4 Riverside Close

by Diana Wilkinson

  I persuaded Jason that Join Me had to start small; locally. Start small and expand cautiously is my business premise. We need to get it right before we can conquer the world. The truth is that I need all the ladies to live nearby. I won’t be expanding up north, or south into Cornwall. It would be too far to travel; too far away to keep control.

  I was right. Jason has been online browsing the profiles since he got home. Susan 789 has been watched a dozen times or so over the past few days. Meeting her at the gym, in the flesh, has spurred me on. I know Jason has already met her but I haven’t asked to know more. I stare at her profile pictures, noticing that she’s added a couple more coquettish action poses but they look nothing like her. Clever airbrushing has smothered the imperfections.

  I jot down her address, checking it against the payment details. I knew it was Riverside Close, she did tell me, a small upmarket cul-de-sac about half an hour’s walk away. I now have the house number. I haven’t decided yet whether to call her first or turn up out of the blue on the doorstep. Whatever I decide, Monday will be the start of a wonderful friendship. Susan Harper will welcome me as her new best friend.

  10

  Caroline

  I set out at 10am, waiting until Jason has gone out. Although he’s been summoned by Francine to help with some new household disaster, today I don’t worry. Today I’ve purpose of my own and don’t have time to wallow in doubts about his past life.

  When I first met Jason, he was living in Highgate with a woman called Francine. When I finally felt compelled to ask about her, find out more, his tone was flippant, hinting at a lack of depth in their relationship which helped sooth my concerns.

  ‘It’s never been serious with Francine. She sort of looks after me,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She owns a four-storey house in the village and in return for odd jobs, she lets me live there rent free. It suits us both.’

  ‘Why would she do that? Surely she hasn’t that many odd jobs.’ I sounded churlish, childish and disbelieving. ‘What age is she anyway?’

  ‘Fifty. Old enough to be my mother!’ He had laughed as if this was the punchline to some well-rehearsed joke. If he was trying to lighten the mood or spare me hurt by his tone, it worked. It suited me to believe the latter.

  By the time we had become an item and moved in together, she no longer seemed to pose a threat. If she was distraught or heartbroken by her abandonment, I could only surmise. He never really talked about her. The future then became my main concern, not the past.

  Yet she hovers in the background like a ghost not done with haunting; a pesky irritating thorn in my side, like a splinter of wood embedded under my skin, stinging when bothered. Jason still scampers back when summoned; if a door falls off its hinges or the back garden needs tending. He says it’s the least he can do. I suspect it is guilt.

  The arctic temperatures are persistent but the snow has cleared and I walk with steady tread past the imposing Georgian mansions that skirt Porters Wood. The dull gloom of February has been replaced by a crisp brightness which stubbornly tempts me with hope and happiness. I turn my head towards the stark silent landscape. The tightly packed barren trees, like soulless skyscrapers, draw my eye. A woman is strolling peacefully across the carpet of mulched rotting leaves, holding tightly on to a toddler. I think it’s a girl but the thick clothing makes it difficult to be certain.

  Sadness seeps through the sunshine and skims skittishly over my resolve. Beaver Glade is tucked away behind the trees. It’s a small clearing with swings and roundabouts. Jason took me there once when we first got together and whirled me round on the circular platform until I felt so dizzy I thought I might throw up. I hesitate for a second. Memories persistently taunt me and self-torture is my nemesis. A couple of clouds shaped like sheep have appeared overhead. I will count them tonight.

  I stop at the junction of Church Street where it joins Riverside Close. There’s no one about. A red VW Beetle is tucked neatly into a handkerchief-sized driveway, and a blue Audi into a similarly sized gravelled driveway opposite. I take a deep breath, flatten my hair into some semblance of order and push my gloves into my pocket. A cul-de-sac seems a strange place to live; a way in but no way out.

