You're All Mine

by Ruth Harrow

  'Oh, excellent. I can't wait to see them. Well, I won't keep you long. I just have a question to ask.'

  'Oh? What is it?'

  'Well, it's more of a suggestion, really. You don't have to go along with it, mind, but I think it's a great idea – it was Ian's idea actually. He thought that, now that things are underway on the properties, you could start gearing up the posts on your blog towards the theme. You know – the great British getaway.'

  'Oh, I see what you mean. Yes, absolutely – I'll see what I can do.'

  'One thing Ian suggested was you could perhaps put up a picture of yourself on holiday with your parents and explain what inspiration you drew from your childhood in your designs for the apartments. What do you think? Heather, are you still there?'

  'Yes. Yes, I'm still here. I was just thinking. You know what, John? I'm not even sure I actually have any photos.'

  'Oh really? It doesn't have to be Aberystwyth – any seaside holiday will do. It doesn't have to be anything fancy, either. In fact, the more basic and spontaneous, the better. More charming, don't you think?'

  'Yes, I do understand where you are coming from. I honestly don't think I have any...'

  'Oh. Well, that is a shame.'

  'You see the thing is, my childhood photographs were all destroyed in the same house fire that killed my parents.'

  The old lie rolls right off my tongue the same way it did when James asked me this questions years ago – on the day we moved in together.

  'Dear me, Heather. I didn't realise – I shouldn't have asked – I'm so sorry.'

  'No, that's completely OK. You didn't know. I was only five at the time, so I don't remember a great deal.' I move my phone to the other ear, trying to distract myself from the devastation in John's voice. 'Look, I'll tell you what I'll do – I'll have a ring around my relatives and see if they have any photos I could use.'

  'Well, that sounds brilliant, Heather. But, honestly now there's no pressure, understand?'

  I say goodbye to John and take a deep breath.

  My moist palm grips the phone in my lap, cold and clammy.

  Once again, I feel isolated by my own lie. But I started telling it so many years ago, I can't backtrack now.

  I just wish that someone else knew the truth. If Nicole had been in on it with me, I'm sure I would feel better. Maybe I could even have asked to borrow one of her childhood photos for my blog post.

  But she doesn't know about my parents either.

  I had fed Nicole the same story as James – a good thing too since we ended up living so close together.

  How could I ever have taken what had been one of the most popular girls in school back to that – that place?

  I'd had no choice, really.

  It was all right for Nicole – she had lived in one of the five-bedroomed houses surrounding the school and hadn't even so much as spoken with me during our years there.

  Any photographs of me as a child were left behind the day I got a waiting-on job at a restaurant and moved out.

  As far as I know, they are still in the house along with my parents.

  The image I'd seen as I had paused outside in my car resurfaces in the waters of my mind. The twitch of the curtain – was that my mother?

  I haven't seen her for so many years. I had almost had a mad-moment just before my wedding and considered telling James the truth.

  A sudden urge almost took over me and I wanted them to be there on my big day. Instead, my side of the church was filled out with casual acquaintances and ex-colleagues. Nicole was glowing beside James's two cousins as a bridesmaid.

  I'm actually ashamed to admit it now, but I was too scared to risk tainting my big day. James was right – I had wanted everything to be picture-perfect.

  But I wanted him, too. I do still love him just as much as I had on our wedding day.

  36

  Usually, the view of a client building is a welcome sight, especially when it is located in such a beautiful spot by the sea. Today, however, I feel nothing but dread at the thought of stepping inside the current work in progress.

  Since James left, everything I do professionally seems futile. I was working to create a brighter future for the two of us together.

  Now he's gone I am surprised by just how little I care for my work. I have to resist the urge to call him and tell him I was wrong.

  But was I wrong for needing to prove to myself that I could make a successful career of my own?

  I don't think so.

  He has to come around eventually. I have to tell myself that – I can't imagine the reality of anything else.

  I park in the same position as I did last time – overlooking the sea. The air rushing through the gap in my driver side window is still cool, but this time the sun colours the sea a beautiful cerulean with a sky to match.

  As my hand reaches towards the door handle, my phone starts to buzz in my pocket.

  I pull it out and see a missed call from Nicole from two hours ago; I must have been driving at the time and not noticed.

  Now, a new text has come through from her.

  Heather, I need to talk to you. Are you around? I popped by your house, but your car is gone. Can we meet up? It's important. xx

  I quickly tap out a message back.

  Sorry, Nic. I'm busy at the moment – won't be back until this evening. We could have a chat tonight if you want. I'll pop round to yours at about eight. P.s – your turn to bring the wine! xx

  I hover around in the car for a few moments awaiting a confirmation text from Nicole but don't get one so I put my phone away and get to work.

  I pull my set of keys from the bottom of my handbag and let myself into the apartment building.

  Inside the hallway, the smell of emulsion and gloss engulfs me.

  By the door, the toe of my boot squashes a bubble-wrapped envelope and I pick it up, retrieving the spare set of keys the painters left behind as instructed.

