The Woman at Number 24 Read online

  ‘I don’t think so, dear.’

  ‘Please!’ It might be your last carnival.

  ‘I said, I don’t think so.’ The old Mavis peeped through the new shell. ‘Kindly don’t ask again.’

  They sat down to risotto, a dish Sarah had never expected to emerge from the forlorn kitchenette. It was fragrant with herbs and studded with green asparagus arrows. ‘This is good.’

  ‘I like feeding you.’ Bad Mavis had receded. ‘You’re so appreciative.’

  They talked, and the talk ranged from the weather – still doggedly hot – to Una’s new shoes to Smith. They could skim and they could go deep, before returning to trivia. This sprightly interaction never, of course, veered anywhere near Mavis’s health, but Sarah knew the moment would come when she could say ‘motor neurone disease’ and start an entirely new conversation.

  ‘Perhaps Smith has Munchausen’s syndrome,’ suggested Mavis.

  Mavis’s condition was capricious: she couldn’t remember last year’s carnival yet she plucked Munchausen’s syndrome out of the air. ‘No. Munchausen’s is a psychological disorder. Smith just told an opportunistic lie and then had to run with it.’

  ‘That young woman was not what she seemed.’

  Neither am I. The journey to East Anglia had changed Sarah. Or rather, it had exposed a change that had already taken place. She could no longer hide behind the wretched yet oddly comfortable mask she’d worn for so long.

  Smith had told Sarah something as they plodded back to Dolly’s Kitchen. Just when Sarah assumed there could be no more grotesque surprises, she’d pulled one last humdinger out of the bag.

  Mavis put down her fork. ‘Leo made a pass at a dying woman?’

  ‘Yup. As far as he knew, Smith was at death’s door, so that was the moment to put his hand on her thigh and tell her he’d always fancied her. Somebody needs to throw a bucket of cold water over that man.’

  Mavis placed a withered hand on Sarah’s. ‘I’m sorry, dear. That must have been hard to hear.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry. It was the key to my cage.’ Sarah’s feelings were a smorgasbord of hurt and relief and pure joy. She almost didn’t recognise the joy, but that’s what it was. ‘Who could love a man who’d do that, Mavis? Not me, that’s for sure.’

  ‘You’re . . . cured?’

  ‘I was already cured, but I misdiagnosed myself. These feelings I have for Leo are residual. They’re last year’s fashions and they don’t fit any more, but I’ve been pulling at the zips and settling the collars and pretending they look just fine.’ Sarah was able to say it and mean it: ‘I don’t love Leo any more.’

  Meeting the Royces, as arranged, on the front step, Sarah engineered the ‘Ciao’ she gave Tom so it was warm enough to satisfy Jane but left him in no doubt of her cold shoulder. His mouth maintained its usual wry line and his eyes creased with, if anything, extra amusement. As if he enjoyed subterfuge.

  ‘Wait up.’ Tom bounded back indoors. ‘I forgot something.’

  Hostility boiled within Sarah. How could he be so free and easy around her? She rubbed her lips as Jane danced on the spot. Her mouth burned since Tom’s kiss.

  She faced a fact she’d been avoiding. It was time to make a full confession, if only to herself.

  I have feelings for Tom.

  Beyond reason, shameful but undeniable. It wasn’t just physical. It was something chemical, which managed to be poetic. Sarah and Tom resonated to the same note, as if they were a pair of tuning forks.

  What’s more, he feels it too.

  Tom’s taste for adultery wasn’t enough to stop Sarah falling for him. Tom was her kryptonite; she was powerless in the face of her desire. All she could do was accept it, knowing it must never be consummated.

  When Tom reappeared, Mavis was with him, clasping a handbag large enough to smuggle a child across a border. ‘Would you mind awfully if I accompanied you? This young man made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.’

  ‘We’d love it.’ Sarah steadfastly ignored the barbed look Jane sent her way. ‘It’ll be fine,’ she whispered to Jane, taking Mavis’s reed-thin arm.

  Mavis welded herself to Sarah’s side as they stepped into the human river flowing past number twenty-four. Carried upstream to Ladbroke Road, Sarah’s blood jumped to the jittery rhythm as Notting Hill surrendered to carnival.

  Except for Mavis, whose silver head was down.

  ‘Do you like reggae, Mavis?’ asked Sarah playfully over the music.

  ‘It’s soca, actually.’ Tom corrected Sarah without looking at her. ‘More Latin than reggae.’