  I walk slowly towards the top of the dead end as my eyes scan the exclusive enclave. Perhaps the residents are members of a tight inner circle, like the Freemasons, which mirrors their environment. I spot Susan’s black BMW in the top right-hand corner of the sac. A wooden sign etched deeply with the words Windy Pines is bolted to the gate; it suggests individuality. However, the house is identical in construction and design to Sunny Elms next door. Perhaps the names are meant to help the postman but I’m sceptical. They ooze pretension with a glaring lack of pines and elms anywhere to be seen. A For Sale sign marks out the plot on the other side of Susan’s. 4 Riverside Close. It’s waiting for a new owner to imbue character.

  Susan’s front door opens before I reach the bell. She must have been watching out for me since I called; in hindsight, a wise decision. I need her to be at home today. My plan can’t wait any longer.

  ‘Caroline. Come in, the kettle’s on,’ she says in a welcoming sing-song descant. We kiss each other on the cheeks. Perhaps it’s my imagination but her weight seems to have plummeted since I met her at the gym. Bones are sticking out through her skin-tight top, shoulder blades protruding symmetrically like knife edges from her back.

  ‘I’m only just returned from the gym. Come in. Did you walk?’

  ‘Yes. It’s lovely out. I don’t mind the cold as long as it’s bright.’ I close the door and follow my hostess into her kitchen. It’s glossy and slick, modern accessories teasing the eye. A designer strip light hangs down over the breakfast bar which is constructed from a huge slab of dark glossy granite. It’s polished to perfection like Susan, although more substantial.

  ‘Coffee? Or what about a glass of wine?’ She’s overly enthusiastic, as if she hasn’t seen anyone for days and I’m like some stranger she’s pulled in to her castle, desperate for company.

  ‘Wine sounds good. Never too early in the day. Thanks.’ I settle myself on one of the fine leather bar stools and finger the strip light. It pops on automatically.

  ‘Love the light,’ I say.

  Susan has extracted a small cleaning cloth from a cupboard under the sink and wipes the surface before she sits down. She polishes quite violently.

  ‘Did you go to Pilates?’ I ask while sipping the wine. It’s delicious, cold and welcome. Susan toys with her mint tea but then decides it’s rude not to join me in a glass of something stronger and she returns to the fridge and sets the newly opened bottle between us. We both know it won’t last long.

  ‘No. I managed about half an hour on the treadmill.’ She pats her concave stomach. ‘I need to get rid of this.’ She points at imaginary middle-aged spread, trying to pinch at non-existent fat.

  I smile. I’m surprised by her obsessive nature. I was expecting a more devil-may-care type of woman.

  She sets the polishing cloth down beside her glass, picking it up every now and then to swish it over the surface. When I let a drop of wine hit the gloss, deliberately I might add, she’s there at once. She doesn’t fit the usual Join Me profile. I was expecting a laidback sort of person; flighty and careless. Perhaps I can come up with an idea on how to track such behavioural patterns. But then, perhaps it doesn’t matter.

  ‘What does Roger do for a living?’ We swap vacuous anecdotes. She doesn’t dwell too much on her children, perhaps in deference to my apparent childlessness but I suspect more that she likes to forget about them when they’re safely in someone else’s hands.

  ‘A solicitor. Works all hours. What about Jason?’

  I lie and say he is an aspiring artist. I enjoy the subterfuge. My fibs have become second nature. She doesn’t seem particularly interested and lets me talk on while she goes and turns the heat up. Self-obsessed, bored and spoilt is my summation of Susan Harper.


  ‘Sorry, carry on. I am listening. I need to turn the heat up. It’s freezing.’ She shivers, moves to the wall and twiddles with a thermostat. It’s her chicken-like bones, she must feel the cold. I’m sweltering but don’t want to take my sweat top off as that would hint I’m getting comfortable and there’s only so far I want to go today with the charade.

  Once we’ve polished off the bottle of wine, she shows me round the house before I leave. The back has been extended and the kitchen now leads into an obscenely large conservatory where frameless sliding glass doors open out onto a slick designer patio. The grassy area has been eaten away by huge russet-coloured sandstone slabs. It certainly has the ‘wow’ factor. Susan is delighted when I use the word ‘wow’.

