The Perfect Life

by Nuala Ellwood

  ‘Well, what a pair of old biddies you are,’ says Georgie, putting her plate on the table and tucking her feet underneath her. ‘It’s been going for donkey’s years this programme. Mum used to love it. Remember how she used to go and raid the loft and the cabinets, Vanessa, to see if she had any priceless antiques hidden away?’

  I nod my head. Not only do I remember but I had been Mum’s accomplice on those explorations. I can see her now, dressed in Sunday casuals – loose linen trousers and her favourite blue-and-white Breton top – climbing up the rickety ladder into the loft. Once up there she would reach her hands down and haul me up to join her. ‘Now, Nessa, let’s see if we can find anything interesting, shall we?’ she’d say as she hunted through the dusty boxes. ‘It’s amazing what treasures are hidden in the home.’ I would invariably find an old Judy annual of Georgie’s or a sparkling bit of costume jewellery that I would insist on bringing downstairs. Mum would watch as I made my way unsteadily down the ladder then she would stay up there for the rest of the evening, hunting for treasure. She never found any though, no matter how hard she looked.

  ‘Look at this guy,’ says Jack, leaning back in his armchair. ‘Bought this contraption for ten quid in a charity shop in Thirsk and it’s just been valued at six grand.’

  He points to the screen where a ginger-haired man is standing next to what looks like a rusty scythe.

  ‘Good grief,’ says Georgie, shaking her head. ‘Still, I’ve seen worse in certain art galleries.’

  ‘That fella looks like the grim reaper, clutching that thing,’ says Jack, chuckling.

  I look at the screen and the ginger man suddenly transforms into Geoffrey. His eyes bulge and he starts to wheeze as he squeezes the scythe tighter in his hands. ‘It was you,’ he hisses at me through the screen. ‘You did it.’

  Just then my phone rings in my pocket and I almost drop my plate in fright.

  ‘He’s right,’ says Jack, oblivious to my distress. ‘She did do it. It was his wife who convinced him to buy it.’

  ‘Is that your phone, Ness?’ says Georgie, glancing at me.

  I nod my head as I take the phone out of my pocket.

  ‘Unknown number’ is displayed on the screen. My throat goes dry. I had blocked the email earlier but it’s no use. I remember Connor telling me at the beginning of our relationship how he devised his branding campaigns: ‘You attack them from all sides, become part of their consciousness, until they’re left wondering how they ever lived without you.’

  ‘I’ll just take this,’ I say, getting up and walking out into the hallway.

  I take a deep breath then press accept. This has to stop and only I can make that happen.

  ‘Enough, Connor,’ I hiss into the phone, hearing the laboured breath at the other end. ‘You have to stop this now. Do you hear me? Just leave me alone.’

  ‘Miss Adams?’ says an unfamiliar male voice.

  Startled, I almost drop the phone.

  ‘Er, yes,’ I say. ‘Who is this? What do you want?’

  ‘This is DS Collins from West Hampstead police station.’

  The voice is deep and resonant, with the faintest trace of a West Country accent.

  ‘I’m calling to ask you to attend the station tomorrow.’

  ‘What’s this about?’ I say, my throat tightening. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We’ll explain everything tomorrow, Miss Adams,’ he says calmly. ‘If you report to reception at 1 p.m. and ask for me we’ll take it from there. Good evening.’

  I hear a click on the other end. I stand there motionless, the phone clasped in my hand, the trill of the Antiques Roadshow theme music filtering through the living-room door.

  This is it, I tell myself as I make my way upstairs. I’m going to be arrested.

  And I deserve to be. Because they’ve got it right. I killed Geoffrey Rivers.

  PART TWO

  24.

  Wimbledon Magistrates Court 25 February 2019

  The first thing I see as I am led into the courtroom is a large picture hanging on the wall, to the right of the public gallery. It’s a charcoal drawing, post-impressionist in style, of a street puppet dancing, its strings being pulled and manipulated by a faceless man. The puppet smiles manically, though its eyes are dead, while the man controlling it blends into the background. It’s a disturbing picture and I turn my face away from it as the court usher leads me to my place, try to focus on what I have to say.

