The Housemate

by Pattison C. L.

  As I watched her flitting from person to person with consummate ease, I wondered how many of these people were bona fide friends and how many were mere business contacts, people who could be picked up and dropped again at any moment, depending on their usefulness. Having disengaged herself from the man in black, I saw that Sammi was momentarily alone. She turned in a slow circle to scan the room quite shamelessly, as if sizing up her potential prey. There was a shaft of light from an overhead spot, illuminating the space behind her. It was so bright that she appeared to be nothing but a figure, faceless, expressionless.

  The next moment, a passing waitress bearing a tray laden with empty glasses nudged her arm. The sudden movement caused Sammi to spill some champagne from her own glass down the front of her dress. It was clearly an accident, but Sammi glared at the waitress as if she’d just slapped her across the face. A moment later, she spotted someone across the room she wanted to talk to and all of a sudden her smile was back in place.

  I was on my third glass of champagne when Sammi drifted back over to me. ‘How are you doing, Megan – getting bored yet?’ she asked. ‘I’m pretty much done here, so we can go whenever you like.’

  ‘I’ve had a great time, thanks,’ I said. ‘Was it a worthwhile evening for you?’

  She rocked her hand from side to side. ‘So-so. I don’t enjoy these things all that much, to be honest. Unfortunately, kissing arse is just part of being a freelancer.’

  ‘Well, you certainly seem to be very good at it.’ I eyed the large stain on the front of her dress. ‘It’s such a shame that waitress made you spill your drink.’

  ‘Isn’t it just?’ she said, plucking at the damp fabric. ‘This dress isn’t even mine, I borrowed it from the fashion cupboard at Marie Claire.’

  ‘You’ll have to take it to that specialist dry cleaner’s – you know, the one in Shoreditch?’ There was a mocking tone in my voice, I couldn’t resist it. Sammi looked at me for a long moment, as if she were trying to work me out.

  ‘Why did you invite me here, Sammi?’ I said, emboldened by the two and a half glasses of champagne I’d drunk.

  She stared at me so intently I could see the stripes of gold alternating with the brown in her eyes like spokes of a wheel.

  ‘I thought it would be nice if we got to know each other a bit better.’

  I nodded slowly. ‘Only, I wondered if perhaps you had an ulterior motive.’

  Her eyes widened innocently. ‘Such as?’

  I licked my lips. ‘Perhaps you thought it would be a good way to ingratiate yourself with Chloe – you know, if you appeared to be making a big effort with me.’

  She didn’t even flinch. ‘I know you don’t like me, Megan, and here’s the thing – I don’t like you much either.’

  I was shocked not so much by this statement as by the calm with which she delivered it. I shrugged, trying to give off an air of indifference, but inside my chest my heart was beating wildly. ‘I think it’s fair to say we don’t have much in common.’

  ‘Except for Chloe.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed, holding her gaze. ‘Except for Chloe.’

  She regarded me coolly. ‘Not that it makes any difference, because I can see you’ve already made up your mind about me – but, for your information, I invited you because I wanted to offer an olive branch. I know we’re never going to be friends, but I thought it would be better for all of us, Chloe included, if we could at least get along. Now I know I was wrong.’ A sliver of steel had entered her tone. ‘But if you think you’re going to drive me out of my own home, you can think again. Living at Bellevue Rise suits me very well and I can assure you that I have no intention of moving out, not until I’m good and ready. There’s only one person who can make me go, and that’s the landlord – and, so long as I keep paying my rent on time, I don’t think he’ll have any problems with me staying.’ She folded her arms and gave me a ‘so fuck you’ look.

  Unfortunately for me, she was right. Although it had been our decision to get a third person in, strictly speaking Chloe and I weren’t sub-letting to Sammi. Her tenancy agreement was with the landlord, so only he could give her notice to quit.

  Sammi leaned towards me. I could smell her perfume, something musky and assertive. ‘Of course, Megan, if you find living with me so uncomfortable, there’s nothing stopping you from moving out. I’m sure Chloe and I can easily find someone to replace you.’