  Room by room, I move through the building opening windows. Soon, a cool wind breathes through the empty building, touching every surface with a salty whisper.

  I examine the paintwork carefully in each room. It needs to be checked thoroughly before I approve the payment to the decorating firm I selected.

  In the penthouse apartment, I pause and look out at the view as I did the last time I was here.

  I can almost hear Lisa's shrill laugh echoing in the bathroom again as she talked and joked with Ian.

  Almost as though my thoughts weave out onto the landscape below, I think I see Lisa's red Fiat on one of the thin roads winding into the town.

  As I blink, I think I imagined it. Now it is gone, disappeared into the pieces of what looks like nothing more than a model village from this height.

  Was that Lisa?

  There must be plenty of people in the world with the same vehicle. Would it be unusual to see another one in such a small town, though?

  The rough sound of a struggling diesel engine signals the arrival of a transit van in the car park.

  Half an hour later, the delivery of carpets for the entire building is taken. I refer to my notes and direct the delivery men to place the appropriate packed rolls of carpet and flooring inside each apartment.

  After the final carpet is delivered, the larger of the two men bids me farewell as they both descend the stairs from the penthouse. 'Cheers, Love.'

  'Wait – hang on a second. I thought you were doing the fitting now?'

  He pauses on the stairs, eyebrows raised under tousled greying hair and a dusty-looking woolly hat. 'Fitting? No, we were told this was just a delivery on this job, sweetheart. Did you need a fitting, as well?'

  He slides his hands into the pockets of his paint-splattered trousers and leans against the wall.

  I sigh impatiently. 'Yes, of course I do – that is what I paid for. I'm hardly likely to fit the carpets of six flats by myself.'

  'Right, well you'll need to take that up with the office – I only do deliveries, you see. I
t's Rob who does the installations, like. He's the one you would have needed for that job.'

  'So why was it you that made the delivery then?'

  He stands upright, taking his weight from the freshly painted wall.

  I stare behind him at it, checking for damage.

  'I dunno – you'll have to call the office. I just deliver, that's all.' He shrugs. 'The number should be on your delivery note. See you, Love.'

  His heavy footsteps echo through the bare building, leaving me alone amongst rolls of plastic-wrapped carpets.

  After twenty-minutes of wrangling on the phone with the industrial unit where I ordered the carpets, I finally get to speak to the person who took my original order.

  'Yes, I'm sorry for the confusion,' the man says on the other end of the phone. 'There seems to have been a bit of a mix-up with your order. You see, there were some discrepancies between your initial requirements and the amendments you made by email afterwards.'

  'Amendments? I didn't make any changes to the order.'

  There is a pause on the line, punctuated only by the tapping of keys on a keyboard.

  'I've got the email you sent here Mrs Peterson, that says you made a mistake with your initial measurements and you sent the new ones in your email. You also said that you don't require our fitting service now either.'

  'No, I think you must be mistaking mine with another order...'

  'Bear with me a second...' There is more tapping on the end of the line.

  I look around me at the rolls of carpet, wrapped in clear plastic; immaculate and new. The same for every apartment.

  I examine the white label affixed to the nearest roll. It clearly states my personal reference – Penthouse – living room, just as I had ordered.

  But the measurement underneath reads four by eight. There is no way that would fit this large living room.

  I rummage in my handbag and check the measurements I jotted down in my notebook weeks ago. I'm right, they are totally off, nothing like what has been delivered.

  'These measurements are all wrong,' I say. 'I never ordered anything of that size for any room in the building.'

  'Well, I thought that was odd, too for a living room. That sounded to me more like a hallway carpet. Perhaps you got your room names mixed up?'

  'No. The hallway isn't to be carpeted – and besides, it would be too short for the hall. It is you that has made a mistake.'

  'Not according to your email I've got up on my screen here.'

  'I didn't send an email. I made the order in person in your office. What email are you talking about?'

  'You updated all the measurements, told us you had made a mistake on every room and we amended it.'

  I take a deep breath, pushing from my mind the image of rolls of carpet and flooring in each apartment, praying every single one isn't wrong.

  'I'm sorry,' I say, 'But can you check your records again. You must have confused me with someone else.'

  'But, you are Mrs Heather Peterson, aren't you?'

  'Yes, I am. However, I certainly didn't send any email.'

  'Well, someone definitely sent an email from your account asking for the amendments – Mrs Heather Emily Peterson At Gmail dot com.'

  'That's – that's my name, but it's not my email address...'

  I don't understand what's going on... Neither does the person at the end of the phone, apparently, as they go quiet too, realising something has gone wrong.

  He tells me he will contact his manager and call me back.

  I tap to end the call and stare at the black screen. My puzzled face stares back at me and I slip my phone back into my pocket.

  A noise echoes through the building from somewhere downstairs and, for a moment, I think that the delivery men have come back to rectify the mistake.

  But there is silence now.

