The door to the main bedroom is ajar. I imagine Goodall standing behind it. Listening. Waiting. With one finger, I push open the door and step inside. The curtains are drawn but I can’t risk turning on the light.
I take the night-light from the landing and find a wall socket in the bedroom. It casts a soft glow over the room. The iron-framed bed is messy and a pillow bears a head-shaped hollow. Discarded clothes are lying on the floor. The man is a slob when he doesn’t have someone to clean up after him.
I check under the bed and open the drawers of a dressing table. His and hers. Alison’s are mostly empty. I find a picture frame lying face down. Holding it closer to the light, I discover it’s a wedding photograph. He looks smug. She looks like a teenager playing dress-up.
There is a large walk-in wardrobe between the bedroom and the en suite, with shelves and hanging spaces on either side. Goodall has arranged his sweaters and jeans on different shelves. As I turn back to the bedroom, I notice a large suitcase standing upright in a hanging space on Alison’s side of the wardrobe. Unclipping the latches, I fold it open. The main compartment is full of clothes and shoes, packed in haste. There are children’s pyjamas and soft toys. I search the lid compartments, sliding my hand inside the different pockets.
My fingers close around a velvet pouch and pull it free. The pouch has been rolled up like a sleeping bag and secured with a double bow. I tug at the velvet string; it unfurls and reveals a rectangular shape, sewn with small pockets for earrings and a zippered section for necklaces. In the middle is a sausage-shaped pillow for her rings. Three of them. Even in semi-darkness, I recognise the Ceylon sapphire surrounded by diamonds. It is Imogen Croker’s ring. Her mother’s ring. Her grandmother’s ring. It is proof that Goodall lied about Imogen’s death.
Downstairs, I hear the sound of a key entering a lock and the air pressure changes as the front door opens. I feel the tremor of feet. The ring slips from my grasp and falls into the suitcase. I gently feel for it, searching the clothes, growing more desperate as the seconds tick by. Another sound, closer at hand. A light switch. The strip of light beneath the door glows brighter than before.
‘Wait here. I have to turn off the alarm,’ says Goodall.
A woman answers. I can’t make out the words.
I am pulling at clothes, shaking them, hoping the ring might fall loose.
‘It’s not working,’ yells Goodall. ‘There must have been a power outage. Make yourself at home.’
I can’t stay here. I can’t be found. I cannot even count the laws I’m breaking. I shove the jewellery case back into the suitcase and force it closed, only managing to secure one latch. I push it behind the door of the wardrobe and step into the bedroom. Listening. They’re in the kitchen. Laughing. I hear muffled pop of a champagne cork and the clink of glasses. He’s supposed to be working, but he’s brought a woman home. Not his wife. A date.
Ahead of me are the stairs. If I stay close to the wall, I might be able to reach the front door without being seen. The other option is to hide. I choose Nathan’s room, squeezing myself between his bed and the wall, pulling the duvet partially across my body. I am lying on my stomach, with my head turned to one side, listening to the music playing downstairs.
Time passes. Drags. Expands. The stillness settles over me, but I feel a strange fullness in my ears, as though I’m underwater and the weight of the ocean is pressing against my eardrums.
The stairs creak. They’re coming. I press my cheek to the floor and see two shadows pass across the door. They’re in the bedroom. He’s apologising for the mess. I should warn her. I should run.
Crawling out from beneath the bed, I cross the room and flatten myself against a wall, poking my head out, one eye only. The main bedroom door is half closed, offering me some protection.
The plumbing rattles. The shower. Without hesitating, I cross the landing and descend the stairs, aware of every creak from the carpeted boards. At any moment, I expect the bedroom door to open, and Goodall to appear.
I turn the spring lock gently and open the front door. It will be louder when it closes. I flinch as the latch bolt clicks against the strike plate, echoing through the house. The security light triggers. I don’t stop. I keep moving, walking down the short path and turning left where I will disappear quickly behind the neighbour’s front hedge.
I return the keys to Goodall’s Saab and make sure that it’s locked before making my way along the road. A woman emerges from a front gate, taking her dog for a walk. For a moment, I get tangled in the leash and she apologises, smiling and wishing me good night.
I mumble a reply and keep moving. My hands are shaking when I reach the VW. I struggle to find the ignition, then first gear, second, third … accelerating. Too fast. Slow down. Stay calm.
I’m furious with myself. What a pointless, ridiculous exercise – to risk so much and gain so little. I don’t have the ring, which means I can’t use it against Goodall, or return it to Imogen’s family. All I have is a secret that I can never share with anyone.
Book Three
I want her to melt into me, like butter on toast. I want to absorb her and walk around for the rest of my days with her encased in my skin.
SARA GRUEN
47
This is our third nightclub and each one has been louder than the last, with darker corners, brighter flashing lights, and more bodies on the dance floor. I can’t remember how long it’s been since I went out dancing, but nothing much has changed, particularly the cost of drinks and the chat-up lines.
I went through a clubbing phase in my late teens, wearing clingy dresses and high heels, sweet-talking bouncers, and getting free entry because girls bring in guys. Usually, we couldn’t afford to buy more than one cocktail, but there were always stockbrokers and traders who kept us supplied. Today’s suitors don’t have the same sort of cash or cachet. They’re younger and braver, strutting around like playboys, hoping to ‘hook up’ with a ‘bit of posh’， but happy to fight with a jealous boyfriend if that’s how the night unfolds.
A group of young guys have been doing their best to get us to dance with them. They barely look eighteen, although it’s hard to tell in this lighting. One guy in particular seems to have taken a shine to me. I explain that this is my hen night, but I don’t think he understands, or he doesn’t hear me. His name is Jasper and he has a Russian accent and looks like he should be in a boy band, with his gelled hair and on-trend shirt.
Jasper keeps asking me to dance, but my feet are sore because I listened to Margot and wore high heels, which are giving me blisters. I’m also quite drunk because Brianna keeps buying me cocktails, which I’ve taken to pouring into a potted plant when she’s not looking. I hope it’s plastic.
Yelling over the music, I try to explain to Jasper that I’m getting married. He wants to know why my fiancé let me come out on my own.
‘I’m not on my own,’ I shout. My lips brush his ear and I pull away, embarrassed, and point to my friends.
‘Are they single?’ he asks.
‘Some of them, but I think you should look for someone younger.’
‘How old do you think I am?’
‘Forty-five,’ I say, jokingly.