The People Next Door (16 page)

‘She certainly does.’ Yvonne watched him threading his way through the people on the patio. ‘Now there’s a man in love with his wife. Have I mentioned how jealous I am of you with your handsome husband?’

Kathryn sipped. ‘Every time you see me. We’re going to have to find you a nice young man of your own.’ She ran a finger around the rim of her glass. ‘I still say Greg would be perfect.’

Yvonne groaned. ‘Yes, and you’ve said it often enough – and now I have Dolores at work convinced that Greg and I are about to ride off into the sunset.’

‘How come? I didn’t think she even knew Greg.’

‘She doesn’t. But I sort of pretended we’re an item.
I was terrified she might find out about Pawel somehow. I figured it was the lesser of two evils.’

Kathryn giggled. ‘Poor Greg, the lesser of two evils. Well, if you’re not interested in him, it looks like it’s back to the Internet for you.’

‘Actually—’ Yvonne stopped and glanced around. Another couple were dangerously close, but they seemed to be deep in conversation.

‘Actually what?’ Kathryn was staring at her. Are you telling me you’ve got someone else lined up?’

‘Ssh – not quite.’ Yvonne sipped the cold champagne, enjoying the gentle buzz in her head. The evening was just warm enough to linger a little longer on the patio. Justin was lighting the candles in the glass lanterns that sat on top of the fence bordering the decking. ‘I was going to tell you in a while, if anything happened.’

‘Go on.’

Ah, it’s nothing, really – just this fellow called Joe sounds nice. We’ve emailed a few times. I’ll let you know if there’s any development.’

‘You certainly will, you trollop.’

Yvonne looked around the little patio, glowing softly now with candlelight. ‘Shame your mother-in-law’s missing all this.’

‘Very funny.’ Kathryn made a face. ‘That woman’s the biggest hypochondriac you could meet. Migraine, my foot. D’you know what she gave me for my birthday?’

Yvonne smiled. ‘Not yet.’

A pair of anti-ageing creams, one for night time, one for day. Talk about subliminal messages.
She never misses a trick.’

Yvonne laughed. ‘Oh, very tactful. I thought you said you were going to invite Dan, by the way.’

‘I did, but he made an excuse I didn’t believe for a minute. Poor thing probably doesn’t feel very sociable.’

Yvonne reached for a smoked salmon roll from the nearby table. ‘Have you met the cowboy yet?’

‘Cowboy? Oh, the tenant. No, but I’ve seen the hat. Priceless.’

Yvonne had glimpsed him a few times in the garden, talking to Dan or feeding the grey cat. Once or twice he’d cycled past her in the street, whistling. You couldn’t miss the hat. ‘Poor Dan – imagine having to share your home with a stranger just to pay the mortgage.’ She tried to keep a straight face. ‘I notice they’ve finished off the barbecue.’

‘God, did you see it? Not a clue, either of them – and they’ll never get that cement off the patio. They’re well matched.’

The light faded, striping the sky with purple and pink. In their glass casings, the candles glimmered softly. Vivaldi’s ‘Summer’ wafted from the stereo.

From her bedroom window, Grainne watched her daughter-in-law’s birthday party. Forty-five years old. Look at her, smiling and laughing as if she had something to celebrate. Wearing a suit that was much too young for her. Drinking champagne that had probably cost Justin the earth.

In the dimness of her room, Grainne smoothed the end of the linen curtain between her fingers.

Much later, Kathryn studied her husband’s face in the mirror as he opened the clasp of the beautiful necklace he’d given her for her birthday, and she wondered again who he’d bought the perfume for.

He could eat a horse; nothing like a few pints to put the edge on your appetite. Dan belched comfortably as he walked past number nine. Some kind of music was playing – he could barely hear it. Something civilised, no doubt.

Maybe he should have gone, it had been nice of Kathryn to invite him. There’d be decent grub there too. But the chicken korma in the white bag under his arm smelled damn good.

He checked his watch, peering in the almost-dark: nearly ten. He wondered if Kathryn had believed his excuse – a night out with friends – and then he decided that he really didn’t care. She’d probably only asked him because she felt sorry for the deserted husband. Dan got on fine with Kathryn and Justin, but he’d hardly call them his bosom buddies.

