Page 72 of We Live Here Now

71

Emily

I sleep like the dead; it’s only the sound of plows clearing snow from the lane outside that finally wakes me. The house is warm and calm, and if it weren’t for the throbbing pain in my little finger, I could half convince myself that it had all been a dream. It’s swollen but not red and hot, and I’m still going to drown it in more antiseptic and tape it up, but I don’t have a panic of sepsis today. There are too many distractions. In the hallway the nail has once again vanished, and the window is shut. I check the fastenings and see it’s locked too.

“Sally Freemantle,” I whisper, looking up to the third floor. “Are you here?” There’s no answer, as if the madness of last night has drained her energy too.

I bathe and tape up my little finger and then get in the shower—tentatively at first and ready to leap out if the temperature changes suddenly—and let the warm water run over me. I flinch slightly as I soap. My breasts are so tender and heavy that maybe my period is coming after all. I add that to the list of things to think about later; while I’m in town I can pick up a better test. Before that, I have one job to do. Empty this house of unwelcome residents.

It’s bright outside, the fresh snow sparkling, but the plows have worked hard so the road to the village is clear. With my sturdy boots on and my stick in hand, I make it to the car without incident. I’m going to the studio to talk to Sally, and my plan is to suggest we go next door to their cottage for a coffee to discuss how it works if Joe paints me. While I’m there, I’ll go to the loo and steal whatever I can of Sally’s to hide in my bag and bring home to burn. Surely I can grab a few things. A hairbrush maybe. Underwear from a laundry basket. I guess anything with DNA on it will do. I’m so lost in thought that when my car loudspeaker starts ringing, I realize I’m halfway to Wiveliscoombe already. It’s Iso calling and my nerves—already rattled—ratchet up another notch. What if Mark’s decided to come clean and told her that I’ve blackmailed him? I let it ring for a moment longer and then take a breath and answer.

“Hey.” I’m pleased to hear that I sound normal. “I’m driving so can’t talk for long. The weather’s a mare.”

“But you’re driving, that’s great!” Her voice crackles through the speaker. “I haven’t said it recently, but I’m so proud of how well you’re doing.”

“Getting better every day.”

“Good on you, best bitch. You’re my superhero.”

She used to say that when we were at uni, even though she was the beautiful shining one, and it made me feel special. I realize it still does. It has always felt great to be important to Iso.

“I wanted to apologize for drinking so much at the party. And throwing up. I’m so embarrassed, and Mark’s been even more moody with me so I know he’s ashamed of me. There were strangers there, and you know what he’s like with new people. I don’t know why I did it. I’ve not been feeling that great, and he was… Anyway, it’ll all be nothing, but it wasn’t fair on you.”

“We didn’t care, Iso. I didn’t really notice you were pissed until you threw up. You held it together with panache.”

She laughs at the other end, relieved. “I try, I try.”

“But are you and Mark okay?”

“Yeah. I think so.” She doesn’t sound certain. “It’s just hard sometimes. He’s so successful and I try to be the perfect trophy wife but sometimes I feel like it’s not enough, you know? And none of us are getting any younger. Sometimes I think if he’s not one hundred percent happy we should maybe part ways as friends and try our luck on someone new. You ever feel like that with Freddie? Or am I having some kind of early midlife crisis?”

It’s rare to hear Iso sounding insecure. I’m her best friend. I should tell her to have it out with Mark if she’s got some niggling doubts. I should tell her that I know exactly why Mark’s been so moody recently. I should tell her about Cat, even if I spare her the video.

“You’re perfect, Iso, and he loves you” is what I say instead. “And every couple has those moments. He’s probably stressed about something at work.”

“Yeah, you’re right. And sorry, I didn’t mean to dump my shit on you. I just have that kind of paranoid feeling that something’s going on.”

“Well, don’t. You have nothing to worry about, okay?”

“Okay. I love you, Em. I was lost when you were in the hospital. So drive carefully, yes?”

“I will. And I love you too, and I’ll call you later.”

Guilt twists in my gut like maggots eating at me. Iso’s my oldest friend. I should tell her what I saw Mark and Cat doing and let them all figure it out from there, not stay silent while taking money from— blackmailing —her husband. Sometimes that feels like a dream too. Did I really do that? How awful. This need to protect myself above others has always been a part of me, but maybe this is taking it too far. Maybe I should call Mark and give the money back.

But still, I think, as I pull into a parking space next to the pharmacist. He’s sent the money now. And it’s not like I’m using it just for me. It will get us out of trouble and get Freddie some help with gambling rehab and for all I know we have a baby coming. And anyway, Mark won’t even miss it.

“Emily!”

As I get out of the car, I turn to see Joe there, wrapped up in a jacket and scarf, and I’m suddenly afraid that he knows that I know, but he smiles warmly.

“How’s the headache? All gone?”

