The Waiting Game Page 5

  The shock of contact made her jump again.

  ‘Happy Home, Carl speaking, how can I help you?’

  She watched him, slight frown on his face as he listened to the caller. Then he was nodding and smiling and handing the phone over.

  ‘For you,’ he said.

  Her first thought was Ricky. He’d seen the piece in the paper and managed to track her down. She didn’t want to take the phone, but Carl was pressing it into her hand and almost as if she had no control over her own body, she put the phone to her ear and said hello.

  ‘Chloe? It’s Anne.’

  It wasn’t Ricky. Lovely Anne instead, who’d been so kind and understanding and easy to talk to. The relief was so overwhelming, Chloe barely took notice of what Anne was saying. Something about wanting to move house and getting Chloe’s opinion on where might be a good area and asking if Chloe was free to meet sometime so they could talk about it properly. Chloe said sure, whatever, she’d be happy to help.

  Midway through the conversation, another phone started ringing and Carl went to answer it. By the time Chloe hung up, Carl was back in business mode, flirting crudely with whatever poor woman had been unlucky enough to get through to him.

  Chloe waited to see if he’d turn and look at her, but his attention was fully focussed on the phone call. Whatever had happened between them moments earlier was a passing thing. Gone before it even started. She knew it was foolish, but she couldn’t help feeling disappointed.

  In the small kitchen in the back, she took a single cup from the cupboard and made a coffee for herself. If Carl changed his mind about wanting a coffee, he could darn well make it himself.

  * * *

  The street was quiet. And dark. Patches of pitch black broken up with tunnels of orange light from the few street lamps that were working. She walked slowly, the click-clack of her pointed heels echoing back to her as she walked.

  A car drove past, slowed down as it approached. She didn’t recognise it and kept walking, head averted. The driver rolled down his window, shouted something out but she didn’t look around and he gave up eventually.

  It was a cool night but she was warm and walked with her coat open, shrugged off around her shoulders, revealing smooth, dark skin. Under the next light, she stopped, put her hands on her hips, raised one leg so her foot was resting on the lamp-post, and waited.

  Several more cars passed by. A black BMW with tinted windows slowed and stopped alongside her. A window rolled down and she saw there was more than one person inside. Intrigued, she walked over to find out more. But it wasn’t anything new. Young men with too much money and not enough imagination, spouting the usual predictable bullshit. She pulled the knife from her coat pocket, shoved it in the driver’s face and told him what she’d do if he didn’t drive away right this second.

  She watched the car screech away from the kerb and went back to waiting under the orange light. The street was quiet for a while until another car came towards her. Headlights on full so she couldn’t see anything at first.

  The car stopped. A grey Lexus. This was the one. The driver switched the engine off, turned off the headlights and waited. Droplets of saliva had pooled at the corners of her mouth. She swallowed – once, twice, again. Excitement. Body tingling with it. Little shots of electricity – one, two, three. She licked her lips. Swallowed a final time, forced herself to take deep breaths – one, two, three. And again. One, two, three.

  Monica stepped forward, out of the orange light, into the shadowy darkness.

  Ten

  In the kitchen, Ellen took a bottle of Merlot from the wine rack and looked at it. To open or not to open, that was the question. Took a full two seconds to decide. It was still early, after all. Not even nine o’clock. A long evening in front of her with nothing to do except watch TV and try not to think about work. Both of which she’d find so much easier with the help of a few glasses of wine.

  She drank half of the first glass while she was still in the kitchen. Topping herself up, she went into the sitting room and switched on the TV. Flicked through the channels for a bit, but couldn’t find anything to hold her attention.

  Her phone was on the coffee table and she picked it up, scrolling through the messages – again – checking to see if there was anything from Jim. Nights they didn’t see each other, he usually called or sent a text. So far tonight, she hadn’t heard from him. No reason she couldn’t call him, of course. No reason apart from her own stupid pride.