And who would he have known there anyway, apart from Yvonne? He’d never been any good at small talk, had hated trying to make conversation with Ali’s solicitor colleagues at their Christmas parties. At least he wouldn’t have to endure that any more.

He hadn’t intended going out tonight, was planning to park himself in front of the telly as usual. Kieran was away for the weekend, visiting a cousin in Donegal, and Dan had bought a six-pack and a frozen pizza. But somehow the empty house had got to him. It felt like it had just after Ali had left and he couldn’t bear it, he’d had to get out, had to be somewhere busy enough that it would stop him thinking his same bitter thoughts.

So he’d walked the three blocks to a pub he and Ali had often been to. He could have gone further, made sure he wouldn’t bump into anyone they knew, anyone who might ask him why Ali wasn’t out with him. But he had to meet people eventually, they’d have to learn what had happened. Might as well get it over with.

As it turned out, the pub was pretty quiet. Not surprising, really, when he thought about it. Middle of summer, most people were probably away, lying on a beach somewhere or strolling through a gallery or doing whatever normal people did on holidays.

He and Ali had talked about going to Italy this summer.

He nodded at the barman – Jim? John? Dan could never remember – and pointed to the Guinness tap. ‘One of those.’

‘Haven’t seen you in a while.’ Jim/John held the pint glass under the stream of stout. ‘Where’s herself?’ There it was.

‘We’ve split up.’ The first time he’d said it out loud. ‘She ran out on me.’

The barman shot him a sympathetic look. Ah, hard luck, mate. Sorry about that.’ He put the
half-full glass on the counter to settle and turned to take a bottle of Scotch from the shelf behind him. ‘Here.’ He poured a measure and put it in front of Dan. ‘Chaser on the house.’

‘Thanks.’ A free drink for the abandoned husband. Dan never drank whiskey, apart from an occasional hot one on a bitterly cold winter’s night. He sipped, and it hit the back of his throat and he felt the warmth as it slipped down. ‘That’s good.’

‘Twenty years in the making. You won’t get much better.’

Three pints and two chasers later, the pub had filled up a bit and Dan had met a few regulars who asked him about Ali. The more he said it, the easier it got. His wife had left him – so what? It happened every day. Two other couples they used to socialise with had split up too, one after just eight months of marriage.

He didn’t mention the pregnancy. He wasn’t ready to share that item yet.

In the end, hunger got the better of him – that, and the knowledge that one more pint would have him out for the rest of the night, and he didn’t fancy holding his head all day Sunday.

He got a takeaway from the Indian restaurant two doors down from the pub – another regular haunt of his and Ali’s, but the man behind the counter was unfamiliar and Dan didn’t have to tell him why his wife wasn’t with him.

As he reached Miller’s Avenue, nicely mellow, and turned in at his gate, the door of number seven opened and Yvonne’s daughter walked out.

‘Hi, Dan.’ She wore a deep green mini-dress. Her legs were very long. Dan tried not to stare at them. What was her name again? Heidi? Johanna? Ali had called her the Bombshell.

‘Hello. Off out for the night?’ Great, very intelligent. It’s ten o’clock on Saturday, she’s walking out of her house done up to the nines, and you ask her if she’s going out. Brilliant. No wonder you’re going home with a chicken korma.

She smiled. ‘Just the cinema with a few pals. We’re going to see the new James Bond.’ She raised her beautifully arched eyebrows. ‘Want to come?’

Oh, he was tempted. For a few seconds, Dan almost said yes. To be surrounded by sweet-smelling young women who’d help him forget about Ali for a few hours – it was almost irresistible.

But then she said, ‘Oh, you have a takeaway.’ She sniffed. ‘Mmm, smells like Indian.’

Dan nodded. ‘Chicken korma.’ He wished he could remember her name. ‘My dinner.’ In the streetlight, her hair was extremely shiny. Her lips were shiny too, and dark. He wondered what she’d do if he grabbed her and stuck his tongue between those shiny lips. Probably slap his face. He grinned at the thought.

Clara laughed. ‘I’d say you’ve had a few drinks, Dan.’

‘Just a few.’ He must look pathetic, rolling home half sloshed on a Saturday night with his dinner in a paper bag. Just his luck to be spotted by the best-looking woman in the neighbourhood.

