“Perhaps I could have a copy of the photo?” she said. “Just to show my friend what I’m suggesting for her and how well she could look?”
No reaction, no response.
“And when the stock comes in we could come back . . .” She tailed off then and waited, looking as innocent as possible, despite her lies.
The dress advisor looked at her speculatively and then conceded, “Well, that photo was taken at some event they were at so it’s probably on the internet. I suppose it would be OK to let you have it.”
“Thank you so much!” Isobel made a mental note to get Patricia to see if either Mr or Mrs Banks had an online presence with more photos.
Quickly, the photo was texted to Isobel’s phone.
“That delivery will be in this Friday. Hopefully you can come back with your friend at the weekend.”
“Yes, hopefully.”
On this mutually beneficial note Isobel took her leave.
Isobel’s next port of call was the family home in Wimbledon. At the nearby Tube station she got a taxi and asked to be driven past the Banks’ address. “I’m looking for a house and my friend thought that this one, or something similar, might float my boat – apparently it’s beautiful.”
“I think you’re wasting your time, but I’ll take you.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.”
“Er, thank you.” Maybe she’d pushed it too much with the beautiful house story.
She looked out the window as she travelled through the busy streets of London. There were so many people, all so busy, all going somewhere, such a contrast to the inactivity she had become used to. She could feel a tension in her stomach just being around all of this activity.
Before long the taxi driver pulled up at an address.
“That’s it there, love. I reckon she was taking the piss.”
Isobel looked at the elaborate gates and high walls and the hint of a rooftop. No wonder he’d been dubious about her story.
Isobel laughed. “I think you’re right but since I’m here I’m going to explore the area. Maybe I can find something and have the last laugh. Just drop me further up.”
Isobel walked back past the Banks’ property. The gate was solid metal and had a see-through panel high up. Standing on tiptoe, she could see that the garden was sizeable and the house detached. This was a very affluent area and each property was unique. Isobel was perturbed. Surely in this amicable agreement Mrs Banks could move to a house nearby rather than rent a flat? Maybe the rental was a temporary step until they decided where was best for her to live or something suitable came up.
She decided to call on the neighbours and see if she could glean any information.
The house next door appeared more accessible, with lower walls and gate and an abundance of flowers which softened it. There was a silver car parked in the drive and Isobel hoped that meant that there was someone at home. While she waited for the door to be answered she admired the roses in bloom, wafting a delicate fragrance into the air. Planters with a profusion of violas, pansies and petunias abounded, making a rainbow of colour and giving a cheerful look to the front. An orchestra of insects gave a steady hum as they danced amongst the flowers.
Hearing the door open, she turned around to face the short, white-haired lady framed in the doorway. She was maybe seventy but her spritely welcome gave the impression of someone younger. Her eyes were direct and Isobel suspected that her diminutive stature was matched with a formidable intelligence.
Filled with genuine enthusiasm, Isobel said, “Oh, your flowers are beautiful!”
Immediately the older lady smiled back at her. “Thank you.” She waited with her hand on the door surround.
Isobel decided to take a risk based on a shared love of flowers. She knew also that sometimes you had to give a little bit of information to get some.
“Hi, my name is Isobel McKenzie. I’m a friend of Anne’s.” She smiled. “From Ireland.”
“I gathered as much from your accent.”
Isobel could feel her smile faltering. “I’ve been concerned about her and her husband and son. I know she’s moved out and I’m worried about how she’s doing, how they’re all doing really.” She winced.
“I haven’t seen you around before visiting Anne . . .”
Isobel grimaced. “No, you wouldn’t have.”
“But then they never were fond of visitors.”
Isobel smiled. “No, they weren’t.” She tried again. “I’ve spoken to Anne very recently and while she has told me all about the divorce and her problems –” she made a face, “I saw her yesterday and I find myself very concerned . . .” She could feel a real lump in her throat and she gave a wobbly smile. “I’m sorry, I’m probably not making much sense . . . you see, I was in London for some business and, after seeing Anne and feeling worried, I thought that if I spoke to someone else who knew her it might reassure me . . . I’m not just being nosy . . . I’m genuinely concerned.”
There was a silence as the older lady regarded her.
Isobel shook her head. “I’m sorry, this was a bad idea. I’ll just go. Please forgive me for disturbing you – and please don’t mention to Anne that I called as it would only upset her. It was silly of me.” She turned to leave.
“Wait!”
Isobel turned back.
“You’re a friend of Anne’s?”
“Yes.” Isobel wondered how far she could stretch the truth.
“And you’re worried about her?”
“Yes. I suppose I thought if I talked to someone who knew her on a more daily basis, not just from the phone or Skype, and who might understand her better, that it might help me when I’m talking to her . . .” And that was literally the truth, Isobel thought.
With a small nod the older woman gestured to her to come in.
“I’m Grace Allen and I’m worried too.”
Isobel stepped in, feeling a mixture of anxiety and relief.
Turning, Grace Allen led the way down the hall into a big and bright kitchen at the back of the house with open doors to a sunroom. The view of the back garden was stunning, with more colourful flowers and shrubs and an area for growing vegetables in beautifully raised beds.
Isobel crossed to the windows of the sunroom, absorbing the wonder of the garden. “Oh, wow! This is amazing. I am so jealous. My garden never looks as tidy as this.”
Grace smiled as she poured water from a jug with floating mint and lemon. She handed Isobel a glass and gestured for her to sit down.
Isobel suspected that she had struck gold – a precise lady who was lonely and therefore eager to talk and, if she was to be believed, was worried too.
Grace stared into the distance and then she straightened her shoulders,
“I first met Anne Banks ten years ago when they bought next door. I’m old-fashioned so I called over to meet them and take them an apple tart I’d baked. Anne invited me in. We had a cup of tea and some tart and chatted. She was unpacking and was all excited, telling me about her wonderful husband, their honeymoon and how happy she was. Then we heard the door opening and Anne suddenly jumped up and ran out into the hall. I was surprised. I heard some whispers and then her husband came in with Anne beside him. She seemed different. She was all apologetic, explaining that we’d lost track of time and so the dinner wasn’t ready. It could’ve just been a new wife fussing about housework, but I was a bit uncomfortable. I left shortly after that and the next day I bumped into her as she was coming back from the shops. She set down her bags to say hello and we chatted briefly and when she picked them up again she winced. I asked her if she was in pain and she passed it off as having hurt her back, lifting boxes. She was a different woman from the open chatty one I had met the day before. I asked if she was all right and she told me that she was tired from all the unpacking. A week later I called over but she was on her way out. I tried a couple of times more but she was always busy or there was something on.I was never in the house again.”