An offer of a cup of tea in a lift and as easily as that, I end up inside, on the other side of the wall. To speak to Harriet, to look at her, to maybe put to bed once and for all the idea that she has a connection with Tom that is something more than the one I know of.
‘Ah, your piano,’ I say, stroking the top of it like a cat. ‘I’ve got to admit, I’ve heard you on it and wondered what you do. Do you play professionally?’
‘Yes, I write songs for musicals mainly, bit of TV work,’ she says. ‘It’s hard work but rewarding, getting to write music for a living. I love music.’
Her voice is softer when she talks about her work and if I didn’t suspect her of sleeping with Tom, I would almost feel guilty that I know about her job already, that I have to lie about not knowing before. I feel creepy; imagining if somebody knew all about my life before they met me. I shudder at the thought.
‘It sounds great,’ I say, keeping it brief, but I mean it. It does.
I hear a cupboard open as she goes into the kitchen to put the kettle on.
When she comes back into the room, something about her has changed. Instead of being relaxed in her own home, she’s stiff and awkward. The softness that I heard briefly when she spoke about her career is gone.
On one shelf are ten or fifteen books and on the others – all of the others – is nothing. Rows and rows of dusty nothing. I think of the stuff, the endless stuff in our flat, how I am constantly bagging up things for the charity shop and trying to curb the flow. Is she an eco-warrior, vowing to live a life without things? Or is this something stranger?
There are no thank-you cards, no wedding invites. No fancy bottle of champagne being saved for Christmas. No thirty-something version of pretentious art that is actually the cheapest thing you could buy this year from the Frieze art fair. No flowers, no plants, no candles. No scent at all, I realise. And no joy.
There are no discarded theatre tickets or loyalty cards from one of our many local coffee shops. Perhaps the most notable thing though, especially considering that she is an ex-pat, is that there aren’t even any framed photographs of parents, siblings or much-missed friends. I feel cheated. Where is the anatomy of my neighbour? I came here expecting to see the pieces that made up the woman I listen to for hours each day. And here, there is nothing.
She shouts from the kitchen to ask what I do and what tea I want.
‘Copywriter! Camomile!’ I shout back.
I look down at my tummy. Even normal tea is out now.
I glance at the other shelves. They are just as sparse, but there is something on one of them that’s of note. It’s my own name on an envelope with an NHS stamp on it. On top of a pile of other letters. I frown. Did it go to her by mistake? Is she going to pass it on to me? The thought crosses my mind that the other letters underneath it could be all of my missing post, but of course not. Of course not.
Harriet appears next to me silently and I jump.
‘Sorry,’ she smiles. ‘Did I startle you?’
She is holding two mugs of steaming tea.
Then she follows my eyeline straight to the letters and puts the tea down close by them. Yet still doesn’t acknowledge their presence.
‘Sooo, when are you due?’ she says, suddenly animated, my best rom-com friend with an arm linked through mine. ‘Will you find out what you’re having? Do you have any names in mind?’
She’s grilling me but barely giving me time to answer as she steers me to her Ikea couch.
I sit down tentatively. I glance back at my post, then think about what’s happening on the other side of that wall.
Is Tom home? Can he hear us, like I thought I could hear him? It sounds silent through there, but then Harriet is loud.
‘I’m so sorry, all I’ve done is talk about me and I haven’t let you get a word in,’ I say.
That’s not strictly true, she did ask a lot of questions, but still. Talking too much is one of my major self-flagellation trigger points, so I instinctively think it’s me who’s to blame. And even though Pregnant Counsellor talked through this with me countless times, I’ve warped my mind so much that I can’t see this scenario from any other perspective.
Harriet smiles. Her mouth is closed. It’s the smile of the together person. The one who doesn’t need to give a barrage of ‘No no no, not at all, it was definitely me,’ rambling.
She just sits, smiling, and it’s me – of course – who does the barrage.
I’ve always struggled with people who aren’t warm. How do you get to them? How do you make this interaction real?
I think of another question.
‘So, do you … have a boyfriend?’
I have no idea why I have just said that. Except that I was flailing. And there aren’t many things to start conversations about round here. Except … why do you have my post, Harriet? And are you sleeping with my boyfriend?
‘I don’t,’ she snips.
‘Sorry,’ I say, the blushing getting worse and now, I suspect, even pink armpits. ‘That was a massive assumption.’
Mark it up as my latest feminist fail: making women feel awkward for not adhering to the relationship status quo.
I take a bobble from my wrist. I am too hot suddenly to feel my hair on my neck.
I try to breathe calmly. The post is probably just an error. The man, somebody who just sounded like Tom. The baby needs calm. Focus on the baby.
I look at Harriet and once again, I realise I have no idea of anything. Of Harriet’s sexuality, of her relationship history, if something horrible happened in her life last week. I feel like I know her but it’s 1 per cent, it’s nothing.