  Whatever it was, Mavis was immune, withstanding rather than enjoying the magic.

  ‘If you like, we can go back.’ Sarah was loath to swap this explosion of colour and life for her stuffy flat, but Mavis was as tense as a hostage.

  ‘No, no, it’s charming.’ The words fell like stones.

  Jane’s hips described a figure of eight as she gave herself over to the vibe, hands in the air. ‘Sarah, dance with Tom!’ she yelled. ‘Tom!’ She pushed him. ‘Be a good boy. Dance with Sarah.’

  ‘No, I can’t—’ Sarah gestured to Mavis.

  ‘Me and Mavis can get acquainted while you and Tom get down with your bad selves.’ Jane, mistress of the revels, transferred Mavis’s clamped fingers to her own suntanned forearm, evidently believing she was sacrificing herself for Sarah’s good. ‘Have fun! That’s an order!’

  Sarah looked questioningly at Mavis, who’d lifted her head in something like fear, but Tom grabbed her hand and propelled her into the road, where the crowd devoured them.

  Twirled by Tom, Sarah had no choice but to move. Sticking to her guns, she danced with her back to him, trying to pull off the impossible, to dance haughtily.

  Hands grabbed her waist and Tom spun her neatly. She was facing him, and her hauteur dissolved. Keeping hold of one of her hands, Tom danced with more enthusiasm than style. He had rhythm, though; that wasn’t lost on Sarah. The music, the ambience, the sun, all ganged up on her. She allowed herself to enjoy being near him, and gave in to the music. Somebody whooped: it was me!

  Knees in the air, elbows dangerously zigzagging, Tom was a happy health hazard. On the sidelines, Jane laughed and clapped. Sarah, mid-spin, sought out Mavis’s face; she was smiling.

  Danced out, Tom and Sarah staggered back to the others. When she realised she was leaning on him, Sarah pulled away. She could tell he felt her do it; she could tell he felt insulted.

  The four of them meandered through the changing soundscape, rooting out change to buy pineapple kebabs and coconut water, eschewing the strange patties sold by a cheerful septuagenarian.

  ‘Are we in danger of bumping into your secret lover?’ Jane’s question made Sarah jump, but she meant Leo.

  ‘Don’t worry. He hates street parties.’ With no mention of selling the flat, Leo had been texting hopefully about ‘popping upstairs’ over the past two days, but the virus had worked its way out of Sarah’s body. She and Leo had built something – again – and now Sarah had to tell him they’d been wasting their time. I owe him a face-to-face.

  ‘Curried goat, Mavis?’ There was a dare in Jane’s question for the conservative old dame.

  ‘I adore goat, but not today,’ said Mavis, tucked in between the two women. ‘I practically lived on it in Montego Bay.’

  As they waited for Mavis outside the public toilets, Jane said, ‘She’s been to Jamaica?’

  ‘Hidden depths,’ said Sarah.

  ‘Really well-hidden depths. While you were dancing – great moves, by the way – we had a good old chat. She’s . . .’ Jane puckered her nose, unwilling to admit she’d been wrong. ‘She’s interesting, dammit.’

  ‘Told you. Mavis is a changed woman.’

  ‘I wonder if she’s fallen down the loo.’ Jane was impatient to get on. ‘Ah, here she is.’

  Sauntering, snacking, the three women tailed Tom, who seemed content to clear the way for them. ‘Your Tom’s a striking chap,’ said
Mavis to Jane.

  The admiring glances of passing women, clad in anything from jeans to bikinis to full-on feathered headdresses echoed Mavis’s opinion. Although a non-flashy brand of male, Tom was a classic. Tall, broad, his colouring was next door to nondescript but the total effect was arresting. Tom was a slow burn.

  Sarah touched her lips, where the slow burn had scorched her.

  ‘He is, isn’t he?’ Jane sounded proud.

  ‘Looks, of course, aren’t everything.’

  ‘You sound as if you know what you’re talking about, Mavey.’

  ‘Sadly, I do.’ Mavis lifted her chin slightly.

  Gesturing at Mavis, Jane said, ‘This one has a few tales to tell.’

  Fearful that Mavis might feel cornered and lash out, like a tabby showing its claws, Sarah said, ‘A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.’

  ‘Only room for one storyteller in the Bennison family, eh?’ Jane blundered obliviously across landmines. ‘God, I love your sister’s books. The pace, the characters. We lost a special lady when she went.’

  Mavis slowed.

