The oil slick of an estate agent guides me through the rooms and eventually leads me up to the master bedroom. I’m excited by my plan of pretending to buy the empty house beside Susan’s. Once she hears that we’re interested in the purchase and realises who my husband is, Jason and I should be able to extort a final substantial blackmail payment. At last all my planning could be coming to fruition.
‘Hey presto!’ Mr Herriott throws open the door leading to the en suite bathroom which adjoins the master bedroom. A huge free-standing bath is positioned in the centre of the room and a large walk-in shower extends all the way along one wall. When I gasp and use the word fabulous, I can see he is already counting his commission.
Looking out from the upstairs bedroom window, I spot Susan arrive home. She isn’t seeing Jason today. Well, he hasn’t put it in the diary and he promises me he is meticulous in this regard, although I still wonder. However, with Susan, I think he’s been methodical in his loggings. He feels no emotional connection to her. She’s much too skinny, and white freckly skin and red hair are not his thing. We laughed last night about this while drinking Dom Pérignon and counting our ill-gotten gains. I can, for the time being at least, ignore the images of intimacy. He would never fall for Susan in a serious way. She’s far too easy, and Jason thrives on challenges.
‘Thank you, Mr Herriott. I’ve enjoyed looking around. I’ll get back to you.’ I tease him with interest but he doesn’t let it rest.
‘Shall I call you in a couple of days? Perhaps your husband might like to come with you next time.’ Herriott is grasping at straws. He’s worried that he’s not done enough. Perhaps he should have worn the black pinstriped suit to lend him a more professional air and imbue his tour patter with authority. He straightens his pink tie and glances at himself in the mirror on the stairs as we glide past.
On the front steps, he continues selling me the property, expounding on the desirability of living in such an upmarket cul-de-sac while at the same time tries to secure the mortise lock. I ignore the well-rehearsed spiel and simply smile along. He’s reluctant to leave me on the driveway but eventually gives in and hops into his saloon, waving with manufactured bonhomie out the window, and snakes his way round the circle and out the other end. I hesitate, take a deep breath and head straight up the neighbouring path and ring the bell.
I hear her footsteps before she opens the door.
‘Susan. I hoped you might be in. I’ve been looking round number four.’ I nod towards the For Sale sign.
‘Come in. Come in.’ Her voice is excited and screechy, and grates through the air. ‘Great to see you,’ she enthuses.
I think she’s regretting not looking through the spyhole before letting me in. She wants to be alone, with her thoughts. She’s going through the obsessive compulsive stage which accompanies her newly awakened passions. Yet she’s desperate to talk to someone, someone anonymous, who doesn’t know either Roger or Vince. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she will house the faintest suspicion that I might be that person; the person to whom she can unburden her load.
She leads me into her bright pristine kitchen and reties her long straggly hair back from her face. Sweat glistens through her ghostly white make-up.
‘Have you been to the gym?’ I wander through the conservatory towards the patio doors which lead into her compact garden. It’s the mirror image of number four but without the shiny marble slabs and water feature. Thick Indian sandstone paving leads down to a small hedged planter. There’s a dining table covered in black canvas, sitting out the winter months.
‘You’re thinking of buying the house next door? How exciting.’ She sets down two black mugs neatly side by side and starts up the coffee machine. ‘Cappuccino?’ she asks. I don’t turn but continue to look outside at the garden. There’s a small gate at the far end. I think there’s a similar one in the house I’ve just viewed.
‘Yes please to cappuccino and yes to thinking of buying the house. Where does the gate lead to?’ I ask. Susan is distracted and is trying to gather up coffee beans that have spilled from the packet. ‘The gate at the end of the garden.’
‘Oh that leads out to a small wood with a river running through it. It’s what clinched the sale for Roger. Sugar?’ She promises to show me out the back after we’ve had our coffee.
‘No thanks.’
