Tuesday 1st May 2007
‘Oh for goodness sake!’ Wendy Harrison throws the duvet away from her and sits up in bed. She twists onto her knees and pounds her fists against the wall she shares with her neighbour. ‘Will … you … please … be … QUIET!’
It’s 2.34 a.m. and she has only had an hour’s sleep. When she turned off her bedside lamp, a little after eleven, she heard someone shouting and laughing outside. It was her neighbour, Jason Marsons, with a cackling blonde on his arm. They were returning, Wendy assumed from the way they swayed down the street, from the pub. Ten minutes later the music started up. A thumping electronic beat that shook her house. She went round immediately, with Monty in tow, and knocked on the flaking red door of number 31. Her neighbour, a young man in his mid to late twenties, opened the door with a gleeful look on his face. He took one look at Wendy, then his expression changed.
‘You again, seriously?’
‘It’s nearly twelve o’clock.’ Wendy glanced at her watch to prove her point. ‘And this isn’t the first time you’ve kept me awake with your noise.’
The man shrugged. ‘It doesn’t seem to bother the neighbour on the other side.’
‘That’s because he’s deaf,’ Wendy snapped. ‘And I, certainly, am not.’
‘Jay, where are you?’ a blonde woman called from behind him. A second later she hurtled down the hallway, knocking into the walls like a bowling ball thrown by a pre-schooler. ‘Oh, there you are.’ She looped her arm around his neck and peered out at Wendy through red-rimmed eyes. ‘Who are you?’
Wendy tried very hard not to sigh. The woman was obviously drunk and, from the look of her grubby feet, she’d walked barefoot back from the pub. ‘I’m Jason’s next-door neighbour. I’d like you to turn the noise down please. I can’t sleep.’
‘But it’s his birthday,’ the woman wailed before she pressed her smudged lips against the side of his neck. ‘Don’t be an old killjoy.’
‘I’m not an old anything,’ Wendy said tightly. ‘But I’ve got work in the morning and I suggest you save your partying for the weekend.’
Jay sighed. ‘We’ll turn it down.’
‘And spoil your birthday? No chance!’ The blonde waggled a hand in Wendy’s face. ‘You need to go home and have sex with your husband. It might loosen you up a bit.’
‘Lisa!’ Jay tried to extricate himself from her octopus-like grip. ‘You can’t talk to her like that. Sorry,’ he said over his shoulder to Wendy as he attempted to wrangle Lisa back down the hallway. ‘She’s a bit of a livewire.’
‘I’d rather be a livewire than a dried-up prune,’ Lisa shouted up at him. ‘I don’t want to get old. Not if I end up like her. Will you shoot me if I do, please?’
‘You’ll never be like her.’
Wendy reached forward and tugged on the door handle of the open front door. The glass in the top panel shook as she slammed it shut.
I want to smash something, Wendy thought as she stepped into her kitchen. I want to whirl round like a dervish, knocking cups and plates to the floor, throwing plant pots against the walls and smashing everything I can lay my hands on.
She eyed the potted orchid on the windowsill. She’d rescued it, half dead and sorry-looking, from her sister’s conservatory. To send it tumbling to the floor would be a travesty. And very unfair on the plant that had finally flourished under her care. The mug then, on the washing-up rack. If Jay and the stupid blonde woman heard that smashing against their shared wall they might think twice about messing with her again. But the mug was part of a set of six she’d bought at a car-boot sale. They were vintage Laura Ashley.
She stared around her small kitchen, desperate to find something – anything – she could destroy, but everything she saw held sentimental value. She’d been living on a budget for years and she’d saved hard for all the beautiful things in her home, or spent hours sifting through tat in charity shops or car-boot sales.
Jam. Her eyes fell on a on a small glass jar on the kitchen counter. It had been a gift from a client but it was the most revolting home-made jam she’d ever tasted – too runny and with a horrible bitter aftertaste. She lifted the jar to head height. Monty, at her feet, looked up expectantly and Wendy paused. If she threw the jar at the floor there was a very real risk that Monty would end up with tiny shards of glass in his paws, even if she did send him out into the garden first and then cleaned up diligently. Then there would be the mess she’d have to sort out. Not to mention the potential damage to her kitchen tiles.
‘Damn it!’ she shouted as she slammed the jar against the kitchen surface. ‘Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!’
As her neighbour’s music continues to pound the wall behind her bedhead, Wendy reaches for her laptop, on the bedside table, pulls her headphones over her ears and selects a playlist of eighties hits from iTunes. She tries to sing along as Madonna warbles about keeping her baby, but she can’t block out the memory of her neighbour’s friend calling her a dried-up prune.
I’ve had sex, Wendy wants to scream at the shaking wall behind her. You didn’t invent it you know. And I’m only fifty-nine. How dare you call me old, how dare you, you drunken little slut!