  Frustrated – a combination of her stupidity and his persistent silence – she put the phone down and tried to concentrate on the TV. Kirsty and Phil were helping a wealthy couple buy a house on the Suffolk coast. The couple were relocating from London. Ellen couldn’t see the sense of it herself and soon her mind was drifting, going over the arrangements for Friday night. Again.

  She shivered. Lust not fear. They’d been taking things slowly. Her decision and he seemed happy enough to go along with it. Friday night would change all that. They were going to a hotel. Together. Spending the night. The prospect of it, being with him like that, was terrifying and exciting.

  The front doorbell rang. She thought it was him and ran to answer it.

  ‘Ellen! Thank goodness you’re in. I’m so sorry for calling around. I didn’t know what else to do.’

  Monica Telford swayed in the porch. She looked drunk and Ellen resisted the urge to slam the door closed again.

  ‘It’s late,’ Ellen said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  She would have said more, but then she noticed the bruising. And the fact that Monica seemed to be doing her best not to cry. Within seconds, a dozen different scenarios were playing out in Ellen’s head. None of them good.

  ‘Can I come in? Please, Ellen. I’ve nowhere else to go.’

  * * *

  There was someone outside, walking fast along the street, stopping outside her house. Chloe held her breath, waiting for the person to move on again. She pictured him out there, staring at the house, watching her shadow moving behind the curtains. The lights were on. Stupid, stupid! She should have turned them off.

  She crept over to the light switch, keeping her body low, beneath the window frame, hoping that way he wouldn’t be able to see her. At the wall, she reached up and switched off the light.

  It was worse now. She couldn’t see. Outside, he was moving again. Footsteps coming closer. She crouched down, body pressed against the wall, hands stuffed into her mouth, forcing back the scream. If she stayed perfectly still, he might go away. Might think she wasn’t in here.

  In the kitchen, on the table, the remote control for the alarm. She crawled to the door, banged her shoulder against the hard edge of the sofa but kept going. Out the door, along the hall and into the kitchen. Only then did she stand up. Dark in here too, but enough light to see where she was going.

  She grabbed the control but couldn’t remember how to use it. One button controlled the alarm, another put a call straight through to the police. She pressed a button but it was the wrong one and set the alarm off. The screaming, wailing noise was too loud for her small house. She tried to turn if off but whatever button she pressed, nothing worked.

  She pressed her hands over her ears and ran to the back door. Had to get away from the noise but she was too scared to go out front, in case he was still there. The door was locked and she couldn’t turn the key. Crying, not caring about making noise now, she tried again with sweat-slippery hands. Finally, she got it open and ran into the small back garden.

  It had started to rain. Big, wet raindrops landed on her head, mixed with the tears running down her face. She didn’t care. Anything was better than being trapped inside that house, waiting for him to come back and hurt her again.

  Eleven

  ‘What happened?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘A bad date,’ Monica said. ‘I don’t really want to talk about it.’

  ‘If he hurt you,’ Ellen said, ‘you should report it.’

  Monica shrugged. ‘He�
��s an old flame. We still meet up from time to time. Just a bit of fun. You know what fun is, right?’

  Something about the way she said it set Ellen’s teeth on edge. She didn’t want this woman in her house. ‘Why are you here?’ she said.

  ‘I’m too scared to go home,’ Monica said. ‘Besides, you told me to call you anytime I wanted.’

  ‘I meant phone me,’ Ellen said. ‘I didn’t mean call over here whenever you like. How did you get my address?’

  ‘You gave it to me,’ Monica said. ‘I took your details when you bought the painting, remember?’

  ‘What if I wasn’t alone?’ Ellen said. ‘Did you even think about that?’

  Monica smiled. ‘So you do know what fun is, after all. I’m sorry, Ellen. I like you. Liked you the first time we met and like you even more after today. You were very kind to me. I wanted to see you. Nothing wrong with that, is there?’

  She pointed to Ellen’s wine glass, sitting empty on the table.

  ‘Any chance I could have one of those?’

