All the nearby households seem to be sleeping or watching TV with curtains drawn. A dog walker further along the street stops at a lamppost as his dog defecates. He glances idly but will forget he’s seen me by the time he’s put his hand in the green plastic bag to grapple with fresh dog shit.
I create a small ramp using two old pieces of teak shelving that Stephen is saving for some unknown future need and, with a run up, push the wheelbarrow right to the lip of the boot, then tip with all my might. It works momentarily, but then the corpse falls back into the barrow and I have to start again.
I’ve packed this car for a two-week holiday in Cornwall before, and fitted in a buggy, cot, two suitcases, nappies and a high chair, so I’m not going to be defeated by six feet of stubborn flesh. I try again by tying the corpse to the tie-loops in the boot and using a spade as a lever.
After a brutal wrestling match, I manage to push him into the boot. The rigor mortis doesn’t make this an easy task, but with nearly seven hundred litres of boot space, the Porsche is up to the task. I sprinkle him with some patio cleaner, in the hope that this will help disguise any unpleasant smells, and close the boot.
Chapter14Hampstead
Saturday, 16 November
To-do list
Morning swim at Heath Pond
Foxtons house viewing, Hampstead
Lunch with Tor
Relocate corpse
Hampstead Village sits on a hill right beside Highgate. It’s a mix of cobbled lanes and Georgian town houses, sitting next to the beautiful Hampstead Heath. It’s only a few miles from Muswell Hill but a detached family home in Hampstead can go for twenty-five million.
The village is known for its intelligentsia, artists, and celebrities. There are ancient trees, traditional pubs, and an abundance of private schools, including Adams Prep. John Keats died of syphilis and mercury poisoning here. Harry Styles lives here. Muswell Hill, on the other hand, has Tony Hadley (exactly), someone who used to be onCoronation Street, and a small private school quite unlike Adams.
The house is an imposing six-bedroom, red-brick Victorian villa set behind electronic gates on a quiet lane just momentsfrom the Heath, and it’s on the market for a reasonable £8 million. It has been extensively remodelled, bringing cutting-edge design to Victorian grandeur. There are views of lush greenery and village rooftops from every window, and a self-contained apartment for two staff. The large south-facing garden even features a wellness centre with sauna, steam room, and pool. One up on Tor, for the moment.
Stephen went into the office first thing, as we agreed some extra hours might help his cause, but he promised that he’d meet me here. I’ve known this ismyhouse ever since I first saw it, almost a year ago, just as I knew Stephen was my husband the moment I found out how rich his father was.
Esmae, our articulate and manicured estate agent with glistening hair and abundant enthusiasm, arrives on time. I decide to wait for Stephen before going into the house, so Esmae shows me the garden and wellness centre. The pool is twelve metres long and has a blue safety cover that Esmae rolls back automatically to reveal an expanse of blue tiles and clear water.
I imagine my daily dip and an hour in the sauna with friends. In my musings, I would have new friends, of course – my Muswell Hill companions wouldn’t be quite right for my new life, so they would probably have to go. Perhaps I could keep Sophie, though, to show my new friends that I enjoy helping the less fortunate. The only downside is that Tor would be a near-neighbour.
As we’re admiring the pool, I have a sudden brainwave. Since last night, the parcel in the back of my Porsche has leaked a dark, foul-smelling liquid. Two dogs were sniffing about the boot this morning, and getting excited. I need to relocate the corpse, and if we have an offer accepted and they stop showing the property, the pool might be the perfect temporary solution as the cover will be closed all winter.
We hear Stephen’s car pull up on the gravel drive, and I rush to meet him. I throw my arms around old misery-face, tell him he looks dashing in his V-neck sweater and checked shirt, and suggest that Esmae won’t be able to resist his rugged off-duty policeman look. He pulls a face, and when I suggest that we sneak to the pool house for a little extracurricular, he winces.
‘We’re not in a position to do this, Lalla. You do understand? This can’t happen,’ he says with the shrill urgency of a parakeet.
‘I don’t agree,’ I said. ‘You’ll make partner later this month, I just feel it, and it’s such good value for money.’
‘It’s eight million quid, that’s one point six million per bedroom. In what universe is that good value?’
‘Oh, you little pessimist. I know we can do it. I have a really good feeling about it.’
‘A feeling? Well, in that case...’
I kiss his cheek and say, ‘Thank you, darling.’
He tries to argue with me, but I’m too full of the joy of property. Putting aside the decomposing corpse, Cait’s knowledge of the murder, Stephen’s depression, and Nelly’s disregard for the sanctity of life, I feel certain this will be the thing that changes everything. Pressure cookers must have safety valves, and there’s only so much Pilates can do for you.
Perfectly manicured Esmae patters away in a bold yellow suit with large flares and larger lapels. I fear she’s watched too muchSelling Sunset. She’s only in her early twenties, but could earn fifteen thousand commission on this house alone. No wonder she’s glowing.
This is a magical moment for me, the culmination of a serious piece of reconstructive surgery on my life, and testament to holding on to a tiny vision that I’ve kept locked in my heart (or the space therein) for so long. I’ve looked at Tor many times over the years and thought,if someone so limited can achieve this, so can I.
Stephen’s passive-aggressive approach to house-hunting is exceedingly tiring, but even his undisguised annoyance can’t take away from this moment. He is simply the means, or will be, just as soon as he makes partner.
‘What do you think?’ I hold onto his arm as we stand in a glorious glass atrium, staring out on to manicured lawns and topiarised bay trees.
