‘Have you had a good day at work?’
‘The same as usual. I’m making chicken chasseur for dinner.’
I hate chicken chasseur. ‘Sounds lovely,’ I say. ‘Is it my turn to eat with you tonight?’
‘Yes, it’s Tuesday.’
‘Ah, I thought it was Wednesday. I’m getting ahead of myself.’
‘I’ll come and get you when it’s ready. It shouldn’t be long.’
‘Okay,’ I reply, and return to my room as she disappears from view.
I pause to count the liver spots on my hands. It’s been so long since I’ve seen the sun that there are no new ones forming. That’s a small plus among a long list of minuses. I take in my reflection in the dressing table’s mirror and flatten down my unruly hair. It’s been silver for so long now that I cannot visualise the colour it was before. Then I use a medium-red lipstick to paint on a smile, then add a little eyeliner. I dab blusher on to my cheeks but because my skin is so white, it resembles two red splodges daubed on a rag doll. So I wipe them off and leave my face bare.
I take a deep breath and prepare myself for the night ahead. Once upon a time we were the best of friends. But that was beforehedestroyed everything. Now the two of us are little more than the debris he left behind.
CHAPTER 2
NINA
I remove the glass lid from the dish on the bottom shelf of the oven and steam pours out. Inside, the chicken breasts appear white in colour and I prod them with a fork to check they’re done. I know Maggie doesn’t like chicken chasseur, but I do, and she’s not the one who cooks in this house. Besides, her fake enthusiasm is amusing to me.
I empty the shopping bags before I take my coat off. She prefers neatly stacked cupboards and tidy drawers; I don’t. I save my neatness and order for the workplace where I have no choice but to be organised. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to in my own home. So I place the groceries wherever suits me best. Maggie isn’t likely to rearrange them behind my back.
Sainsbury’s was busy tonight, even more so than usual. Families were out in force; armies of beleaguered parents trying to do the weekly shop accompanied by sleeve-tugging children whining and demanding sweets, toys and comics. I watched some of these mothers, frazzled and rolling their eyes, thinking they didn’t know how lucky they were.
One little boy with a mop of dark-brown hair caught my attention. He couldn’t have been more than a year old and was sitting in a trolley, his chubby legs dangling through the hole in the rear, one shoe on and another lying on its side on a bag of satsumas. His smile was so broad it took up half his face. His mum left him for a moment as she went to another aisle. I imagined how easy it would be to grab him and carry him outside. When she returned with a bottle of ketchup, I had a good mind to tell her how careless she was.
There was a lot of food on special offer and close to its sell-by date tonight so I bought more than was on my list. However, as I couldn’t walk home loaded with all those bags, I hailed a taxi instead, which negated the savings I’d made on my bill. I recognised the driver from his profile and the shape of his eyes reflected in the rear-view mirror. Nathan Robinson. I went to school with him – first at Abington Vale Middle and then, briefly, Weston Favell Upper. He hadn’t changed much, except for his receding hairline and ugly tribal tattoos on his hands. He didn’t recognise me and I didn’t introduce myself. I was reluctant to spend the journey home reminiscing about people I’ve lost touch with or ruminating over where the twenty-four years have gone since we last saw one another. It was unlikely he’d remember me anyway. At fourteen, I turned my back on school and never returned.
As his cab pulled away, I took a moment to face my house and glance up towards the second-floor window. I know that much of Maggie’s life is spent behind those shutters living vicariously through everyone else, and I wonder to what degree she misses interacting with people. Over dinner, she’ll keep me up to speed with who she’s seen and what they’re up to, but does she ever long to be among them? Watching isn’t living, is it?
I’ve tried to make her life a little more comfortable but she rarely asks for my help. She didn’t mention when her television stopped working. It was only when I remembered I hadn’t seen it switched on for a while that she admitted it was broken. I was about to offer to get it repaired when she informed me that the ‘news is too depressing’ and that she’d rather lose herself in a book instead. So I didn’t bother. I know that if I were in her shoes, I’d have gone mad up there by now.
