The Unwelcome Guest

by Amanda Robson

  ‘Thank you for coming in. What can I do to help?’ I ask.

  185

  Hayley

  I am lying in bed at the dump of a squat, watching Saffron sitting in her office. She looks quirky with her hair in a bird’s nest bun, and she’s wearing heavier eyeshadow than usual to go with her quirky hairstyle. But it suits her.

  She doesn’t know I’m watching her, does she? I don’t suppose she’ll ever find out. Ages ago Caprice paid someone to come to Wellbeck House and insert software to control the camera in Saffron’s laptop. She told me it was there, and I should use it if I needed to. At the time I wasn’t sure why, or what she was talking about. But then, when I received her last missive, I remembered. And I soon learnt from the internet how to switch it on remotely.

  ‘Please go to Marazion House tomorrow to check the tenancy agreements; some of them are tricky apparently,’ Crispin Montague is saying. His voice booms into the squat, loud and clear. ‘If you think it’s all OK, I’ll go ahead and make an offer.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Saffron replies. ‘When should I arrive?’

  ‘Travel down in the morning, so that you can start as soon as possible. We’re in a contract race with another bidder. Time is of the essence. I need you there by 9 a.m.’

  186

  Miles

  You are home from work. You dump your briefcase in the hallway and walk towards me. You look so fragile in your black silk dress decorated with Chinese embroidery. A kimono look but tighter, more fashionable. I like your bird’s-nest, chopstick-enhanced sweeping hairstyle. My heart sinks when you tell me you have to go to Cornwall tomorrow morning. I want you to stay at home near me so that I can look after you.

  ‘How long for?’ I ask.

  ‘Not sure.’ You shrug. ‘Four days at the most, I guess.’

  ‘It’s a long way to drive,’ I say trying to suppress my panic.

  You smile. ‘Why are you fussing about my driving? You never used to.’

  I shake my head. ‘I guess I’m just getting a bit neurotic about things as I get older.’

  You entwine your legs and arms around me like ivy and kiss me. ‘Neurotic or not, I love you.’

  187

  Hayley

  Tonight’s the night to set Jono and his friends up as my alibis. We are holding a get-together in his dead-end squat. Frosty Jack’s, mixed with a touch of vodka. Devil’s punch, I call it. My special recipe. Served in paper cups. I am drinking lemonade, which I had decanted into an empty bottle of Frosty Jack’s. His motorbike gang are here. Jumbo, Tod and Kelly. I don’t know why Jumbo is called Jumbo. He is handsome and he isn’t fat. No peculiar features such as outsized ears. Tod is long and lean with white-blond hair. Kelly wears an earring and is heavily bearded. I am tossing back the lemonade and slurring my words.

  ‘Iss verrry late. I fink I neeed to go to ssleeppp.’

  ‘Are you all right, Hayley?’ Jono asks.

  ‘Nooo. I fink I need to go to bed. I’m pisssedd.’

  Before I stagger to our bedroom I fix Jono one last cocktail of vodka and Jack’s. I hand it to him with a smudgy, slurred smile. I know he won’t be long out of bed. He’s up at six tomorrow.

  In the bedroom I splay across the damp mattress and pretend to be asleep. Jono tumbles into the room about ten minutes later using the torch from his iPhone. He collapses on the bed beside me. As soon as the depth of Jono’s breathing indicates that he is asleep beside me, I slip out of bed, making sure my iPhone is beneath my pillow. I mustn’t take it with me.

  His snoring increases until he is grunting like a truffle-hunting pig. I pull a dark tracksuit over my jeans and T-shirt. I slip out of the squat, slowly, quietly. The motorcycle gang have left, thinking I am fast asleep in bed. Jono is comatose, out for the count, thinking I am lying next to him. I set off at half past midnight, skulking in the darkness at the edge of the pavement, not wanting to be seen. Or, if seen in passing, wanting to be too uninteresting to notice.

  Past Waitrose, into the centre of Esher, along the High Street. Past The Bear. Past the post office. Turning right into Lexington Drive. Past all the ‘look-at-me’ houses, every one of which I have dreamt of owning.

