Never mind; she’ll find out soon enough.
29
Megan
I arrived home from work in the middle of the afternoon. It hadn’t been a bad shift, but I felt a bit low, which was unusual for me. A few hours earlier, I’d been on the ICU, visiting a new admission – a female cyclist, roughly my age, who’d been hit by a lorry less than half a mile from the hospital. The notes at the foot of her bed revealed she had suffered a massive head trauma, as well as a ruptured spleen and numerous broken bones. She hadn’t regained consciousness since the accident, and from where I was standing the prognosis didn’t look good.
Unusually, there was no name or date of birth on her chart, leading me to surmise that she hadn’t been carrying any ID at the time of the accident, and no one had yet reported her missing. I queried it with one of the nurses, who confirmed that efforts were still being made to identify the victim and trace her next of kin. It broke my heart to think that somewhere there was a family who had no idea their loved one was lying in a hospital bed, kept alive by a ventilator and an aggressive cocktail of drugs. I spent longer than strictly necessary at her bedside. I don’t know why; I suppose I just hated the thought of her being alone.
I don’t know if she felt my presence, but if she did I hope she found it comforting. As I left the unit, head bowed and deep in thought, I almost ran straight into Pete, who was walking at the head of a group of bright-eyed medical students. As we passed each other in the corridor, I turned, very deliberately, to look at him, but he avoided any eye contact. Coward.
The house appeared to be empty. The downstairs rooms were deserted, but there was a curious atmosphere, a sort of heaviness in the air. Even though I was gasping for a cup of tea, my first priority was changing out of my work things. Up in my bedroom, I quickly stripped off my uniform tunic and black trousers and pulled on jeans and a loose, thigh-length T-shirt. It was only as I pulled out my hair elastic and tossed it on the bedside table that I noticed the dress that I’d left lying on the bed earlier on. It had slipped off its hanger as I’d dragged a cardigan out of the wardrobe. Given that I was already in serious danger of missing the 7.05 to London Bridge, I’d tossed it on the bed, intending to hang it up later. It was a pale pink wrap dress with a tiered skirt and delicate embroidery on the neckline and sleeves, much more expensive than the things I usually wore. I’d spent three weeks drooling over it on ASOS before finally taking the plunge; I’d only had the chance to wear it once or twice.
When I’d seen it that morning, the dress had been in pristine condition, but now there was a large black stain on the chiffon top layer. Gasping in disbelief, I went over to the bed, whereupon the source of the stain immediately became apparent. My rose-gold fountain pen – a thirtieth birthday present from Chloe – was lying next to it on the bed. The lid was off and the exposed nib was nestling against the fabric of the dress. I didn’t know how long it had been there – evidently long enough to produce a stain roughly five centimetres in diameter. I released a volley of expletives as I jammed the lid back on the pen and tossed it to the floor in disgust. The dress was ruined; I just couldn’t see how on earth it had happened. I always kept the fountain pen in the canvas messenger bag I took to work. When I wasn’t using it, the bag was more often than not looped over one of the knobs on my wardrobe door – could the pen have rolled out on to the bed as I slung the bag over my shoulder that morning? Possible, but unlikely. I didn’t use the pen every day and I tried to remember the last time I’d seen it; it was several days at least, possibly a week. It would have been easy enough for someone to take the pen from my bag without me knowing.
Just then, I heard a noise coming from the ground floor. It must be Sammi, but where on earth had she been hiding? Quickly, before I could lose my nerve, I grabbed the dress and went downstairs. I found Sammi standing in the kitchen, leaning with both hands on the worktop, her head down, her shoulders rigid. She didn’t move her body as I entered, but simply rotated her head, like an eagle watching a field mouse. I could feel her silently auditing my flaws: the shine on my unpowdered nose, the bra strap poking out from under my T-shirt, the loose threads hanging from the hem of my jeans.
‘Hi, Meg-aaan,’ she said. She had a particular way of saying my name, snapping the first syllable against the roof of her mouth and drawing out the second in something akin to a sigh, that made the hairs on my arms bristle.