“Yes, yes, just needed a good night’s sleep. Actually, I was on my way to see you and Sally.” My heart thrums hard in my chest. “I was wondering if you were serious about painting me.”

“I’m always serious about painting. So yes, I was. I would love for you to sit for me. I’m picking up Sally from the hairdresser’s, then we’re going to Carmello’s for lunch.” He smiles. “Why don’t you join us? We can talk about it there.”

“That would be great,” I say. I take the arm he’s holding out and can feel his biceps under his blazer. Despite everything I suspect of him, he’s still magnetic. I can understand how that girl in the pub looked at him. The idea of being naked as he paints. There’s a sexual thrill I can’t deny, even though I’m never going to do it.

We get to the salon just as the stylist is showing Sally the back of her head and giving her a waft of hairspray, and she grins and waves in the mirror.

“Emily’s joining us for lunch.” Joe leans in and kisses her full and lingering on the mouth. “You look gorgeous.”

“That style really suits you,” I add.

She’s had a fair amount cut off, three or four inches, maybe more from the look of all the hair littered around the chair, and a bunch of choppy layers cut in. It’s a supercool look. Let’s hope whole Sally likes it. It feels surreal thinking that some of this woman’s essence is stuck in my house. Maybe I am mad—maybe more than maybe—but I still believe it.

“Thanks.” She saunters over to the counter and Joe follows her, reaching for his credit card as a junior takes the robe from his wife and fetches her coat.

“Get that floor swept please, Sasha,” a stylist calls across to the junior, who nods, and my stomach does an excited flip as I look down. Hair. Sally’s. A lot of it.

I lift my keys from my pocket and accidentally drop them at my feet, and as I lean down to pick them up, my back to the others at the counter, I also quickly grab a few cut locks and wrap them in a tissue, stuffing them away, hopefully before anyone sees. When I turn, head thumping with a rush of blood, Joe is still at the counter chatting and Sally has joined him. One item down.

“Lunch then, ladies?” Joe says as we go outside. I take one arm and Sally takes the other as he leads us to the restaurant, where we take a corner booth, Joe between us.

I study their dynamic as they talk me through the process of the artwork and the percentage they’d pay to me as a model. It’s not a small amount. Joe really is a sought-after artist if they’re making that much. Sally’s constantly looking at him, adoration in her eyes. Maybe that’s what he needs from women. Adulation. Maybe that’s why he fell in love with her in the first place. She had her wit and charm and she adored him. But the downside was that she couldn’t ever share him.

As the plates are cleared, I surreptitiously take the wet towel that Sally wiped her hands and mouth on after her garlic butter prawns and pocket it. Two items down. Then when we leave and Sally pops to the loo and Joe pays despite my protests, I sneak her napkin too. I don’t need or want to go back to the cottage really, but I don’t have a good excuse not to, so I impatiently drink my tea, have an obligatory toke on a joint as Joe rummages in their record collection for something to play, and then make my excuses, saying I need to get back before Freddie’s home from work.

“I can walk you to your car, if you like?” Joe says.

“I’ll be fine. It’s barely fifty feet from here. But thank you. I’ll talk to Freddie about the painting. See what he thinks.”

I leave them to it, Sally already swaying to the music, mildly stoned, and I know that as soon as I’m out the door they’ll be dancing together and probably very quickly fucking. I let myself out, taking the silk scarf she was wearing at lunch, now draped on a coat hook, and get back out into the icy air.

Fuck it. By the time they notice anything is missing, it will be too late. The strains of music drift out to me as I walk away. Some seventies folkie-sounding band I don’t know. Enjoy it while it lasts, Joe , I think. Your chickens are about to come home to roost.

The drive home is uneventful. When I get home, without giving myself any time to think, I go to the kitchen and grab a roasting pan, matches, and firelighters before heading straight upstairs. It’s getting dark already, and who knows when Freddie will get back. Even with the lights on, the upper landing is edged in suffocating shadows. As I push open the door to the primary bedroom, there’s an awful chill hanging in the air, and the floorboards creak heavily under me as I walk to the center of the empty space. I don’t stop though. I know what I have to do.

Seated on the floor, I empty my Sally collection into the roasting tin and add the firelighters. It takes two goes for my trembling hands to light a match, and I throw it straight onto the firelighters before any draft can extinguish it. The flames appear immediately and shoot up unnaturally high toward the ceiling, and I sit back, heart racing, and watch it start to burn.

I know straightaway that something strange is happening. It’s like all the air in the room is being sucked into the roasting tin like a whirlpool and expelled as the flames, bright white with a swirling black smoke. The smoke expands and expands, filling the room fast, dark, sulfuric, and ashy, and I scuttle backward, my eyes already burning and watering. I try not to breathe in, but I have no choice, and the hot smoke goes into my lungs and suddenly—