Elizabeth jumped onto the sofa beside Claudette Penze-Weedell. She steadied the Quality Street tub before stroking the cat, absently, staring at the television. Elizabeth purred. On the screen, a man in a red sequined waistcoat, open at the front revealing his toned pecs, danced wildly with a woman with big hair, in a matching dress. Claudette lowered her eyes for a second to peer in the plastic tub, searching for another Strawberry Delight. As her pudgy fingers closed around her prize she realized, disappointed, it was the last one. She eyed several shiny purple wrappers. Her second favourites – she would work her way through those next, she decided.
Glancing back at the screen, a movement in the doorway caught her eye.
A shadowy figure crossed it.
‘Maurice!’ she called out, crossly. ‘Are you back already? You know what the doctor said about walking for thirty minutes every day.’
There was no response.
‘Maurice!’ she called out, louder.
At that moment on the screen the two dancers tumbled, catastrophically, onto the floor.
‘No!’ she gasped, as they struggled to their feet and tried to recover the situation, as if nothing had happened. Filled with anxiety for the couple, she plucked a purple chocolate from the tub, unwrapped it, and crammed it into her mouth, her eyes on stalks, riveted by the disaster as she chewed the hazelnut in soft caramel.
Outside, Maurice, reeled in by his urges, continued across the road, keeping clear of the glow from the ersatz Victorian street light directly opposite. He took a final drag of his cigarette, dropped it on the ground and took out a mint from the tin he always carried in his pocket to mask the smell of smoke from his wife.
Sucking on it, and with erotic butterflies fluttering in his stomach, unseen strings pulled him closer to number forty-seven, eyes glued to that window. He was feeling increasingly aroused. Mrs P-W had better be in the mood tonight.
He reached the railings and the open front gate, then stopped and looked over his shoulder at his house, at Santa’s grotto and the closed blinds behind which his wife would be absorbed with the show and her chocolates.
He wanted so much to turn back. But his feet seemed disconnected from his mind and he kept going forward. Tiptoeing now. Forward. Invisible in the darkness, inching his reluctant way towards that window.
Definitely invisible.
He was panting. His heart drumming. His face burning with embarrassment.
Must stop. Turn away. Go. Go!
Closer.
Closer.
Something moved behind that window. Pale, naked buttocks rising. Falling. Rising. Falling.
Enough, he must leave right away.
Instead, helplessly, he continued tiptoeing forward.
Could see more of the buttocks.
Just yards away now.
Another step.
Then a face pressed against the window, staring at him venomously.
The thin, wrinkled face of an old woman, her flesh a hideous grey, her eyes filled with hatred.
Almost simultaneously, security lights flooded down on him, spotlighting him like an actor on stage.
Maurice took a startled step back and stumbled, almost falling. Then, shaking in shock and terror, he turned and fled. He did not dare run over to his house in case she was still looking out of the window and would see him. The shame of it. Maurice Penze-Weedell – a pervy voyeur.
He ran along the pavement, curving past two completed but empty houses that were still for sale. Then a dinky one with white clapboarding, with a ‘SOLD’ sign and a spindly sapling in the front garden. Where the road curved left, there were two partially completed houses on the right, the gardens just mounds of earthworks secured behind steel fencing. A sign outside on a blue square board read, FOREST MILLS DEVELOPMENTS – PLOTS 28 & 29.
He reached a junction, perspiring heavily now, and stopped, panting, badly in need of another cigarette to calm his nerves, hardly daring to look over his shoulder. Finally, he plucked up courage and turned, looking back at number forty-seven. To his relief the security lights had gone off and Lakeview Drive was dark and silent again. The downstairs light in the house where he had seen the couple having sex was still on.
God, who was that hideous-looking woman? That hag?
Directly opposite him was a row of silent, dark, finished houses, all with blue signs on their walls. All as yet unsold. With shaking hands, he fumbled out a cigarette and was about to light it when he smelled a strong whiff of cigar smoke. Where was it coming from? There wasn’t a soul around this end of the estate.
Then, with a start, he saw him.
A man standing right across the road, beneath a street light, with a fat cigar glowing in his mouth, giving him a knowing smile. He was in his thirties and looked like he was dressed for a 1970s-themed fancy-dress party – he wore a busy high-collared shirt opened halfway to his navel, flared jeans, Chelsea boots and a leather jacket. A gold medallion glinted on his chest.
‘Hi, good evening!’ Maurice hailed him. ‘Good to see a fellow smoker!’
The man drew on his cigar, the red glow brightening, removed it from his mouth, and blew smoke out.
Holding his own unlit cigarette, Maurice crossed the road towards him. ‘How do you do? I’m Maurice Penze-Weedell – we’ve recently moved into number thirty-six, the house down at the other end.’
As Maurice reached him, holding out an extended hand in greeting, the man vanished.