I visualise the way he’ll slide off his shoes, red socks on show, then head upstairs to change into sweatpants and a loose jumper. He’ll throw his work clothes near the washing basket but not in. He’ll sigh long and loud as he thumps down the stairs. He’ll ask what’s for dinner with hungry eyes.
I approach the front of the house with another set of cautious, careful steps and watch, pupils wide, as a woman comes into view. Mandy. She moves round the space in red lipstick, a black top hugging her shoulders, dark curls pulled into a wild ponytail.
I observe her surroundings. From a distance, she stands in a light-grey kitchen with sharp edges and sparse personality but, look closer, and you’ll see the cast iron shelves are decorated with well-thumbed recipe books, a marble island topped with post, fishbowl lamps hanging from the ceiling like spiders dropping from silver-spun webs. Rick drifts into the kitchen moments later, paces over to Mandy and wraps his strong arms round her middle. She half-smiles when he touches her, her shoulders shrugging to her ears as if she’s uncomfortable. Trouble? She rests the back of her head on his shoulder, waiting for him to kiss her and, though it sounds affectionate, something about it looks perfunctory, well-rehearsed. Brief. He pecks her forehead, lets her go, then glides to the set of matching sofas in the living area beyond. He sinks into the seat and out of view. She sighs as he leaves and her smile disappears, replaced with pursed lips and frigid eyebrows. She chops at something I can’t see, blade piercing flesh.
Cold air curls round the back of my neck.
I wonder if she loves him.
I wonder what she knows, what she doesn’t.
I wonder if she feels the danger that lurks outside her house, that scratches at her door, that presses its face up against her windows at night.
Tabby
Five Years Ago
The Pure You office is stifling, swimming-pool humid, the dank air clinging to the skin beneath my uniform, the walls dripping with sweat. I don’t mind the heat, not when I can be out in it, a linen dress whipping blushed skin rather than thick cotton. But, behind reception, the air sits heavy and I find myself counting down the hours to lunch.
I look down, the back of my hand still stained jelly-red, and four letters – XOXO – blurred across my skin. I cast my mind back to this time yesterday when the owner of XOXO had stripped to her underwear and flattened herself onto the surgery table, ready for a few rounds of laser therapy. Quite quickly, I’d noticed a fault line appear in the white plastic and I’d had to move fast to coax the woman down from it.
‘Caroline’s corner-cutting strikes again,’ I’d whispered to Bella as we lay the patient seat as flat as we could make it. ‘Let’s hope she spent more than fifty pence on the seats.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m used to breaking things,’ the woman had said, her yellow-brown eyes sparkling beneath well-crafted brows. ‘My mother fed me fast food when I was a kid because I was prettier than her and she hated me for it. Wanted to do everything she could to stop me from picking up the compliments she used to get.’ Annabella and I had shared a look as she’d continued. ‘I often wonder if I could sue her for child cruelty. It should be her paying the price for my ill health, not me. Don’t you think?’
Child cruelty isn’t the best subject to bring up with Annabella and me – both of us have survived difficult upbringings – and, at the time, I could tell the idea of this woman suing her own mother was affecting Bella. I’m sure she’d told me that her father had done something similar. Sued her mother after their divorce, stopped her from selling the tiny house she’d been exiled to, that all of her mother’s money ended up tied up in the property, so much so that she couldn’t afford the heating bills, or even food, and, rather than counter-sue, she’d let him win. Suicide, I think Bella had told me, in the end.
‘Ah, I don’t know,’ Bella had replied. ‘I think most parents are just trying their best. Besides, you’re beautiful, being thin is not the be all and end all we were once led to believe.’
Bella’s compliment had worked and, at the end of the appointment, two tickets to XOXO’s Wednesday night Perspextacular were pressed into our palms.
Bella hadn’t wanted to go – too loud, too dirty, too crowded – but I’d begged her, and dragged her back to my house after work to get ready. Perspex had made a fashion comeback a few years ago and, though it was often levelled at me as an insult, this time my trend-following obsession had paid off. I’d squeezed Bella into clear-heeled sandals, the top of her foot clad in a jelly-shoe-like band, an ice cube-inspired plastic clutch swinging from her arm. She looked amazing and, finally, she relented.
Honestly, if she’d said no, I would have gone without her. I was desperate to escape, seeking oblivion to punish myself for caring too much about Alex, who’d been broadcasting radio silence since Sunday night. I’d been trying my best not to dwell on it, alcohol and nights out the best way to forget and, before I knew it, I was doing the same again. Bella and I downed watermelon shots at the bar, danced to too-loud-to-hear music, mouths agape at the amazing podium dancers wrapped in clear-plastic dresses, our arms in the air as we’d enjoyed it all together.
We were having fun, then, motivated by self-destruction, I went on to have a little too much. Not much later, Bella had my tresses in a hand-held ponytail to stop me from turning my blonde hair watermelon-pink. She’d stood behind me trying not to touch the surfaces, dabbing a stack of toilet roll against my clammy forehead, pushing a bottle of water into my hand, forcing me to drink, then held me as I’d heaved into the toilet once more – ‘You’re OK, you’re OK’ – she’d cooed as she patted the space between my shoulder blades. Over my shoulder, though, I could tell she was panicking. Bella didn’t like public toilets at the best of times, let alone vomit-stained ones. Bella, patient and perfect, waited for me to finish, then got me home, safe and sound, despite the fact she was on the verge of an anxiety attack herself.
‘Do you always make a habit of ignoring your patients?’ My neck whips towards the voice across from me and my heart flutters as I realise my mistake. The woman ruffling her feathers is one of our textbook patients, an entitled lady in her early fifties, a neat top wrapped tight to her torso, her silver-blonde hair cut sharp to her chin.
‘Sorry,’ I say, grabbing a bunch of forms. ‘I’ll take you down now, you can fill these out later.’
I guide her down the stairs and mouth an apology to Bella as we enter, shuffling towards her as the woman hangs up her things behind the door.
‘She hasn’t had time to do the forms,’ I explain under my breath. ‘But I’ll make sure they’re done before she leaves.’
My hair stinks of cigarette smoke and my eyes are tired and crusty. There’s a faint ringing in my left ear – the lasting effect of last night’s loud music – and a stale taste on my tongue. Bella doesn’t look much better.
I head back upstairs and nap with my head on my desk until Bella’s patient leaves. I shift her next one over to Anya’s schedule. Anya won’t mind, she has a quiet day today.
I give Bella five minutes to clear up, then trudge to her room to debrief on last night’s events. Her head rests heavy on her forearms and she groans when I come in.