We sit at the table rather than at the breakfast bar. It’s lower down and it feels like we’re about to start a meeting with a set agenda. She describes Roger to me. He’s a solicitor working out of Lincoln’s Inn, earning lots of money. She pauses, sipping slowly on her coffee, while clasping the black mug. Her knuckles are starkly white against the dark china and her bony hands are those of a skeleton. I prompt her to continue.
‘How’s Jason?’ she asks in an attempt to divert attention away from her husband. I tell her he’s working on a small exhibition of paintings; portraits in oil, I lie. I confide that he’s waiting for his big break. She’s too nice or too disinterested to pry into the financial implications. She’s not interested in where our money comes from or how we could possibly afford to purchase the house next door. Her mind is taken up with Jason, or Vince as she thinks of him. It amuses me to consider that it could be her money that would afford us the theoretical deposit. While we’ve no intention of buying the house, Susan needs to believe we have serious intent. The blackmail payment needs to be substantial and the possibility that we might become her new neighbours should help snare the prize.
It takes about thirty minutes before Susan contrives an opening to steer the conversation on to a more intimate level.
‘Marriage isn’t easy,’ she says. ‘It seems ages since I was single and having fun. I love the kids but they’re hard work.’ At this point she stands up, excuses herself and heads off to the toilet.
‘Won’t be a minute,’ she calls back through the open door. I check my phone. Jason’s called twice but I’m keeping it on mute for now. I watch Susan also check her phone which is sitting on the hall table. I know from her anxious expression that Jason will have texted her recently and she’s most probably reading his message. I suspect this was the real reason for the trip to the bathroom.
‘I know what you mean about marriage. It’s bloody hard work.’ I carry on once she’s come back. ‘Ever been tempted to have an affair?’ I get up and move away from the table and perch high at the breakfast bar to be nearer my hostess who is flitting skittishly round the kitchen.
Susan doesn’t answer at once then suddenly stops and looks at me. ‘Yes. Actually I have.’
She leads me out into the back garden and through the small wooden portal at the end. The sun is trying to poke through the clouds which are moving steadily across the sky. I shiver. A ghost is passing overhead. Susan lifts the latch which squeaks loudly and she bemoans how Roger never fixes anything around the house or garden. She’ll find the oil later, once I’ve gone, and loosen the hinges herself.
The riverbed is wider than I’d imagined and the stream babbles actively downstream. The undergrowth all around is wild and untamed. We stand for a moment or two and then decide to turn back. Next time, perhaps when we are neighbours, we’ll laugh, we’ll wear our boots. As she recloses the gate and secures the latch, she turns to me with a wild look in her eye.
‘His name’s Vince, by the way.’
28
Caroline
A Week Later
We’ve been invited out for dinner, like a normal married couple. It’s been in the diary for a few days and I’ve been so looking forward to it. Jason’s wearing navy slacks and a Ralph Lauren polo shirt. We went shopping earlier, splashing out using our ill-gotten gains and treated ourselves to new wardrobes. Join Me, and of course Susan Harper, has afforded us such luxuries.
I’m tired of her sad invitations of friendship and her neediness is driving me mad. The sooner she becomes finished business the better. She’s started opening up about her secret double life, a life which, unbeknown to her, includes my hu
sband. Vince is so handsome, unnerving, cool and passionate that she can’t help herself. She’s floundering.
Watching Jason splash aftershave on his perfect face, I cringe at the knowledge of mine and Susan’s shared desperation. The only difference is that I got there first. On paper, Jason belongs to me. Susan told me last week, in the strictest of confidence, that Vince is into lucrative investments and needs extra money to secure a deal. She has helped him out.
She embellished her story with untruths for my benefit and ones she is desperate to believe. Vince will be paying her back, in regular monthly instalments, offering up a healthy interest rate. He wants to share his profits with her and she trusts him completely. I asked about the amounts involved, feeling compelled to check that Jason isn’t squirreling away surplus profits for himself. I needn’t have worried. The amounts tallied and he seems to be sticking to the agreement of an open and honest sharing of our dirty money.
