I then phone Gary and tell him he needs to get to me as soon as he can and to bring his overnight things. I say I’ll pay double if he spends a few days with me. Olive goes upstairs to dig out some bed linen and get the spare room ready for the new lodger.
I somehow manage a hot shower and although the heat stings the bruises, I feel refreshed and more positive. The stiffness in my limbs is abating as well as the searing pain which has effectively been dulled by the painkillers.
The locksmith is coming in an hour and Gary’s on his way, more than happy to oversee the installation of the new locks. I decide to get out of the house and clear my head before Adam discovers what I’ve done and tries to batter the doors down.
‘Hope you don’t mind.’ I smile as I let Gary in. He doesn’t comment on my black eye but laughs nervously when I joke that I walked into a door. I don’t expand on what happened with Adam, having told Gary the gist on the phone. I had to tell him as I desperately need him in the house. If he has any doubts about helping out, he doesn’t show it. ‘I’ll make it up to you, I promise,’ I say.
‘No worries. I’d do the same for any of my mates. Also this looks a lot more comfortable than my bedsit.’ He wanders from room to room and I tell him to make himself at home.
‘I’m going out on the bike for a couple of hours to clear my head. I’ll be back before Adam gets home.’ I feel an urge to hug Gary but instead pat him on the arm and repeat how grateful I am.
‘Go on. You might need to bang hard on the door when you get back as you’ll not have a key to get in,’ he jokes.
I let myself out, get into the car and head for the lock-up. As I drive towards Camden, I remember how burning up the open road used to blow the cobwebs away. Today it’ll help release the tension and prepare me for the battle ahead. I’m not thinking of the heavy London traffic with its incessant aggression and hidden barriers to speed. The enticement of escape is what motivates me and a desire to forget, even for a short time, my marital nightmares.
But Adam didn’t warn me of the drowsy side effects of the medication and that I shouldn’t be driving. It all happens so fast. The last thing I remember is the bike spinning in an uncontrolled three hundred and sixty degrees. After that, the world turns black.
20
Alexis
A Few Hours Later
It takes me a while to work out where I am. There’s a low buzz and bright lights flicker overhead. I become aware of someone holding my hand and coaxing me gently back to consciousness.
‘Alexis? Alexis? Can you hear me?’ Why is Adam wearing a green gown and talking to me gently and kindly? Something tells me he should be shouting at me, swearing and hitting me instead.
‘Where am I? What’s happened?’ I can hear my voice from somewhere in the distance, a soft croaking whisper. A small Asian nurse is checking my pillows, straightening them behind me. Adam thanks her. He’s a doctor and he’s in charge.
‘You came off a motorbike,’ he smiles or is he sneering? The nurse hovers and I don’t want her to go. ‘I hear it was a wet patch of road.’ He knows about the bike. What else does he know and what am I trying to hide? I can’t remember. Everything’s a blur.
‘Please may I have a glass of water?’ I ask the nurse, knowing that this will bring her back, delay time alone with Adam. What has he done? I can’t remember. I ask for a mirror; it’s an automatic request now I’m in public. My hair is wild, caked in dirt and my lips are cracked. I watch the doctor pull the curtain round my bed once the nurse has gone. He makes sure it shuts out the rest of the ward and then he comes in close.
‘Where the fuck did you get the motorbike?’ He’s spitting in my face and holding my hands down tightly against the bed. I can see a red string dangling by the side of the bed, an emergency cord, but it’s too far away. What would be the use? I’m with a doctor already. I’m not completely sure where I got the bike, I can’t recall. That’s what I’m going to tell Adam as I start to remember the wet surfaces round the back of Highgate. But everything’s fuzzy and I feel so groggy. I think a small black cat appeared out of nowhere and I vaguely remember spinning up onto the pavement.
‘What bike?’ I close my eyes. The nurse will be back soon. I realise my left leg is in plaster. I must have broken it when I crashed into the fencing. The pain, I can remember the pain shooting through my body before I must have blacked out. The nurse returns and gently pulls back the curtain, setting a water jug and plastic cup beside my bed.
