen. ‘Shall I change into my bulletproof vest?’

  He looks more relaxed now, the colour has returned to his cheeks.

  ‘Dinner will be about ten minutes,’ I say as he goes to the fridge and takes out a bottle of mineral water. ‘I just need to set the table.’

  ‘Let me do that,’ says Jack. ‘It would be nice for this “bastard” to make himself useful.’

  Georgie flashes a look at him and I feel the atmosphere cool.

  ‘Thanks, Jack,’ I say, handing him the cutlery. ‘I’ll go and freshen up.’

  I walk out of the kitchen. As I pass the coat rack I think about my phone lying in the bottom of my bag and the message I’d received a couple of hours earlier. I know I should just leave it but curiosity gets the better of me and I unzip my bag and take out the phone.

  There are sixteen missed calls, all from an unknown number. My legs go numb. What if it’s the police? What if they saw me earlier? What if whoever took that photo, the mysterious G, passed it on to them? With shaking hands, I scroll to voicemail but there are no messages.

  Keep calm, I tell myself as I put the phone back into my bag and head up the stairs. It’s probably nothing, just sales calls or a wrong number.

  But I know, in my gut, that something is gathering momentum. I am being watched and whoever is watching me knows what I did.

  I creep down the stairs and walk along the narrow hallway. The lights are switched off but a thin sliver of moonlight filters through the window, illuminating the framed photo that sits on the sideboard. I see my mum’s wide smile, her sparkling green eyes, her tanned arms, and I remember summer 1993, a Spanish beach, my dad holding up the camera: ‘Say cheese, Penny!’

  I tiptoe towards the living room. The door is closed but I can hear that woman’s voice again.

  ‘ – off Flushing Lane.’

  ‘ But that’s just minutes from here, officer.’

  ‘ It was instant, Mr Adams. She won’t have suffered.’

  ‘ My daughters … they’ll be devastated.’

  I run back up the hallway, past my mother’s smiling photo. When I reach the safety of my yellow bedroom I flop down on the bed and close my eyes. I’m back in the kitchen. It’s morning. Mum is making toast and jam and listening to Terry Wogan. Focus on that, I tell myself, focus on it hard enough and maybe you’ll be able to bring her back.

  16. Then

  May 2018

  ‘The house belonged to Magda Ivanov, the famous Russian artist,’ says the estate agent as she opens the door to a vast studio. ‘She died last year.’

  I stand in the doorway and sniff the air, the smell of oil paint and turps still lingering though the room has been cleared.

  The house, a mid-nineteenth-century terrace on Glebe Place, had popped up on the app when I logged on this morning. It had been a while since I’d had my last viewing fix and this house, just a couple of minutes’ walk from the office, had piqued my interest. Like all the other ones, it began with a gut feeling. When I saw the photo of this house, with its ivy-clad facade, secret-garden roof terrace and rose-pink door, I knew I had to go and experience it for myself.

  ‘So, you’re an art collector, Miss Holmes?’

  I smile at the estate agent, a middle-aged, birdlike woman called Melanie, and nod my head.

  ‘I’ve invested in a few pieces, yes,’ I say as she guides me out of the room and into the hallway. ‘I’m always on the lookout for early Grimshaw sketches though they’re as rare as hen’s teeth.’

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t heard of that artist,’ says Melanie, consulting her brochure. ‘Now, shall we take a look at the kitchen?’

  Twenty minutes later, the tour over, I say goodbye to Melanie and watch as she drives away in her silver Audi TT. She has been reassured that Miss Monica Holmes, art collector and hedge-fund manager, will be in touch shortly to confirm whether or not she plans to make an offer.

  As I walk back to the office I slip my hand in my pocket and rub the small, wooden doorstop I had taken from the hallway as I waited for Melanie to lock the roof-terrace door. This can take pride of place in the house Connor and I buy, I think to myself, as I walk through the entrance of Luna London and head to the lift. It will be a little good-luck charm, a reminder of what I can achieve if I put my mind to it.

  When I get back to my desk I feel invigorated. The house viewings always leave me feeling this way, as though anything is possible. I have a list of emails to deal with but before I get down to work I type out a message to Connor.

  Hi, baby, shall I meet you after work tonight?

  He texts back within a few seconds.

  Sorry, flat out here. Going to be another late one. See you when I get back.