  Her sudden excitement complements the unease that accompanies her OCD. She beams, self-congratulatory with her choice of new friend. I wonder how soon it will be until she needs to unburden herself about her new male friend, Vince; some guy she was meant to accompany to the zoo. She’ll weigh me up over the next few weeks as she becomes increasingly desperate to open up to someone. Building a friendship, becoming her trusted confidante, is part of my plan. She’s naïve enough to get sucked in.

  When we reach the front door, she tells me how lovely it was for me to pop by. She misses the ‘pop in’ sort of friends.

  ‘It’s so boring around here.’ She entices me to look round the cul-de-sac. ‘You never see a soul.’ She puts her hand over her mouth, patting it back and forth faking an exaggerated yawn and grins.

  ‘It is rather quiet,’ I say. ‘Perhaps we’ll do lunch another time?’ I do a little hand wave as I pick my way back down the drive. I imagine her smile of assent behind me.

  ‘That would be nice. Bye.’

  An old lady opposite is positioning a couple of potted plants outside her front door. We nod politely as I stroll back down the street, leaving the dead end behind. I must say I prefer our long road, extending into unknown worlds at either end. It offers so many more possibilities.

  Poor Susan. Her perfect kitchen and marbled grandeur have already swallowed her up. She’ll soon think Vince is the answer.

  11

  Susan

  Monday 10.45am

  Two for one at the zoo Friday next week. Are you up for it? Vince

  Tuesday 12.00pm

  Special penguin display, tiger trail, gorilla mating?? Can even sleep out by the lion enclosure! But perhaps that can wait. Go on, what do you think? Vince

  Wednesday 5.00pm

  Last chance! I’ll bring a picnic if you say the word? Honestly, don’t worry if you can’t. Just thought it might be fun. Vince

  I am rereading the emails from Vince. It is one week to the day since we met up in London. It is now Friday night and the clock has struck nine, the monstrous wind-up mechanism clonking through the deathly hush. The early weekend wine magnet has sucked me in, helping me to relax and mellow the anxiety. I browse the pictures of animals slumped in corners of caged enclosures with a gnawing empathy. They are all trapped, having surrendered to the imposed limits with inevitable resignation. I find myself wondering if the cage door were accidentally left ajar whether the lions would spring to life and wreak their revenge. Perhaps while they’re sleeping, they keep one eye on the gate.

  I’ve logged on to Join Me to check for new messages. Apart from the three from Vince, there’s a new one from a group leader, Troy 900, inviting me to join an organised outing to the zoo; from one fellow animal lover to another. There are already twelve enrolments but I delete the message. Troy 900 reminds me of a left-wing leader of Save the Amazon Rainforests or, with his goatee beard and wire-rimmed glasses, he could be leading the interminable battle to Save the Whale. I take a sip of cold wine which glides effortlessly down my throat, each mouthful imbuing me with increasing recklessness. I click on Vince 666’s profile and notice he’s added a couple of new photos which showcase him skydiving and windsurfing. Each pose looks as if it has come from the portfolio of a professional photographer. My phone beeps and makes me jump.

  Hope all ok. Kids in bed? Finishing up shortly. Looking forward to the weekend!! Rog xx

  The screen is accusing, flashing brightly as if reading my thoughts.

  Yep. All quiet. See you soon. X

  The weekend will be spent packing, sorting out shirts and ties with matching shoes and socks. The kids will pester their father with wish lists of gadgets that only New York has to offer. They will use the chance to blackmail him for their own gain, pulling at his heartstrings, manipulating as only children can. Roger will be flattered, emotionally brainwashed and miserable at having to leave home for a week. But he’ll go anyway. It’s his job after all and he’ll not look back, locking the door behind him.

  I turn the green bottle at an angle and notice that there’s only enough wine left for one last glass. I greedily dislodge the dregs. I’m not quite ready to embrace my cage with its stifling claustrophobia. Instead I take the plunge and finally reply to Vince. Perhaps I knew all along that I would. The alcohol has only precipitated the action.

  Might be able to make next Friday. Hope ok to let you know nearer the time. Susan.

  I read and reread the message, still sane enough through the drowsy haze of alcohol to keep it brief and avoid anything flirtatious. A trip to the zoo next Friday might give me something to look forward to. That’s how I sell it to myself anyway. My finger hovers over the send button but I know that any more pretend prevarication is futile. My meeting in London with Vince has produced a stubborn little scab, which my mind has been picking at for over a week. Hell. Why not? I drain the glass. Why shouldn’t I have some fun?

