Last Kiss (16 page)

Feeling panicked again, I search for something that will tell me who she is – a photograph, a letter with her name on it, a driver’s licence, anything. Did I miss something downstairs? Now that I know what I’m looking for, it should be easier to find it. But there are no photographs of her anywhere in the room, or any letters with her name on them. Maybe she doesn’t live here all the time. Maybe it’s a place she and Edgar come to be together. I turn around, checking I closed the bedroom door behind me. I grab a chair from the corner, placing it under the door handle at an angle. If anyone tries to come in, it will be a warning and give me more time. I cross to the bedroom window, I lift the lower sash. It would be a jump, but there are shrubs I could aim for. I rub my forehead, thinking about confronting her, calling her a bitch.
Stop wasting time
.

The air coming from outside is cold, now that it’s late evening. I walk over to the dark cedar wardrobe. It’s large and overbearing. There is a keyhole on both doors, but one has a brass key with a small red tassel. Turning it, I hear the click, and the two doors open wide. There are male and female clothes. Perhaps she’s married. Or the men’s clothes belong to Edgar. I rummage through them like a mad woman, checking the labels on the men’s jackets and the size of the shirt collars. They are the same size Edgar wears. Could it be a coincidence? I remind myself that he has a key to this house and my stomach heaves.

Looking inside every pocket, I hope I might stumble on the final proof, but then I hear a noise coming from outside. I stop in my tracks, but it’s only the breeze causing the trees to
creak. I keep searching, knowing that at any moment she, the other woman, could appear, accuse me of breaking in, ask what I’m doing in her house, and how dare I go through his and her things, as if I’m the intruder.
But you are, Sandra
. I sense that I have more to fear from her than I can possibly know. She is the one in charge. I’m the one in the dark.

It’s in one of the inside pockets of a man’s overcoat that I find the rolled-up piece of paper. There is no denying Edgar’s handwriting, even though it takes me a while to concentrate on the words: the name and address of a hotel in town. I’ve never stayed there, but I’ve had drinks in the bar. It’s opulent, not my kind of place. I turn the piece of paper over, and on the reverse, there are three digits. A room number? I lean against the wall near the window, breathing in the cool air. My mind goes into overdrive, putting all the bits of information together. I followed Edgar here, and I know he has a house key. When he arrived, he stayed for nearly an hour, as if it was his home, not that of a stranger. His clothes are hanging in the wardrobe, or at least clothes that fit him, and then there’s the smell of his cologne, and his handwriting on the piece of paper. How much more proof do I need that he is living a second life?

You hear all the time of people living secret lives. People who have multiple love affairs, false identities, an innocent woman not knowing she is living with a fraud, even a killer. It’s all possible.

I look down at the note again, at Edgar’s handwriting. He must have put it in the pocket. I double-check the size label on the coat: 38L. ‘His size,’ I say out loud, as if to drive the point home. I lean in, pulling one of the lapels towards me, knowing
his habit of applying extra cologne once he’s dressed. There’s no denying the aroma. It’s his.
You’ve been living a lie
.

Putting the note inside my coat pocket, I scan the room again. There has to be something else. I begin pulling out the drawers in the bedside locker, beside her bed, with the black silk dressing gown staring up at me. The bottom drawer is either stuck or locked. I need to prise it open. I pull the chair away from the door, run down the stairs into the kitchen and grab a sharp knife from the cutlery drawer.

In the bedroom, I don’t bother putting the chair back under the handle. At first, there isn’t a budge on the drawer. I’m holding the knife tight and my hand is shaking, but somehow, I manage to make a narrow slit. I wedge my fingers into the gap, but I can’t get a proper hold. I’m sweating beneath my coat, so I take it off, letting it fall to the floor. Pulling the drawer handle with as much force as I can, I turn the knife in my hand, wedging the handle inside the narrow gap, twisting the blade and tearing my skin.
Careful, Sandra, don’t mess up now
. I push the knife in further, knowing the gap is widening. When the drawer opens, the blade jerks upwards, clipping my hand. I see blood. It drips onto my coat. I press my right hand over the wound to stop the flow, but it seeps between my fingers.