‘Can I get anything for you, Dr Morley?’
Adam’s mask is in danger of slipping; that perfect manufactured sincerity that accompanies his bedside manner. I can hear him over the dinner table belittling his patients, making fun of their distress and telling our friends humorous little anecdotes pertaining to their various conditions.
‘No thank you, sister. I’m fine. I’ll be over to theatre in five minutes.’ I keep my eyes tightly shut but hear him lift the water jug and pour me out a glass.
‘Here. Open your eyes. A glass of water will help.’ He forces me to sit up, pushing the glass to my lips. The cold liquid spills down the front of my gown before I manage to swallow. ‘I’ll be back.’ With that he pours the rest of the iced water over my face out of view of the retreating nurse.
I’ve been sleeping on an off for a couple of days but am finally wide awake. Adam brings me some magazines and a couple of newspapers. I think he’s testing my faculties, attempting to draw me out. I’m seeing more of him than I have over the last six months. He’s putting on the act of caring professional and the ever-devoted husband. It is all for show. There’s been no sign of Debbie, not even a fleeting image. If I were her I would be curious to see the spurned wife but perhaps her lover has told her to steer clear.
I toy with the possibility that she has finished with him but it is more likely that he won’t want her now he’s been found out. The clandestine nature of the affair was the attraction, of that I’m certain. It’s so much more exciting having an unsuspecting wife at home and a similarly married lover who is not expecting a future. ‘No strings’ will have been the attraction. Adam is a complete bastard.
I am now in a private ward. Adam has used his influence and fast tracked me away from the other patients. It suits him as he knows I can’t go anywhere and we can’t be heard. I want to get back home and as far away from him as possible. Gary is still in the house and the locks have been successfully changed. He has sent me various texts, keeping me updated and I’ve asked him to stay there and not let anyone other than Olive over the threshold.
After the accident, Adam kept clear of the house apparently, once he discovered the locks had been changed. He is waiting until I’ve recovered. He knows better than to create a fuss in front of the neighbours and won’t want to go to the police to gain access as he’s well aware of the visible effects of his attack on my body. The nurse commented today on the bruises on my face and thigh, making small talk and commiserating over my dreadful accident. I had a lucky escape.
My phone has reappeared by my bedside. Adam, no doubt, has been through my contacts and messages looking for something to pin in my direction. I call Olive. She will help.
She picks up immediately; she has been waiting.
‘Olive?’ She listens silently on the other end. ‘I’ll be home on Friday around 3pm. Would you come over for a cup of tea? I need someone with me, and Gary desperately wants a break away from the house.’ She understands. She will watch for me from her window and come straight round.
Perhaps cul-de-sacs were built to bring people together, to manufacture communication between taciturn occupants. Today I’m glad we moved to the close as it will work in my favour, hampering Adam’s attempts at invisible suppression and imprisonment. Olive is my infirm elderly weapon with the mind of a vibrant twenty-year-old. It lifts my spirits when she tells me she has baked another cake. She also tells me Gary has been working hard on his laptop, ordering pizzas and Chinese takeaways.
Olive coughs down
the phone and I can hear a chesty wheeze as she tries to catch her breath.
‘Take care.’
Adam arrives as I click the ‘off’ button.
‘Who was that?’ He demands, mellowing his tone when he hears the nurse following behind.
‘A friend.’ I won’t tell him that Olive will be there when I get home. He’ll wait until he knows I’m back before he makes his move. Gary hasn’t seen any sign of him for the past few days, not since he tried unsuccessfully to gain access the day the locks were changed. Adam will have worked out that I’ve had enough and, as far as I’m concerned, our marriage is over.
I expect though that he’ll try to maintain the marital façade for his work colleagues and will insist on driving me home himself when I’m discharged. But I’m prepared. Olive will be waiting and won’t leave before him. She has a well-matured stubborn streak. Also Gary’s promised he’ll come back immediately should we need him. He’ll keep his phone turned on at all times, waiting for the emergency call.