Susan confided that Vince has met Roger near where her husband works and she’s worried it might not be a coincidence. What should she do? I wonder why she’s asking me. She wants my approval and any suggestions I might have to help deflect guilt off her own duplicitous skin.
I sat while she scoured her kitchen tops and listened as she prattled on about her secret lover. My eyes were drawn to the plethora of fridge magnets spoiling the perfection. Mickey Mouse and Winnie the Pooh hold in place Post-it notes of significant dates and events. She doesn’t need to leave them there and could clear the shiny silver fridge door of all the paraphernalia. But they’re left there as an overt display for visitors, and probably for Roger, to show everyone how busy and fulfilled she is with motherhood and family life. She needs to feign chaos now that her OCD symptoms have reached psychotic proportions. She lives in a land of make-believe, a land of Winnie the Pooh and Disney fairy tales, but underneath a dark discontent and passionate frustration are channelled in my husband’s direction.
‘How do I look?’ Jason asks. He knows. I don’t need to tell him. His appearance is our job. He says I look lovely and takes me in his arms. I can smell his aftershave, Muscle. We chose it together.
‘What time are they expecting us?’ Jason lifts a soft dark cashmere sweater from the bed and ties it loosely round his bronzed neck; a casual perfection. I lift my jacket from the wardrobe, navy satin, and pull it on over my skin-tight dress. I’m wearing seamed stockings and Jason teases me by saying they make me look like a policewoman. That’ll do. Later I’ll wait for him to rip them off and tell me he still loves me. I’ll believe him until the moon shines through the window and he is fast asleep while I lie awake and count the stars.
Jason has never been to Riverside Close before. I tell him he’ll like the Hunters. Sandra, as I pretend my new friend is called, is the typical bored housewife and Robert is her wealthy successful husband. I don’t use their real names in case he smells a rat and Hunter as an alternative surname to Harper sprung to mind. Afterwards I’ll joke how dreadful he has always been with names and how I can’t believe he didn’t twig on to my little ruse.
As we sip an aperitif before leaving, I start to enjoy the game I have concocted. I watch as he sips a gin and tonic, oblivious as to what is about to unfold. He will be amused and afterwards we will laugh together at the ridiculousness of our hosts in their phoney make-believe world of lies and deceit. But for a moment I waver. A fleeting doubt casts a shadow. His unfettered enthusiasm to our plans so far has encouraged me to have some fun at Susan’s expense but as we haven’t come this far before with any of the other ladies, an inner voice is warning me to be careful.
We decide to walk. This means we can drink too much and fuel our enjoyment of the evening. We’ve always drunk too much when we are together. The heady cocktails feed our games. The night air is crisp and Jason asks me if I’ve been to this Sandra’s house before.
‘Yes. I’ve been round for coffee. You’ll like her,’ I tease, anticipating the shock that’s to come. ‘She’s tall, longish hair.’ I don’t embellish the details and leave out the fiery red colour and pale mottled skin. ‘A bit skinny for your liking,’ I add. I take his hand as we walk along, strolling through the sleepy London side streets, like a couple of young lovers, uncomplicated and together. Only age and the passing of time will dim our passion.
Children might have lifted our love to new heights, or so I’ve been told, but this won’t happen for us; it’s not an option.
I grip his hand tighter.
‘Let’s walk a bit faster. It’s bloody cold,’ he says, pulling me along. ‘Didn’t you look at a house for sale near these guys?’
‘Yes. The house next door to Sandra’s is on the market; number four Riverside Close. I was being nosey.’ He knows if I’d been viewing with intent, he would have been invited along and eventually battered into submission if I had fallen in love with it. He doesn’t yet realise the real reason for my viewing. Later on I’ll own up. We’ll plot together the charade of a potential purchase and endeavour to extort one final hefty payout from Susan 789. Jason’s meeting with Roger in London was only the beginning. I intend for us to turn the screw much tighter and what better way than by pretending to move next door.
