The Perfect Life

by Nuala Ellwood

  I hear Amy’s footsteps coming back up the corridor so I shove the drawer closed then hurriedly place the bottle into my bag.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ says Amy, bounding into the room. ‘Now, shall we go and see the garden?’

  ‘Actually, Amy,’ I reply, the bottle a reassuring bulk in my bag, ‘I don’t think this is the house for me after all.’

  My mood is so much better when I get back to the flat that I barely register the coat. A camel-coloured coat hanging on the hook in the hallway. A woman’s coat. There’s a murmur of voices coming from the living room: Connor’s and another. A woman’s.

  I stand in the doorway and look into the room. Connor is sitting on the sofa. A woman with shoulder-length dyed auburn hair and a Bardot-style cream top sits next to him, her arm wrapped round his shoulder. She is holding something in her hand. Her hands are wrinkled, the skin paper thin with bulging blue veins, old woman’s hands that belie the highlighted auburn hair and youthful clothes. It’s then I realize this is Connor’s mother. I recognize her from the photo he keeps on the bookshelf. I have never met her, though I’ve asked Connor enough times if I could. He has always said she was busy or working away. As I step closer I see what she’s holding. It’s my appointment card from the abortion clinic.

  I clear my throat and they look up at me. Up close, Connor’s mother resembles a piece of jagged driftwood: brittle and tawny.

  ‘Vanessa,’ says Connor, jumping to his feet and smiling nervously. ‘You’re home. Come in. We need to talk.’

  ‘That is my personal property,’ I say, my voice shaking, gesturing to the appointment card. ‘What are you doing with it?’

  ‘Mum’s come to talk to you,’ says Connor. ‘She knows we’re going through a tough time and she wants to help.’

  His mother nods her head then fixes her eyes on me. It feels odd to finally be in the same room as the elusive Jackie. I’ve been with her son for almost a year and have never once been invited to her house in Harrogate; nor has she ever come to see us at the flat, at least not while I was home. Now, here she is poring over my private documents. She might as well have seen me naked.

  ‘My son is very upset,’ she says. Her voice is sharp with a strong northern accent. ‘He’s been calling me almost every night in tears. Do you have anything to say? Any explanation?’

  ‘This is a private matter between me and Connor,’ I say, walking further into the room. ‘I don’t think it’s appropriate that he has brought you into it.’

  ‘I’m his mother,’ she cries, her nostrils flaring. ‘And he’s been going through hell for the last few months. He needs my support. Which is why I’ve travelled hundreds of miles to come and sort this out.’

  ‘And I appreciate that, Mum,’ says Connor, smiling meekly. ‘I really do.’

  ‘It’s not only what you did. It’s the secrecy,’ she says angrily, my appointment card gripped in her hand. ‘Just going off and doing it without telling Connor. It’s obscene.’

  ‘Mum, calm down,’ says Connor, placing his hand on her shoulder. ‘I’ve told you, this hasn’t been easy for either of us. Vanessa has suffered too.’

  ‘And so she should,’ says Jackie. ‘She killed your child. My grandchild.’

  ‘Mum, please,’ says Connor. ‘You have to understand, Vanessa’s been struggling, even before the abortion.’

  He looks up at me.

  ‘Haven’t you, Vanessa? Be honest.’

  ‘This is insane,’ I say, my head pounding. ‘You have completely violated my privacy and now you’re trying to tell me how I feel?’

  ‘You know you haven’t been yourself for a long time,’ he says, his voice a sickening simper. ‘The drinking, the anger, the meltdowns.’

  ‘Meltdowns?’ I cry. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Well, it looks like you’re just about to have another one,’ says Jackie.

  She clicks her tongue and, with that, the anger I have spent the last few minutes holding in comes tumbling forth.

  ‘Why don’t you tell her the truth?’ I cry, rushing at Connor. ‘Why don’t you tell her what really happened?’

  His eyes flash angrily and he grabs my wrists.