  I tread down the stairs carefully, my footsteps seeming overly loud on the bare stone steps. Systematically, I move through the downstairs rooms. For some reason, I'm suddenly scared of what I might find.

  In the rear apartment overlooking the hills, a pile of wood scraps are in a scattered pile in the middle of the room. Obviously, the painters must have moved them. The strong wind now blowing through the place must have knocked them over.

  As I cross the bare floorboards to close the window, I feel the creeping sensation again that I have eyes on me, watching me from somewhere hidden.

  I pull the window closed tight and shake off the shudder that tries to spread through my shoulders.

  I look down at the label on the carpet roll in this room too, checking against my notebook – it's wrong.

  While I'm waiting for the callback, I move through the building checking each label. My heart sinks as I realise there isn't a single one that fits the room as I had planned; every single one is too small by far.

  The light in the penthouse apartment is changing now and I look at my phone again. It is now looking less likely that I'll get the call I'm waiting for soon.

  I look out at the sea, clouds are banding and the first hint of sunset appears in the sky. A feeling of dread sinks into me and I know I will probably have to visit the industrial unit in person to rectify the mistake.

  But how did it happen in the first place?

  Someone sent an email from an account set up in my name. It's obvious it was done deliberately. But who did it?

  Thoughts of Lisa and her little red Fiat rise to the forefront of my mind.

  It must have been her.

  37

  I drop into Direct Carpets on the drive back and try to sort out the tangled mess in person. The manager is apologetic and we arrange for a new delivery for next week.

  It is slow progress as I have to read out each measurement from my notebook again, looking over the manager's shoulder at the catalogue on his iPad.

  The assistant that I spoke to on the phone sits at his desk, supposedly engrossed in work, although he appears not to do much and throws me scrutinising glances every now and then.

  I get the feeling he doesn't believe I didn't send the email myself.

  It is dark by the time I leave the industrial unit. And when I make it onto the motorway, I find myself caught up in a rush hour traffic jam.

  I cruise forward now and then and pull out my phone to cancel my evening with Nicole.

  Sorry, Nic. Had a nightmare day and am about ready to flop into bed when I get home. There was a massive mix up with the flooring that took me ages to sort out – will tell you all about it another time. Sorry xx

  After I have sent the text, I regret not calling her instead. It would have given me something to do other than stare into the dark rear-window of the car in front.

  Through the haze of red brake lights, I see the silhouette of the female driver as she applies fresh lipstick and shakes her fingers through her roots, revitalising her hair.

  I catch sight of my own reflection in my rear-view mirror and quickly look away – I look so tired and drained. Not like I have anyone to spruce myself up for anyway.

  Hours later, I pull into a motorway service station and take my time with a hot sandwich. It tastes disgusting and the bread is stale, but I want to avoid going back so soon to my empty house and so I appear to savour it.

  I'm exhausted, but I don't want to be alone in that house.

  The house that ruined it all.

  It is just past ten o'clock when my car rolls and rambles down the country track leading to my home.

  As I turn the corner onto my lit driveway, I immediately notice that the windows are bright, not dark as I had expected; I switched the timers off weeks ago.

  But something on the driveway pushes all thoughts out of my head.

  James's car.

  It is parked in his usual spot on the driveway. Dark grey and gleaming in the white glow of the solar lights.

  I roll my car into position next to his and switch off the engine.

  My heart dances in my chest. I can hardly believe it.

 
But then my mind starts racing.

  What if he has come back to pack his things?

  Has he been here for hours, filling boxes while I have been away in Wales?

  Part of me doesn't want to go inside in case I am right, but I leave the car and slide the keys into the front door.

  I'm terrified of what I might find.

  38

  Upon closing the front door, I see James's long dark coat slung over the bannister, not hung in the utility room as it should be.

  That suggests a flying visit. How long has he been here?

  'James?'

  I step forward tentatively. At the living room doorway, I see him.

  James himself is on his back, draped across the largest sofa, somehow making it look small.

  His eyes are closed and as I step into the room, I see he is asleep, arm folded under the fair-hair of his head. His chest rises and falls slowly.

  On the coffee table sits the gift basket I received recently and right beside it is a half-empty mug.

  I pick it up, smelling the espresso that came in the basket – it is well and truly cold.

  I take it through to the kitchen and look around. There is evidence that two meals have been made since I left this morning.

  I stand in the kitchen, feeling a little awkward in my own home.

  Should I wake James and let him know I'm here? He has clearly waited for me all day.

  The wind rattles through the trees outside and I decide to go through the motions of my usual routine, anyway.

  I'm deliberately noisy in pulling the back door blind down and checking the upstairs windows are all shut, hoping James will wake up.

  He is still asleep when I pass by and back into the kitchen.

  On a whim, I check the handle of the back door and find it gives in my hand. I pull it back again and lock the door securely.

  James must have gone out there earlier. I know it was definitely locked before I left this morning – I was deliberately mindful.

  I move back into the living room to find that James has rolled over onto his side. In his slumber, he faces outwards into the room but is oblivious to the fact that I am here just feet away.