The Woman Next Door(55)

Melissa toys with the damp tissue, twisting it round her fingers. It quickly starts to break up, sending dandruffy flakes to the rough carpet.

‘I’d do anything to turn the clock back,’ she murmurs, meeting Hester’s eyes at last. ‘Really. Anything at all. I never meant to kill him.’

Hester gives another vague ‘shhh’ and pats Melissa’s knee.

‘God, I’m a murderer, Hester,’ she says and more tears come. She buries her face in her hands again. It is intolerable. The guilt will drown her, she feels. ‘I killed a person!’

‘No, no, no,’ says Hester in a soothing tone. ‘You’re not. No.’

Melissa knows she is making meaningless sounds to comfort her.

‘But I did though! I hit him!’

No one would ever understand that she hadn’t really meant it. It had been one white-hot second of rage. How could such a small implement do so much damage?

‘You just don’t understand,’ she whispers. ‘You don’t know what really happened.’

Exhaustion, guilt, and fear seem to mix and expand inside her like bread dough. They fill her stomach and her throat. She can’t breathe.

Melissa stands up, gasping, crying, and begins to slap at her own head.

‘Melissa!’ Hester’s voice comes from far away. ‘Stop it now, you’re frightening me! Try to take slow breaths!’

And then Hester is right there. Her eyes catch the small streak of light filtering into the room through the curtains like tiny candle flames. She grips Melissa’s wrists in her small, dry hands.

‘No, you don’t understand, my darling girl!’ Her voice is clear now but too loud.

‘You are not alone,’ she says. ‘I keep telling you that. You never have to feel alone again. I’m here for you, Melissa.’ Melissa is aware of quickened breath, which comes hot against her cheeks. ‘I helped you … I …’

Melissa nods and mumbles ‘thank you’ because she can’t think of what else to do or say and manages to peel her wrists from Hester’s grip. She wants to curl into a ball and disappear. She sinks onto the bed and curls into a foetal position, her back to Hester. She feels the light touch of the other woman’s hand as she begins to stroke her hair again.





PART THREE





HESTER


Sitting back on the bed I let out a small sigh of satisfaction at a job well done. I regard the three piles of clothes on the bedroom floor and think I should have done this years ago.

The three bundles are: keep, bin, charity shop. The throwaway pile is by far the largest; a teetering mountain of fabric in various faded hues. I will struggle to fit it all into two bin bags.

I have been going at it all morning and I am sorely in need of a cup of tea. This has been hard work. And not just of the physical variety.

Seeing particular garments again has been so poignant. I reach out to finger the tartan skirt that my mother used to wear to parties, the material now limp with age. I used to bury my face in the soft billowing flare of it when I was small and it was so wide and swishy I couldn’t get my arms all the way round.

I wish there was some residue of her perfume here but, like her, it is long gone. With regret, the empty bottle of Rive Gauche has been added to the dustbin pile.

There was a time, after I lost them both, that I would dab that perfume to my wrist, just as she did. I would wonder how my pulse could still throb with life when hers had simply … stopped. Crushed in a tangle of metal at the side of a road.

I hoped the pipe smoke aroma might have lingered in Dad’s suits too, but there is no trace now. What’s more, the moths have had rather a field day. I hold a mustard tank top I don’t remember to my nose and take a sniff, but only breathe the musty, sweetish smell of neglect.

Yes, this morning’s work has been a little melancholy but perhaps it has been therapeutic too. Terry used to grumble about the wardrobe in the spare room being taken up with all these old clothes, claiming he could find a use for the space. I stood my ground and he eventually realized that I wasn’t going to budge. But now I am the one deciding that my house needs to ‘get with the times’. It’s time I ‘moved on’ as they say.

Terry’s things went long ago, of course. I have already had one clean sweep, in a manner of speaking.

Time for that cup of tea.

I have one more look around at the fruits of my industry, picturing what the room will look like when I’ve had it decorated. I can’t remember the exact colour of the walls in Melissa’s spare room, having not been in a fit state to appreciate it when I slept there, but I did like that shade. It was so calming. I will have a look next time I am around. I have already invested in some cushions to put on the bed and I think this room is going to be quite transformed.

I don’t know where the summer weather has gone. The sky outside my window is dishwater grey so I snap on the overhead lights as I make my way downstairs, humming ‘Summertime’ as I go. I’ve always loved that tune.

Flicking on the kettle in the kitchen, I wonder what she’s up to today. Maybe I should knock up a Quiche Lorraine for her to have tonight; something nice and easy. They could have it with a salad. Although last time I was round, I did notice the pasties I’d made were sitting, untouched, in the fridge. You would think Tilly and Mark would be eating them, even if Melissa isn’t that hungry.