  Her words were like a blade running under my ribs, making me almost gasp for breath. There was no pretence about Sammi now; her fake charm had left the room with the waitress and her tray of canapés. She smiled, but it was a sharp, hostile smile, as though acknowledging a problem . . . and the problem was me.

  36

  I can feel the rage whizzing through my body, tiny, cold marbles that shoot around my skeleton and rattle behind my eyes. After a whole week of ‘thinking very hard about it’, Finch has finally come up with a ‘suitable’ punishment and it’s not BLOODY FAIR!! I won’t be representing St Swithun’s in the Under-Twelves Acro Championships with Anouk after all. All I did was help myself to a bit of cake and a manky old pork pie; it’s hardly the crime of the century. And anyway, I was starving; I needed that food a lot more than those other kids did.

  I’ve just told Anouk the bad news and she wasn’t as upset as I thought she’d be. I expect she is upset; she’s just pretending not to be, so I won’t feel so bad about letting her down. Although . . . I have noticed that she’s been kinda quiet just lately. She looks a bit out of sorts too; I hope she isn’t coming down with something. We haven’t seen each other much outside of school either. Last Saturday, she was doing stuff with her mum (AGAIN!), and the Saturday before she said she was going horse riding with one of her cousins; I didn’t even know she had any cousins.

  Anyway, you won’t believe who Miss Sullivan has picked to replace me in the competition – only Eleanor flipping Hardy! She’s not half as good as me; she can’t even do a proper Arabian handspring. And she looks disgusting in her leotard with her big fat thighs that rub together at the top. That stupid bitch is never going to let me hear the end of this.

  Miss Pickering’s a stupid bitch too. It’s bad enough that she grassed me up to Finch, but ever since that thing with the lunchboxes she’s been acting all funny. She told me not to bother watering the plants on her desk any more and when I came in to school early the other day, she said she didn’t need any help getting the classroom ready and I should wait outside until the bell rang. I don’t understand why she’s being so mean to me. I used to be her favourite, her Special Little Helper, but now it’s as if she’s ripped out my heart and stomped all over it. Don’t worry, she’s not going to get away with it. I’m going to make her pay. I’m not quite sure how just yet, but it won’t be long before I come up with a plan. I’m good at making plans and I have a feeling that this one’s going to be my best plan EVER!

  37

  Chloe

  My eyes flickered open. I felt empty and tender inside, as if I had been exposed to a mild contagion, but otherwise perfectly calm. As I lay there, bits and pieces of the previous night drifted back to me.

  A naked, sub-human creature with a bald, over-sized head like a baby’s and toxic breath, was squatting on my chest, his mouth so close that his spittle peppered me with hot, foul shrapnel. That, thankfully, was the extent of my memory. I knew of course that this visitor wasn’t real, that he was merely a figment of my imagination, a hallucination from the transitional phase that lay between wakefulness and sleep. But none of that prevented it from scaring the shit out of me; the memory alone made me recoil in disgust. As I threw back the duvet, despondency rolled over me. Could the tablets be losing their effect already?

  I got out of bed, catching sight of myself in the dressing table mirror as I crossed the room. It gave back such a faint reflection of myself, it was as if the glass was reluctant to admit that I was there. And then, just behind me, through the open door, I saw a shape, just a shadow, a flicker of move
ment on the landing. I wheeled around, but there was nothing there. I was sure I’d shut my bedroom door before I went to bed last night, which meant that either someone had entered while I was sleeping or, much more likely, I had gone walkabout in the night. As I looked about the room, I had the overwhelming feeling that every object – every single ornament, book and article of clothing – had been picked up, examined and put back. The air felt disturbed, though I couldn’t identify any specific item that had actually changed position. I massaged my eyes with my fingertips. There was no time to brood over it now; I had to get to work.