I offered no greeting, but simply held out the dress. ‘Look at this,’ I said curtly.
‘Look at what?’ she replied, her expression all innocence and haughty incomprehension.
I gestured to the ink stain. ‘My favourite dress, it’s ruined.’
She pinched her face together and studied the stain, her eyes somehow angry and indifferent at the same time.
‘Oh my goodness, I see what you mean. How annoying! How did that happen?’ Her words sounded hollow, like lines she’d rehearsed so often they’d lost their meaning.
‘I’ve no idea,’ I said, smiling sarcastically. ‘I thought perhaps you might be able to answer that question.’
‘I’m sorry, Megan, I’m not sure what you’re getting at.’
I could feel my armpits growing sweaty. I don’t know why I felt so jumpy – what could I possibly have to fear from Sammi?
‘When I left the house this morning, there was nothing wrong with this dress. I’ve just come home now to find it covered in ink.’
She flicked her tongue over her incisors. ‘Ink?’ she repeated.
‘It leaked out of my fountain pen,’ I said. ‘I can’t think how it ended up on my bed. Next to the dress. With the lid off.’
Sammi shifted position so that she was now facing me. ‘I’m sorry, Megan, but your guess is as good as mine.’
‘You didn’t borrow it from my bag, then – my fountain pen, I mean – and leave it lying on the bed?’
‘No, I haven’t touched your bag. I’ve got plenty of pens of my own.’ She gave a smile that was as sweet as icing, setting my teeth on edge.
I could feel my earlier conviction wavering. I had no proof, no witnesses, and of course there was always the outside chance the pen had simply slipped out of my bag and on to the bed without me realising. Even if Sammi were responsible, she was never going to admit it. The silence revolved around us. Then she held a finger in the air, as if inspiration had suddenly struck. ‘I know a specialist dry cleaner’s in Shoreditch; they’re absolute miracle workers. Loads of fashion editors send their stuff there after it’s been trashed on shoots. If anyone can get that stain out, they can. I can give you directions if you like.’
‘Thanks, but I think it’s a lost cause,’ I said as I went over to the swing bin and stuffed the dress inside. As I looked up, Sammi’s pale face seemed to glow with a dark victory.
30
Chloe
I was feeling somewhat anxious as I waited outside the theatre. An hour or so earlier, Sammi had pinged me a text, asking if I wanted to meet her for a drink after work. In actual fact, I didn’t. I was tired and my recent conversation with Megan about the strange goings-on in the house had unnerved me more than I cared to admit. Half of me was tempted to fob Sammi off with an excuse, but the other half was curious to know what lay behind her invitation. I wondered if there was something in particular she wanted to discuss with me; something she preferred to reveal in a public place, where I would be less likely to make a scene. Tom doesn’t love you any more. He thinks your boobs are too small and he’s fed up of listening to you moan about work; he wants to be with me now. Oh, and you know that six-month South America trip . . . the one you two have been talking about ever since you first met, except you know you’ll never actually do it because you’re so worried about abandoning your precious career? Well, he’s doing it with me now, and we’re leaving in the morning.
In my already fragile emotional state, it was difficult not to think the worst. After a couple more cocktails at the Colombian tapas bar, I had extracted more information from Megan about
exactly what it was she had witnessed at London Bridge. She had reported a kiss (possibly chaste, possibly not) and had described Tom and Sammi’s demeanour as ‘upbeat’ as they left the station together. It wasn’t very much to go on; I needed to know more and there were only two people who could supply that information. Unfortunately, the day after Megan’s disclosure, Tom had gone up north to work on a pop concert at one of the big stadiums. He wouldn’t be back until the end of next week and, if I was going to have it out with him, I would prefer to do it face-to-face. Actually, part of me was relieved he had gone. I wasn’t feeling strong enough for a confrontation; the longer I could put it off, the better. But now, here was Sammi, wanting to meet me, and I doubted very much it was to discuss the Bellevue Rise cleaning rota.