We are human beings, Harriet and I. We are sad. We are anxious. We panic. We judge ourselves. We turn on ourselves. We loathe. We are competitive. We edit. We get bitter. We feel envy that we wish we could banish. We are jealous. We rose-tint others and post a horror-filter on ourselves. We think we know, but we know nothing. We judge through walls and apps, and we do it constantly, all day, all the time, forever, and then we wonder why we are unhappy.
Somewhere in my mind I am seeing the ludicrousness of this. Of middle-class women thinking they comprehend one another despite never having sat in a room, hugged, shared a meal, revealed secrets. Of feeling jealous towards someone whose life is so unknown to me.
‘Sorry,’ I mutter, draining my drink.
She is silent. She asks me if I want another tea ten seconds later and it seems so awkward to leave at this juncture that I accept.
‘Yes, please,’ I reply. ‘I’d love one.’
As she leaves the room to make it, I stand up again, glance in a flash through the post pile. Lexie Sawyer. Lexie Sawyer. Lexie Sawyer. It wasn’t just one letter. All of this post: it’s mine.
‘I’m doing a pot, if that’s okay?’ she says, appearing without me noticing. Making me jolt. ‘I’m having camomile too.’
I have the post in my hands. She glances at it but her expression doesn’t change.
Instead, she laughs. Talks about tea, of all things.
‘I think it’s an American thing,’ she chatters. ‘Wanting tea to be proper and serious and formal. My ex and me used to do it all the time. Go to those old-school London places for afternoon tea with scones.’
I laugh, forced.
I’m being crazy. The post thing is odd, but Harriet must have meant to pass it on to me. She’ll probably hand it over shortly, apologising that it’s taken her so long.
‘Well, I’m not American and it’s not novelty to me, but I still love a scone,’ I smile.
But then I think of that voice again; of how sure I was that it was Tom. Here for work, perhaps. Though in that case, why lie?
The kettle hits the boil in a rage and I think I see the tiny hint of a smirk creep over Harriet’s mouth as I jump.
A minute later she brings the pot in, sets it in front of me.
And then she looks me right in the eyes.
‘There’s no easy way to say this,’ she says.
She crosses her legs and puts her hands together, primly, in her lap. She looks at them.
I wait, an eyebrow raised in readiness for her revelation. My heart has speeded up because I know, don’t I, what’s coming.
‘I’ve been sleeping with your boyfriend,’ she says. ‘I’ve been sleeping with Tom.’
And there it is.
I feel my legs begin to shake. Tom, having sex with Harriet while I lay counting on my yoga mat. Tom, having sex with Harriet in between injecting me with hormones. Tom, having sex with Harriet on this sofa, maybe, where I am sitting.
I remember hearing Harriet have sex through the wall, when Tom was away. But was he away? Did I hear the man’s voice? Ask yourself if he’s been acting differently. Think, Lexie.
This isn’t out of the blue. Because I’ve been adding up, and working out, and this: this always felt somehow like it would be my final answer.
She looks at me, the smirk again.
‘You don’t have anything to say?’ she asks.
I look down at my legs and find it odd that that is the part of me that is shaking so violently. But this revelation is too much for a hand, for a sweaty palm. This revelation is making the biggest parts of me vibrate and shudder, like an earthquake to tell me that the world will look different after, a physical announcement that nothing will be the same again.
I think of the social media trolling, of the condoms, of knowing what her underwear looks like underneath those jeans.
I think of that feeling that someone had been walking around, breathing, being in our home. I think of the months that Tom was acting oddly and of the messages from Rachel. I think of every odd conversation and of every sheepish expression. I think of Tom and me and our baby and our family and my heart breaks, my stomach dives back to that place under the sea that it went to during the months, years of trying.
All of that time when I thought we were submerged together, Tom was swimming up to the surface and betraying me.
‘Do you love each other?’ I hear myself asking.
Harriet looks taken aback.
‘Of all the questions!’ she chirps joyfully. Throws her head back and laughs. Then she looks thoughtful. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ she says, hand stroking her chin, revelling in her role. ‘Not yet. But there are feelings there. It’s more than just a shag.’
The word sounds funny delivered in her accent. I think of the late nights, of the times Tom said he was in the pub. Could he genuinely have been here, just next door?
I retch. Then I look up and assess Harriet differently. Look at her, really look at her, this woman who has taken my joy. Who is collecting my post and collecting my life.
She is tall and that isn’t normally Tom’s thing. But what is normal, now? Harriet’s hair, like mine now, is tied up in a bun on top of her head. She has pretty brown eyes, pale skin, freckles. Maybe these are all Tom’s things now. Or maybe Tom’s thing is convenience. Maybe I don’t know what Tom’s thing is. Maybe I don’t know Tom.
Couldn’t we have just held on, I think, for a little longer? We didn’t have much more to weather. But he left our team and now, where does that put us?