  ‘Oh look!’ Sarah pointed at something, anything. ‘There’s a . . . band.’

  Blithely, Jane went on. ‘I admired Zelda Bennison as a woman. Not just a writer. She was a role model.’

  Like a discarded doll, Mavis sank to the floor.

  Crouching beside her, Sarah was in a forest of feet as merrymakers stepped over and around the prone woman, some bending, some gasping, others asking ‘Oh my God, is she OK?’

  The only answer was ‘No’. Mavis was conscious, but fading. Sarah was incompetent with panic.

  ‘Let’s get you home, Mavis.’ With gentle arms, Tom lifted Mavis as easily as if she really was a doll. ‘You need a cup of strong tea and a sit-down.’ Tom was calm, as if he scraped old ladies off the pavement every day.

  Heart hammering, Sarah said, ‘She should go to A and E.’ What she’d come to think of as the Mavis Situation had nosedived.

  ‘No hospital.’ Mavis’s voice was a rasp, her head lolling against Tom’s chest.

  ‘Why don’t I get her home, make her comfy?’ Tom lowered his voice over Mavis’s head. ‘A and E will be bedlam today, Sarah.’

  Mavis collected herself enough to say, ‘I know exactly what’s wrong with me. Casualty can’t help. You girls stay out and enjoy yourselves. Please.’

  Mavis put a lot into that ‘please’.

  ‘But I—’ It went against the grain for Sarah to let Mavis go.

  ‘She’ll be fine.’ Tom bore her away through the crowd.

  Watching them go, Jane said, ‘Mavis hasn’t changed. Funny how she collapsed when I praised her sister. She was fine until then.’

  ‘She wasn’t. I could tell.’

  ‘Your reformed Mavis has a guilty conscience. Bet you anything she nursed Zelda so she could get her hands on her money.’

  They sat on the kerb, letting the carnival flow around them. ‘You’re wrong,’ said Sarah. ‘If she’s suddenly a millionaire, what’s she spending it on? She lives in squalor. Besides, the Mavis I know would never worry me by pretending to faint.’

  ‘Wouldn’t she?’

  Sarah was so accustomed to biting her lip it had a groove in it. It’s you who needs a wake-up call about your nearest and dearest. ‘When I look at Mavis I see damage, iron self-control, boundless anxiety and a woman who’s trying to conquer the frankly horrible personality that’s blighted her life.’ Sarah was following the advice in her father’s letter yet again; it might lead her down some dead ends, but not this time. There was beauty in Mavis. ‘Aren’t we all just trying to communicate, when it comes down to it?’

  ‘Good thing Tom was here.’ Jane drained the last of a can of something fizzy. ‘Old dears always love him.’

  ‘Mavis is no cookie-cutter old dear!’ Sarah stuck a toe in some murky water. ‘What about young dears? Did Tom have masses of girlfriends in the old days?’

  ‘How come you’re so interested?’

  Sarah reddened, but Jane was tickled rather than territorial. ‘No reason.’

  ‘Is there something you’d like to share with the class, Sarah?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Sarah blotted out the tumult around them, the choirs and the samba dancers and the tipsy limbo novices. Perhaps it was time to clear the air. If it lost Sarah a friend, then that was the price of doing the right thing. Why, she thought, does the right thing always have to be the hardest thing? ‘Jane,’ she began.

  Jane’s phone buzzed. ‘Hold that thought!’ Her face brightened as she read a text. ‘My hubby!’

  ‘Is he on his way back?’

  ‘Yes!’ Jane punched the air. ‘He says he’ll be here in three weeks’ time.’ She wiggled excitedly on the kerbstone.

  ‘But he only went around the corner.’

  ‘Cyprus is hardly around the corner.’ Jane texted back, her fingers skipping over the keys.

  ‘Cyprus?’ Sarah was disoriented. ‘Jane,’ she said, ‘Tom took Mavis back to number twenty-four.’

  ‘Not Tom, silly.’ Jane looked up from her phone. ‘Jamie. My husband.’

  It took a minute or two to untangle the crossed wires, and another few minutes for Jane to stop laughing. ‘What? Tom? My . . . oh dear God. He’s my brother, you idiot. Eurgh. Yuk. No. How come we’ve never had this conversation?’

  ‘But we have.’ Sarah’s mind raced. ‘Haven’t we? Your surname . . .’ She remembered her sleuthing at the hall table.

