When Eleanor told her they were going away for the weekend for Richard’s birthday, Zoe had been thrilled. She had never been alone in the house for that long and it felt like a rare luxury: she could cook a proper meal, have a bath, watch television, and spread herself on the sofas without feeling furtive. But when she unlocked the door to an empty house on Friday afternoon, she realized she didn’t particularly want to do any of those things. The stillness of the house unnerved her – she missed the usual background of shrieks and splashes and raised voices. Her bike stood alone in the hall, no longer having to share space with the buggy. A white plastic horse with blue wheels stood in the middle of the living room.
She had been living there for two and a half months and she still didn’t find the house any easier. She couldn’t sleep properly. She had never been a good sleeper – Rob had said that she talked during the night, indistinguishable babbling or nonsense, like when she’d told him there were eggs under the bed. Occasionally, she’d seen figures in the room and woken up shouting. But it was different in Litchfield Road. She had woken up paralysed again, twice, which left her with a kind of restless claustrophobia: she thought she could feel the earth pressing in around her. The figures she saw had taken on a particularly vivid shape: she had started dreaming that there was a girl in her room, a child, around seven or eight, with tangled black hair and an intent expression. She paced at the foot of Zoe’s bed or stood in the corner by the wardrobe. In her dream world, Zoe recognized her: it was the girl who had written on the walls, Emily. In daylight hours, she told herself she’d just been spooked by the writing and that was why her subconscious had conjured up this image. But the dream had an unusual character: it would settle on her in the moments before falling asleep, as her thoughts gradually became pliable and soft, and it was real and sharp, like a vision. She would wake up astonished to find the room empty. It made the prospect of a night alone in the house even less appealing.
She thought about ringing Laura, but stopped herself: she’d been calling a lot lately, with neurotic, inane questions about men she’d met, including Adam, even though it had been two weeks since the party and she’d heard nothing from him. (‘Should I text him?’ she asked. ‘I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer,’ Laura said.) Zoe didn’t know if she was pestering her, and the thought was so intolerable, she couldn’t risk it. In Brighton and in their London Fields flat, their friendship had been a kind of partnership, with an understanding that they were always available to each other: Zoe was never truly alone or at a loose end unless she wanted to be. She’d squandered that, she supposed, by moving in with Rob, but even so, she didn’t know anyone who had that sort of friendship now. And she couldn’t bear the thought of Laura pitying her.
She decided to try and make the most of the night in, even though her spirits were slowly dropping. She never cooked properly at Litchfield Road because she was afraid of getting in the way; she compiled salads and heated up soup. To mark her weekend alone, she made pasta, which she overcooked. It was gluey and slippery, but she ate it anyway, too much of it, and felt worse.
Zoe had never had a bath in the upstairs bathroom, although Eleanor had told her more than once that she could. She decided this would be a good moment to try it out. The bath looked reasonably clean, but as it filled up, she noticed a gauzy film across the top, little foreign hairs coated in bubbles. She got in anyway. At the foot of the bath, there was a blue plastic lobster, which had escaped the net bag bulging with other bath toys, and a used blister plaster – the white, expensive kind that emulated skin. Its milky, spongy centre was coloured with ochre from the blister and it had two wrinkled fingers sticking out on either side. Zoe touched it experimentally, without knowing why.
She lay in the water, idly reading the labels on the bottles clustered in front of her. It started to feel uncomfortably intimate, learning about all the problems Eleanor had to solve: fine, limp hair; dull, tired skin; roughened hands. She thought about her own cheery, brightly coloured set of bottles downstairs, which were too cheap to address specific flaws, and was grateful for them.
When she got out, she looked at herself in the mirrored cabinet above the sink, nearly tripping over the small pink plastic stool covered in stickers. Something moved at her feet and made her jump. It was a used cotton bud, wet, bent and yellowed at one end. She opened the cabinet. There was an open box of tampons and the packet was a colour she’d never even seen before – super super extra plus or something. They were vast and squat, like bullets. She didn’t know why they were so enormous, but assumed it was something to do with childbirth. I’m never having children, Zoe thought.
She dried off and put her clothes back on and rinsed the bath, trying to remove any trace of her being there. Then, although it was disgusting, she picked the plaster up between her fingernails and put it in the bin, feeling instinctively that it was Eleanor’s and that she would be embarrassed when she came back and found she’d left it out. She felt sad thinking about Eleanor’s limp hair and blistered feet, even while feeling jealous that she could afford superior plasters.
Stepping out on the half-landing, Zoe remembered, again, that she’d never been past this point in the house before. She hesitated. There was no possibility of being caught; this could be her only chance. She turned and went up another flight of stairs. The doors on the next floor were all shut. She paused again, and then opened one of them.