The nurse helps me swing my legs round to the side of the bed and hands me the crutches. I have a couple of days to master their use so I can hobble around with the cumbersome plaster cast. She assures me a broken leg will heal. The accident could have been a lot worse, she says, encouraging me to pull myself up in readiness for the work ahead.
21
Caroline
The ten thousand pounds has hit the bank account. It’s so easy. Join Me has turned me into my husband’s pimp. I scroll down the online bank statement. In such a short time my slick duplicitous husband has doubled our turnover with his increasingly regular encounters. We play-act that the sex means nothing, that it’s an integral part of the scheme’s success. Not talking about it is supposed to emphasise its lack of importance. Yet in my nightmares I see him, sucking them ever deeper into his sleazy web, using his taut tanned body to tease them further and further into frenzy. I try to forget that I was once such a victim.
I wonder how he became this person. While I can fathom my own insecurities and obsessions, I question Jason’s readiness for sex with random women; albeit for money. Although he doesn’t open up, it’s in his past. I’m certain. One day I’ll dig deeper. One day when the answers won’t be able to hurt me.
He’s going out tonight. I hear him upstairs getting showered and dressed. I’ve left out his Italian chinos and pale cream linen shirt, carefully creased and pressed to perfection. We are team players in the game of deception; a skilled double act. I pretend to myself that the money eases the pain and that it’s a shared ruse we’ve concocted together. I kid myself that if I let him have enough treats he won’t ever feel the need to leave me and I’m certain enough, at the moment, that he wouldn’t ruin what we have for Susan Harper. She is turning out to be a wise choice of companion with plenty of spare cash.
I force myself upstairs and into our bedroom. I sit down on the edge of the bed and watch while he adds the finishing touches to his appearance.
‘How do I look?’ He twirls around, pirouetting on one foot, unbelieving in the luck that allows him to date beautiful women with the full blessing of his wife. Such a beautiful wife too, he teases, leaning across to kiss me. ‘Come here, gorgeous.’
He’s mad, or perhaps I am. I wonder at the egotism that allows him to prostrate himself in such a manner. He’s like a beautiful teenage Adonis who has no idea how perfect he is. As I neaten the collar of his shirt, I have to remind myself that he is in his thirties and time is on my side; not his. His looks won’t last forever.
Queenie, our white long-haired Persian cat, strolls into the bedroom and rubs herself up against his legs. She flirts, teases him and then turns her back and walks away. That’s what I should have done but it’s no longer possible.
‘Shit.’ Jason frantically picks hairs off his trousers as white stragglers have stuck furiously to the creases. I smile, turning away from him and look out the window. Queenie has come back. She is a minx, as sure of her appeal as my husband is of his. Perhaps if we had children I wouldn’t need to fill the house with cats.
‘Where are you taking her tonight?’ I ask, without looking at him. I watch the car headlights stream past and busy passers-by rushing to unknown destinies. Our road is long and impersonal, comprised of 1930s bland middle-class semi-detached homes. Only the location has made their blandness desirable.
Jason is still picking hairs off his trousers and has kicked Queenie into touch. I like to think he’s not perfect, to have evidence of weaknesses and things that might one day kill off my obsessions. His occasional taunting and cruelty of Queenie give me hope. These and his map of Brazil are slim pickings.
‘We’re meeting in Covent Garden, outside the Opera House,’ he says, always careful not to mention a name. He still tries to save me from hurt which he’s right to suspect lurks close to the surface. I fear my jealousy might be fuelling his passion rather than dousing it.
Down on the street below, a pair of young lovers passes the gate, laughing, holding hands with a shared umbrella shielding them from a light drizzle. I am starting to long for the years to pass so that the passion will all be over and the sexual desire will be replaced by something more solid, meaningful and deep-rooted.
I turn to face my lover, my husband, my tormentor and my obsession. I take his hands, intertwining my fingers in a loving gesture, and kiss him gently on the lips. He pulls me in. I can feel him hard against my body. I want him to think of me when he is on top of her. Yet deep down I want him to be revolted by what he is doing, to tell me he loves me and that he will never be unfaithful again; that we don’t need the money, after all. ‘Why don’t we sell up and move to the country or Spain perhaps?’ He might ask. ‘Our London pot could set us up in style.’