I can’t stop now. I shuffle items in the drawer from side to side, trying to work out what’s important and what isn’t. The drawer is full of shiny things, a metal letter opener, a cigarette lighter, a silver lipstick case, a pincushion with small steel pins, and a miniature pill box. At the back of the drawer I see something unexpected. It’s another key, one with a large chunky key ring, with the number from the piece of paper. I think about taking
it. If she notices it’s missing, she will know someone has been in her house. Can I take the risk?

I pull my blood-stained coat off the floor, pushing the key into the pocket. I look back at the silk dressing gown. She must have worn that against her skin. Edgar touched her in it, sweeping the contours of her body as his excitement rose. I think about the two of them together, gleeful with their little secret, and feel utterly betrayed. In my rush to get out, I trip on the staircase.

It’s only when I’m safely in the car that I begin to write all of it down in my diary – her address, what I found inside the house, the details of the hotel key. I become so occupied in what I’m doing that, for a few minutes, I don’t look up.

Maybe that’s why I miss her, the woman passing the car. By the time I spot her, she has her back to me. Could that be her? Should I confront her? I’m sure she’s walking towards the house. When she’s far enough away, I turn the key in the ignition. The engine starts first time. I reverse slowly, then do a sharp U-turn, looking in the rear-view mirror as I pull away. A part of me is willing her to turn so I can see her face. She doesn’t. She keeps on walking, and the further I drive away, the more obscure she becomes, getting smaller and smaller all the time. I’m shaking again. I grip the steering wheel tighter. What if she already knows I’ve been there? What if she’s one step ahead of me? What if she was watching me all along and is smiling to herself, curious about what I’ve been up to, and how much more it will take for me to crack?

IT’S MY TURN now. The scales need balancing. The judgement call is now mine. Remember the eye? Think about the hunter and the hunted. First they eye their prey, and then they stalk. Soon they chase and, finally, they will devour. My new man doesn’t realise how much I’m drawing him in. I care little for his pretty wife, with her pretty past, and her not so pretty future. Consider yourself one of the lucky ones. Be grateful it’s her and not you I have in my sights.

There has been another shift. Something is changing in the power game, and it is in my favour. I’m instinctual about such things, recognising the subtle variations in pattern.

Did I tell you I was born outside wedlock? Perhaps that’s why
I care so little for the marital status. A stupid safety net designed to protect people from themselves and their vices. Rules bring structure and reliability. There is comfort in that for some. Not for me. Social normality and I don’t see eye to eye. I’ve been on the fringes from an early age. I am suspicious of normality. Like the perfect picture, it has many unanswered questions. The guy going to work every day to do the same job, the woman desperately striving to better herself, people walking the same walk to identical houses, or sitting in their cars going one way and back the same. What’s the question? Why the hell are they doing it?

They’ll give you lots of reasons – ambition, routine, familiarity and all those well-worn clichés. My theory is simple: it’s their fear and their need to be part of something safe that holds them back from doing what they really desire. I’ve never been part of something safe, so I don’t worry about that. There is no safety net for me. I’ll leave that to the people who like to conform.

When I think of my mother, I wonder if, maybe, she was like me. I’ve only ever heard her story in fragments, told by others, whispers from behind closed doors. I cannot be sure how much is true, but I’ve built up a picture over time. I see her as an outcast, living outside the pack. I hear she was considered odd, not socially acceptable. She didn’t fit the mould. I’ve also heard she wasn’t right in the head – ‘a strange girl’ was how some referred to her. I have my suspicions as to why she might have been that way. I grew up in the same house. I felt like an outcast too. Society doesn’t look kindly on the fallen. When I see the road in the woods, I wonder if, one day, it will lead me to her.

You might never understand why I kill, or seek the affection of would-be strangers. The witch said she saved me from certain death. She took pleasure in the telling, hoping I might feel guilt and be grateful to her. Make no mistake. She did none of it to bestow love. You and me, we’re more alike than you might think. I need love as you do, but my options are limited.