As we start the walk up the close towards the ‘ass-end’, as I call the circular bulb at the top, my heart starts to thump. I glance at Jason, wondering what he’s thinking. These sorts of events are not his thing but he likes me to be happy and it’s only for a couple of hours after all.
The straight stretch of road leading into the cul-de-sac feels normal, like any other anonymous London street that keeps moving at either end. The houses here are semi-detached, 1950s brick built with smart neat gardens. They are bland, functional and forgettable. The only detached houses are in the sac at the end where the pretention begins.
Monstrous 4x4 cars block the driveways and a small black Mini sits in the house opposite to the Harpers. Alexis Morley appears to be at home. What a double shock if she were to appear. A pale light peeks through her downstairs curtain and I wonder for a moment at her broken leg. I don’t think she told me the truth of how it happened. I’m her new client. While she’s tailing Jason, I’ll be watching her. Next door I see someone sitting by the window; two people. It looks like an old couple sharing cups of tea. Their curtains are wide open.
‘Which one?’ he asks, hesitating by the For Sale sign. ‘Is this the house you looked at?’ It’s a rhetorical question. It’s the only house visibly for sale. ‘It’s not bad.’
‘Here. We’re going next door.’ I unlink our hands and straighten my dress. I take the lead and walk purposefully the few steps to the front door. Excited children’s voices can be heard shouting from within and I raise my eyes heavenward so Jason can note my derogatory reaction. I expect Susan will chase the children upstairs when her guests arrive, shooing them away with extravagant sloppy kisses on their warm bedtime bodies for all to see. She thrives on overt displays of affection and showy concern.
I press the bell and move back down next to Jason who tries to stay one step behind me. He is showing that he’s only present by dint of being Caroline Swinton’s other half. He’s more than happy to tag along and be second fiddle; it’s less effort.
The wait is interminable and I hold my breath until Roger opens the door.
29
Susan
I’ve been looking forward to this evening. It has given me something to concentrate on, being a good wife and hostess. I feel calm as I stir the casserole and then put it back in the oven. It is exactly eight when the bell rings. I wonder if it will be Caroline and her husband whom I’m dying to meet or perhaps it will be Roger’s partner, Lucas, and his dull appendage Imogen.
I let Roger go and answer the door. I’m surprised how much I’ve enjoyed my day, shopping, preparing and tidying. I’ve managed, for the time being, to push aside thoughts of the recent mayhem torturing my psyche. Tilly and Noah have been blackmailed with all manner of treats and have scurried upstairs to start attacking the mammo
th bags of sweets and chocolates. Roger has put Home Alone on in the children’s DVD player and all is as it should be.
I see Caroline first as she crosses the kitchen to embrace me, her new best friend. I turn away from my culinary preparations, waiting as she prepares to introduce her husband.
‘This is Jason,’ she says, not offering anything further in the way of explanation, purely extending an arm in his direction. She stands aside to let him step forward to meet me; he has been lingering behind and suddenly appears out of the shadows. I proceed to wipe my hands on a dishcloth before I look at him.
‘Hi. Nice to meet you,’ he says, extending a hand in my direction. A weird sensation suddenly hits me and I feel my knees give way. I have to grip the marble top to regain my balance. This guy is the spitting image of Vince. My first thought is that he might be his double, or stranger still, his twin brother. I hear a buzzing in my brain as I try to focus and collect my thoughts.
‘Are you okay, Susan?’ Roger is moving towards me. He realises something is wrong and possibly thinks I’m having some sort of an attack; perhaps it’s my heart. In the distance I hear the doorbell ring again.
‘I’m okay. I’m feeling a bit hot,’ I lie, wiping sweat that’s gathered across my brow. There’s a faint sheath of steam coming from the oven which is clouding my vision. I blink furiously to help me see straight. ‘Can you let Lucas and Imogen in,’ I hear myself speak. Caroline takes the initiative. She leans across and kisses me on both cheeks, hugging me tightly as befits a greeting from a new best friend. She’s waiting for me to acknowledge her husband.
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