The Woman at Number 24 Read online

  Stern self-control kept Mavis’s tears at bay. ‘You can’t forgive what you don’t know about.’

  ‘Try me. Tell me about this scandal that can never be pardoned.’

  Mavis wavered.

  ‘I warn you, Mavis. Anything up to murder will be immediately forgiven.’

  As Mavis put her face in her hands a loud banging at the front door spooked Peck into a stream of curses.

  ‘Sarah! Are you in there?’

  ‘Helena?’ Sarah looked to Mavis for permission to answer her door but her neighbour still hid behind her fingers. Opening the door the width of a pizza portion, Sarah said, ‘Yes?’ as non-committal as she could.

  ‘There you are!’

  Heart hammering, palms slick, Sarah bowed her head. I deserve this. A small hand stole into hers: Mavis.

  ‘What’s this about?’ Mavis asked imperiously. ‘I want no trouble at my door, Mrs Harrison.’

  ‘There’s no trouble.’ Helena didn’t waste charm on Mavis, a pale smudge in Helena’s colourful world. ‘Sarah knows what this is about. Don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sarah, her chin up. Shaking, but up.

  ‘I’ve been complaining about the leak since I moved in and now there’s a big brown stain on my dressing-room ceiling.’ Helena frowned. ‘It’s nothing to smile about! It’s ruined my trompe l’oeil.’

  ‘I’ll get onto it. Promise.’

  As the door closed, Sarah leaned back against it, recovering.

  Mavis let out a meow of a yawn.

  The moment to press her for an answer had passed.

  The white walls made such a difference that Sarah wondered why she’d even considered red paint. Even though the new colour scheme was for somebody else’s benefit, she felt renewed, as if she’d taken a long shower. It was partly thanks to the white-out and partly to Mavis; by listening she’d purged Sarah of some small poison.

  Sarah circled the chair. That chair. The pink colossus. She ran her fingertips along the studded curves, resisting its velvety charisma.

  Pulling and pushing, Sarah reorganised the room, setting the sideboard along one wall, and a leather and chrome sling chair just so by the window. She remembered Leo’s sniffy, ‘It’s pure tat, darling’ when she’d brought the modern piece home from a car boot sale. A patterned rug, long rolled up in a corner, stretched out on the newly varnished floorboards.

  The room sat up, took notice, like a patient recovering from a long illness. No longer just a storage locker for ill-matched, miserable pieces, it looked inviting.

  The most inviting item of all was Tom’s chair, a pink blob of funky luxury. Rolling smoothly on new castors, it came to a halt by the sideboard.

  It was delightful. As delightful as Tom had once seemed. Can I separate the chair from my opinion of Tom? Leaning on the back of it, stroking the sensuous pile, Sarah thought, You’re overthinking, you silly cow. Sit on the damn chair.

  Her bottom was a centimetre from the damn chair when she heard Jane’s voice calling her name. Propelling herself away from the chair, Sarah rushed to the window, pink with guilt; for what, she wasn’t sure.

  Press-ganged into keeping Jane company while she upgraded her phone in the high-street showroom – ‘Come on, it’s cruel to make me do it on my own!’ – Sarah stood to one side as Jane nodded along with the salesman’s excruciating spiel.

  Sarah enjoyed the demands Jane made on her. She’d missed the back and forth of female friendship; being needed was a privilege. Perhaps that was something Mavis only realised as Zelda lay dying. Sarah sensed that she could lean on the frail old lady; she was, as daytime talk shows say, ‘there’ for Sarah. Just as Sarah would be ‘there’ for Mavis, if necessary.

  Some decisions make themselves: I’ll take up the slack as the dementia gets worse.

  ‘Right, that’s done, thank the sweet Lord.’ Jane fled the shop and the salesman, who looked about twelve in a suit three sizes too big for him. ‘Fancy a glass of wine?’ Jane clamped her lips together, rethinking. ‘Hang on. No. Better not. I’ve got an actual date night tonight with my actual husband.’ She hugged herself as if she’d won first prize in a raffle. ‘I don’t want to be squiffy.’ She nudged Sarah. ‘I might get some action for a change.’

  ‘Enough information, thanks.’ Sarah laughed, but inside she felt her stomach disappear down a plughole. The perfection of Jane’s marriage was a mirage: her friend was shackled to a man who not only rarely made love to her, but sought his kicks elsewhere. All Jane’s colour and vivacity and twenty-four carat kindness were squandered on a cut-price Casanova.