  If I’d known what was going to happen, I would have stayed in bed. Less than three hours later, I was getting a bollocking from Richard. It turned out that my revisions for the vampire trap had been way off the mark. The set builders had followed the new spec I’d provided, only to find that the newly calibrated sprung leaves still didn’t retract fully enough to allow the headdress to pass through cleanly. The only alternative was to build a new trap door from scratch and there was no time – or money – for that. There was an icy cast in Richard’s voice as he informed me that the costume department had reluctantly agreed to rework the headdress, even though the new, smaller version wouldn’t have nearly the same impact as the original.

  ‘I don’t understand how you could let this happen,’ Richard berated me in his office. ‘Dress rehearsals start on Thursday; you knew there was no room for error. The costume department are going to have to work round the clock to redo the headpiece . . . I don’t mind telling you that you’re not their favourite person right now.’

  ‘I can assure you, Richard, that I didn’t “let” anything happen,’ I insisted. ‘I did the calculations, I thought it would work; it was an honest mistake.’

  His jaw muscles flexed. ‘Unfortunately, this isn’t the only mistake you’ve made recently, Chloe, is it?’

  ‘I’m not sure I know what you’re referring to,’ I said defensively.

  ‘Then let me refresh your memory. The revolving mirror – I believe your calculations were also inaccurate on that occasion.’

  Jess was the only one who knew about my mistake with the mirror; I never thought she’d tell Richard. How could she throw me under the bus like that?

  ‘Oh, yes . . . the mirror,’ I said, feeling perspiration blooming at the armholes of my dress. ‘I was slightly adrift on the measurements, but it’s been sorted now.’

  Richard studied me over the top of his dark-rimmed glasses. ‘Slightly adrift? That’s not what I heard.’

  I started to remonstrate, but he put up a hand to silence me. ‘Please, Chloe, I’m really not interested in splitting hairs at this stage. I need to understand what’s going on in your head. This isn’t like you at all; you’re usually so meticulous.’

  I drew my hand wearily across my forehead. ‘It’s just a blip. I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately, and when I’m tired I find it hard to concentrate and that’s when I make silly mistakes. But I’m trying to find a solution, I promise you. I’m taking some new medication; I’ll be back on top of my game in no time, you’ll see.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ he replied. ‘But I want you to take some time off, just so you can recharge your batteries.’

  ‘Honestly, Richard, that’s really not necess—’

  His hand went up again. ‘No arguments. I want you to take the rest of the week off. Hopefully, you’ll come back fully refreshed on Monday and ready for the next challenge.’

  My face fell. ‘But that means I’ll miss the start of dress rehearsals. What if adjustments need to be made to the set?’

  ‘You don’t need to worry about that. I’ve already spoken to Jess and she’s willing to step into the breach temporarily. I know she’s not as experienced as you, but she knows the set inside out and Bryan has agreed to give her any additional support that’s required.’

  I felt as if something was covering my mouth and nose, gripping me like a vice. I tried to breathe, but despite the relentless heaving of my diaphragm, I couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen into my lungs. I had a horrible feeling I was going to suffocate right there in Richard’s office.

  ‘You may as well take off now,’ he continued, seemingly oblivious to my mounting anxiety. ‘If there are any loose ends that need tying up, Jess can always drop you an email.’

  He was sitting just a few feet away, but he looked hopelessly, impossibly remote, like someone you can just make out distantly, a dark silhouette in the middle of a snowstorm. I knew then that they were all conspiring against me: Richard, Bryan, the costume department . . . but it was Jess’s betrayal that hurt the most. I always knew she was ambitious, but I never thought she’d stoop this low. No doubt she’d been whispering behind my back for ages, trying to discredit me, so she could step smoothly into my shoes.

  I fought a manic, nervous urge to laugh. ‘Whatever you think is best, Richard,’ I managed to squeeze out.