By the time she eventually arrived, a full twelve minutes late, my stomach was in knots and it was all I could do to wring out a smile. Sammi claimed not to know the area very well, so I suggested we head to a pub I knew in Belgravia. En route, she chatted brightly about a reality TV star she’d interviewed that afternoon and whose propensity to gab on was, apparently, the reason for her tardiness. She seemed almost excessively friendly and I wondered if she were simply tenderising me before she went in for the kill.
‘This is nice, isn’t it?’ Sammi remarked, as we carried our drinks to a table by the window, next to a large group of braying men in well-cut suits.
‘What is?’ I said, unable to keep the accusatory tone out of my voice.
‘Us two . . . meeting up like this,’ she said. ‘I know it’s a bit last minute, but I was up in town anyway and I just thought to myself, Why not text Chloe on the off chance? She can only say no.’ She beamed at me in a way I found inexplicably infuriating. ‘But I’m so glad you didn’t. I’ve been meaning to suggest a night out together for ages.’
‘I can’t stay for the whole evening,’ I said peevishly. ‘I’ve got to be at work early tomorrow. There’s a technical problem with one of the productions I’ve been working on, I have to redesign part of the set.’
‘I understand, just let me know when you’re ready to go.’ She grinned again. Her features were almost too expressive, like those of an actress.
I picked up my vodka cranberry and drained a third of it in one go. ‘Was there a special reason you wanted to meet up?’
‘Not really,’ she said, and I could see she was taken aback by my directness. ‘I just thought it would be nice to meet away from the house for a change.’
‘Megan will be sorry she missed out,’ I said, studying Sammi’s face carefully, trying to gauge her reaction. ‘In fact, why don’t I give her a call? She was on an early shift today, so she’ll be leaving work soon.’
Sammi reached out and brushed the back of my hand. She had long, delicate fingers and the touch felt almost like a caress. ‘I’d rather you didn’t. I get the impression Megan’s not my biggest fan.’
‘Nonsense,’ I lied. ‘You’re just very different personalities, that’s all.’
‘Then why did she accuse me of damaging her dress when I haven’t been anywhere near it?’ Sammi said, with a momentary flash of anger.
‘Did she?’ I said, playing dumb. Megan had told me about the ink-stained dress and her skirmish with Sammi – although from what she’d said, she had stopped short of a direct accusation.
‘Yes, I’m not quite sure what she thought had happened, but she seemed to be suggesting I’d borrowed her fountain pen without asking, then put it back on her bed without putting the lid on properly, so it leaked all over her dress. I think she was probably just upset and looking for someone to blame.’ Sammi gave a loud sniff. ‘We’ve never really hit it off . . . like you said, we’re just too different. But I’d like to think that you and I are friends, Chloe.’ The hard edges of her features softened, making her look quite different.
‘This is going to sound silly, but I felt a connection with you almost from the moment we met,’ she went on. ‘I don’t have loads of friends; I’ve always been the sort of person who prefers their own company. I expect it has something to do with the fact that I grew up an only child.’
Her face was unguarded, vulnerable and even a little sad. It was as if for a second a window had flown open and I’d caught a glimpse of something behind the confident façade. Despite my reservations about Sammi, I was flattered to hear her say those things. And if I’m honest, I also felt a connection with her, which was precisely why the thought of her sneaking off to meet Tom behind my back hurt so much.
‘I hope we’re friends too,’ I replied. ‘It’s such a shame you and Megan haven’t gelled; she really is a lovely person when you get to know her. It’s not too late, though. I really think that if we all put in a bit more effort, we can make this house share a huge success.’ I knew I sounded like an over-jolly scoutmaster trying to coax a reluctant teenager up Scafell Pike.
‘Of course,’ she said, straightening her back and folding her hands. ‘I love living at Bellevue Rise, and please trust me when I say that I want this to work out as much as you do.’