Eleanor and Richard’s room revealed almost nothing, only containing a large bed with a tasteful duvet cover, a wardrobe and chest of drawers. There were some heavy, faded red velvet curtains, which Zoe was sure belonged to the previous owners. A delicate, tall-backed chair with Richard’s crumpled trousers on it. She opened one of the wardrobe doors. A dirty clothes basket, the arms of Richard’s shirts sticking up, like someone calling for help. Eleanor’s clothes, filed in rows: linen, silk, buttons. Everything was navy, camel, grey or rose – even the colours looked expensive. She pulled something out, a silk shirt with a Peter Pan collar and 1930s print, and held it up against her.
She went next door to the children’s room. It was the opposite: overfull, with vast crates of books and piles of coloured plastic. The empty cot and small bed unnerved her. There was a doll in the middle of the cot – Zoe picked it up. Its body was made of greying fabric filled with beans, but its limbs and head were plastic. It hung limp in her hands: staring eyes, pouting mouth. She dropped it back in the cot and went up to the top floor.
Again, the doors were shut. She chose the back room first this time, and found herself in Richard’s study. It was small, just room for a double-stacked bookcase, a desk and a landscape of cardboard boxes. The desk had clearly been chosen with some care: it was an antique, dark wood, with a green leather surface. Zoe thought of her small folding table downstairs and felt childish and amateur. Next to his computer was a leatherbound notebook with the initials ‘RWFH’ on the front. There was a stack of library books with words like ‘Renaissance’ and ‘Critical’ in the title. She put down the notebook and shut the door behind her.
Zoe felt profoundly uneasy. It was something about being on this floor of the house; she had gone too far, the altitude was too high. But there was only one room left. She turned the handle and had to push harder than she thought to open it. She gasped when she stepped inside, taking in the blank staring faces, the frenetic childish scribbles, still visible through the paint. She noticed a suitcase in the corner, with a pile of quilts next to it and a curious row of objects on top: an amber tortoise. A piece of fur. A hairnet.
For a moment, Zoe was unable to move. Then she heard a loud crashing noise – something in the house had fallen or collapsed. Dizzy with shock, she backed out of the room. She wanted badly to escape downstairs, but forced herself to look in every single room she’d been in. She had to find the source of the noise.
There was nothing: the rooms were still. Her bicycle was upright in the hall. The front and back doors were closed. She opened the curtains of the bay window, but there was nothing in the street. She went to the window at the back of the kitchen and cupped her hands around her face to look out into the garden.
Back in the basement, she sat in her armchair, knees up against her chest, listening to her heart beat. Maybe it was normal for children to write their name on the wall – she wouldn’t know. But it wasn’t normal writing. It was unhinged. And why had Eleanor and Richard left it like that, like some kind of shrine?
Zoe wondered if she had imagined the crashing noise; she was sure she hadn’t. She couldn’t help feeling that it was something to do with her. What if she had disturbed something? What if she had invited something in? Then she had an awful thought: she wasn’t sure if she’d shut the door behind her. She told herself she must have done; there was no way she could bear to go back up there. She just hated the idea of it staying open, contaminating the rest of the house.
*
She woke on Saturday morning, alone and exhausted. She had dreamt about the girl again, this time in the upstairs room – the details were hazy, but the mood stayed imprinted on her: some combination of fear and distress. She’d bought eggs for breakfast the day before, but she didn’t feel like being upstairs for any longer than she had to. She didn’t have the energy to go to the shops, so she made milkless tea, and a bowl of dry cereal, retreating downstairs to eat it, trying not to think about the upstairs room.
It was her brother’s housewarming party that afternoon; he and his wife, Alice, had just bought a flat in Walthamstow. She hadn’t particularly wanted to go and had half thought about making an excuse – now, she wanted to get away from the house.
She still felt some trepidation, as she sat on the train, clutching a pot plant. Housewarmings were becoming more frequent now; it wasn’t just her brother, some of her friends had managed to buy places too. In the last year, Zoe had absorbed a lot about buying property, without really wanting to. ‘I feel like I’m becoming so boring about it,’ Peter said. You are, Zoe thought. There was always so much to say, and none of it interesting: chains collapsed, people were inefficient or unscrupulous, things got gazumped and gazundered.
Everyone was pushed out from the centre of London, and in return gained staircases and spare rooms and space. It was something she couldn’t quite comprehend – the amounts of money involved were fantastical and yet somehow people found ways to do it. Often it was obvious how – some combination of wealthy parents, wealthy partners and well-paid jobs – but sometimes it felt like everyone knew about a secret store of money that she couldn’t access. She’d stand in richly furnished rooms, bemused at where it all came from – cashmere rugs, faux retro radios, statement cushions.