  In front of me, the barristers look down at their papers. All except one. My adversary. He adjusts his gold cufflinks then sits, poker straight, and fixes me with a cold, unblinking stare. A shiver flutters through me as I consider this man’s power. With a few words he can destroy me. I have to keep calm, have to have faith in my story, stick to it and pray that the jury will believe me.

  I take my seat and look up to the public gallery. Georgie and Jack are sitting in the front row. My sister smiles reassuringly, just as she had done at Mum’s funeral and my graduation and all those other times when I needed to know someone had my back. I return her smile then turn away. I need to focus, need to keep my emotions in check or else it will all unravel.

  But as I sit I feel another pair of eyes upon me. I lift my head and see him. Connor. His hair has been cropped short and he’s lost weight. The stress of the last few months is etched across his face. He looks back at me with thinly disguised disgust. He hates me for what I’ve done. That much is clear. His mother sits with her hands clutching the rail of the public gallery. As my eyes meet hers she shakes her head and scowls. Like her son, she wants to see me destroyed today, to get my punishment.

  Alongside me, I hear a commotion. I turn to see the judge entering. My heart sinks as I regard him. A man in his early seventies, small beady eyes, a mouth curled naturally into a sneer. The last person I would expect to show mercy to me. As I watch him glide to his seat, the black robes billowing in his wake, I think of Iris, resplendent in her blue velvet cape.

  And then I’m back there, walking up the gravelled driveway, hearing the buzz of traffic from the high street grow fainter, feeling weightless, as though the real world has ceased to exist and all that matters is the story I’m entering.

  I recall the tall, stone griffins standing guard either side of the solid oak door, their bared teeth chipped, their wings eroded by the weather. I recall the date engraved in the centre of the door arch and the feeling of exhilaration that fizzed up my spine as I whispered the numbers into the stagnant summer air.

  1647.

  The year of wonder.

  I recall the sensation of falling under that spell again.

  I recall Geoffrey’s face as he opened the door, the beaming smile belying the sad eyes. And I realize that my decision to go to that house led me directly to this courtroom.

  As the judge begins to speak I steady myself and return to the present. All I have to do is tell my story, calmly and concisely, and hope that they believe it.

  25. Then

  August 2018

  ‘Vanessa, this is ridiculous.’

  I had got up extra early, hoping to sneak out of the house before Connor woke, but now he is here, standing at the top of the stairs while I put on my coat.

  ‘You can’t go into work today,’ he says, running down the stairs in just his boxer shorts. ‘Not after what happened last week. You collapsed in the street, for God’s sake.’

  ‘I’m feeling much better this morning,’ I say, putting my phone and keys into my bag. ‘Last week was just a blip. I got overheated.’

  ‘Look, even Anne is expressing concern at your behaviour,’ he says, sitting down on the middle step. ‘We’re all worried.’

  ‘Anne wasn’t expressing concern at my behaviour,’ I say, feeling irritated now. ‘She was concerned at my being physically unwell.’

  ‘Like I said, we’re all concerned,’ says Connor gravely. ‘Your behaviour these last few months has been erratic to say the least. I was already worried about your drinking, and you
promised me you’d stop, then the abortion.’

  ‘I told you, Connor, there was no other choice.’

  I can’t do this again.

  I yank open the door, gulping in the fresh air. As I step out I hear him running down the final few stairs.

  ‘How dare you?’ he hisses, grabbing my arms and twisting me round to face him. ‘What about my choice? What about our baby’s choice?’

  ‘Connor, stop,’ I say, releasing myself from his grasp. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re making a mistake,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘You’re in no fit state to work at the moment. You should take some time out to get better.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying that right now you’re unwell,’ he says, his eyes boring into me. ‘And you should seriously consider taking time out.’

  ‘Quit my job, you mean?’

  ‘If that’s what it takes to get you better then maybe, yes.’

  ‘But I love my job,’ I say, not quite believing what I’m hearing. ‘You know that.’

  ‘Look, Vanessa,’ he says, his voice softening, ‘one of my friends had a breakdown a few years back. We were all so worried about her. I recognize the warning signs. I can see you heading for a full-on breakdown if you don’t slow down and get help.’