  They parted on a corner, Jane, waving and giddy, off home to shower and pamper, Sarah headed for the supermarket. Trying to clear her head of Tom and Jane, she compiled a shopping list in her head as she walked.

  Apples. Small bananas. Eggs, definitely eggs.

  What kind of friend doesn’t tell her mate that her partner made a pass at her?

  Washing-up liquid. Sarah abandoned the list as a suspicion formed.

  What if Jane knows all about Tom’s little hobby?

  Jane certainly had the self-discipline to blur the truth, to look the other way and pretend it wasn’t so. Sarah didn’t need her professional expertise to diagnose that attitude as unhealthy, but if it was Jane’s choice then Sarah must proceed with caution. Such a belief system could only be dismantled with care.

  Telling the truth seemed like the right thing to do, but it would mean losing Jane. Sarah went back to her shopping list, glad of its impartiality, and wondered if she had a lemon in the flat.

  ‘Sarah!’ Her name was shouted over the impudent honk of a car horn.

  Turning, Sarah saw the un-cool, third-hand Ford Fiesta that sat outside their front door and, according to Leo, brought down the value of the house all on its own.

  ‘Hop in.’ Tom leaned over and opened the passenger door.

  ‘I’m busy.’ Sarah kept walking.

  The car kept pace with her, passing white flat-faced houses. ‘You were right. We should talk.’

  ‘I’m not in a talking mood.’

  ‘You’re holding up the traffic.’

  ‘No, you’re holding up the traffic.’

  Horns beeped their displeasure. Somebody shouted, ‘Oi, mate!’

  ‘Please.’ Tom leaned over, steering with one stiff arm.

  With misgivings, Sarah climbed into the stickily hot interior. ‘For future reference, this is kerb-crawling.’

  ‘I snatched my chance. I never see you except when we’re with Una.’ He looked uncomfortable. ‘Did I embarrass you?’

  Struck by his remorse, Sarah remembered just in time that Tom was an actor. ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I’m sick of all this sunshine.’ Tom turned into a garage forecourt. ‘Let’s go find some rain.’

  Tom wasn’t to know that Sarah’s favourite childhood treat was going to the car wash with her father in his lumbering Volvo. A personal, benign storm raged outside the car just as it had during Sarah’s silent summer, when the sopping flap of the brushes had calmed the chaos in her head. ‘I’m holding out an olive branch,’ said Tom.

  Wrong-footed, Sarah studied him. The masculine cast of Tom’s face, so right for his role in Vile Bodies, was softened by uncertainty. He’s afraid of what I’ll say next. ‘So the chair’s a bribe?’

  ‘In a way. But not in a bad way. I mean . . .’ Tom hit the steering wheel. ‘Yes, the chair’s a bribe, sod it, but I loved working on it and, actually, no it’s not a bribe, it’s a gift.’ Head down, he turned to look at her. ‘Do you like it?’

  Unwilling to lie, Sarah admitted, ‘It’s gorgeous. The colour and the feel of it. It’s changed the mood of the room.’

  ‘Good. That dreary shrine to Leo just isn’t you.’

  ‘Don’t, Tom.’ The slavishly attentive brushes whirred over the windscreen, replacing the outside world with snowy suds. ‘I keep worrying that Jane knows.’

  ‘Knows what?’

&n
bsp; ‘What do you think?’ Sarah felt the olive branch wither.

  ‘Oh, us.’ Tom gave the word an ironic spin.

  ‘What if she’s guessed something happened?’

  ‘Believe me, if Jane guessed, we’d both know about it.’

  ‘She loves you.’

  ‘And why not?’ Tom shrugged, his rugged face amused. ‘I’m highly lovable.’

  A monsoon beat on the roof. ‘Is that all you can say?’

  Tom leaned back, as if taking a hard look at the strange life form in his car. ‘Jane has to love me, doesn’t she? That’s the deal.’

  ‘Jane keeps her blinkers on, but I see you. I see you only too well, Tom Royce. You’re dangerous. You grab what you want, like a baby, with no thought for the consequences. You’re conceited and selfish and you need to wake up and look around you. I’d kill for the love you have in your life. You don’t deserve what you have.’

  ‘What is your problem?’

  Sarah wrenched the door open. ‘You!’ she yelled, stepping out into the artificial storm.