  ‘Why me?’ Ellen asked. ‘You have other friends, I assume.’

  ‘They’re all men,’ Monica said. ‘And right now, the last thing I feel like doing is propping up some bloke’s ego while he thinks he’s doing me a favour. Wine? One glass and I’ll be gone. I promise.’

  Ellen stood up.

  ‘I’ll get you a glass of water,’ she said. ‘And then I’ll call a cab to take you home.’

  In the kitchen, Ellen took a swig of wine straight from the bottle. It didn’t make her feel any better but it didn’t make her feel any worse, either. The wine trickled down her throat and into her stomach. She waited for the anger and frustration to pass. Outside, it had started to rain, droplets tip-tapping against the glass doors, distorting Ellen’s reflection as she moved around the kitchen.

  Once she was sure she could deal with what waited for her, Ellen poured a glass of water for Monica and went back into the sitting room.

  Monica was standing by the fireplace, looking at the collection of photographs on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Your kids?’ she asked. ‘Cute. Who’s this?’

  ‘My husband,’ Ellen said. ‘Don’t touch them, please. Here’s your water.’

  She handed the glass over and sat down, hoping Monica would do the same.

  ‘Good-looking guy,’ Monica said, refusing to take the hint. She leaned in, pushed her face against the precious image of Vinny. Ellen’s hands clenched into tight fists, fingernails digging into her palms.

  ‘He died, right?’

  Ellen nodded.

  ‘That must have been awful,’ Monica said. ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘Five years ago.’

  Monica pointed to the painting in an alcove beside the fireplace.

  ‘Looks good there,’ she said.

  It was Monica’s painting, the one Ellen had bought at the exhibition a few months back.

  ‘It’s a lovely painting,’ Ellen said.

  Monica sat down then. On the sofa beside Ellen. She smelled of perfume, booze and sex. Monica took a sip of water and placed the glass on the coffee table. She brushed against Ellen, the side of her breast touching Ellen’s thigh as Monica leaned forward. Ellen tried to shift sideways, out of her way, but she was already pressed into the side of the sofa and there was nowhere else to go.

  Monica straightened up and smiled. She seemed oblivious to Ellen’s discomfort.

  ‘You must get lonely,’ she said.

  Ellen swallowed.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here. I’ll call a cab.’

  Monica reached forward, brushed a strand of hair back from Ellen’s face.

  ‘Poor Ellen.’

  Her eyes, this close, looked huge. Deep, dark pools. The smell of her was everywhere.

  ‘I know what loneliness is like.’ Monica was whispering now, voice so low Ellen had to strain to hear. ‘I’ve been lonely my whole life. Ever since my mother left. I was only a child, Ellen. Eight years old and she left me with that bastard. What do you think of that?’

  ‘Can’t have been easy,’ Ellen said. There was a tremor in her voice and she realised she was shivering. Yet she felt so hot. Face burning, hands damp with sweat. Monica’s heat, so close, like a radiator.

  ‘She left me,’ Monica said. ‘Instead of protecting me, she left me to deal with him myself.’

  She should stop it now. Tell Monica to finish her water and get the hell out of there. If she had any sense, that’s what she’d do. But she wanted to find out. Wanted to understand who this woman was, what secrets she was hiding. Because there were certainly secrets. Until she knew what they were, she wouldn’t know if Monica was someone she was meant to protect. Or be scared of.

  * * *

  ‘I grew up in North Kent,’ Monica said. ‘Whitstable. You know it?’

  ‘A bit,’ Ellen said. ‘I know that part of the world quite well, actually.’

  Days passed without remembering. Then, wham. It was all she could think of. The scream of the brakes as the train bore down on them. The two men disappearing under it. Afterwards, Dai’s brown brogue at the side of the track. Just one shoe. Later, she’d worried about it. Hoped that whoever removed his body saw the shoe and thought to put it back on. For some reason, the thought of it there without Dai was unbearable. At one point she’d even considered going back, just to check. Except she couldn’t face it, so she had done nothing instead. Another thing to feel guilty about.