  The terseness of his message jars. I think back to the heady early days of our relationship, when he would text me numerous times a day, telling me how much he loved me and sending me links to songs that reminded him of me. But ever since the boxing match, something has shifted. Or had it shifted before then, and I just hadn’t noticed?

  I text back.

  No worries. I love you.

  I place the phone on my desk and try to read through a press release that Claire, the new marketing assistant, has written but the words blur in front of me. I can’t concentrate. All the happiness I had felt after viewing the house has dissipated. I feel wretched and my eyes fill with tears.

  ‘Just popping out for some pastries. Can I get you anything?’

  I look up and see Anne standing in the doorway. I quickly dab my eyes and flash her my best ‘everything’s fine’ smile.

  ‘Er, I’m good, thanks, Anne. I had a late lunch.’

  ‘Are you okay, Vanessa?’ she says, coming into my office and closing the door behind her. ‘You look upset.’

  Then, noticing the document on my computer screen, she raises her eyebrows. ‘I see you got Claire’s press release,’ she says, sitting on the arm of the soft chair next to the window. ‘I got a copy this morning and couldn’t make head nor tail of it. She’s got great energy, Claire, but her communication skills require a little more work. Still, not bad enough to reduce you to tears. What is it, Vanessa? You can tell me.’

  I look up at her and, to my shame, feel the tears start to stream down my cheeks.

  ‘Hey,’ she says, getting up from the chair and coming to me. ‘What is it, now? What’s made you so upset?’

  ‘You’ll think I’m stupid,’ I say, pulling out a tissue from the box on my desk and dabbing my eyes with it. ‘It’s ridiculous, really.’

  ‘Try me,’ says Anne, crouching on her haunches, her neat, blue-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose.

  ‘It’s … it’s just Connor,’ I say, trying to steady my voice.

  ‘Your boyfriend?’ says Anne, frowning. ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say, flinching as one of the assistants turns the music up outside. They can’t seem to do anything without a soundtrack. ‘He’s just been working late a lot and we never see each other.’ I don’t quite know how to put the rest of it into words.

  ‘Ah, but that’s perfectly normal,’ says Anne. She gets up and walks over to the water cooler. ‘I remember when Maurice and I were first married, we barely saw each other. He was commuting to Brussels back then and I was busy setting up the business. You and Connor are both ambitious young people too. But yo
ur generation have so much more pressure on you than ours did. There’s no such thing as a job for life and you need to sell a kidney to get on the property ladder; I don’t envy you. I can see why Connor feels he needs to put the extra hours in but I can assure you that all those sacrifices will be worth it in the end. Maurice and I have just celebrated our thirtieth wedding anniversary and we’re as strong as ever. You and Connor, if it’s meant to be, will weather any storm.’

  She fills a plastic cup with water and brings it over to me. I take a sip then look up as Damian comes to the door.

  ‘Knock, knock,’ he says, his hand hovering on the door handle. ‘Sorry to interrupt but I wanted to give you these invoices to look over, Anne. I need to get them signed off before three.’

  ‘Oh gosh, yes,’ says Anne, taking the papers from him. ‘I’m sorry, Vanessa, but I’m going to have to deal with these. Are you sure you’re okay?’

  ‘I’m fine, honestly,’ I say, feeling rather silly now. ‘Thanks so much for the chat.’

  ‘Let’s schedule a proper catch-up soon,’ she says, heading for the door. ‘I’ll get Colette to book lunch at the club.’

  ‘That would be lovely, thanks, Anne.’

  I return to my screen but as I read I’m aware of a presence. I turn and see that Damian is still standing there.

  ‘Everything okay?’ he says, stepping inside.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say, taking another sip of water. ‘Anne just caught me at a bad moment. I was fed up that Connor and I haven’t seen each other much, that’s all. Silly really.’

  ‘He’s been doing a lot of overtime, yeah,’ says Damian. ‘He told me last time I saw him.’

  ‘I’m not complaining,’ I say. ‘It’s just tough not seeing him, that’s all.’

  Damian nods his head. ‘He loves you, Vanessa, that much is clear,’ he says, taking his glasses off and wiping them with the back of his sleeve. ‘And he wants you to have a proper home one day. But for that to happen he has to do what he’s doing now. You’ve heard about the senior position he’s going for?’