  ‘Yeah, we’re both Royce. I didn’t change my name when I got married. Not that sort of bird. But there’s never been any post to Mr and Mrs Royce. Your brain filled in that blank all on its own.’

  ‘You have a framed picture of Tom and you getting married!’

  ‘Obviously I don’t. If you look at it properly you’ll see it’s me and Jamie.’

  ‘Why is your husband in Cyprus?’

  ‘I’ve seriously never told you Jamie’s in the army?’ Jane shook her head. ‘I feel as if I’ve always known you, but obviously I’ve left out chunks of my life story.’ She wiped her eyes, enjoying herself. ‘Quite important chunks.’

  Sarah was in free fall. ‘So, let me get this straight, when you talked about Jamie, about being two peas in a pod, about him never being unfaithful . . .’

  ‘You thought I was talking about Tom!’

  The repercussions were too big to grasp all at once. Pedalling backwards, Sarah reassessed Tom. No longer devious, love rat Tom, he was instantly promoted to glorious, handsome, decent Tom. He’d been free and single and available, and he’d liked her enough to try and cross the drawbridge that Sarah pulled up after Leo left.

  They’d been at cross-purposes since the first hello. What should have been simple and straightforward had been dragged out of shape by Sarah’s talent for leaping to conclusions.

  He’s always wanted me. It was a revelation. I’ve always wanted him.

  An unattached Tom was a different beast to a married Tom; Sarah recalled her behaviour, the names she’d called him. ‘Jane, I’ve been a fool.’ Something welled up inside Sarah, something shiny and strung about with fairy lights of hope.

  ‘Tom’s only living with me to keep me company until Jamie leaves the army next year. Then I’ll find Tom somewhere fabulous of his own.’

  ‘I said some terrible things to him.’ Sarah wanted to scream with a mixture of embarrassment and elation. ‘He thinks I’m crazy. He hates me.’

  ‘Do shut up. Tom fancies you rotten.’ Jane looked sceptical. ‘How could you not notice?’

  The crowd looked different. The music was louder. The sky was bluer than blue above her head. Sarah was supercharged with emotion, realisation thundering through every vein and sinew. Tom was available. More than that, he wanted her. A dream had come true, the way they hardly ever do, except in fairy stories. It could really happen, this longed-for love. She was halfway there already; one kiss would send her over the edge. And I’m taking Tom with me! Suddenly his head was visible above the crowd.
Sarah stood up and tugged at her bra strap and cleared her throat as Tom came towards them. He was transfigured. As if light poured out of him. As if he was more real than the sepia drones around him.

  Tom was no longer off limits.

  He’s mine.

  Sarah ran to him, stopping just shy of his chest so he had to stop too. ‘Um, yes?’ he said uncertainly.

  ‘Yes!’ she repeated, without the bemused question mark. ‘Yes, yes, yes, Tom! Yes! Bloody yes!’ Reaching up, Sarah pressed her mouth, her lonely mouth, to Tom’s.

  Tom’s lips remained passive. The lips of a statue. A statue who was staring at Sarah with an expression that see-sawed between astonishment and dismay.

  Stepping back, Sarah saw in her peripheral vision that Tom’s outstretched hand was in the grasp of a small woman. Blonde, appealing, her face a picture of perplexity.

  ‘Timing,’ said Tom, wiping his mouth – a gesture that struck at Sarah’s heart – ‘isn’t your strong point.’

  The woman let out a cry and yanked her fingers free, darting off through the mob.

  ‘Camilla! Hold on!’ Before Tom turned to chase her, he said, witheringly, ‘Thanks a million, Sarah.’

  ‘Who is that woman?’ Sarah was wild-eyed.

  ‘She’s Camilla.’ Jane put her arm around Sarah. ‘The actress who’s been chasing him. He finally slowed down and let her catch him.’

  ‘When did they get together?’

  ‘About, ooh, eight weeks ago. He only just told me about her this morning.’

  Right after their tussle by the Thames. Sarah recalled the scene at the car wash and cringed at how she’d taken Tom’s ‘olive branch’ for a pass: he was already seeing somebody else and was merely trying to patch things up with his screwball neighbour. ‘Is it . . . are they serious?’ Surely, she thought, eight weeks isn’t long enough to fall in love.

  Jane looked as if she’d rather not have to answer. ‘Tom,’ she said, ‘is always serious about women.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Notting Hill, W11

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  Tuesday 30th August, 2016

  THERE ARE THREE TRUTHS: MY TRUTH, YOUR TRUTH AND THE TRUTH