His Other Life

He whipped the paper away dramatically. ‘You don’t want to live there,’ he said, theatrically screwing up the sheet of paper and tossing it backwards over his shoulder, ‘it’s a dump.’

‘Oh, well, no, the thing is—’

‘Now, I’ve got something for you that’s a lot more suitable,’ he said, rubbing his hands together and opening and closing his fingers. ‘A much nicer place, coming on in a few days.’

‘But I don’t—’

‘Take it from me, you won’t believe your eyes when you see this.’ He focused on my eyes for a split second longer than necessary, rubbed his hands together again and flexed his fingers, then delicately reached into his top jacket pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. It was approximately the size of a postage stamp.

I stared down at it in the palm of his hand, then looked up at him and pressed my lips together. ‘I’m sure it’s lovely, but I don’t think it’s big enough for me.’

There was a second’s pause, then he burst out laughing, throwing his head back and guffawing fruitily, then leaning forward and clutching his tummy. It all felt a bit … exaggerated, as if he was trying to give me the impression that he thought I was hysterically funny, rather than actually thinking I was hysterically funny.

As I waited for him to calm down, waves of heat started to pour over me and I could feel sweat beading out everywhere. Eventually he stood up again and wiped his eyes, puffing out a couple of ‘whoo!’s and nodding appreciatively at me. ‘Oh my God, that was hilarious!’ he proclaimed. ‘You’re very funny.’ Incredibly, he still looked cool and dry, in spite of the heat.

‘Thank you. Um, can I just find out about the—?’

‘So this property is not even being advertised yet,’ he cut in, and began unfolding the sheet in his hand. ‘It’s so much more you, if you’ll forgive me. Classy, attractive, modern and stylish. I think you’re going to love it.’

I tried to raise my eyebrows sceptically, to indicate that I was not the type to succumb to mindless flattery. But inside my mind was jumping up and down and squealing, ‘He thinks I’m attractive!’

And he was right, the flat did look lovely. Obviously very recently decorated; new bathroom and kitchenette; brand new carpets everywhere; light, spacious rooms. It was definitely going to be far more than I could afford. ‘There’s no price on here,’ I pointed out, searching through the information sheet. ‘How much is the rent?’

‘Same as that other place.’

I widened my eyes. ‘No way!’

He nodded decisively. ‘Totally way.’

I stared down at the photos. ‘I don’t believe it.’ I looked up at him and found his eyes on me. He thinks I’m attractive! ‘It does look gorgeous,’ I said, holding out the sheet of paper towards him, ‘but I’m not sure it’s what I’m looking for.’

‘In what way?’

He was so abrupt, I was a bit startled. ‘Oh, um, only that it was that flat in the paper, on Hardwick Road, that I wanted specifically. I like it.’

‘But why would you want somewhere shabby like that when you can have this beautiful new place for the same money?’ He actually scratched his head. ‘It just doesn’t add up.’

I thought about it for a moment. He did make a very good point. But I had been so happy in Annabel’s flat, all those years ago. ‘No, well, it does for me. So, is it available?’

He leaned against the edge of the desk and put his hands down on either side. ‘Look, um, Miss …?’

‘Grace. Just call me Grace.’

‘OK, Grace. I’m going to make an assumption about you, if you’ll allow me. You’re planning on moving into this flat on your own, right?’

‘Well that’s fairly evident, seeing as I’m here on my own.’

‘Right. So you’ll be living there alone. What will you do if you need to change a fuse? What if the pipes burst? What if the electrics cause a fire? Supposing you need to re-plaster somewhere, or grout something. What will you do?’

I shrugged, trying to look nonchalant, although a seed of anxiety was germinating inside me. ‘Isn’t all that down to the landlord?’

He smiled smugly. ‘Not everything, Grace. Not decorating. Not emergency repairs in the middle of the night. Even if he does take responsibility, he’s got to get there, hasn’t he? What if you’ve got water flooding through the ceiling at three a.m., destroying all your belongings, soaking the carpet and the plaster, putting you at risk of a ceiling collapse? What will you do then?’

I hadn’t really thought about any of that, and was now fully gripped by panic. But I certainly didn’t want him to know it. I’d have to Google what to do later. ‘I’ll do the simple things myself and get my dad to do the rest. Why?’

He shook his head patronisingly, as if no way in hell was I ever going to cope with anything. ‘Wouldn’t it just be easier if you got a place that didn’t need anything doing to it? So you’d never have to worry about anything or think about anything or pay for anything?’