  ‘You’re talking nonsense, Vanessa,’ he cries. ‘Now calm down.’

  As I free myself from his grip I hear his mother’s voice somewhere on the periphery of my consciousness, but it’s dulled by the rage boiling inside my head. How dare he try and make out like there’s something wrong with me? The anger twists and thickens in my stomach then rises, like fire, through my body until it reaches my temples and I hear a deafening scream. My own.

  I lunge at Jackie and snatch the card from her hands.

  ‘Vanessa,’ cries Connor. ‘Stop this.’

  He holds my arms and shakes me so hard the card falls to the floor. I look at his face, which is just inches from mine. His brown eyes are full of something I have never seen there before: hatred.

  ‘Just pull yourself together, can’t you?’ he says, squeezing tighter.

  As I stand there like a limp rag doll, unable to move, I get a flashback. Connor lying on top of me, his face as angry and twisted as it is now. Me, crying in pain and begging him to stop. Truth shines through the mire of my brain and galvanizes me. I feel the stored-up anger taking over.

  ‘No, I won’t pull myself together,’ I cry, yanking my arms from his grip. ‘You did this to me. You are the one hurting me.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘You need help, Vanessa, you really do.’

  At those words something inside me snaps and I throw myself at him with such force he falls backwards on to the sofa.

  ‘Enough,’ yells Jackie, grabbing me by the shoulders. ‘I will not have you abuse my son like this.’

  ‘Get off me,’ I cry, pulling my arm away. ‘This is none of your business.’

  Then I hear a scream. Connor leaps up from the sofa.

  I turn round. Jackie is holding her hand to her face. When she takes it away I see a pink patch on her cheek.

  ‘Mum?’ cries Connor, rushing to her side. ‘Oh God, she’s bleeding.’

  He turns to me, his face red and sweating.

  ‘Look what you’ve done,’ he says. ‘You fucking psycho.’

  26. Now

  August 2018

  It’s 9 a.m. I have lain here in bed for the last hour, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this is my last morning of freedom. I try to imagine what prison will be like – the noise, the smell, the thud of the cell door as it closes behind me.

  Enough, I tell myself as I climb out of bed. I will need to keep a cool head today. So I start to focus on the practicalities.

  I have to be at West Hampstead police station at 1 p.m. It’s a thirty-minute walk from here to Wimbledon station then just under an hour to get to West Hampstead on the overland train. The thought of travelling on public transport makes me feel ill. I will be visible, exposed. Connor could be on that train with me, watching me, following me, and I would never know.

  The best solution is to get a taxi. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I scroll through my phone for the Uber app that I haven’t used in months. Memories of Lottie and me, tipsily clambering into shared Uber rides, come flooding back. Lottie, merrily chatting away to the other passengers: ‘Hi, I’m Lottie and this is Nessa. What are your names? Are you going far?’

  I smile, then a surge of sadness overcomes me. I miss her so much. I didn’t realize how much I needed her until it was too late.

  I book the taxi and, leaving the phone charging in the socket by the bed, head across the landing to the bathroom. After a cool shower I feel almost human again. I wrap a large fluffy towel around me then head back to the bedroom. But as I reach the door I hear voices coming from Jack and Georgie’s room.

  ‘I don’t want to hear it, Jack.’

  ‘Well, you should. You’re part of this too.’

  ‘I’m part of it? You’re the one who’s behaving strangely.’

&
nbsp; ‘Says the woman who is now self-medicating because she’s worried about her sister. Christ, give me strength.’

  I hear his footsteps thudding towards the door and I dart into my room, closing the door behind me.

  I mull over their words in my head as I dry my hair, the familiar pang of guilt settling in my stomach. Jack sounded so angry, so fierce, not at all like the Jack I’ve known since I was a little girl, the calm, solid Jack we all depend upon.

  This is my fault. I have brought all this to their doorstep and I’m ripping them apart. I had been tempted, when I got the call last night, to tell them what was happening, get them to contact Frank Solomon. But now, after hearing the argument, I am even more determined to do this alone. It’s not fair to drag Jack and Georgie in even further.