‘Can I trust you, though?’ I blurted out the words almost without thinking.
She laughed uneasily. ‘That’s a strange thing to say . . . of course you can.’ Her face grew more serious. ‘Is there something on your mind, Chloe? If there is, you must tell me.’
I took a deep breath to galvanise myself. ‘Why did you and Tom meet up at London Bridge station last Wednesday?’
There was a hiatus, like one of those pauses that occur in the theatre, when darkness falls and the stagehands have to hustle to get the props into place for the next scene.
‘Why?’ she said carefully. ‘What has Tom said?’
I drained the rest of my drink. ‘He hasn’t said anything, because I haven’t asked him.’ I gave her a hard smile. ‘I’m doing my best not to jump to conclusions, but the fact that neither one of you has seen fit to mention it to me up until this point does raise one or two concerns.’
The colour rose on Sammi’s neck and cheeks. ‘If Tom didn’t tell you, how do you know we met?’ she said carefully.
I wondered if she was playing for time. ‘That’s not important,’ I lashed out. ‘What is important is that you tell me the truth; no lies, no bullshit.’
Sammi’s gaze drifted to the window. ‘Tom and I agreed to keep it between ourselves; we didn’t think you’d ever find out.’ My heart began thrashing in my chest. It took a considerable effort to keep the swelling tide of emotion off my face.
She turned to face me and our eyes locked together. ‘Tom’s worried about you, Chloe; we both are. I appreciate that I don’t know you very well, but even I can see that you haven’t been your usual self lately. Tom asked me to meet him for a coffee so we could discuss it; it seemed more respectful than talking about you in whispers at the house.’
As she spoke, I felt a lessening of pressure, like a belt being loosened, or the removal of an uncomfortable pair of shoes. ‘So what exactly did you talk about?’
‘Tom’s scared you’re about to dump him. I did my best to convince him that it was the furthest thing from your mind.’ She hesitated and looked at me anxiously. ‘That was the right thing to say, wasn’t it?’
It was true that I had been considering a temporary split, but just until my sleep sorted itself out and I got my head straight at work – and actually, once I’d had a chance to think it through, I’d realised what a singularly bad idea it was. I was struggling to cope as things were; without Tom in my life, I would probably fall apart.
‘Yes, it was the right thing to say,’ I reassured her. ‘I love Tom, there’s no way I want to break up with him.’ A sudden, horrible thought hurtled through my mind. ‘You didn’t tell him about the night terrors, did you?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Sammi said. ‘You told me you didn’t want Tom to find out and there’s no way I’d break a confidence. I simply said that you were under a lot of stress at work and you were having trouble sleeping.’
I drummed my fin
gers on the tabletop. ‘How did Tom react?’
‘He seemed very relieved. He told me he was going away for work for a while and asked me to keep an eye on you while he was gone. And that was it really . . . we were in the café for less than half an hour and then we went our separate ways.’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘But why would he talk to you and not Megan? No offence, but she knows me a whole lot better than you do.’
‘He didn’t think she’d agree to meet him behind your back.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe that makes her a better friend than me; I don’t know. I’m so sorry, Chloe, I thought I was doing the right thing, but I know how it must look . . . the two of us sneaking round behind your back.’
‘Apology accepted,’ I said. ‘Just one more thing . . . when you said you didn’t think I was my usual self, what did you mean exactly?’
‘You’ve lost your sparkle. You seem detached; you’re snappy and irritable.’
‘Anything else?’
’You look different,’ she said.
‘Do I?’
‘Yes,’ she said, flinging her arm at me. ‘I mean, just look at you, Chloe . . . you’ve got bags under your eyes, your skirt needs ironing, there’s a hole in your tights – and I don’t know if you brushed your hair before you left the house this morning, but it certainly doesn’t look like it.’
‘Thanks very much,’ I muttered, baring my teeth in a parody of a smile.
She bit her lip. ‘Shit, Chloe, that sounded awful, didn’t it?’
The Housemate Page 15