  It was a damp walk home in the sunshine.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Notting Hill, W11

  This calendar is FREE to valued customers!

  Monday 22nd August, 2016

  LOVE IS BLIND, FRIENDSHIP CLOSES ITS EYES

  ‘Hey there, sexy!’

  Sarah turned to see Keeley laughing, her braids in a topknot like a beaded handle to pick up the abundant woman. If you dared. ‘You thought your luck was in.’ She fell into step with Sarah and, getting down to business, said, ‘How long have you been recepting now?’

  Sarah counted on her fingers, using personal historical landmarks.

  Four weeks since I rejected Tom in the car wash.

  Eight weeks since Leo and I made love.

  Nine days until the flat goes on the market.

  ‘About ten weeks,’ said Sarah.

  ‘There’s something you should know.’ Keeley slowed, looking at the ground as she balanced her rucksack, her takeaway coffee, her phone and her discomfort. ‘I’m advertising for a new receptionist. It’s time, Sarah.’

  ‘Oh.’ Sarah blinked. ‘OK.’ She let Keeley go through the revolving door ahead of her. Her days were numbered at work as well as at home. Flat A was now a snug white palace, the floors varnished, the cracks filled. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good, ’cos I don’t.’ Keeley swept down the narrow corridor that lay off the airy reception space. ‘You should be doing what you’re good at.’ As she reached her office, she looked back and said, head down, eyes glittering up at Sarah, ‘The children can’t wait forever.’

  Later, taking sandwich orders, Sarah went to the small pharmacy at the back of the building. ‘What’ll it be, Gan?’ she asked, dusting off her best smile.

  The pharmacist’s crush on Sarah was St Chad’s favourite open secret. After a stumbling slow dance at a leaving ‘do’ when Gan sprouted an extra pair of hands, Sarah tended to avoid him. Not today. Once she’d written down his precise order – ‘cheese but not cheddar and no mayo although gherkins are good but it must be on wholemeal bread’ – she asked for his help.

  Gan swaggered slightly in his lab coat. ‘Shoot,’ he said.

  ‘What can you tell me about a drug called Rilutek?’

  Gan told her everything he knew.

  ‘Thanks. I thought as much.’ As she left, Sarah was too preoccupied to notice Gan gazing after her, or hear the remark he made about her bottom to an uninterested colleague.

  *

  Sarah was turning over what Gan had told her as she stepped into her flat. She stopped, sniffing the air. The scent of her favourite, outrageously expensive bath foam curled around her. A trail of petals led from the doormat to where candlelight flickered from the bathroom.

  Leo.

  He’d always laughed at Sarah’s habit of taking baths in even the hottest weather, snorting as she pulled the blinds and lit candles, blocking out a beautiful day to create her own sultry night-time.

  ‘Leo?’

  He stepped out of the candlelight. ‘Your bath, m’lady.’

  Putting down her bag, Sarah considered what to do. Without meeting his eye, she said, ‘You kept your key.’

  ‘Very naughty of me, but yes.’

  Sarah went into the bathroom, forcing Leo to step out of her way. ‘Is this a bath for two, by any chance?’

  ‘It always used to be.’ Leo leaned against the door frame.

  He was full of tricks, her ex-old man. Sarah held his gaze, then pushed the door to, so he had to jump backwards. ‘I bathe alone nowadays.’ He was, she knew, a sucker for this kind of teasing.

  The scrape of a chair being pulled up, then Leo asked, through the door, ‘What has you so down, darling? I could see your little head drooping all the way up Merrion Road.’

  They’d always chatted while Sarah bathed, although Leo used to perch on the closed loo seat with a glass of something red. Here was a reprise she could enjoy without guilt, surely? A solid door stood between them.

  Eager to be in the water, Sarah shucked off her clothes. ‘Can I tell you something, Leo? Something important?’

  ‘Of course. This is us, remember.’

  ‘Us,’ she repeated, liking the soft sound as she lowered herself into the bubbles.

  ‘Us,’ repeated Leo breathily as if his mouth was to the crack of the door.

  ‘I’m in a bit of a state about something.’ Sarah shut her eyes and leaned back, her hair making mermaid shapes beneath the water. ‘Mavis is dying.’

  ‘Mavis who?’

  ‘Leo! Our neighbour. From the basement!’

  ‘Ah. Yes. Oh dear. That’s sad.’