I leave the kitchen, make my way upstairs to the dining room on the first floor and set the table for two. I flatten out the lace tablecloth, the one Maggie’s grandmother made her. She prefers to ‘keep it for best’. I remind her that these days, there is no ‘best’ any more. We live in a time where everything and everyone is disposable. I return to the oven to serve up the food, and take the plates and a bottle of Pinot Grigio back upstairs.
I glance at my surroundings as I set the table. It used to be a bedroom and there’s still a chest of drawers that I’ve yet to move. One day I’ll make the time to redecorate. By most people’s standards, this house is a little topsy-turvy. On the ground floor is a kitchen with a basement leading off it, a lounge, an empty room – formerly the dining room – and a toilet. The first floor contains two bedrooms, a family bathroom, a study and the new dining room surrounded by wall-to-wall bookshelves. Each book is housed inside a thick plastic cover. The second floor is the converted attic that Maggie calls home. It contains another bathroom that only she uses, a landing and her bedroom. And that’s it. My home. Well,ourhome, I suppose. And love it or loathe it, neither of us is going anywhere.
I walk up another flight of stairs and find her standing by the window. There I remain, observing her and wondering what goes through her mind, alone up here. And for the briefest of moments, I am close to pitying her.
CHAPTER 3
MAGGIE
As I wait for Nina, I watch over the comings and goings of the cul-de-sac like a sentry guard but without the authority to report suspicious activity or to turn anyone away. I’m as much use as a toothless watchdog. I think back to when I first moved here some forty years ago now, and how most of the houses were identical in appearance. They were well maintained and had a uniform charm about them. Now they’ve got different-coloured garage doors, ugly plastic window frames and uPVC front doors. Most have replaced their lush green lawns with block paving to accommodate a second and in some cases a third car. They have transformed my once-colourful street into fifty shades of grey.
There’s a pattern to the way I take in each property. Being at the far end of a cul-de-sac, I can see both sides of the road. I start with the houses on the left. They are pricier properties because they back on to school playing fields. Number twenty-nine is the last house I can see without squinting and the one that brings back the saddest memories. A little boy, Henry, almost died in a house fire there a few years ago. I remember him well: such a sweet, polite little lad. Firefighters rescued him but he suffered terrible brain damage by all accounts. His mum never forgave herself and it tore the family apart. But I noticed her husband and their two girls, Effie and Alice, moved back in not so long ago, so I hope there’s been a happy ever after for them.
Next, I’ll continue with the other side. Elsie’s house is next door to mine. She and I must be two of the street’s longest-serving residents. We moved in three months apart and became firm friends early on. She knows more secrets about this house than Nina does. Of all the people out there going about their lives, I miss talking to her the most.
She never closes her curtains until she goes to bed, even when it’s pitch-black. As an elderly woman living on her own, I’d assume she’d be more careful. I can just about spy a familiar green-and-white image on her large television screen and decide that it’s the opening credits ofEastEnders. Elsie likes her soaps, as did I. We used to chat about them over our Thursday afternoon coffees. I wonder, after so long out of the loop, how quickly I’d be able to pick up on the storylines I’ve missed. I think again about asking Nina to have my television repaired but do I really want her to think she is doing me a favour? Perhaps I’m cutting my nose off to spite my face.
A small white car with a dark sunroof briefly pulls up outside the house. It must have the wrong address because it quickly drives away again.
I’m suddenly aware I’m not alone and turn to see Nina, watching me. She tries to pretend that she’s only just appeared but I sense she has been here for a few minutes. It’s happened before, knowing that I’m being silently observed and likely judged, but I never ask. Neither of us ever says what we actually mean. Untruths and unwillingness to communicate effectively, that’s how she and I function. Or perhaps dysfunction might be a more accurate description.
‘Are you ready to eat?’ she asks, and I smile a yes. She takes my arm gently and helps me down the stairs, one at a time.
