‘I miss him, too,’ Francis says, reading my silence. ‘He’ll be fine, though. He’ll probably want to go and live with your parents permanently by the time we get back.’
‘I know,’ I agree, and lean in towards him for a kiss. It lasts longer than I had intended, and I wonder if we should go back upstairs to bed. Tired by the journey and shaken by the sight of the flowers, I hadn’t felt like sex last night, but right now the idea feels interesting, tangible. I hesitate a little too long, and the moment passes. Francis collects up the plates and takes them over to the dishwasher, talking about an exhibition on light and sound he has heard about that he thinks I might like to visit. It does sound good, actually – the kind of thing I used to go to on my own in my early twenties, wearing my most carefully selected artistic clothes in an attempt to fit in. It also sounds like the kind of thing that Francis would see as entirely inane and pointless.
‘We could do something you want to do, too,’ I venture.
He laughs. ‘Whatever you want to do is fine with me,’ he says. ‘That’s what I want.’
I wait in case anything else is forthcoming, but he just stares at me expectantly. ‘OK, then,’ I say finally. ‘Great.’ For a moment, I experience a strange pulse of nausea – the sense of some veneer cracking. Who is this Mr Perfect busying himself with the cleaning and tidying up, chatting about taking me out to exhibitions? Not my husband, or not the one I thought I had.
I breathe in deeply, steadying myself, waiting for it to vanish, and it does. ‘I’m going to pop up the road to that newsagent’s we saw,’ I say. ‘I can pick up the paper and a few bits and bobs while you have a shower?’
‘Sure,’ he says casually, to my relief. I need to get out for a few minutes to clear my head. I want to enjoy this week, and to do that I need to be in the right frame of mind. It’s not easy yet, not automatic. I’m not sure it ever will be.
I take my time on the way back from the newsagent’s, knowing that Francis will still be getting ready. Turning back into Everdene Avenue, I stroll down the pavement, glancing at each of the houses as I pass. They are boxy and self-contained, neatly spaced along the road in terraces of three. Occasionally, I see the shadows of their inhabitants moving past windows, gliding in and out of view like fish in darkly lit aquariums. If I moved a little further away from the road, I would be able to stare into their living rooms. In the tall, narrow tower block we live in now, we’re suspended in mid-air. Beyond the occasional bursts of music and noise that filter through the ceiling and floor, we might as well be living alone in the building. It feels odd to have other people’s lives so near that I can almost reach out and touch them.
As I approach number 14, I find myself slowing down even further. This was the house I noticed yesterday – the one with the relatively unkempt front lawn, the trails of dirt and dust running in fine lines along the outside walls. As I come closer, I see that there is a silver wind-catcher hanging from the front porch, tinkling gently in the breeze, the sound soft and clear, almost menacing. It reminds me of something for an instant, a split second of barely remembered, uneasy meaning that soon twists away.
The front door swings open and a woman is standing there, peering out into the street. She’s in her mid-twenties, wearing a dark khaki dress, with long, carelessly tangled blonde hair that spills over her oversized black cardigan. ‘Are you Heather?’ she calls out abruptly.
‘I – no.’ Awkwardly, I smile and shake my head, feeling my cheeks flush. ‘Sorry,’ I add.
The woman laughs, leaning back against the doorframe and folding her arms. ‘Well, it’s not your fault,’ she says. ‘I’m expecting someone from St Mary’s to come round about the fundraising event. Thought you might be her.’
‘Right,’ I say, shifting away. ‘No worries.’
‘Actually,’ the woman says, and I have already turned away from her when I hear her voice pulling me back, ‘I think I saw you arriving yesterday. You went into number 21, didn’t you?’ Somewhere along the line, she has drifted away from her own doorway and is halfway across the front lawn towards me, standing in her bare feet. Her face is open and innocent, and yet I catch a sly, conspiratorial look in her wide, green eyes, as if she is intimating that she and I both know that her initial query was a pretext.
That’s suburbia for you, I think, glancing back up the street. She seems a little young for a curtain-twitcher, but I suppose this environment breeds it early. I imagine a hotline of coded radio signals pulsing along the street in secret and tapping into each home one by one – newcomer alert! – and I can’t help smiling. ‘Yes,’ I say mildly. ‘Just staying for the week. House-sitting.’ Some obscure little scruple stops me from saying ‘swapping’, rather than ‘sitting’. I know absolutely nothing about the person whose house we are staying in, have no idea if they would want their movements and their choices relayed to their neighbours.
The woman perches on the edge of the low brick wall flanking the front lawn, fumbling in the pocket of her dress. The movement briefly pushes her breasts out against the material and, as she bends her head, I see the sweep of her long eyelashes and the angle of her cheekbones. She is unusually pretty.
She fishes out a packet of cigarettes and tilts it in my direction, raising her eyebrows inquiringly. I laugh, uncomfortable. ‘No, thanks.’ The woman seems unperturbed, putting one to her lips and bending her head to light it.
It feels like a natural end to the encounter, and I start to move away again, but she glances up. ‘Well, if you find yourself at a loose end,’ she says, ‘I’m at a bit of one myself this week. If you fancy a coffee or something? Two lonely women, and all that.’
Her voice is lightly mocking; for a bizarre moment, I wonder if she is flirting with me. There is something unsettling about her proposal – the directness of it, an invitation to play. I look at her; the way she is sitting on the wall with her knees drawn up to her chest, the inquisitive tilt of the head. She reminds me of something, or someone. I can’t quite catch on to the thought, but the trace it leaves fizzes with significance. It’s the same sense of déjà vu I felt when I looked at her front doorway, and I don’t like it.
‘Actually, I’m here with my husband,’ I say, a little more sharply than I intended. ‘But thanks. I’d better get on.’
The woman half smiles. She eases herself off the wall, smoothing down her dress, then abruptly turns and walks wordlessly back to the house. I watch her as she goes back inside without a backward glance and closes the door. Guilt is starting to prickle over my skin. I was a little rude to her; she was only being friendly, however bizarre it seems. considering we have never met before. A vague idea stirs – an apologetic note through the door, a conciliatory proposal to meet – but I tell myself I am being stupid. We are only here for a week, and we’ve come to spend time with each other, not to make friends.
Lost in thought, I find that I am already at the front door and that I have pushed the key into the lock with as much familiarity as if this really were my house. As soon as I open the door I realize that something is wrong; a flash of instinctive recoil even before I have heard the first note. Music is drifting down the staircase. It takes a few beats to recognize the song, but my body knows it before I do. My heart is thudding and my limbs feel weak and liquid, suddenly awakened.
I haven’t listened to this song since the last time I saw you. But I remember the crowded bar where I first heard it with you; that magical sense that everything was fusing together, that it was a perfectly crafted soundtrack to what was happening in the tiny pocket of the room where we stood inches apart, your hands moving lightly to my waist and pulling me towards you.
Francis appears at the top of the staircase, rubbing his hair dry with a towel. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks instantly.