Her heart bounced as Simon’s little blue car turned into the car park. He parked precisely between the white lines of an empty space, then, looking in the mirror, smoothed his hair into glossy waves. It was longer on top than before but still short at the back. Marion was briefly thrilled to think that he was tidying it in anticipation of seeing her; then she reminded herself he would probably do the same before meeting any client, male or female.
He swung his slim, athletic body out of the car and then reached in to grab a red folder. His blue suit was a little darker than the car’s paintwork, and it went well with a primrose yellow tie that caught the sunlight like a knight’s sword. When he saw her, a broad smile filled his tanned face. Marion realized she was trembling, as though she were going on a date with a boy she had been obsessing over for months. They went into the building together, and Simon pressed the button for the lift. As they waited he asked her how she had been and even commented on how nice her hair looked.
As soon as Simon unlocked the front door she felt a warm, familiar feeling. Looking around the flat, first into Aunt Agnes’s bedroom with its fitted wardrobes and huge double-glazed windows that faced the sea, and then the small room that had been especially reserved for her when she was a child, she was convinced she could feel her aunt’s presence, smell her favorite rose-scented bath oil in the bathroom and hear her singing in the kitchen.
“You probably think I say this to all my clients, Marion, but I get this feeling that you really belong here, don’t you agree?” said Simon.
“Yes—you have no idea how true that is.” There was a choke in her voice that he must have noticed.
“If the price is an issue, the seller might have a bit more room. The previous owner, a senior gentleman, passed away, and the family are keen to sell.” Then he added quickly, “I hope that doesn’t sound insensitive? But these flats are popular with older people and—well of course, the inevitable happens.”
“Oh—it doesn’t bother me at all—people have to die somewhere.”
Simon frowned.
“Well, I don’t know the details, but I believe he died in a hospice rather than the property itself.”
“Oh, of course,” she added, realizing she had embarrassed him by suggesting that the old person had actually died there in the flat, as though this fact might have permanently tainted it in some way.
“So you might be interested, then? In putting in an offer?”
Cold air rushed into her lungs as though she were about to jump into a river. Why couldn’t she buy the flat? Was it really so ridiculous? Might it not be possible to alter her life after all these years of just drifting along? After all, she had been left money and if she didn’t spend it, then who else would?
She had once considered leaving it to Lydia, but the thought of her receiving a phone call or letter and thinking wistfully, “How sad, that lonely old soul dying with no one to leave her money to but me, and I haven’t spoken a word to her in years,” rather angered Marion. I’d rather give the lot to charity, she thought with grim satisfaction. Or leave it to someone who is nice to me, like Simon.
“An offer, well, I suppose so—perhaps—I mean, why not? Of course, I’ll need some time to think it over.”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
This time his sentence did not bounce upwards at the end; instead it was weighted down by disappointment, as if he knew she was lying to him but was too polite to say anything.
“No, Simon, I really mean it. I’m going to buy this flat. I want to more than anything.”
“Great, that’s great, Marion.” His lovely mouth, with the slightly feminine Cupid’s bow, curled into a smile. “Do you have a solicitor in mind?”
“A solicitor?”
Then her flesh began to prickle with anxiety. There would be so many complicated things to deal with, and she couldn’t ask John for help. She heard her mother’s voice: You will never manage this by yourself, Marion. You will probably end up getting conned out of every penny you possess, just like that fool Jean Page. Shut up, Mother, she told the voice sternly. Not everyone is a thief or a con man. I will manage. People will help me, good decent people like Simon.
“Of course, if you don’t, I can recommend someone. And you’ll need to get the finances in place,” said Simon. “Perhaps if you book an appointment with someone at your bank? Or I could give you the number of a mortgage broker. How about I call you in a couple of days, Marion? And if there is anything I can do, please give me a ring.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I think I left the balcony doors open,” said Simon as they were about to leave.
“Don’t worry, I’ll close them,” said Marion, keen to be helpful.
She dashed into the living room as a chilly breeze was blowing in through the open doors. As she was pulling them shut, Marion looked down to the street below and remembered Bunty lying there, her white fur spread out like an old rug someone had discarded on the pavement. Suddenly the warm sea she had been floating in turned ice-cold. She heard her aunt’s voice in her head: You did it, Marion. You are bad through and through just like your brother.
And then it seemed impossible to even imagine that she could live somewhere like this, somewhere clean and bright. She would only bring the rottenness with her. After what she had done, didn’t she belong in Grange Road? Her father had murdered Sally. Her mother had killed their baby uncle. She had killed Violetta and let the others starve to death.
She suddenly exclaimed out loud: “No I don’t deserve this. I am an evil woman.”
“I’m sorry, what was that?” Simon was standing right behind her in the living room. She turned to face him.
“I have done bad things,” she said plainly. “When I was a child I killed my aunt’s dog; I threw the poor thing over this balcony. I was jealous because I didn’t want her to love anything but me. And I once killed another girl’s pet because she was unkind to me.”
A look of confusion clouded Simon’s face.
“I threw a rock at one of my schoolmates while she was cycling home. It cracked her skull. And I have done much, much worse things—I have killed someone.”
She stopped and waited for Simon’s reaction, not really knowing if she had said those things out loud or just in her own head. For a while he just stared at her, and then he laughed politely as if someone had told a rather inappropriate joke. Of course he didn’t believe a word of it. Marion was an ordinary, rather dull middle-aged woman. No one would think her interesting enough to be capable of evil.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” She gasped, putting her hands to her face. Her skin felt cold and numb.
“Are you all right? You look a bit pale.”
“I do feel rather dizzy, it’s so warm in here—I have low blood pressure. Sometimes it causes me to faint.”
Marion had no idea what the symptoms of low blood pressure were and whether it might involve fainting or not, but she hoped Simon wouldn’t either. He sat her down in the kitchen and, after running the tap for a long time to make sure it was cold and fresh, gave her a glass of water.
Simon was so kind, he insisted on driving her all the way home to Grange Road. She told him that she lived at a house several doors down from her own. What would the neighbors think if they saw her getting out of a car driven by a handsome young man?
MONEY