‘The point is progress,’ I say.
‘But where does it end?’ he bleats. ‘Learning to ride a bike, breaking into the first eleven, getting my A levels, running that bloody marathon, degree, MBA, bank. It was always just to gain his approval, and it was never enough.’
‘Have a drink,’ I say. I could tell him that Roger only supported our marriage after I discovered his visits to a woman in Baker Street who specialized in ‘submissive services’, but why tell the truth when Stephen prefers his misery serviced with lies?
I pour him another glass of wine in the hope that it will help to relax him, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t also aware that moving the body from the garage would be a lot easier if Stephen was out for the count.
Chapter12Cul-de-Sac
With the majority of a bottle of wine inside him, Stephen doesn’t shrug off my affection as I hug him in the ensuite. He’s still fully dressed, but I don’t want to wait. I let my hands slip under his shirt. Not only do I enjoy the pleasure of physical contact, I gain the additional advantage of mentally ticking off my to-do list.
Without the distraction of romance, married love is simply a rational business choice based on intellectual compatibility, economic benefits, housing prospects, propagation of the species, and reasonably reliable sexual gratification (current period excluded).
I fell for Stephen for the normal reasons – he was attractive, he worked in an investment bank, his parents were wealthy, he had no siblings, and he was keen on marriage. Of course, he was already engaged, but I stepped in with an improved offer. Gazumping happens in marriages as well as in house-hunting.
Prior to meeting Stephen, I learned how to behave in his circle by becoming a nanny to a wealthy upper-middle-class family. I used the opportunity to purloin clothes, jewellery, shoes and handbags – my costume. When I was ready, I road-tested my new self on half a dozen young bankers and found that they rarely saw beyond what they wanted to see, then I went in pursuit of my chosen host.
Within five minutes, we’re on the bed (Stephen’s sense of propriety moved us out of the bathroom quite quickly) and I’m straddling him, but Stephen’s hands are roving without enthusiasm, and circling further and further from any recognized erogenous zone, until he’s gently stroking my elbow.
‘You’re drunk,’ I say with sudden irritation.
‘I am,’ he says. ‘Can we just...’
‘No excuses,’ I say, and with steely determination and some well-chosen words I get him over the finish line. He seems relieved it’s over, even though I did 95 per cent of the work.
I roll off him, lie on my back and notice that he’s not even taken his shoes off. I think about the dead man’s loafers, and, for a moment, wonder if I’ve killed an estate agent. I mean, Foxtons are forever sending unsolicited letters asking if we want to sell, so it wouldn’t surprise me if they were measuring up without our consent.
I look at my husband lying there staring blankly at the ceiling and think back to when this all started. Not long after his father died – despite my being an almost faultless wife, mother, confidante, lover, care-giver, cook, emotional crutch, and career adviser to my beloved spouse – he became withdrawn. He lost his passion for work. He neglected the children. He even lost interest in sex, which is astonishing given that I have read widely and practised tirelessly in this area.
I thought that the plan (make Stephen partner, move to Hampstead, have third child, and get children into private school) would provide him with his lost motivation and save our marriage, but almost a year later, I have to admit it, we’re failing. Stephen’s not made partner. Hampstead is still a pipe dream, Nelly is stubbornly committed to being less bright than she needs to be, and I’m not even pregnant – the simplest of tasks. I’ve even booked an appointment with a fertility specialist to check all is well.
As I’m lying there, quite depressed about the state of our marriage, I have a moment of inspiration about how to get rid of the body, and feel like Sherlock Holmes and Anaïs Nin at the same time. As I head downstairs, I stop to peer in on Nathan and Nelly. The smell of their room captures me for a momentand I stand there looking at them sleeping so peacefully.
I know I’m waiting for the feelings to come. I can stand like this for hours. Sometimes, I almost feel something connect within me, like a small flame igniting, and then it gets lost like a forgotten word. I’m sure I do feel things for them, but it’s always in a language I don’t understand.
Chapter13Toyota
Friday Night
It’s pitch dark outside, but no ravens are cawing, and the corpse is waiting patiently for me in the wheelbarrow. I pull off the parcel tape, and cut and pull back the plastic wrap until I reach the body. I reveal just enough of his torso to push my hand down inside his jacket. It is not easy as he is stone cold and stiff as a board. I reach his pocket and pull out the car key fob.
Something inside me is whirring with pleasure. There’s only so much adrenaline one can squeeze out of not following washing machine instructions. I spend another fifteen minutes wrapping him up again with the last of the parcel tape. It’s like having to rewrap Christmas presents because you used the normal wrapping paper instead of the Santa wrapping paper – a thankless task.
I open the garage door and feel the sting of the night air. Our little corner of Muswell Hill is unnaturally quiet. I’m pleased it’s cold, as that will slow down decomposition. I put on Stephen’s old gardening coat and a muddy pair of wellies, and walk up our road, discreetly pressing the button on the key fob every few feet.
Nothing beeps all the way to the bottom of Ennerdale Avenue, so I turn into Muswell Road and then right up BraithwaiteAvenue. I stop as a police car turns and cruises slowly towards me. I put my head down and walk purposefully until it passes.
The wind is whispering in the treetops and the clouds are moving fast across the sky. Unwittingly, I find myself at Cait’s house. It looks ghostly in the orange streetlights. With no lights on, the windows look like gaping eye sockets and the ivy resembles tears running down its cheeks. I need to make sure we’re still on the same page so I take out my phone and type:
Thanks a million for today. You’re the best. Friends need each other so much, especially women. Please remember ... let’s talk tomorrow. xxx
No luck all along Kewsick Road either. I turn back into Ennerdale Avenue. I know I should try a larger circuit but it’s too cold. I head home, and click again. Some twenty feet ahead of me, a car flashes its lights and beeps. It’s a blue Toyota Corolla hybrid. Not the kind of vehicle I was hoping to use to transport a corpse around London in the dead of night. I was holding out for a G-wagon.
It has a child seat in the back, and all the sticky evidence of a family – wipes, chocolate stains, and lots of sand. I’m no detective but I hypothesize that this man has recently taken his family to the seaside and is too fucking lazy to clean his car. It reminds me how much I detest both the seaside and untidy people.
I pull on a pair of gardening gloves from my coat pocket, open the boot, and realize that it isn’t designed to hold a sizeable corpse (not something mentioned in the brochure, I imagine), and no amount of folding will help. I try to create some extra space by taking out the engine oil, a five-litre bottle of screen wash, a poorly folded picnic rug, and a child’s lunch box with an uneaten Twix bar inside. Still too small. I feel hungry, so I admit I eat the Twix, but it doesn’t improve matters.
I throw the lunch box, picnic blanket, and oil back in the car and walk home. I decide to take the screen wash as it’s amazing how quickly you get through it in the winter. I realize there’s only one option left. I fetch my own key fob, reversemy white Porsche Cayenne up to the garage door and park it just outside.