  I stand outside Wellbeck House, and press the gate code. Thank goodness they haven’t thought to change it. Slowly, slowly, it creaks open. I wait in the shadows praying silently that Miles and Saffron don’t hear. I have bought a gadget that I point towards the house and press. It will clone Saffron’s car keys. I hear a strange clicking sound. I press it and, sure enough, I hear the thunk of Saffron’s car door unlocking. I slip inside her Mercedes into the soft comfort, and intoxicating smell, of fine leather. I fumble in my pockets to find the cheap torch I bought at Asda. Small and neat with a powerful beam. I switch on the engine and press a symbol that I know will open the boot. It begins to rise. I step outside the car.

  Not long ago, I initiated a game with Jono. Asking him the worst problems he had encountered. The most confusing. The most difficult to check.

  I fumble to the left-hand side of the boot to find the fuse box. It is exactly where Jono told me, when I was pretending to be interested. I need to find the green and red striped wire that triggers the brake alarm, and pull it out. I climb into the boot, pull the top off, and lie flat, squinting down at the wires, torch pointing towards them. I push my face closer and crane my neck to get the best angle. I make a grab at the green and red. It comes away easily.

  Nearly there. Time to do the real damage now. I lie beneath the car and fumble behind the front passenger side tyre to find the hydraulic line. I need to find it, and pierce it with the special pliers I have borrowed from Jono without his knowledge. I will return them as soon as I get back to the squat. He will never know they were missing. Now I need to repeat the damage to the other three wheels. The hydraulic lines will leak slowly. At first she won’t realise she has a problem. But some time into her journey, her brakes will fail. Probably when she’s on the motorway. Hands trembling, I pull the pliers from my pocket. This will be the end of Saffron Jackson. This is it. This is my opportunity for wealth and happiness.

  188

  Miles

  You are sleeping like an angel. Lying next to me in your pale blue silk chemise, cherubic mouth slightly open. I can’t sleep. All I can do is think about what my mother has done, giving someone our family hardly knows a motive to kill my wife – the centre of my universe. I am neurotic. Terrified. I do not feel relaxed at any time of day, morning, noon, or night. Whenever you aren’t with me, I have dark thoughts. Strong imaginings of what could be happening to you. Thoughts that make me tremble inside.

  Restless, tossing and turning in bed. I hear a slamming in the distance. My body jumps. This is it. Hayley coming to kidnap you. I jump out of bed and pull on my dressing gown, and ram my feet into my slippers. I grab my torch from my bedside table. For the first time in my life I wish I had a gun. What has happened to me? When I was a teenager I was a pacifist. I think the noise is coming from the back. So I unlock the door, and step into our garden. The security lights snap on and dazzle me. I blink and the tennis court and the swimming pool come into focus. My heart is thumping. I cannot hear or see anyone.

  I walk along the passageway to the garden. Darkness and silence press against me. I snap my torch on and walk around the garden pointing its beam beneath trees, behind bushes. Then I switch it off and stand still for ten minutes, straining my ears in case I hear something. Nothing. No one is here.

  I slowly, slowly, tiptoe down the side passage. I need to check the front garden now. Slowly, slowly, I open the side gate. I hold my breath as it whines a little. I meant to ask the gardener to oil it last week. Into our paved front drive. I can’t see anyone. I can’t hear anyone. The ornamental gates are closed. The cars are just where I left them. Your Mercedes. My Range Rover. The nanny’s Volvo run-around that no one is using at the moment. The Subaru BMZ. I get on my hands and knees and shine the torch under every car. No one is here.

  I check whe
re Hayley is on my iPhone tracker. Blue Bell Drive. Esher. Behind the Blackhills Estate, a mile or so from here. I imagine her curvy body snuggled up to her skinny green-haired boyfriend, and breathe a sigh of relief.

  All clear.

  189

  Saffron

  The alarm drills into the bedroom and wakes me up for my trip to Marazion House in Cornwall: 5.30 a.m. Too early for light to filter around the curtain edges. Waking so early has made me feel as if my body has been assaulted and I am in recovery. But I fight against the attack and force myself out of bed. I need to be sharp to check all Crispin Montague’s tenancy agreements. A shower invigorates me. Now I feel awake and almost normal. I pull on the clothes I laid out last night, because at this time of day planning what to wear takes too much effort. Miles is still fast asleep. I lean down and brush a whisper of a kiss across his forehead, so as not to wake him.