  I’m about to shut down the screen, prepared to deal with any reply on Monday, when a message bounces straight back. Shit. It’s ten on a Friday night. How is this guy not busy, out having fun, or drinking with mates? Can he have been on Join Me at exactly the same time? I’m not a fan of coincidences.

  Perfect! I’ll keep the ticket for you. What fun. Have a great weekend. Vince x

  PS We’ll make arrangements nearer the time.

  I log out, once again frantically clearing my browsing history, and close down the laptop before shutting it away in the desk drawer. I turn out the lamp and wander over to the window, pausing for a glance through the slit in the curtains. The street lights around the close are all turned on, each one emitting a dusky orangey hue. Bob and Olive Thompson are to be complimented on their insistence with the council that turning alternate lights off might save money but that in doing so residents can’t see a ‘bloody thing’.

  I watch Olive wander round the close clutching what seems to be a pile of flyers, leaflets of some sort. She is huddled up under a thick old person’s woollen coat. Style has flown along with youth. A dark thick hat sits jauntily to one side of her head as a token reminder of a sixties fashion statement and I can make out a long gold pin protruding from the top. She is strolling up each driveway in turn, popping papers through letterboxes. I wonder if I’ll care about such matters when I’m her age. Perhaps I’ll have sleepless nights over dog fouling, street lights and double parking, but I doubt it.

  As I draw the curtains tightly together, a rogue thought takes hold that maybe I need to make more of the present. This offers me comfort and justification for the small drunken step I’ve taken on the road to God knows where.

  Deep down I’ve been expecting some sort of emergency to spring up, offering me an excuse to duck out from this afternoon’s trip. Yet the last few days have passed by without a hiccup and unusually, nothing untoward has happened all week. Tilly and Noah have bounced off merrily to school every day with none of the usual sneaky attempts to avoid education with bogus upset stomachs or fever. There seems to be a conspiracy, or some particular alignment in the stars that is propelling me to the zoo and a second meeting with Vince.

  I’ve cleaned the house from top to bottom, making meticulous lists of chores that need to be tackled. Kitchen cupboards and drawers; sorting Roger’s socks a
nd underwear; bathroom cabinet cleaning and de-cluttering; clothes clear-out for the charity shop. I’ve kept adding to the list with frantic compulsion. In reality I’ve been desperately filling time all week until this morning.

  Standing in my underwear, I’m faced with the clothes conundrum of what to wear. Dressing for a date would demand subtle seductive outfits but a random trip to the zoo for a day of wandering around animal enclosures is proving bizarrely taxing. The rain’s still falling, smearing the windows with dull wet blobs but the noise is strangely soothing.

  I wash my face three times, a rigorous morning ritual as my skin has become increasingly irritated by dust mites which lurk in the night. Roger bemoans the red splodges caused by the scrubbing and berates me for my obsession. He tells me I have OCD; obsessive compulsive disorder.

  After an hour of prevarication over what to wear, by eleven I’m finally ready. Designer jeans and a warm angora jumper will play down hints of provocation and sensible flat boots will dispel notions of flirtatious motives. I spray a little perfume onto each ear, to mask the earthy animal stench then slather my hands in hand cream against the elements and touch up my lipstick in the hall mirror as I do every day. I kid myself that this is another normal day, albeit it with the addition of an educational outing to Regent’s Park. Bizarrely I make a mental note that it is Friday the thirteenth.

  I see him long before he sees me. I’m one of those early people. He is sauntering along towards the park entrance casually glancing behind him every few seconds. The umbrella offers me camouflage from my viewpoint across the road but the steady stream of London traffic randomly interrupts my line of vision. I remember standing outside Nick Logan’s house, twenty years ago, staring up at his bedroom window willing him to spot me. I planned the pretence that I was randomly passing, taking a detour home, when he would ask why I was in the neighbourhood. I did this twice a week for two years but he never appeared. The flashback is unsettling.