Fifteen minutes later, we were looking round the new place. Turned out to be his own flat, just above the shop. I wandered around the large cream rooms and compared them mentally to Annabel’s woodchip and cramped kitchen. I had to admit, this place was attractive. An hour after first walking into Adam’s shop, I’d signed the contract and agreed to meet for dinner the following evening. Adam told me months later that as soon as I’d walked in, he wanted me to rent it. He liked me that much, that quickly.

The next day is Sunday and we have a long lie-in then wander round to the pub for their very reasonable carvery lunch. The broccoli is over-cooked, and the spuds are still cold in the middle, but it is so reasonable, and so convenient.

‘How’s your meal?’ Adam asks me, enthusiastically forking turkey into his mouth.

I nod. ‘S’fine.’

He nods back. ‘I love this place. Don’t you? I mean, it’s so great. All this food, at this price, and just round the corner.’

When we come out after dinner, it’s started raining so we run shrieking back to our house then snuggle up on the sofa to watch a romance about a woman whose husband gets killed so she slaughters everyone responsible.

The text message is on my mind all day. And all the next day, while we’re both at work. All week, in fact. Repeatedly I try to get on my own in a room with the phone, but fail because the phone is always in Adam’s possession. He doesn’t let it out of his sight for four days straight. Then, on Thursday evening, he takes it out of his pocket to answer a call from his mum, and at the end, after clicking it off and closing it down, he distractedly places it on the kitchen table. I freeze. I am electrified, and my eyes immediately zoom in on it lying there as he walks away. It’s exposed, vulnerable, and I need to attack. We move around it, preparing the dinner, back and forth across the kitchen, and I’m acutely aware of it the entire time. I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s permanently in my periphery, the only thing I can see. When will he leave the room? He must need the toilet eventually – surely he will leave it there when he goes? It would look very suss if he goes off upstairs for a wee and stops at the table on the way to pick up his phone. Surely he would want to avoid arousing my suspicion like that?

‘Gracie?’

His voice finally breaks through my reverie. ‘Hmm? Sorry?’

‘Wake up, dolly daydream. I’ve asked you three times to put the kettle on for the gravy. You’re miles away.’

‘Oh, sorry, just thinking about Dad. You know his birthday is coming up. I’ve got no idea what to get him. What do you think?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, you’re good at that kind of thing, I’ll leave it to you.’ He turns away. ‘Just popping to the loo.’

I nod, watching in horror as he moves back towards the table. ‘Um, do you want a drink, Ad? How about a beer?’

He stops, turns back, looks at me. I hold my breath. ‘Yeah, OK, thanks.’ He turns back to the table and takes the final two steps to get there, then scoops up the phone and without breaking stride slips it into his pocket. Then he’s through the door and on his way upstairs.

Friday night comes around again and I’m home first, as usual. We’ve already agreed we’re having take-away tonight, so I’ve got no dinner preparations to make. The house is stifling, and the first thing I do is unlock the sliding back door and push it open. It makes no difference; the gentle breeze on the street hasn’t made it to our enclosed garden, and the heat and I move around the yard sluggishly in oppressive waves. I head back inside to wash up the breakfast things, straighten the cushions on the sofa, twitch the curtains. I’m just killing time until he comes home, but I have literally nothing to do and I can’t relax.

‘You need some hobbies,’ Mum is always saying. ‘Why don’t you take up knitting?’

Yeah, I know what that means. There’s absolutely no way I’m having a baby yet. Not with Adam, anyway.

I stop, midway through a pointless wander across the hallway. What the bloody hell does that mean, ‘not with Adam’? Who the hell else will I have a baby with? He’s my husband, isn’t he? I know I definitely want kids some day, so what am I actually thinking? That when the time is right, I’ll go off and do it with someone else? Of course not.

Although the chance to get pregnant in the first place would be nice.

When the phone rings in the living room a few minutes later, I’m standing in the kitchen staring into the fridge for some reason. I slam it shut and move swiftly to the living room, grateful to have a purpose at last. Just as my hand reaches out to grab the receiver, I hesitate. It’ll only be insurance sales after all; they’re the only people who ring the landline any more. Well, pseudo-people. No actual fingers press actual keys.

The answer phone clicks on and plays its message, and after the beep I wait to hear the usual spooky silence of the computer checking to see if anyone is there and then giving up and going down the pub. But instead I’m shocked to hear the sound of a man’s deep voice coming into my living room from the speaker.