4 Riverside Close

by Diana Wilkinson

  My motive for being here, for putting an end to any more meetings, has become blurred as a premonition tells me I needn’t have worried as Vince seems to be cooling off. A weird illogical panic hits that he might not want to see me after today.

  ‘Maybe we’ll meet up again soon.’ His voice lacks conviction. He stands up and moves away from the table and I sense a definite hint of closure in the statement. I watch him smile at the waitress who turns pink from the attention. I remember the girl at the zoo. He knows his throwaway comment has hit the mark. I now have the get-out-of-jail-free card that I wanted. I can hop back on the tube and tell myself nothing has happened. It will all have been a mirage. However, as I hesitatingly pull on my coat over my flimsy top, watching Vince draw his wallet out of his pocket, I’m hit with the terrible realisation that I can’t walk away. I want to see him again.

  It has nothing to do with not loving Roger. This guy has sucked me in with his animal magnetism. Perhaps one afternoon of unbridled passion would be enough; then I could settle down at home, having escaped my humdrum existence for a few hours. It must be the alcohol talking because from somewhere far off, I hear myself speak.

  ‘Vince. Sit down a minute. Listen…’ but he knows what I’m going to say. He’s watching me, listening, all ears, waiting for the words to spill out. ‘I’ll make up the shortfall for your investment. I’ll let you have the five thousand. Let’s call it an advance. When you make your millions you can pay me back.’ He’ll have to meet me now at least one more time.

  I can still feel his hard body as he pinned me up against the large oak tree on the way back up to the tube station. He told me that he’s starting to need me, badly. I close my eyes as the train rumbles on towards my stop, remembering the urgency with which he pushed his hips towards mine. We laughed when a couple of passers-by looked askance in our direction but he carried on kissing me, letting his tongue tease me further into the abyss. It had nothing to do with the money. He wouldn’t have been able to play-act such feelings, such passion. That was surely something that couldn’t be faked.

  As I walk back up Riverside Close towards home, the afternoon chill has become more biting. The lights are on downstairs in our house. Tilly and Noah will be back from school and will scream ‘Mummy’ as soon as I open the door.

  I pause outside the Thompsons’ house and see Olive standing by the window, her aged back stooped. Her husband is by her side, handing her a glass of something. I smile acknowledgement. The alcohol is steadily draining through my system, leaving in its wake a bad taste in my mouth. It’s the poisonous fur of deceit, of adultery, and as I put the key in the lock, I have to remind myself that I’ve still done nothing really wrong and it isn’t too late to turn back. As I go to close the door behind me, I know this is a lie, that it might be too late to turn back.

  I cross the threshold into the hall and am aware of someone watching me. I glance over my shoulder and see Olive Thompson in her front living room, face pressed up hard against the window, staring in my direction. She’s like a motionless silent statue and even after I close the door, I can feel her eyes boring through my soul.

  14

  Alexis

  I don’t know why I’m shocked at where Gary lives. He’s the young rookie private investigator I met in Luton and he’s renting a room in a terraced house in the middle of a long rambling road off Green Lanes, near Turnpike Lane tube station.

  I double-lock the motorbike, chaining it up against a rickety set of railings. I wander up and down the street, trying to find a number on any of the houses. About halfway up I spot the number twenty-seven painted on to a wooden sign hanging off a door frame at an angle; the digits are barely decipherable through the rotting wood. I pick my way through a mass of debris littering the front path. Empty beer bottles are stacked randomly in a blue plastic container outside the front door and I have to bang hard against the cracked frosted glass to be heard. A disused brass bell hangs from an exposed wire to the right of the door.

  ‘Hi. Come in.’ Gary’s face pokes out round the door. He invites me in to step over more litter. Unopened envelopes are strewn across the floor along with piles of free newspapers. ‘Excuse the mess,’ he says as he leads the way upstairs to his room. The trail of clutter continues into the bedsit as he ushers me through a strange green gunmetal door and proceeds to pull open the curtains to admit daylight.

  ‘Coffee?’ he asks pointing to a kettle, powdered milk and a half crumbling packet of Jaffa cakes.

