The Woman Next Door(11)

To my surprise, she tips her glass of wine and chings it against mine. Her lips quirk and her eyes twinkle. I find that I quite like her.

Emboldened by the alcohol I decide to change the subject.

‘So how do you know Melissa?’ I say.

‘Through Zumba classes,’ she says with a grin and does a funny little wiggle. ‘Have you ever tried it?’

I shake my head vigorously and have another sip. It’s only now that I am remembering I didn’t have any lunch. Zumba, indeed.

‘I’ve never really been one for foreign cookery,’ I say. Jess emits a strange squawk. I think she is laughing at me but all I can see is warmth in her eyes.

‘Hester, you are a bit of a hoot,’ she says.

‘Hmm, am I now.’ I’ve no idea why she has said this. New people should come with an instruction booklet, I think, taking another sip.

I peer at a table laden with food I can’t identify. I always find buffet-style eating a bit of a minefield. First there is the business of trying to hold a drink, the food, and a napkin all at the same time. Then there is the worry of having food stuck between your teeth. Terry once very cruelly pointed out that I had spinach in my teeth in front of guests, and I’ve never really got over it.

I realize Jess is looking at me and it must be time for me to make a comment back to her. I’ve really quite forgotten how to behave in public. Since I stopped working, I probably do spend a little bit too much time alone.

I suppose it’s a little like tennis: conversation. For some reason this makes me want to laugh and, to compensate, I take another sip of the drink. To my complete surprise, I realize I have finished it. I really am starting to feel quite relaxed.

‘Wow, that barely touched the sides!’ says Jess and before I know it, I’m grinning back. I don’t know why. It isn’t very funny. I really should have something to eat before too long.

‘I’ve finished mine too,’ says Jess. ‘Let’s get a top-up.’

‘Allow me, ladies!’

That annoying boy pops up next to us. I hand him my empty glass and he disappears off with it.

I smile at Jess. She really does seem terribly nice.





MELISSA


Melissa winces at the sudden starburst of pain behind her eyes. She slicks on more lipstick and then sighs, closing her eyes and leaning her forehead against the blissfully cool glass of the bathroom mirror.

The diazepam has done nothing but give her a dry mouth and her headache hasn’t responded to double painkillers. She has been sipping champagne all afternoon, yet remains completely sober. It seems her body is depressingly resistant to chemical help today, when she needs it the most.

She washes her hands and comes out of the en-suite. Mark has left a balled-up pair of socks in the middle of the floor. Melissa picks them up and then throws them savagely against the far wall. They drop to the carpet with a disappointing lack of bounce.

‘Fuck you Mark,’ she murmurs.

Mark was meant to return from a medical conference in Durham this afternoon, in time for the party. Then two days ago he’d announced that the BBC wanted to fit in some studio filming, to be slotted around the location scenes for the next series. The studio is in Manchester.

He had argued strongly that he had no choice, but when he’d added, ‘It’s not like Tilly wants this party, is it?’ it had been obvious how he really felt.

A few days ago she’d watched him throw his suit bag onto the bed, whistling like a man who has no real cares. Like a man who thinks everything is fixed now. He’d been wearing only a turquoise towel around his middle and she could see a new softness there. The bedroom was filled with steam and the scent of the Czech & Speake aftershave she’d bought him for Christmas.

He hadn’t even bothered with aftershave before his television career had taken off. Mark used to get his suits from John Lewis and he’d wear whatever ties and shirts Melissa put into his wardrobe. Now, despite putting on weight, he fusses about haircuts and Melissa has caught him patting under his chin and examining the line of his jaw in the mirror.

Always an attractive man, with his dark brown eyes and the smattering of salt-and-pepper in his hair, as he approaches 44, he looks more comfortable in his skin than ever before.

And look where that led us, she thinks.

A wave of torpid, sapping exhaustion washes over Melissa now. For a second she longs to crawl under the sheets, close her aching eyes and allow darkness to press her into oblivion.

Apart from Saskia, there are very few people downstairs who she actually wants to talk to. They are mostly parents she has met over the years or neighbours. The conversations with parents always felt like jousting matches, each jabbing the other with pointed boasts about their children. She doesn’t know any of Tilly’s boarding school friends, so these guests were mainly from primary school days. They had little in common anymore anyway.

Sometimes she imagined what would happen if any of them found out about the things she had done. A cold chill creeps over her arms and she rubs them briskly. The chances of anyone from Before recognizing her in that picture must be infinitesimal. She has been told that her light green eyes are distinctive. But lots of people have light green eyes.

Giving herself a mental shake, she arranges her face into one of friendly hospitality. She can do this. It’s really no different from putting on her make-up.