‘Well, I won’t keep you – wouldn’t want your
chicken korma getting cold.’ She touched his arm briefly. ‘Maybe I’ll drag you to the cinema another night.’ And then she was gone, leaving a sharp, fruity scent after her. Much lighter than Ali’s heady perfume, which he’d sometimes felt he was drowning in.

He watched her walk towards the alley that led to the main street. What was she? Nineteen? Twenty? When she’d rounded the corner, he turned back towards his front door, rummaging in his pocket for the keys. Food, before he dropped with the hunger.

As he was tipping the chicken onto a plate, her name leapt into his head.

Clara.

Kathryn pushed her little fork further into the softened earth and slowly teased up the dandelion root. Amazing how long those roots were, even the young dandelions. Nosing down deep into the ground, determined not to be disturbed without a struggle.

She threw the weed into her trug and shifted the green foam kneeler a bit further along the flowerbed. She loved gardening, loved trying to get the better of the dandelions and the bindweed that kept coming back, no matter how often she pulled them up. She had to admire their stubbornness, even as she battled with it.

The only trouble with gardening was that it gave you time to think. What else could you do in the soft, twittering late-afternoon atmosphere, with little to distract you, your hands working automatically, no need to concentrate on what you were doing? Was it any wonder, when it had nothing else to do, that your mind began to play with the thoughts you kept bundled away the rest of the time? Began to unfold them and shake them out, allowing them to fill every space in your head and torment you all over again?

She eased up another budding dandelion, pushing her fork into the earth, rocking it slightly. The perfume was a mystery, no doubt about that. But there could be an explanation. Justin might have bought it for somebody’s birthday, some relation maybe or someone at work, and forgotten to mention it. A bit unusual, certainly – he was normally very anxious for Kathryn to help him out with any presents that had to be bought – but it could have happened.

The perfume wouldn’t have been for Grainne – her birthday was in October, and anyway she never wore perfume: she said it gave her a headache. And Justin’s sister Ann’s birthday wasn’t until January – and Kathryn always bought her present.

Maybe it was for Suzannah’s birthday. But would Justin even know when his sister’s partner’s birthday was? And why would he buy her a present out of the blue when they never had before?

No, it made no sense, whichever way you looked at it.

But maybe it wasn’t perfume he’d bought at all. ‘Fragrance’ could as easily mean aftershave or cologne he’d bought for himself. But he wasn’t out of aftershave – the half-full bottle was on the bathroom shelf. And she’d checked the presses in the bathroom and in their bedroom and found nothing else. No new bottles or jars, nothing that would explain the receipt.

Round and round, filling your head, tormenting you.

If it was just the perfume, she could have lived with it – she’d have given him the benefit of the doubt,
assumed there was an innocent explanation and forgotten about it in time. She trusted him, after all. He loved her. Wasn’t he always telling her he loved her? Hadn’t Yvonne said, at her party,
there’s a man in love with his wife?

But then, two days ago, Kathryn had been polishing in the hall and had seen something white, a piece of paper, under the phone table and she’d stooped to pick it up. She’d read ‘goods €35’ and ‘delivery €5’. She’d looked at the top of the receipt and seen the local florist’s name.

Flowers, bought and delivered somewhere, a few days before. Someone in the house had bought flowers in Blooms Day and asked for them to be delivered. Not Kathryn, and surely not Grainne – she’d said often enough that bouquets were a shocking waste of money.

So it must have been Justin. He must have gone to the florist’s and ordered a bouquet and had it delivered.

But Kathryn hadn’t had any flowers recently, apart from the potted orchid one of their work friends had brought to the birthday party. So whose house had this bouquet been delivered to?

Perfume, and now flowers. Oh, there could still be an innocent explanation, and Kathryn prayed that there was. But what was she to think, kneeling there beside the dandelions?

She was nine years and seven months older than him. Since their marriage she’d had a stillbirth and two miscarriages. Chances were, she wouldn’t give him children. He was still in his thirties, still a young man. She was facing her fifties.

And yesterday she’d looked out of the sitting room window and seen him chatting to Yvonne’s daughter on the path in front of the three red-brick houses. Clara, in her early twenties. Attractive, vivacious, laughing at something Justin had said. Wearing a pink gingham top and denim shorts that stopped six inches above her perfect knees.

Clara could give him babies, lots of them. Clara had years of having babies ahead of her.