  ‘No thanks. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to get down to business.’ I peel off my leather gloves and stack them inside my crash helmet. Although Gary looks like a teenager and desperately in need of a good meal, logic tells me he’s in his early twenties. There’s something innocently likeable about him as he fidgets around clearing a place for me to sit. I scour the room for traces of a female presence, glad that he appears to live on his own. Male mess is everywhere: clothes littering the floor and empty beer cans on the coffee table, and I’ve an urge to help him clear up. A large poster over the bed depicts an early eighteenth-century map of London and underneath there is a torn picture of Marilyn Monroe; a strange pairing.

  ‘I’ve something I’d like you to do for me. It’s personal.’ I blush and wonder why. My leather trousers are sticking hotly against my legs and I have to unzip my jacket as the room is stifling. A small blow heater is whirring full blast in the corner. ‘I wonder if you’d follow someone for me, take some photographs.’ It all sounds a bit sad and seedy as I say the words out loud but I don’t really have a choice. I justify my methods as being in keeping with my new career challenge. The truth is I want to catch Adam in the act and then make him sweat. This time he’ll pay. I need proof before I can confront him. Although I have a grainy video recording of him entering Waverley Mansions with a bunch of red roses, I need clearer photographic evidence of him up close and intimate with Debbie. A good divorce settlement will depend on it. Adam will fight to the bitter end and deny anything untoward without evidence to prove it. I know him too well.

  ‘I don’t have a car,’ Gary says. ‘I’m sorry but I can’t afford one. The course in Luton took all my cash. I saved for weeks. A car’s next on my list though,’ he offers eagerly, willing me to accept his story. He has a strip of determined acne running down the centre of his face, red aggressive spots being fed from a dirty fringe drooping across his forehead. His nose is worst affected, an angry zit sitting proudly on its tip.

  ‘Don’t worry. That’s not a problem. This is how it’ll work.’

  An hour later we set off up Wightman Lane snaking through the back streets of North London towards the hospital. Gary clings on for dear life to my leather-clad torso, squealing in delight every so often as we weave in and out. I suspect he hasn’t ridden pillion before and certainly never behind a woman.

  ‘Shit!’ he yells when a black Rastafarian driver winds down his window and gives us an aggressive two-finger sign. ‘Up yours!’ Gary shouts in response and we laugh together as I overtake on the inside, raking up the High Road and leaving the queue of cars behind. When we finally reach the hospital car park I drive slowly past the visitor bays until we spot the staff parking at the far end. I turn my head, lifting the visor, and point out the blue Mercedes.

  ‘That’s it; AM 2456 number plate.’ We circle round to the far side of the car park and Gary dismounts while I keep the bike ticking over. He unfastens his rucksack and slings it casually over one shoulder. I point him in the direction of the main entrance. ‘There’s a coffee shop on the ground floor. Adam’s due to finish around five. Keep your phone on and I’ll text with any updates. You do the same,’ I say, giving him the beady eye. ‘Keep me posted.’

  I watch Gary walk towards the main entrance. With his loping gait and rounded shoulders he doesn’t stand out from the crowd. He’s perfect. I think I’ll make a good PI with Gary as a willing sidekick. There’s something vulnerable about him and I realise he reminds me a bit of Trent.

&nbs
p; My phone pings a message at around four thirty. It’s from Adam. I’m biding my time in a dark dusty pub a couple of streets away from the hospital. My collar is turned up and I’ve slunk to the corner of the saloon which is deserted apart from a couple of old men drinking pints. I’m sticking to water.

  Hi. Sorry still operating. Will be later than usual but will txt when leaving. Adam xxx

  I’m about to text back, when another ping announces a message from Gary.

  He’s getting into car with blonde nurse. I got a couple of pictures. Now waiting outside. G

  I text Gary to tell him I’m on my way and ignore Adam’s message. He can wait. One of the old boys looks up from his pint and whistles through gaping gums, winking as I push my way through.

  Outside the rain is falling again and rush hour has begun. I kick-start the engine into life and realise London traffic never stops; it’s just heavier in rush hour. The beating heart of the capital doesn’t rest. I remind myself of the need for caution. Trent’s words ‘it’s not a toy’ ring loud in my ears.