Unlike you, I don’t have all the answers. The only person I judge is me. Look on me as the reverse side of your life, the life you might have led if things had been different. When you think of being loved as a child, I would like you to replace that memory with hate. The hunched woman in the shadows, the one who raised me, made me more fearful than any of you can imagine. Witnessing evil first hand, like love, will shape you. Your understanding will be based on it, including your concept of right and wrong.

The scales are in my favour now, and neither the little wife nor anyone else will stand in my way.

DRIVING HOME, I’M forced to slow down to let an oncoming car pass on a narrow stretch of back road. I’m still breathing heavily. I’m a criminal now. I’ve broken into another person’s house, invaded their privacy. I screech to a stop as a stray fox crosses my path, but soon I’m picking up speed again.

It is only as I park the car outside our house that my breathing begins to settle. A lot of the journey home is a blur, but I still remember that woman passing my car. She must have seen me. Did she know I’d been inside her house? Would she phone the police?

I visualise them calling to my door, asking me where I was this evening, telling me there had been a break-in and they had
reason to believe I was involved. Edgar would be shocked, and then I would blurt it all out. I would tell him it was his fault, and hers, that I was beside myself with fear and doubt, and that I had never done anything like this before. They are usually lenient on a first offence, especially if you admit to it from the beginning, and that’s when I imagine myself walking into the local police station, saying I have to confess a crime. I know right there and then that I’m not going to do that, and I’m not going to tell Edgar either. Maybe I should go to the hotel and ask if that room is vacant, if I could have a look at it.
Pull yourself together. You’re not the first woman to discover her husband is having an affair. What difference would it make if you see the room?
‘I don’t know,’ I say out loud. Then I remember that the woman didn’t turn. She mightn’t have seen me. With a bit of luck she wouldn’t notice anything awry.

I ring Edgar on his mobile. It goes straight to voicemail. I wonder about phoning Karen then, but what would I say? I could tell her about someone writing things in my diary, that there is only one person who could have done it: the person who is moving things around the house. The same woman I watched with her back to me. If she’d been inside my home and written that note, she had read everything in my diary. She would know about my suspicions. Would she have told Edgar? Why wasn’t she showing her hand? Maybe she enjoys playing games. Maybe Edgar told her I’d been unwell. She would know I was vulnerable.

I feel my heart racing again, and I know why. It’s because something else is forming in my mind, and the more I think about it, the more I realise it’s the only thing that makes any
sense. This woman isn’t just having an affair with Edgar: she has me in her sights too. Again, my hands shake. If he told her I’d had a nervous breakdown, she would think me easy pickings.

I can’t stay sitting in the car, but what if the house isn’t safe? I think about going to the police again, but they might think I’m mad. I can’t take that chance. No, there has to be another way. But what if it’s all true? What if, the next time she breaks in, she does more than move things around?

I could stay with Lori for a while, but I remember how odd she was earlier, and I’m not sure about Alice either:
Think, Sandra, has Alice given you any real reason to doubt her, other than her off-handedness and Lori’s accusations?
I can’t risk it. Nor can I go to Karen’s, her husband would be bound to tell Edgar.

It takes me a while to work things out, but finally I ring Edgar’s mobile again. When it goes to voicemail, I leave a message. I tell him I’m going away for a couple of days. That I’ve been thinking about things and, considering everything, it’ll do us both the world of good to have a break, and that he isn’t to worry. I can’t afford for him to come after me.

I pack enough clothes to keep me going for a couple of nights, checking that I have my passport and credit cards. I have no intention of using the cards to do anything other than withdraw money from cash machines. I can take out enough to pay the hotel bill, and use the passport as identification. Our cards are on a joint account, and I can’t take the risk that the credit-card company would share the information with Edgar. I check I have my mobile and diary. The last thing I put in my overnight bag is a kitchen knife. I have no intention of using it, but I feel better having it with me.

Driving away from the house, I realise I’ve put no thought into which hotel I will stay in – certainly not the one on the note. Part of what I said to Edgar in the phone message is true. Time alone is exactly what I need: time to work out who this woman is, and what she really wants.