  She told him about how she’d popped in to see Mavis on her way to work for an early morning cuppa; a new habit. ‘Mavis had a terrible headache, and she sent me to her bathroom cupboard for painkillers. While I was looking, I saw a half-empty bottle of pills. It set alarm bells ringing; Mavis has never mentioned being on medication.’ She paused. ‘You still there?’

  ‘All ears, darling. All ears.’

  ‘I asked the pharmacist at St Chad’s about them, and—’

  ‘That guy has the hots for you, doesn’t he?’

  ‘What? That’s not the point. The thing is . . .’ Sarah didn’t want to let the words escape. She imagined them taking shape in the steam, firming up, becoming irrevocable. ‘Mavis has motor neurone disease. It’s so cruel, Leo. That’s what her sister had, so she knows exactly what to expect.’

  ‘Poor woman.’

  ‘She’s dying, Leo. It won’t be pretty.’

  ‘Poor, poor thing. Terrible, isn’t it?’

  The symptoms had misled Sarah. It wasn’t dementia that nibbled at Mavis’s mental acuity; it was the early stages of motor neurone disease. ‘I’ve made a decision.’

  ‘Yes? Does it involve me and that bath?’

  ‘I’m going to look after Mavis.’

  ‘Oh God.’ Leo groaned. ‘It’s bloody Smith all over again.’

  The bath bubbles seemed to wilt a little. The candle guttered. That jokey, what-are-you-like response turned the water cold. ‘Leo, look, it’s been a long day. You’d better get back to Helena.’ Sarah sank beneath the water. When she rose up, Leo was babbling, trying to undo the damage through the bathroom door.

  ‘Darling, sorry, that was rude, it’s obviously nothing like Smith. Let’s start again. Mavis. Right.’ He sounded puzzled. ‘But . . . exactly why is she your responsibility? Isn’t she a dreadful old baggage?’

  ‘She’s my friend. She has no family. Mavis has nobody but me.’

  ‘All the same, darling, there are systems in place. Nursing homes, hospitals—’

  ‘Mavis is mine.’

  ‘You can’t save everybody, you old softie. Mavis’ll be fine with the good old NHS.’

  ‘Mavis will die knowing she’s loved.’ Sarah was wading through the big issues – life, love, death, duty – while Leo paddled in the shallow end. She sank again
.

  The water helped with the nausea and the pain in the small of her back. Sarah had to admire Mother Nature for her exquisite sense of the absurd. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Leo – who better? – but his presence was making her feel not safe but besieged. ‘Please, Leo, go.’ Sarah wasn’t willing to give him the benefit of the doubt this time. She was already nostalgic for ten minutes ago when she still believed him to be tender; when she believed he not only desired her but loved her. Love is blind; Sarah agreed with Confucius but only up to a point. My sight’s coming back.

  When Leo spoke he was arch. ‘Want me to send Tom up to scrub your back?’ He let Sarah exclaim for a moment or two. ‘Darling, the entire postcode knows you have the hots for each other.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ snorted Sarah, sitting up, the bathroom no longer magical, just a tiled cell with a loo that didn’t flush properly. All the bath gel in the world couldn’t scent this situation. ‘We don’t—’

  ‘You’re fooling nobody by ignoring each other.’ Leo was enjoying himself, she could tell. ‘Tell the truth and shame the devil, Sarah. You fancy the pants off our little actor.’

  Sarah could imagine his face. Leo was possessive; even, it would seem, of what he threw away. This was as much a fishing expedition as an accusation. I’ll refuse to play his game; I’ll tell the truth.

  ‘You’re right, Leo. I do fancy Tom. But it’s purely a physical thing. I wouldn’t touch him if you paid me.’ Sarah knew Tom was toxic, but if her body wouldn’t listen to her brain then she’d have to let it go its own foolish, pheromonal way. Apparently, lust was just as blind as love. ‘Do you think Jane’s noticed?’

  ‘Ha!’ Leo’s delight bruised Sarah; he’d never known when to tread lightly. ‘She’d be an idiot to miss it. And Jane’s no idiot.’ Leo was further away now, evidently loitering by the front door. ‘I’m so jealous of the man I could strangle him, Sarah.’

  His jealousy would have thrilled Sarah at one time, but now she saw it as useless posturing. Support was what she needed. Knees to her chest, Sarah had an epiphany in the bathwater. ‘Leo!’ she called and she heard him trip lightly – probably gleefully – back to the bathroom door. ‘I’m not moving out. We’re not selling up.’