I stand to leave in shock and feel my legs tremble, but Harriet blocks my way, looks down and then touches my bump, gently at first but then pressing, forceful, with both hands. She looks up at me and smiles.
I jerk away.
‘It’s Tom you want, clearly,’ I hear myself saying. ‘So why the fuck are you coming near my baby?’
Have I underestimated how much Harriet wants to take from me?
She smiles, serene.
Everywhere in my body I can feel my heart hammering. I sit back down, complicit now in whatever she wants.
She sits down next to me – too close – and hands me a pile of pictures. The top one is of Harriet, in my living room. The second is Harriet, topless in my bed.
I look at her.
She hands me the third picture. Her and Tom, kissing, her hand feeling its way up his T-shirt.
I think I am going to vomit.
‘What?’ she says, eyebrow still sky-high. ‘You didn’t think I was telling the truth? You can’t imagine that your loyal Tom looked elsewhere when sex was a chore during fertility problems?’
I’ve fallen down a lift shaft.
I glance at the wall – I know what noise carries through it and it’s not enough to get that information.
‘So,’ she says, jolly. ‘Lots of surprises today.’
And then her eyes travel, with mine following. On the other windowsill – placed there carefully like an ornament in among the nothingness – are Tom’s lost keys, with their cheesy camera keyring making them unmistakable.
And my brain allows in the worst thoughts.
I’m scanning through memories, dates, times, opportunities, all with Harriet squeezed next to me, invading my space, invading my life. My arm stays across my middle. In my pocket, my phone beeps. I look at it instinctively, the message coming up on the home screen.
Flora just told me your news, it says. Huge congrats to you both xxx
It’s from Tom’s mate Dan. The one he said he spilled our pregnancy news to weeks ago, before the scan. The one he told me he had been with on the night I thought I heard his voice through the wall.
I reply, quickly, as Harriet stares at me.
But I thought you already knew? I say to Dan. Tom told you?
Dan is typing.
Nope, not a word. He can keep a secret, after all. But seriously, you’ll be great parents xx
Tom definitely wasn’t with Dan, toasting our news. And I wasn’t losing my sanity. Tom was here, in this room, before he came into our home, told me a lie then walked past me on my yoga mat to wash our neighbour off him in the shower and get straight into our bed.
Harriet is holding out her phone to me.
She shows me a screen grab of an email from Tom’s address and a weak attempt to flirt with somebody called Rachel. I think of the evening Rachel asked me where Tom had been. How I knew the answer straight away because he was away for work that night: the same night that I had heard Harriet having sex through the wall.
Rachel. Harriet.
I look at her, suddenly understanding. She’s been infiltrating my life. She’s Harriet but she’s someone else, too.
‘You’re Rachel?’ I ask as the dots join, as the sums compute.
She smiles again then leans down. I flinch instinctively, but this time she doesn’t touch my stomach, just moves her head close to it instead.
‘Uh-oh, looks like your dad’s been naughty,’ she says, singsong to my baby.
I retch again and put my hands across my middle, shifting away from her as much as I can in this tiny space on the sofa. Harriet moves with me and reaches out. My body spasms.
‘Relax,’ she laughs. ‘I’m only taking my phone back.’
She swipes a few times then holds it back in front of me.
On the screen there is another picture of Tom, on the red sofa that I am sitting on now. I thought the bricks between our flat were Seventies Berlin, were the Great Wall of China. In reality, they are made of Play-Doh – he has been here, she has been there, and the movement has been fluid and constant. It is only me who hasn’t known. I feel faint and clutch my hands instinctively to my belly. But I need to keep going. What did I come here for, really, if it wasn’t answers? You can’t stay in denial forever, Lexie.
The next image is Tom on the sofa, eyes closed, with Harriet draped – there is no other word, she is draped – over his lap. Tom knows Harriet well. He hasn’t just been to her flat but he has been relaxed here. Drinking, probably. Kissing, I now know. Sleeping, definitely. And all the while I have been going for internal scans and taking myriad drugs and thinking that he was as tunnel vision about our end goal as I was. Thinking that yeah, things weren’t great right now but we were in this for the long haul. Thinking that Tom wouldn’t have room in his brain even to contemplate someone else, let alone spend time with them, relaxing with a beer, dozing off on their sofa.
I glance at the date on the photos and I try to think back to when Tom went out, when he was behaving oddly. It’s easy to remember, because days have taken on huge significance since I’ve been pregnant, as we made it through another one and another one and crawled towards that Mount Everest three-month mark. And we’re finally here, then this happens. If I weren’t so terrified, I would be made of fury.
The date on the photos is the one when Tom claimed to have food poisoning. When he lost his keys. When I knew, really, that he was lying to me. When I know, now, that he was cheating on me.
And that worse, it wasn’t with someone anonymous. It was with Harriet, our neighbour. I thought we laughed at her, but really, they were just through the wall, laughing at me.