  ‘It’s a horrible place,’ Monica said. ‘At least, it was when I was growing up. I loathed every minute of living there. It might have been different if things had been better at home. But they weren’t. My mother left when I was a kid. I never understood how she could do that. She knew what he was like and yet she left me there. With him. I’ve never stopped hating him for it.’

  ‘Your father?’ Ellen asked.

  Monica nodded. ‘It was his fault. She’d never have left if he was a better man. He was a pig. Oh, on the surface he was mister respectable pillar of the community. But that was all a façade. He drank a lot. When he was drunk it always went the same way. He’d start moaning on about my mother. Crying and asking me why she’d left. Like he couldn’t see what a pathetic loser he was. No woman with any sense would stay with a man like that. Then he’d start on me. I was just like her. Only worse because I could see how upset he was, how lonely he was and I did nothing to help. How every time he tried to show me some love, I rejected him.’

  Monica shook her head. ‘I was fourteen the first time that bastard tried to show me some love.’

  ‘Wasn’t there anyone you could speak to?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘I tried,’ Monica said. ‘There was an art teacher who was kind to me. But when I told her what was happening at home, she didn’t believe me. After that, I decided to deal with it myself.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Got a job, saved some money and got the hell away from there. Moved away from home when I was seventeen and haven’t looked back since.’

  ‘He never tried to find you?’ Ellen asked.

  Monica shook her head. ‘The night I left, I stole his car. I was reversing out of the driveway when I saw him. He was roaring at me, telling me he wouldn’t let me go. Banging on the car door, trying to get in. I panicked. Swerved into him and knocked him over. After that night, I never saw him again.’

  Monica lifted her glass and drained the rest of her water. When she drank, her lipstick left a red stain on the glass.

  A car horn beeped outside the house.

  ‘Your cab,’ Ellen said.

  At the front door, Monica embraced Ellen.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. She held Ellen a moment too long, soft body pressed against Ellen’s, and thrust the lower half of her body into Ellen’s. The movement was so sudden and brief, Ellen couldn’t be sure, afterwards, she hadn’t imagined it. Just as quickly, Monica released her and was running down the path, splashing through puddles and into the waiting cab.

  Ellen w
aited until the cab had turned the corner at the end of the road and disappeared. Only then did she let out the breath she was holding. Relief that Monica was gone. The whole encounter had been deeply uncomfortable. At the end of it all, Ellen was no closer to understanding what Monica Telford was all about. The story about her father should have triggered feelings of sympathy. Instead, she couldn’t shake off the feeling that Monica had been playing with her. Why, Ellen had no idea. Not yet. The one thing she knew for certain was that tonight was the last time Monica Telford would set foot inside her house.

  Twelve

  At some point during the night, it had stopped raining. Streaks of sunlight trickled through the gaps in the curtains, drawing Monica from a deep sleep. She opened her eyes. The room was alive with little speckles of dust lit up gold, dancing. As she waited for the last traces of sleep to pass, Monica thought back over last night.

  It had been easier than she’d expected. The car turning up like that had been a stroke of luck. She’d recognised it immediately. Knew the driver and knew what he was looking for. All over in less than an hour. Then across to Kelly’s while the bruises were good and fresh.

  She could have had Kelly there on the sofa if she’d wanted to. She’d seen it in Kelly’s eyes. Another glass of wine, a few more shared intimacies and anything could have happened. Monica rolled onto her back, finger pressing her clitoris as she pictured it …

  * * *

  Tuesday morning, Ellen was back in Ger’s office.

  ‘Had a visitor last night,’ Ellen said. ‘Monica Telford. Think she was trying to imply her father is the mystery stalker.’

  ‘You believe her?’ Ger asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ellen said.

  In truth, she still wasn’t sure why Monica had called around. Several times she’d thought the artist was coming on to her. Today, without the distorting effect of wine, Ellen wasn’t so sure.