  I make my way round to the hospital and spot the Mercedes slide out of the car park as I turn in. Bastard. Debbie’s touching up her lipstick in the mirror and Adam is laughing at something. A big mistake. Up ahead, I see Gary standing out in the rain and I’m impressed that he isn’t sheltering under the entrance canopy. I think he wants to impress his new boss. He steps forward when he sees my approach and hops up behind me. He points after the Mercedes and I nod acknowledgement as we set off on its tail.

  We only ever see what we’re expecting. Adam has no idea that I’m onto his tawdry little tryst and as I follow tight behind, trailing close to the driver’s side, I can see him looking back at the unknown motorcyclist. He’ll be getting irate. He hates tailgaters but I enjoy irking him, baiting his blood pressure. Gary shouts over the incessant traffic noise for me to pull back. He’s getting nervous and is clinging ever more tightly to my waist.

  When we draw level with the entrance to Waverley Mansions, I lift up my visor and point a leathered finger towards the entrance. ‘That’s it. The one with the orange Fiat outside.’

  I drive round the corner, pull in to the kerb and wait for Gary to hop off again. He removes his helmet and tucks it into the box attached to the rear of the bike and pulls his hoody up over his head and winds his scarf tightly round his neck. He then puts on a set of dark thick-rimmed glasses which he’s taken out of the rucksack. The glass lenses are large and cover at least a third of his face. With his hair scraped in to a ponytail, no one will give him a second glance. His facial features are well and truly hidden.

  ‘Mr Kabal’s finest,’ he laughs.

  I laugh with him. This might work.

  I’m getting ready for bed when Adam gets home. I’ve bathed and dressed in a new silky see-through negligee. It’s a peach colour, soft and luxurious. I’ve washed my hair and fluffed it up. I have two personas now. I will overdo the feminine allure so that there’ll never be an inkling that I’m connected to the dark leather-clad motorcyclist who races round the maze of London streets on covert missions. The scented body lotion feels soft against my skin and I’ve dabbed Adam’s favourite perfume behind my ears; Poison. I lighten my voice.

  ‘Hi. Upstairs!’ I yell down. He’ll hear my happy mellow tone as he unpeels his overcoat and hangs it up behind the front door. He’ll be breathing more easily, contented and smug that his home life is intact and he’s got away with his peccadilloes once again. He thinks he knows me. He always thinks he’s one step ahead of the game and that he’s clever in the extreme. His arrogance is spawned from a background of privilege. A medical degree, first class honours and years of dedication, have coated him with a layer of armoured invincibility. I tease my hair once more with the comb and decide to wander along the landing to meet him. He does a double-take on the stairs.

  ‘My. You look gorgeous.’ He smiles. It’s a tired smile, subtly manufactured to warn me in advance that he’s had a very busy day. I want him to remember this moment, remember what he has thrown away and the cost of his deceit. He’s going to find out soon what a fool he has been.

  15

  Alexis

  Today is Adam’s birthday. I have everything planned. It’ll be our last birthday together so I want to make it special. It’ll be very special. He has warned me on more than one occasion that there are to be no surprise parties but he should perhaps have warned me against all surprises. He’s in for such a treat. My anger has made me brave, determined.

  It’s seven o’clock by the time I’ve prepared all the final touches to the table. I’ve stuck with a red theme; harlot red. Scarlet serviettes are neatly tucked inside the large wine glasses and a very expensive bottle of St Emilion Grand Cru red wine is open and breathing in the centre of the table. Tonight is about his favourites. He’ll remember the details later, my perfect and successful husband.

  I’ve treated myself to a figure-hugging red dress which nicely complements the serviettes. I’ve lost a lot of weight, through all the activity and angst. I’m wearing Pacific Island oyster pearls, a present from Adam on our first wedding anniversary. I sit gripping a large glass of champagne, waiting for him to get home, my nerves jangling. Anticipation of his reaction is playing havoc with my insides.