  I didn’t go straight home. Instead I went to the river and flopped down on a bench, staring at the murky Thames as it ebbed and flowed. I’m not sure how long I sat there, for a kind of emotional hypothermia blurred the passage of time. After a little while, I started to feel chilly – I’d left the theatre in such a rush, I’d forgotten my jacket. Unable to face the humiliation of returning for it, I decided I might as well go home. During the train journey, I thought about texting Megan, or Tom, but when I checked my handbag, my phone wasn’t there.

  Sammi was surprised to see me when I walked into the kitchen, where she was hard at work on her latest commission. I told her I’d left work early because I wasn’t feeling well, eliciting appropriate noises of sympathy. Eager to locate my phone, I asked if she’d seen it anywhere. She said she hadn’t and suggested I might have left it at work. I knew that couldn’t be the case because I hadn’t used it all day and the last time I’d seen it was at home, the previous evening. Sammi picked up her own phone then and used it to call mine, but instead of ringing out it just went straight to voicemail, indicating that the battery had probably died.

  I went upstairs to my bedroom and looked everywhere the phone could possibly be – in drawers, on shelves, under furniture. I was starting to feel panicky. My whole life was on that phone, I’d be lost without it. Having exhausted every possible hiding place, I decided to try the sitting room. As I was feeling down the back of the sofa, Sammi’s voice drifted out from the kitchen.

  ‘Have you found it yet?’

  ‘No,’ I said, flinging a cushion bad-temperedly across the room.

  A few minutes later, Sammi appeared in the doorway. ‘I’ve checked the kitchen; it’s definitely not there. Where was the last place you used it?’

  ‘In my bedroom, but I’ve already turned the place upside down.’

  ‘Why don’t I go upstairs and have another look for you – fresh pair of eyes and all that?’ When I didn’t answer straight away, she added: ‘Would that be OK . . . me going in your room?’

  I acknowledged her offer with a fluttering hand. ‘Yes, yes, be my guest.’

  Having drawn a blank in the sitting room, I had convinced myself that a thief must have stolen the phone from my bag during my journey to work that morning when I heard Sammi’s footsteps pounding down the stairs.

  ‘I’ve found it!’ she cried as she burst into the room, holding my iPhone triumphantly aloft.

  I groaned in relief. ‘Where was it?’

  ‘Under your bed,’ she said, as she handed me the phone. ‘Trapped between the headboard and the wall.’

  I stared at her, my face slack and stupid. ‘It can’t have been; I looked under the bed.’

  She shrugged. ‘I guess you just didn’t look hard enough.’

  ‘I can assure you that I looked very hard indeed.’ My voice sounded high and thin, like the note of a violin string about to snap. ‘If the phone was under the bed, there’s no way I could have missed it.’

  Sammi gave me a look of manufactured patience. ‘Just answer me this: were you using your phone
in bed last night?’

  I nodded grudgingly.

  ‘Well then, that explains it; the phone must have slipped down the back of the bed without you realising.’

  ‘I’m not disputing that, Sammi, I’m just saying that I checked under the bed just now and the phone definitely wasn’t there,’ I snapped, feeling the colour rising to my cheeks.

  She looked into my eyes as if searching for something, the way a doctor might look to see if there was any hope in the brain of a madwoman. ‘I can’t help noticing that you seem to be losing quite a lot of stuff just lately,’ she said in an emollient voice. ‘Then there’s all the other stuff . . . the not sleeping and the night terrors and so on.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Just that I’m worried about you and I think you need help. As I’ve said before, your GP would be a good starting point and then perhaps he could refer you to a psychologist or counsellor if he thought it was necessary.’

  There was a dull pain unravelling in my stomach. ‘Why would I want to see a psychologist? Do you think I’m losing the plot?’

  ‘I think you’re in a very vulnerable state of mind, Chloe, and I don’t want to see you reach breaking point. Lots of people have mental health problems, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

  She spoke very slowly and carefully, as if I were a child. A sharp tang of dislike flooded my mouth, souring my saliva. I couldn’t bear to look at her concerned expression any more so I turned away. The world around me had become indecipherable, some kind of obscure charade conducted over my head and behind my back.