The House Swap(43)

Day one, I think. Start again.

‘You all right?’ The shock of Francis’s voice makes me spin back round. He has appeared in the doorway, scanning me warily. Things have been strained again since the drive back from Brighton, which we made in near-silence, him in the driver’s seat, steering the car calmly and efficiently through the falling dusk, me staring out of the window and watching the scenery flashing by, barely knowing where we were, and too afraid to close my eyes because of what I might see.

Making an effort, I drag myself back. ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

‘Have you thought about today?’ he asks. There’s the faintest hint of challenge in his tone. So far this week, he’s been in the driving seat, in more ways than one. Our movements have all been orchestrated by him. He’s called the shots, and now he’s wondering if I’ve got any loaded, and if I care enough to fire them.

I consider throwing out one of the ideas I’ve toyed with: a trip to the Aquarium, an exhibition at the British Museum I thought he might appreciate, a visit to the cinema. I can’t seem to settle on a thought. ‘Well, I was thinking of going to a meeting this morning,’ he says after a pause. ‘There’s a local one at ten.’

‘Here?’ I ask stupidly.

‘Yes,’ he says mildly. ‘Believe it or not, they have addicts in Chiswick, too.’

‘Right. Yes, of course.’ Francis has been attending Narcotics Anonymous with varying degrees of frequency for the past two years, and it shouldn’t surprise me that he wants to go to a meeting. When I think about it, once I get past the unease that he needs this even when we’re supposed to be on holiday, I find it reassuring.

‘We could do something in the afternoon,’ he volunteers. ‘If you want.’

‘Yes,’ I answer quickly. ‘I’d like that.’

‘Would you,’ he says, his green eyes raking me with sudden coolness. There is no questioning lift in his voice. It’s drier than that, a faint echo of scepticism and suspicion.

‘Yes,’ I repeat, softening my voice. I can tell he’s searching for some clue that will tell him if I mean it, but it must be hard to find, because after a few moments he just shrugs and turns away.

After he’s gone, I make myself a coffee and try to relax in front of the television. I can’t concentrate on the unfamiliar daytime soaps and talk shows and, after a while, I switch it off, but when I do I’m unsettled by the silence and the faint noises that break it: the occasional creak of floorboards or the rattling of pipes. It’s as if the house is breathing, shifting minutely around me. I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye, and my whole body tenses before I realize that it’s my own reflection in the mirror across the room. I take in my appearance, hunched in the corner of the armchair, my face pinched with concern. Abruptly, I get up and go to the kitchen, but it’s no better. Everything is too still – the carved, claw-like drawer handles, the open mouth of the sink gaping in a fixed, sightless smile.

The sound of the doorbell shatters the silence, shrilling through the air. It makes me jump and I start to my feet, but I’m grateful. Right now, I don’t want to be alone here.

I push open the front door to see Amber standing on the doorstep. She’s wearing a red cotton shift dress, another deceptively simple outfit which is harder to carry off than she makes it look. Her hair is swept back behind her ears, revealing small diamond studs.

‘I thought it would be easier just to come round,’ she says, and belatedly I realize that I never replied to her text the day before, the one suggesting coffee.

‘Sorry,’ I say, although I don’t know why I’m apologizing; surely, arriving to chase up a tardy reply in person is extreme. ‘I’ve been a bit busy,’ I add feebly.

‘No worries,’ Amber says graciously. ‘Do you fancy that coffee now, though?’

Thinking of the cup in the lounge behind me, I half nod. ‘Maybe a tea …’ As ever, there’s something about her manner that brooks no denial but, as I pull on my shoes, I acknowledge to myself that I’d follow pretty much anyone out of this house right now. Besides, it’s been a long time since someone sought out my company so intensely, and part of me can’t help but respond to it.

I catch a breath of her perfume as I stand up, and with a little start I realize that it’s one I used to wear myself a few years ago, or something very similar. I used to love its powerful scent of rose and spice, and the smell of it now makes me think of darkly lit bars and the kind of recklessness I have long since left behind. I threw it out after I came back from the Silver Birches, along with much else, but breathing in that scent now, I feel that pull again, those elusive reminders of myself in this woman that are hard to ignore.

I follow her across the street, noticing again how her front garden breaks the regimented repetition of the street. She has planted a sprawling wild rose at the edge of the lawn, and the ragged splashes of colour of its dark orange blooms are a stark contrast to the prettily planted rows of pansies and peonies that neatly line each of the neighbouring beds. The whitewashed walls of the house are scuffed in places with unidentifiable, patchy stains, like drifts of soot. On its own, it would look unremarkable but, in this company, it seems almost defiant.

We go into the house and she wanders through to the kitchen, where she’s already set the mugs out waiting. ‘Have a biscuit, if you want,’ she says lightly as she makes the tea. ‘I’ve eaten most of them, but I think there are still a few left.’