Instead he picks up his jacket and says goodbye. I realise this is never going to happen. He will always be a player, and unless I’m prepared to let up, I have to find another way to keep him close.
I follow him downstairs and when he has gone I go and pour myself a drink. I take it over to the computer and sit down in front of the screen. I spend an hour trawling the latest list of enrolments on the website, making notes and researching candidates. I need to stay one step ahead of the game, not letting things spiral out of control. I’m checking out who my husband might be drawn to next and those that I need him to avoid. At least we have agreed all companions must be married.
I’m drawn to Susan 789’s profile again. Susan Harper. At the moment she is putty in our hands. I have to constantly remind myself that her bony freckly body and obsessive neuroses are unlikely to captivate my husband. Meeting her in person offered temporary relief but it has been short-lived. The gnawing doubt grates on, like a rat’s teeth against bone. Perhaps taunting her with more measured punishment might give me some relief.
22
Alexis
Susan Harper has invited me across the road to one of her ridiculously labelled Friday Fizz events. These are all-inclusive drunken evenings apparently for lady friends and neighbours. I think we’re all supposed to bitch in confidence about our husbands and unfulfilling sex lives. Anyway I’m glad of the excuse to get out of the house.
I find myself hunched down low by the log burner, desperately willing the itch inside my leg cast to abate. Surreptitiously extracting a thin pointed knitting needle from my handbag, I steer it down the gap between the plaster and my calf scraping the skin to find relief. Susan teeters across the room in three-inch heels, holding a bottle aloft.
‘Here, let me top you up, Alexis.’ She bends exaggeratedly low to refill my Prosecco flute. ‘Poor you,’ is tossed through the air loudly enough for everyone to hear and to admire her concern. She wants to be liked.
The oven emits a bright ping. The canapés are done. Mini quiche, mini pizzas, mini sausage rolls and a plethora of other mini delicacies. Susan parades back to her spotless double-fronted glass oven. It is all for show, like the three-inch heels. The fizz and the claustrophobic heat are making me woozy and I feel
slightly nauseous. Perhaps the mini delights will settle my stomach. I hear my phone beep. It will be another message from Adam. I wonder if the text will be contrite, aggressive or accusatory. He’s varying his tone with fierce determination, trying to decide which tactic will work best in his defence and get my attention.
I plop my encased limb awkwardly back from the heat and wonder if my inclusion into this Friday session of alcohol-infused merriment might have something to do with my shattered left leg; a sympathetic gesture perhaps.
However, I feel Susan’s insistent invitation might have had more to do with intrigue following Adam’s apparent absence from our home. He’s been gone too long for it to be a business trip. She will have told the other guests, behind closed doors and in the strictest of confidence, that Alexis and Adam Morley, the new neighbours to the close, seem to have split up. The lump of plaster cast is hiding my slender legs and my lack of make-up renders me downtrodden, defeated. Pity has most likely helped to propel my sudden invitation into the event.
I scratch frantically at my left eye which has come alive. It is the Siamese cats; expensive, sleek and showy. One of them is rubbing itself provocatively on my cast which is so cumbersome that I am unable to politely nudge the animal away.
Caroline Swinton has now been announced as another new member of the Friday drinks club and as I blink, violently trying to clear my vision distorted by the allergens from the felines, I watch her arrival. The other guests squeal in delight, welcoming her with platitudes and air kisses.
She is heavily curvaceous and the skin-tight cut of her clothes accentuate a large bust and ample backside. Shoulder-length blonde hair is brashly highlighted in bleached tones and brightly red manicured nails draw the eye. However, there is something about her manner that makes me think her painted exterior hides a more steely substance. First appearances can be deceptive, and when she speaks I have the feeling that she is playing to the crowd. She is offering herself up to the bored housewives but doesn’t quite fit the mould. It’s a feeling; my detective’s brain in overdrive.
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