‘Too expensive.’
I nudge him and he turns to me but his face sags with thoughts of bridging loans and mortgage repayments.
‘Plenty of wow-wow-wow factor,’ says Esmae, wafting us into the generous oak-floored drawing room. ‘There’s over four thousand square feet of living space, plus the wellness centre. It’s a dream home.’
I love the sound of my heels on the polished wood, the vast sweep of the bow windows, the voluminous kitchen with two huge walls of glass, the sunken garden and the view of the Heath. I could hit 10,000 steps just making coffee.
‘What are the heating costs like?’ asks Stephen. It has only just occurred to me that I married a man who would look at a Titian and ask how much it cost to insure. But Esmae likes him – he’s good-looking, and she can just smell money.
‘All the windows have been double glazed in thermal glass, and there’s a ground-source heat pump, so it’s also environmentally sustainable.’
‘Why don’t you show Stephen upstairs?’ I say. ‘I just want a moment to imagine myself in the kitchen.’
‘Of course, of course,’ chirps Esmae, then lowers her head to one side, looks up at Stephen and says without any irony, ‘Shall we explore the bedrooms, Mr Rook?’
I know something about human psychology and when a man is with his wife, whom he perceives to be profligate, he will dig in his heels, but alone with a younger woman, who carries none of the complexity of his primary relationship, and who is, into the bargain, flirty, attentive, and attractive, he will want to show off his impressive plumage.
I head towards the kitchen but am drawn to a narrow door on the right. I can’t resist the temptation to look and find myself staring down a set of low-lit stone steps. I descend, my hand steadying myself on the bare brick walls.
I feel memories fighting for air, as the darkness thickens and sounds deaden. I stand in a grotto with a deep bath in the centre. From a cold, dirty cellar to water glistening against a domed mosaic ceiling. I smile at the difference I have made to my life.
Some would imagine romantic candlelit evenings in such a place, or the more adventurous might even consider an unusual end to a dinner party, but I am thinking of how easy it wouldbe for Madeleine to drown accidentally here. No one would even hear her scream.
I hear Esmae’s sing-song voice chirping endlessly and feel a little sorry for Stephen. We re-join in the back garden.
‘Do you like it, darling?’ I trill like some submissive wife from yesteryear.
‘It’s an investment really,’ says Esmae. ‘Many of my high net-worth individuals see property as the best way to secure their assets.’
‘I know how finance works,’ says Stephen, sharply. I realize I misjudged the depth of Esmae’s charms.
‘Isn’t it perfect?’ I say.
‘As a money pit,’ says Stephen.
Esmae, detecting tension, subtly moves away from us.
‘We’d have to sell first, raise another million in cash, and then borrow a barrow-load. Do you know the monthly repayments on a five-million-pound loan?’
‘I’m sure you do, darling, you’re so clever with money,’ I say. ‘But your bonus will cover it all.’
‘There’s no guarantee I’ll make partner.’
‘I hear you, darling, let’s reflect,’ I say, deciding that discussion is futile at this point and will only further entrench his position. A successful marriage is about many things, not least knowing when to give your husband the impression that he has won.
Chapter15Tor
Tor has a driveway. In Hampstead. We don’t have a driveway and still live in Muswell Hill, but there’s no point bemoaning life’s injustices. Tor is from reasonably old money (textile industry before interfering politicians put an end to low wages and cruelty), and believes that she just about makes ends meet.
Their Saab Estate is seventeen years old, she wears an ancient Barbour with a tear in the sleeve, and boots with real mud attached, and yet she has four children, three in the most elite private schools, employs four staff and lives in a six bedroom mansion on a private road. She would have you believe it’s all down to only ever using second-class stamps.
I sit in my car, with a rare five minutes to myself as I’m early and Tor won’t answer her door until the exact time that she expects you. The identity of the man in my boot is playing on my mind. I open the Ring app on my phone and watch the recordings from yesterday. Aimée leaves the house, and doesn’t shut the door fully. A minute later, the intruder arrives, his face hidden by a hoodie and face mask. He’s clearly been watching the house, so I wonder if he’s been doing that for days.
I search through the history but can’t find anyone coming to the door so I change the filter to motion detection, which capturesthe front path and gate. It takes a few minutes and then I spot him, two days earlier, coming up the path, quickly scanning the door and windows and leaving. I pause on the best image of his face.
As I look at him, I remember where I’ve seen him before. He was at the school gates. I’m sure of it. You notice unusual people hanging around a primary school and I’d clocked him. He wasn’t an opportunist intruder, he was following me. I take a screenshot and head to the house with questions buzzing in my head.
‘Hello, Lalla, darling, you look gorgeous! Is that a new dress? Oh, you needn’t have dressed up for me,’ says Tor. She gets in first both with flattery and hints of a social faux pas. Her face is designed to look as if it hasn’t been touched by the hands of man although it’s had more work than the M1. Her style is wealthy socialite meets ten-year-old girl – neat cardigans, long straight hair and velvet Alice bands.