  I finish off my hair as best I can, then hurriedly get dressed. It’s getting close to 10.15 now. The taxi will be here in five minutes. I dress soberly in black trousers, a cream linen blouse and flat, black loafers. I need to make a good impression, to appear responsible, professional and calm, which is difficult when I feel like I’m about to fall apart at any minute.

  I hear the front door slam and I look out of the window. Georgie and Jack are walking down the path. Georgie heads toward the common – she’ll be going to the station then on to Mayfair – while Jack gets into his black Saab. Part of me wishes I had asked to walk to the station with my sister. I would have felt a little safer. But then we would have had to get different trains – she, the Piccadilly Line to Green Park; me, the Thameslink to West Hampstead, where anyone could have got on and followed me. No, I think to myself as I step away from the window and unplug my phone, best to get a taxi.

  I’m halfway down the stairs when I hear the letterbox clatter. I hurry down the last of the steps and see, lying on the doormat, a postcard.

  I creep gingerly towards it, my skin prickling. When I see what it is I almost throw up. The picture on the front is a pencil drawing of Holly Maze House, complete with stone griffins and topiary animals.

  I bend down to pick it up and as I turn the card over my body goes cold. There is no stamp, no postmark, just my name and six words, written in capitals.

  ISN’T IT JUST TO DIE FOR?

  There’s a loud knock on the door and I leap backwards, almost dropping the card.

  This is it. He’s here. Connor. He’s come for me and I’m alone. What do I do?

  My whole body begins to shake. Then my phone bleeps in my trouser pocket. I take it out. It’s a text from Uber. My taxi has arrived.

  It’s okay, I tell myself. It’s just the taxi driver. Everything is okay.

  I slip the postcard into my bag and open the front door.

  The driver, a hawkish man with cropped black hair and narrow grey eyes, looks at me curiously as I climb into the back seat of the car.

  ‘West Hampstead police station, yeah?’ he says.

  ‘Yes, please,’ I say, shakily pulling the seat belt across me. I look at my watch – 10.20. I’ll be in West Hampstead in just under half an hour. It’s ridiculously early for my appointment but I figure I’d rather get out of the house than wait around and stew. I’ll find a coffee shop nearby where I can sit and gather my thoughts.

  The driver nods his head but as the car pulls away I’m suddenly frozen with fear.

  What if he is part of this? The car had arrived at the same time as the postcard came through the letterbox. What if he’s taking me somewhere else? What if …

  I try to calm myself as we drive through the village and all the familiar landmarks flash by – the independent bookshop, the Italian restaurant where we celebrated Jack and Georgie’s twentieth wedding anniversary, the dog groomers where Mr Allen takes his fat retriever, the florist – but my heart is pounding so much it feels like I might pass out. When we reach Wimbledon station I take off my seat belt and sit forward.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I say, my voice trembling. ‘Drop me here.’

  ‘But this is not what you booked,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘This is not West Hampstead.’

  ‘I know, but I don’t feel very well,’ I say, scrambling for the door.

  ‘Don’t be sick in my car,’ he cries, pressing a button that releases the door. ‘I charge extra for soiled seats.’

  I jump out of the taxi, aware that I will have been billed for the entire trip to West Hampstead, but I don’t care. I felt so scared being in that enclosed space. At least on the train, I tell myself, there is safety in numbers.

  I hurry towards the station entrance, my forehead soaked with sweat, and as I walk through the ticket barrier my phone bleeps.

  I dare not look at it. What if it’s him? What if he’s here, watching me? But then it could be something important, I tell myself. The police. Or Georgie. I look down at the screen. There’s a number I don’t recognize but the message underneath makes my heart soar.