  My travel bag and car keys are waiting in the hallway. I press the control pad to open the gate, and get into the car. Start the engine. The brake warning light that usually comes on for a few seconds to let me know it’s working doesn’t show. The warning lights on this car are often a bit random. I’ll get them checked at the garage, when I take it in for a service next week.

  I set the sat nav. I should arrive by 10.30 if I blast down the motorway like I did last week. The gates open. I ramp up Classic FM and set off, Mozart’s Horn Concertos resonating at full volume.

  ONE YEAR LATER

  190

  Hayley

  I’m hand in hand with the man of my dreams, walking, looking down on Lake Wakatipu. It’s good to be home again, holding my breath as I admire the Remarkables, in awe of their beauty and their grandeur. Their rock-solid monstrosity. Back in my home country I have space and time. Time to think. Time to breathe.

  My life has moved on, just as I hoped. I am marrying him. The man I fell in love with as soon as I saw him. A first marriage for me. A second marriage for him. It has been a struggle, a battle helping him come to terms with his grief, after his wife died in such a tragic accident. But now we are both moving on. I have a diamond engagement ring as big as a rock, and the wedding is planned.

  We stop and drink coffee from a flask. He stands up. ‘Come on, we’d better get a move on. I promised we’d meet her for a late lunch.’

  191

  Hayley

  ‘So lovely to meet you at last,’ she says through a turned-down mouth, as we join her at a table on the balcony of Jervois Steak House. Rugged mountain peaks jut above the rooftops in front of us. She has short steely hair. Her face is heavily wrinkled. Her brow is so furrowed it looks as if she has a permanent frown. She is wearing brown. Dark brown. Everything brown. Skirt, blouse, cardi. A human version of a prune.

  I smile. ‘Lovely to meet you too,’ I reply.

  ‘Why have you been keeping her such a secret?’ she asks, giving Simon a look of vinegar.

  Simon. My fiancé.

  I look across at him. Physically he is so like you, Miles. But he is so much younger. And I feel so comfortable with him. There is no need to flirt or act up. When I am with Simon I am just me. We like all the same things. Plants. Walking. Paddle boarding. Rafting. Bungee jumping. We have just been living together in his apartment from the minute we met. We met on the plane on the way home. I finally earnt the money to fly back. He was returning from a business trip to London. Two Kiwis on the way home.

  ‘Come on, explain why you’ve been keeping her a secret,’ The Prune repeats.

  ‘Well, Mum, you know after everything that happened, losing Veronica as I did, we just wanted to go carefully in private.’

  Veronica. Losing Veronica. Simon has been so bereft. Imagine if I had been responsible for you losing Saffron, Miles. I would never have forgiven myself.

  The Prune elongates her back and raises her chest. ‘But I am your mother – I should always be in the loop.’

  Simon reaches under the table for my hand, and squeezes it. He warned me she would be like this. He told me she had a difficult relationship with his father, and so always dwelt on him too much, in a way that was difficult to handle.

  The waitress sidles over. ‘What can I get you?’ she asks.

  ‘Simon and I will have our usual,’ The Prune, aka Janet Wilkinson, barks.

  The waitress turns to me. ‘What would you like?’

  ‘She can have a sirloin. Our usual is just for two,’ Janet continues. ‘Medium rare, please.’

  ‘Please can I have medium. I’m not good with blood,’ I interrupt. ‘And no chips, just a side salad.’

  Janet stares across at me. ‘Sirloin’s best medium rare. That is how it should be served.’

  Oh my God, she’s even more of a ball-breaker than I thought.

  ‘Mother, let her have her steak how she wants it,’ Simon says. He turns to the waitress, ‘We will have the steak medium please, as requested with a side salad and no chips.’

  The waitress looks at me sympathetically, gives me half a smile and scribbles down my order. She turns to go.

  ‘What about asking us if we want a drink?’ Janet says, voice raised.