  I look at him for a moment, try to imagine myself through his eyes. Yes, I have been drinking more than usual and, yes, I did get an abortion without telling him, but I had no choice. The pregnancy was not planned. I blink away the thought of that lost night.

  ‘I’m not giving up my job, Connor, and that’s final.’

  Then I step outside into the August sunshine, closing the door firmly behind me.

  When I get to the office a party is in full swing. The open-plan area has been decked with lemon and silver balloons, there’s a table groaning with glasses of champagne and breakfast pastries, and ‘September’ by Earth, Wind & Fire is blasting out from the speakers. The marketing team, led by Claire, is huddled round Claire’s phone doing a live Instagram chat. As I approach, I hear her say, ‘We’re so excited to reveal our exclusive new palette: Shades of Autumn.’

  The other women whoop excitedly and my heart sinks. Today is launch day for Shades of Autumn, the new cosmetics line for the upcoming season we’ve spent the last five months working on. There will be a full day of publicity ahead, calls to beauty editors, Instagram chats with bloggers and influencers, calls to the major stores that stock Luna London as well as online meetings with the US suppliers as Anne decided a joint UK/US launch would create a big buzz. With a sick feeling I remember the missed calls from Anne these last few days, the emails piled up in my inbox that I chose to ignore in favour of curling up in the foetal position. I thought Anne had been calling to check how I was. It was rare for me to call in sick so I just assumed she was concerned. How could I have forgotten about the launch? As I stand with my hand poised on my office door handle, I hear someone call my name. I see Claire rushing towards me, holding a glass of champagne.

  ‘We’re so glad to have you back,’ she says, handing me the champagne. I politely refuse. ‘There’s been such an amazing response already. Ruby Tiller has just put up an Insta story showing herself wearing the complete range. That is a fucking brilliant endorsement. Anne is over the moon.’

  ‘That’s great,’ I say, remembering that it was me who had connected with Ruby Tiller, a London actress starring in a big US Netflix series, and sent her the full Shades of Autumn range. ‘Where is Anne now?’

  ‘On the phone to New York,’ says Claire, her eyes gleaming. She’s only been here a few months but she’s extremely ambitious. I should see her as a threat but I just feel numb.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, pushing my office door open. ‘I’ll catch up with her in a moment.’

  ‘Are you not going to join the party?’ says Claire, looking at me expectantly. ‘Damian’s loosened his purse strings and bought us pastries from Daylesford. You must come and have one.’

  ‘I will,’ I say. ‘Just give me a few minutes and I’ll be right out.’

  ‘Awesome,’ she says, smiling a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

  I close the door, take off my jacket and sit down at my desk. This is one of the biggest days in the Luna London calendar and it had completely slipped my mind. I should be out there rallying my team, getting stuck in, promoting this product I’ve put my heart and soul into, but I can’t move. I feel empty, devoid of any emotion, whether good or bad. What is happening to me? Then a cold shiver courses through my body. Is Connor right? Am I falling apart?

  I need to pull myself together, need to snap out of this fog. I look at my inbox. I should at least attempt to tackle that before I see Anne but then my phone bleeps on the desk. I look down and see a notification from the Dream Properties app. ‘Three new properties waiting for you,’ it reads. I click on the app, feeling a familiar sense of exhilaration rise up inside me. As the images load on the screen I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s been too long.

  Amy, the estate agent, is waiting for me on the river path when I arrive. She is young, in her early twenties, with a soft, trusting face, and she rushes towards me as I approach.

  ‘You must be Imogen,’ she cries, extending a tanned hand with French-polished fingernails. ‘It’s so good to meet you. Shall we go take a look?’

  It was so easy I can barely believe it. I made an online booking using the name of my niece. I felt it might be a good omen to take on her persona for a couple of hours, and I was right. I can leave everything behind.

  ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to be patient with me as I’m not familiar with this property,’ says Amy, turning to me with a beaming white smile as we head down the drive. ‘It’s my colleague, Jenny, who deals with these kinds of properties but her son’s sick so I had to step in at the last minute. I hope you don’t mind?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I say, looking up at the ivy-clad, red-brick facade. The house is a waterside pile in Goring, worth in the tens of millions.