  Hello, stranger. Long time no see. Listen, I’m back in the UK and this is my new number. I’m staying with some friends in Maida Vale and would love to catch up. I know it’s short notice but are you free this morning? If so, how about we meet for coffee. There’s a lovely little cafe on Formosa Street near Warwick Avenue tube. We could meet there. I’ll be there from 11.00. I know there’s lots we need to talk about.

  I don’t have to be at the police station until 1 p.m. I won’t have much time but I’ll be able to have a quick coffee with Lottie then jump in a cab. It will be worth it, just to see her. I quickly text back.

  I’m free. See you there x

  I put my phone into my pocket, relief flooding through me at the thought of seeing my best friend again. It’s like she knew exactly when I needed her most. I don’t care what has happened in the past, I need her. And she was right about Connor in the end. I just hope she can help get me out of this mess.

  27. Then

  I sit on the edge of the sofa, my eyes swollen and raw from crying. The sun has just come up and I can hear Connor in the kitchen. As I sit here I try to piece together the events of the previous evening: Jackie holding my appointment card, the anger that rose up inside me when Connor told me I needed help. It had felt like they were coming at me from all sides, pressing down on me until I couldn’t breathe. And the flashback? It had been so clear, so real, but now I’m not sure whether it was just my mind playing tricks on me. In the cold light of day I can see that Connor was right. I haven’t been myself these last few months. It’s like I’m spiralling into some terrible abyss with no chance of salvation.

  ‘You’re awake then?’

  I look up and see Connor standing at the living-room door. He looks terrible. His face is pale and drawn and there are dark circles under his eyes. He comes into the room tentatively and perches on the edge of the armchair, keeping plenty of distance between himself and me.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Connor,’ I say, trying to stop myself from crying. ‘I really am. But you have to believe me, it was an accident. I didn’t see your mum standing behind me and then …’

  ‘That’s just it, Vanessa,’ he says, clasping his hands together. ‘You don’t see, do you? You didn’t see how terribly you behaved at the boxing night and you didn’t see how appalling it was that you accused me of having sex without your consent or that you went behind my back and had an abortion. I’ve put up with your behaviour all this time and I’ve tried to help you but, fucking hell, hitting my mother is something else.’

  I shudder, recalling the blood that had dripped down her cheek from where my engagement ring had cut her. So much blood, down her smart top, spotting the carpet.

  ‘How is she?’ I ask, recalling how Jackie and Connor had fled the house while I was still raging. ‘Did she get the train okay?’

  ‘Yes, she got the train,’ says Connor. ‘It’s a three-hour journey back home and she had to do that with a gash across her face. Christ, Vanessa, she’d travelled all that way to help us.’

  I nod my head. I feel sick with guilt. I have never hit anyone in my life.

&
nbsp; ‘She has every right to press charges,’ says Connor, his eyes blazing. ‘But Mum’s a good woman. She can see you’re troubled and, like me, she just wants you to get some help. Proper help.’

  ‘I will, Connor,’ I say, the tears I’ve been trying to hold back rushing forth. ‘I promise you I will.’

  ‘I don’t need your promises,’ says Connor. ‘You keep on promising me you’ll change but it doesn’t happen. It just gets worse. What we need is solid action.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well,’ he says, taking a deep breath, ‘we start by acknowledging that you are seriously ill. I’ve been doing my research, and you’re displaying all the symptoms of a breakdown.’

  I nod my head. Before last night I would have disagreed with him but the incident with Jackie was so out of character it had scared me. I am ill. I know that now.

  ‘You also need to inform work,’ says Connor, his tone brisk and businesslike. ‘I know you love your job but you’re not in any fit state to be working at the moment.’

  I think back to yesterday, how I had completely forgotten about the Shades of Autumn launch, the feeling of disconnect I got every time I walked into the office. Maybe a break will be good. Then I can clear my head.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll hand in my notice.’

  ‘Good girl,’ says Connor, getting up and coming to sit beside me. ‘And then we will go to the GP together and get some help. You’re going to get better, Vanessa. It’ll take some time but I’ll be with you every step of the way. Okay?’