The Other Woman(69)

I thought about putting the TV on, just for a bit of background noise to break through the silence, but then I eyed the hi-fi in the corner, an old-fashioned stacking system, with a three-disc CD changer. I’d had one of those in my bedroom when I was a teenager, and I remembered the long afternoon it had taken me and Dad to read through the hi-tech instructions. As much as times have changed and moved forward, it still took me longer than it should have to find the ‘on’ button and press eject. Simon and Garfunkel’s Greatest Hits, one of my mum’s favourites, was already lying in the groove, so I clicked it closed again and pressed play. The opening guitar strum to ‘Mrs Robinson’ filled the room, taking me back to those Saturday mornings when Mum hoovered around our feet as Stuart and I sat on the sofa. ‘Up!’ she’d say as we both giggled.

The photo albums that Pammie had proudly flicked through on my very first visit here were lined up on the shelf above, sandwiched between two midi speakers. I looked along the spines, at the years written boldly in black pen. I could only remember that the album she’d shown me was maroon leather, but now, as I touched them, I saw that they were a cheap plastic, trying their best to imitate leather. I pulled the first of three maroon books from its place, its tacky cover sticking to its neighbours. The pages were overflowing with a young Pammie and Jim, clearly in the first throes of love, gazing adoringly at each other, whilst others around them could only look on. Adam was the spitting image of Jim, as a twenty-something young man – and James bore even more of a resemblance. Jim had his arm proudly around Pammie’s shoulders, his presence a warning sign to any aspiring suitors. Another photo showed Pammie draped over the bonnet of a Hillman Imp, in a geometric shift dress, whilst her girlfriends, with their pinched faces, were duly ensconced inside. I could just imagine the envy-induced conversation going on, as the gorgeous Jim stood behind the camera, admiring his girlfriend. Another page on and Pammie, Jim and friends are lying on a picnic blanket, which, despite being sheltered between sand dunes, was still being lifted off the ground by a blustering wind. England in summer, no doubt – perhaps Camber Sands or Leysdown on the south coast. I imagined the freedom that being a young person living in the late sixties must have brought, and felt a pang of jealousy. To live with such abandon, with nothing to tie them down, must have been empowering. I wondered if we would feel the same about today, when we look back in the future.

The four couples, the men with their sideburns, and the girls with Coke-can curls in their hair, were all smiling, but it still felt like the Pammie and Jim Show. They were clearly the Elvis and Priscilla of their gang, always holding court and playing for laughs.

So, it seemed Pammie had been getting attention all her life. It was where she was comfortable, naively believing that it validated her somehow, that, without the drama, she’d be insignificant. I thought how exhausting that must be, to be constantly looking for the spotlight.

Towards the end of the album, the black-and-white photos were intermittently interspersed with a flash of colour, as the monochrome was gradually replaced by the real-life glow of a Polaroid. You could see the genuine astonishment on the faces of its subjects as they marvelled at the craziness of this modern-day invention. Would my grandchildren, or even children, look back through an antiquated iPhone and see the same look of wonderment on our faces?

I remembered seeing the first picture on the opening page of the next album, a photo of Jim and Adam, standing at the side of a pond, feeding ducks. Adam with half a slice of bread in his hand, looking up at his dad in awe. I wondered then whether, had they known they had so little time together, they’d have done anything differently. They say we wouldn’t want to know when we are going to die, even if we could, but when I look at pictures like this, I wonder if it wouldn’t be better. So we could use our time more wisely, spend it with people we loved.

I settled back down on the sofa, with the album on my lap, and flicked to the back, where I remembered seeing the picture of Adam and Rebecca, so helpfully left open by Pammie. When I thought about it, every little thing that Pammie had done, from the very beginning, had been contrived, meticulously planned to create upset and turmoil for me. No one else would notice, of course – that’s where she’s clever. ‘What a sweetie,’ they all cried, after she so considerately cooked a huge Christmas dinner, when she knew I’d already had one, and when she secretly arranged for a long-lost friend to turn up at my hen party, fully aware that she’d slept with my last boyfriend. Yep, ‘good old Pammie’.

I thumbed backwards and forwards, then backwards again, looking for the photo of Rebecca. This was definitely the right album; I recollected all the pictures in here. I went through it again, page by page, but there was no photo and no caption that read, ‘Darling Rebecca – miss you every day.’

Where the hell was it? And why had she taken it out? I looked around the room and saw the drawers that sat under the hi-fi. Looking at the photo albums seemed intrusive enough, but I felt compelled to go further, despite the nervous butterflies in my stomach. I inched a drawer open, and could see piles of chequebooks, all used and held together with a rubber band. Statements and invoices were askew, slipping out of plastic folders. I lifted them up, careful not to disturb them too much, and eased the top chequebook out from its tight restraint. I thumb-flicked through the stubs, all neatly written with the date, payee, and amount payable. My eyes scanned at speed: British Gas, Southern Electric, Adam, Homebase, Virgin Media, Adam, Waterstones, Thames Water, Adam. I looked closer to see that Pammie had been paying Adam ￡200 a month for years, but when I tried to find a similar payment to James – after all, that would only be fair – there was no record of one. Confused, I carefully put the folder back in the drawer and tried to convince myself to stop there, but it felt like I’d picked at a scab and wouldn’t be satisfied until I’d scratched it off. I justified it by telling myself I was on the hunt for the missing photograph, but this woman had so much to hide that I felt a frisson of excitement at what else I might find.