  Adam is usually self-contained, not prone to emotion. When I miscarried the first time he took control, relief seeping out through insincere words of comfort. There’ll be a next time, he assured me, saying that perhaps we weren’t ready to be parents. He was let off the hook a while longer but when I announced pregnancy the second time round, I watched the slump of resignation in his shoulders. I still haven’t forgiven him for opening a bottle of wine, purely for commiseration, when a small red blob of blood hit the toilet bowl for a second time in the same year. All hopes of parenthood were flushed away in a chink of glasses which was meant to ease the pain. Men are not meant to cry but Adam had nothing to hold in; except relief. His eyes stayed dry.

  The close is very quiet. I’ve lit several candles, placing them strategically round the room and have turned off the centre light, leaving only a single lamp on in the corner. I hover by the window. There’s an eerie stillness outside. There’s no through traffic; no passing cars or lorries. Only silence. A bright light is on in the Harpers’ kitchen. Susan will be awaiting Roger’s return to help with the bedtime stories. I no longer want to trade places. It’s too late.

  As I drain my second glass of champagne, I notice Olive by her window. She’ll be making notes in her diary, logging the silence. Perhaps she’ll record Adam’s time of arrival and will proudly show me the activity log for the close in the morning.

  The key turns in the door at exactly seven thirty. I don’t move but can’t control the stiffening of my body. My teeth clench and I have to consciously unclamp my locked jaw. I flick my hair back and check my outline in the window. I don’t recognise myself. Olive waves to confirm she’s seen me.

  ‘Hi. I’m home.’ Home. What a strange word. It’s where the heart is, or so they say. It’s where you can close the door and escape from the real world; feel secure and safe inside. That’s always been my understanding anyway.

  ‘In here,’ I chirp. My lightness of tone rings false but Adam will be more shocked by my appearance and will rightly put down my apparent merriment to something more devious. He’ll suspect that it is that time of the month when attempts at baby making might prove fruitful. There’ll be panic in his eyes.

  He pokes his head round the corner of the dining area, sheepishly pushing open the door against the dreaded appearance of friends and acquaintances who might raucously appear from behind sofas and curtains screaming ‘happy birthday’ in unison. His smile is fixed. He looks like a doctor who is trying to dampen a terminal diagnosis. He waits until I see him visibly unwind when he realises that we’re alone. It takes a further couple of seconds for the baby-making scenario to cross his mind.

  ‘Wow,’ is all he says. It speaks volumes.

  ‘Ha
ppy birthday!’ I raise my glass, wander over and kiss him lightly on the lips before handing him an already filled flute. Adam is the consummate professional. The terminal diagnosis can wait, as he loosens his tie and decides that partying might not be such a bad idea. A birthday only happens once a year after all.

  ‘I’ll go and get changed and,’ he says as an afterthought, ‘thanks.’ He smiles, making no mention of the provocative red outfit.

  I smile back. ‘You’re welcome.’ With that, he disappears upstairs.

  I’ve cooked his favourite meal. Veal escallops lightly coated in rice flour and then pan fried in a rich Marsala wine, and have covered my expensive outfit in a ‘kiss the cook’ apron. It was a Valentine’s Day present when I first invited him round for dinner. On that occasion we also had veal. Tonight my apron will help him to relax as the overt sexual innuendoes are camouflaged for the time being. I am a cook, housewife and partner until supper is eaten. He’ll deal with the sex issues then. Perhaps the wine will mellow his mood and make children seem not such a bad idea after all.

  Adam reappears in jogging bottoms and T-shirt, in what appears to be a deliberate attempt to divert the emphasis away from sexual overtones. I watch as he pours himself another drink and realise I feel no guilt at what I’m doing but do wonder how long it’s been since I felt any affection for him. Before I sit, I ask him to top up my glass as I move to close the curtains. Nothing outside has changed and Olive is still looking.

  I extract a small neatly wrapped package and what looks like a large birthday card from the desk by the window. Adam’s watching me; I can feel his eyes on me. He’ll be thinking that he didn’t do so badly for himself after all. Perhaps he’s regretting Debbie at this moment but it’s too late and any regret would be short-lived.