  ‘So this, obviously, is the main entrance,’ says Amy as she juggles the bulky set of keys with one hand while keeping a firm grip on her hot-pink handbag with the other. ‘Right,’ she says, gasping as she unlocks the door. ‘Let’s go and have a look, Imogen.’

  The name makes me smile and I feel a burst of energy as we enter the house. The entire entrance hall is filled with bookshelves, rising all the way up to the ceiling.

  ‘Oh, wow,’ exclaims Amy. ‘Someone likes their books. I’ve never seen so many.’

  ‘It’s extraordinary,’ I whisper. ‘Like a secret library.’

  ‘It really is,’ says Amy. ‘But, God, I wouldn’t like the job of dusting them all.’

  She laughs and the sound reverberates around the room.

  We spend the next ten minutes strolling from room to room with Amy pointing out the stunning views. The living room, which looks out on to the river, is spectacular, with polished wood flooring, plush velvet sofas and tasteful dove-grey painted walls.

  ‘Right, shall we go and see the kitchen?’ she says, consulting her phone, on which I can see a vast floorplan on the screen. ‘Do you like to cook, Imogen?’

  I pause before replying, my eyes still fixed on the bookshelves. Did Imogen like cooking? I’m not sure. I think back to when she was a young teenager and got rather obsessed with The Great British Bake Off. Every time I visited, there would be an aroma of slightly burnt sponge cake hanging in the air and a flour-spattered kitchen. Georgie used to roll her eyes at it. How could a feminist Oxford graduate like my sister have produced a daughter who just wanted to bake cakes? I had found it all rather comical though I could see the relief in Georgie’s face when Imogen eventually tired of baking and returned to her books, finally gaining a place at Oxford herself.

  ‘Er, I like to bake from time to time,’ I say, following Amy down a narrow, dimly lit, wood-panelled corridor.

  ‘Ooh, lovely,’ says Amy, her voice growing fainter
ahead of me. ‘My mum loves baking too, though I have to be careful as I can put on half a stone just looking at a cake.’

  Though the living room had been light and modern, the rest of the house is in need of updating. Amy had pointed out earlier that the property belonged to an elderly couple and this is evident as we enter the kitchen. There’s a bottle-green Aga, an ancient-looking white fridge and a counter with chipped orange tiles. All very much in vogue circa 1982. ‘Oh,’ says Amy, unable to hide the disgust from her face. ‘It’s a little dated but then I always find clients want to put their own stamp on a kitchen. It could be fabulous, once all this clutter is removed.’

  I walk across to the kitchen counter, a strange feeling rising inside me. I run my hands along the orange tiles that I last saw in my childhood home in Caversham and suddenly realize why I’m feeling so spellbound. Unlike all the other houses I have visited, this one feels like a home. Like I could actually live here. Not Imogen or Tabitha or any of the other personas I’ve adopted, but me: Vanessa Adams. All that is missing is Radio 2. And Mum.

  Just then Amy’s phone rings. The sound makes me jump.

  She looks at the screen, smiles then turns to me, holding the phone in the air.

  ‘I’m really sorry, but I’m going to have to take this,’ she says, her eyes twinkling so much I seriously doubt it’s a work call. ‘Can I leave you to have a look round the kitchen? I won’t be a sec.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, trying to hide my delight. ‘Take your time.’

  ‘Thanks, Imogen,’ she says, beaming as she answers the call and hurries out of the room.

  I stand listening as her footsteps disappear down the corridor then make my way over to the oak dresser. There are four sturdy-looking drawers midway down it. I pull open the first one and look inside. Whoever lives here is obviously a bit of a hoarder. There are scraps of paper, a ball of elastic bands, old packets of seeds and some soiled gardening gloves. I close the drawer with a shove then open the next one along. This one is full of old perfume bottles, most of them empty. The contents, like the kitchen, look like a freeze frame of the early 1980s. There’s Chanel Number 5, Le Jardin, Poison by Dior and, to my amazement, Penhaligon’s Violetta, the perfume my mother wore. The bottle is almost empty. I lift the stopper off and inhale, and as I do, I’m back in my mother’s arms, nuzzling into her neck. It smells of happiness and safety. It smells of Mum.