But she doesn’t. Instead she grits her teeth and logs onto Lou Wandsworth’s Facebook page. Yesterday she’d visited that little madam in her cushy job on Church Street. Other than the small amount of satisfaction she’d gained from the other woman sucking up to her in a professional capacity and her evident discomfort when faced with questions about her personal life, she’d left the office none the wiser about who Lou Wandsworth actually was. And to think she’d been so excited at the prospect of infiltrating her life. It had come to nothing really. After the meeting she’d received an email from Lou saying how nice it had been to meet her and that she was attaching a breakdown of their fees and a pro forma invoice for payment if they were successful in winning the bid. And that was it.
There was no way of taking the matter forward. The pro forma alone was for several thousand pounds and, even if Wendy could afford to pay it, it would look very strange to pay it from her personal account rather than from the University of Worcester. So what next? She’s put it off long enough. She needs to confront Louise Wandsworth and tell her some home truths. It might not change Wendy’s situation. She won’t be magically whisked out of her damp two-up, two-down and into a lovely warm home. She won’t wake up each morning in the arms of a loving husband. She won’t have a clutch of children running around her feet or, at her age, calling her from university. She won’t have any of those things. But she might find peace. Or, at the very least, the opportunity to get a few things off her chest.
There is nothing exciting on Lou’s Facebook page. She hasn’t updated since she lived in London and, although there are a couple of ‘how are you doing?’ ‘long time stranger!’ type posts from friends and acquaintances, the only one that catches Wendy’s eye is from someone called Alice.
I hope you took my advice. It’s better to regret the things you do than the things you don’t (if you know what I mean). Love you xx
Advice? Wendy raises an eyebrow. That suggests Lou has some kind of problem. But what? She has no way of knowing. A number of people have liked the comment and someone has written Hello, Vague Book! Spill or don’t post. To which someone else has replied Hey, it’s not your conversation. Keep your nose out. It then degenerates into an argument about the correct Facebook etiquette. Wendy isn’t interested in the argument but is curious about Ben Feltham, the only man to like Alice’s original post.
When she clicks on his name she isn’t surprised to see that they are already friends. Over the last couple of months she’s gradually friend requested each and every one of Lou’s friends in an effort to get to know more about her. She vaguely remembers Ben’s page but, as he hadn’t posted any photos of Lou or any posts to her page, she’d dismissed him as an acquaintance rather than someone who meant something to her. But what’s this? Eight weeks ago he posted a photo of himself lying under a red Mini, seemingly changing a wheel. Underneath he’s written: The things you do for some people.
The red car looks familiar. She’s definitely seen it before.
Wendy clicks back to Lou’s page. Yes, there it is. A photo of the same Mini about a year earlier with Lou sprawled on the bonnet, giving it a kiss.
My new car, Lou has written beneath it.
Her heart beating faster Wendy clicks back to Ben’s page. Before the photo of the Mini he’s written Anyone recommend a good musical in the West End? (Don’t laugh!) :D
Musicals? She clicks back to Lou’s page. Three days after Ben’s request, Lou posted a photo of them both standing outside Wicked in the West End. Ben Feltham is Lou Wandsworth’s boyfriend. But she’d told Wendy that she lived alone.
Ben’s most recent Facebook post is a meme. She’d scrolled past it originally (believing that memes are for people who are too stupid or lazy to express themselves with their own words) but it’s a lot more interesting now she’s worked out the connection between Lou and Ben. The background image is of a man sitting alone in an American-style diner. Overlaid are the words If you are not scared then you’re not taking a chance. If you are not taking a chance then what the hell are you doing? Wendy snorts softly. How very fey. Obviously Ben’s friends thought the same as several of the comments beneath the meme seem to be taking the mickey.
U ok, hon? says one.
Stop being such a maudlin bastard and go for a beer says another.
You are so GAY says another (that comment started an argument about homophobia).
Did Ben post the meme because he was planning on moving to Malvern to be with Lou? Wendy’s stomach tightens as she clicks back to Lou’s photo albums. The Clark Gable alike that she’s kissing in the fancy dress photo is obviously Ben. How lovely for them both, moving back to Lou’s home town to make a new life for themselves. As a child Wendy was taught that good people are rewarded in life, whilst bad people get their due. It’s total bullshit of course. Murderers live out long lives in prison, whilst innocent souls die in childhood. Horrible, abusive women get to have children, whilst kind, loving women don’t. There’s no such thing as karma and no higher power meting out reward and punishment. The world is a very unfair place. You just have to turn on the TV to see the extent of the devastation wrought on people who don’t deserve it. And Wendy hasn’t watched the news in years.
She moves her cursor away from Lou’s photo and clicks instead on Ben’s profile picture. He’s a nice-looking man, late twenties possibly with a thick head of dark hair, warm, brown eyes and nice teeth. He looks approachable and friendly, like the type of man who wouldn’t allow anyone to sit on their own at a party.
If she messages him what’s the worst that could happen? He could tell her to sod off or he could ignore her completely. She has a feeling he won’t do either – not when she’s pretending to be an attractive blonde with a very enticing smile.