It was the first time she’d been to Peter and Alice’s new flat, the top two floors of a large Victorian house. The stained glass in the front door and the pretty tiles in the porch made Zoe envious before she’d even been let in. Alice was waiting for her at the top of the stairs. She looked delighted to see her; Zoe remembered how much she liked her and felt guilty for feeling jealous of her front door. She was led up another flight of stairs to an enormous room: huge bay windows, a kitchen island, dining table and sofas. She’d arrived more or less on time (this was another new development: parties that started at 4 p.m.) and there were only a few scattered guests, talking quietly and conservatively. The statement cushions were taut.
Alice handed her some wine in a plastic cup and Zoe went over to say hi to Peter. She had always got on well with him, despite, or maybe because of, the fact she felt he was very different from her. Mostly, she was pleased that he chose things that were stable and secure because it meant she could be chaotic and creative by comparison. Buying property was a Peterish thing to do: like getting married or knowing about contents insurance or washing up, while she did Zoeish things like leaving her job and splitting up with Rob, and being so unhappy at Peter and Alice’s wedding that she got drunk and cried, and was sick on her bridesmaid’s dress. But now, in this large light room, she wondered, as she had a lot recently, whether it would be better to be less like Zoe.
He was recounting the story of the house purchase to a friend Zoe hadn’t met before, a thin frenetic man in glasses and a suit. Zoe had heard the story before and didn’t particularly want to hear it again: its protagonist was a land transfer document. But at least she only had to half-listen and could produce outrage and sympathy at the right cues, while trying to work out who else she knew who might have been invited, how likely they were to come and when they might arrive. She tuned back in to hear Peter’s friend say:
‘The market’s incredible at the moment. My mortgage is a thousand a month and I’m charging seventeen hundred in rent.’ He didn’t say You do the math or Kerrching! but the implication was clear.
‘You’ve got to deal with tenants, though,’ Peter said.
‘Oh right, yeah, they’re a nightmare. They don’t look after anything. I was there last week, yeah, and the bathroom was covered in mould. They hadn’t been opening the windows! They just don’t care.’
‘Well, it’s not their house,’ Zoe said, and then regretted it. She didn’t particularly want to have an argument.
‘You’d think they’d care about where they’re living, though.’
Zoe felt too tired to dispute it. ‘Yes, you would,’ she said.
‘How about you, where do you live?’
‘I live in East London . . . near London Fields?’
‘Whoa. I didn’t think anyone could afford to buy round there any more.’
‘I rent.’
‘Renting’s even worse though, right? That whole area’s nuts at the moment.’
He was looking at her, waiting for her to justify herself, and she wished she could make something up – I’m a lawyer for a commercial property developer – but Peter was there, and he wouldn’t believe her anyway.
‘I rent a room from a family – well, two rooms actually, but we share some of the living space.’
‘You’re, like, what, an au pair?’
‘No, more like a lodger, I guess.’
‘Oh right.’ He looked at her with both curiosity and disdain. ‘I didn’t think you got lodgers these days.’
‘Is it still going all right there, Zo?’ Peter asked.
I can’t sleep in the house and I think it might be haunted. ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘I mean, I love the area and it’s close to work.’
‘What do you do?’ Peter’s friend asked.
‘I work in an art shop.’
‘Oh, right – are you an artist?’
Zoe began to find it difficult to speak. She got away as soon as she could, saying she had to get another drink, but after she’d refilled her cup, she didn’t know who else to talk to. She spotted Alice’s sister, Annie, who she’d met a few times before. It wasn’t a particularly appealing prospect, but she went over anyway.
Alice was exceptionally normal, in a way that Zoe often found comforting and endearing, and only occasionally frustrating. Annie was superficially normal, but with a slight, indefinable air of lunacy. She was only twenty-eight, but she already had two children, which Zoe thought was entirely unnatural. She had her back to Zoe and she was juggling a baby; her husband stood nearby trying to control their toddler. Zoe realized too late that she had a phone pressed between her ear and her shoulder. She wanted to walk away, but Annie had turned round, held up her palm in front of Zoe’s face and mouthed ‘Wait’ with unnerving urgency.
‘Yes, well, I didn’t appreciate finding out about your kidney from someone else, Daddy. Daddy – Daddy, what I’m saying is—’
Zoe felt foolish but Annie’s eyes were pinned on her and she didn’t feel she could walk away again.