  The waitress turns around. She looks so young. About sixteen. A few tiny blisters of spots pepper her cheeks, carefully covered up with make-up.

  ‘Sorry. I thought the drinks waiter had already asked you. What can I get you?’

  ‘Sparkling mineral water with ice and lemon, pronto,’ she demands.

  ‘A glass of Merlot please,’ I chirrup.

  ‘This family doesn’t drink at lunchtime,’ she says, eyeballing me.

  ‘If Hayley wants a glass of wine she can have one,’ Simon says. He turns to the waitress. ‘Two large glasses of Merlot.’ He shakes his head and frowns. ‘No actually, make that a bottle and two glasses, please.’

  The waitress moves to take an order from the next table.

  ‘Are you marrying an alcoholic?’ Janet asks, under her breath.

  ‘Having a few glasses of wine in a steak restaurant, on a special occasion, is not a sign of alcoholism.’

  I sigh inside. Simon warned me she was difficult. I look at my watch. We’ve only been here twenty minutes, but I feel exhausted.

  ‘Excuse me. I just need to pop to the toilet,’ I say and stand up.

  ‘Don’t scrape your chair.’

  I try not to scowl at her, but I’m not sure it works.

  I walk slowly towards the ladies. I already need a break from her so I will prolong this as much as possible. I do not need to pee. I pull the wooden toilet lid down and sit, eyes closed. Breathing deeply. Trying to relax. Veronica’s name spinning in my head. Thinking back to the night I could have killed Saffron. Seconds away from piercing the hydraulic feed to her car brakes.

  What stopped me?

  A feeling of foreboding. A sudden knowledge that Caprice was winding me up. That you and Saffron were good people. That neither of you deserved this. A darkness moved across my mind and I suddenly knew I must not do it. I got out from under the car and walked away quickly, closing the gate behind me. Body trembling, slowly, in the shadows of darkness I made my way back to the squat. Saffron must have had so much to put up with from Caprice. And now I am receiving my punishment. I have met Janet, or Janx, as Simon calls her behind her back. Janx sounds like an evil character in a sci-fi novel. She certainly seems evil, I’ll give her that.

  I force myself to stand up and walk back to the table. The wine and the food have arrived. We sit and eat in silence. As soon as his plate is empty Simon excuses himself to visit the bathroom.

  As soon as she has me to herself, Janx leans towards me. ‘I always hoped Simon wouldn’t marry someone who was only a nanny.’

  Only a nanny. Surely she wouldn’t be so condescending and rude? I must have misheard.

  I lean towards her. Our eyes meet. ‘Say again? I didn’t quite catch that.’

  She leans forwards too and speaks succinctly in my ear, carefully enunciating every word.

  ‘I always hoped Simon
wouldn’t marry someone who was only a nanny.’

  ‘Only a nanny? Some people think childcare is the most important job in the world.’ I speak stiffly, barely containing my temper.

  That is it. The battle is on. Saffron, if I have correctly guessed the truth of your actions, I suspect one day I will need your help.

  192

  Saffron

  Miles and I are finally clearing out your boudoir, Caprice. I will strip it of flounces and flowers and memories. It will be minimalistic and simple. A place of peace. Nothing to remind me of you.

  So many clothes. Fifty pairs of shoes. So much to go to the charity shop. Make-up, straight into the bin – all the wrong colours for me to use. Perfume: Chanel, Dior, Yves Saint Laurent, I’ll keep that. Then I shudder inside. No. The scent you wore will remind me of you. I’ll give it to Julie and ask her not to wear it at work. Jewellery? I don’t want to wear it. But some of it is valuable. I leave that for another day and ask Miles what he thinks about it.

  Miles is sitting in the corner sifting through a box of old photographs, eyes watering, about to cry. I go and sit next to him. He hands me the one he was looking at. It’s you in a white dress at your first communion. Smooth-skinned. Wide-eyed with innocence. Who would have known what a monster you would become? At the back of the box there is a pad of lined paper. I pull it out. The top sheet has been used as a blotting pad to write on. I can see indentations, in the shape of writing, but I cannot make out the words.

  I am curious. You had so many secrets. So many different sides to you. Out of devilment I decide I would like to read what you wrote.