‘Look, I’ve got to go now, I’m at the housewarming . . . Alice and Peter’s . . . Yes, you did know, Daddy. OK, speak later . . . yes, yes, love you, bye. Zoe! Hi! So sorry about that.’ She hugged her, which was awkward with the baby between them. ‘Here’s Benjie!’ Annie held him up, a little too close to Zoe’s face. There was something goblinesque about him, ears sweeping out, upturned nose, wide mouth.
‘Hi, Benjie!’ Zoe said.
‘This is Zoe, Benjie. Zoe is Aunty Alice’s sister. Well, sort of sister. Sister-in-law. Say hello to Zoe, Benjie. Say he-lo. He-lo. He-lo.’
Zoe smiled and waited.
‘He-lo. He-lo. Say he-lo. He-lo.’
Annie held him closer to Zoe’s face.
‘You can give him a kiss.’
‘Oh – can I?’ She leaned in and placed her lips on his clammy cheek, feeling idiotic. She pulled back slightly too quickly and tried to shift the focus away from her. ‘Is it going well, then? With the two of them?’
‘Oh, well, you know, it’s hard work! Hardest thing I’ve ever done. But it’s amazing, seriously. How are you anyway? I don’t think I’ve seen you since the wedding.’
Zoe blushed, remembering how drunk she’d been, how Alice’s other bridesmaid had had to help her with her dress, and how kind Alice was about it, which made it worse. She thought she saw Annie trying to hold back a smile and she knew she was remembering it too.
‘No, I know. I’m good, thanks.’
‘Are you still working for that charity?’
‘I gave that up. I’m working in an art shop now.’
Benjie wriggled in Annie’s arms; she struggled to contain him.
‘Oh, right. I didn’t know you were arty.’
‘Well, I’m not really . . .’
‘And what about your boyfriend? Is it . . . Rob?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. We split up, actually.’
‘Oh, shit, yeah, of course, Alice did tell me. Sorry about that,’ Annie said, pulling the baby’s hands away from her hair. ‘How long were you together?’
‘Nearly six years.’ She was more practised at talking about it now, but her voice still wavered. It took her by surprise; she didn’t expect to still be upset by it.
Annie looked down at the baby’s feet. ‘Oh no! Odd socks! Is that Daddy? It’s Daddy, isn’t it. Silly Daddy! Are you seeing someone else?’
‘No – not at the moment.’
‘Oh no,’ she said, dispassionately. ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll find someone. Do you want kids?’
‘I’m not sure . . .’
Annie held Benjie up to Zoe’s face again. ‘But they’re so CUTE.’
‘Definitely, I know. But I’m not with anyone at the moment so . . .’
‘You should start thinking about it, though. I mean, I’m sure it was the best thing to split up, if what’s-his-name wasn’t the right person. But you have to get a move on – the good ones get snapped up eventually.’
Zoe drained her plastic cup of warm wine and told Annie she had to get another drink. She realized if she kept aborting conversations like this, she was going to get really drunk.
She poured herself some wine deliberately slowly, and waited by the kitchen island, unmoored. Somehow having another conversation was unthinkable. There was a spare room next door, a kind of study, where she had put her coat and bag. She got out her phone. No one had called her. There was no one she felt she could call.
If she were a stronger, better person, she would go back in, apologise to Peter, make convincing excuses. Instead, she put on her coat and left as quietly as possible. She’d only been there half an hour.
*
On her way back, she thought about Peter and Alice, and Annie, and the man making £700 a month from tenants who didn’t open the bathroom window. She knew it was unfair to feel resentful: Peter and Alice had got their deposit for the flat because Alice inherited money when her stepmother died. It wasn’t as though Zoe and Peter came from different worlds, after all. She might still meet a man with a wealthy dead step-parent.
Zoe wasn’t sure if she would ever have a chance of owning a house, whatever she did, but she also knew she wasn’t trying very hard. If this was what she really wanted, she should be pursuing someone available, not daydreaming about someone who had a girlfriend and lived in a warehouse. She should be trying to be a success, not leaving her job because she felt like it. She had done all this by instinct, rather than choice, and what if she did want it after all? It looked nice, but where did the resources come from? Where did you find the capacity to deal with bathmats and light fittings, cushions and fridges? An entire person, with preferences, desires and responsibilities, ex-girlfriends and uncles, kidneys and feet? All she had was herself, and two rented rooms, and she was full to bursting.
At Walthamstow station, she felt her phone buzz. It was Adam, telling her that he had been thinking about her and reading her poem and asking if they could meet. She was euphoric and then helpless with rage at how easily he could floor her. She thought oh God yes, yes please, but she scrolled through her phone book and pressed Laura’s name. She would consider all the options, even if she already knew exactly what she was going to do.