The Girl Next Door. Phoebe Morgan

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СКАЧАТЬ on the ground in an attempt to warm them up. ‘God, imagine, Ashdon on TV. Well, we’ve all seen the way they cover cases like this, they’re like vultures, aren’t they?’ She eyes me beadily. ‘Your house might be on the news too. Or at least in the frame.’

      ‘Sandra,’ I say to her, ‘don’t tell me you’re jealous of that.’

      She looks admonished. I put a hand on her arm. ‘Don’t think about it, not for now anyway. News coverage might help the police, help them catch whoever did it.’

      ‘You’re right,’ she says, her face brightening, ‘you’re right, Jane. God, I hope they catch him soon. Has your Harry heard anything more? The older ones must be devastated.’

      ‘No,’ I say, ‘Harry didn’t really know Clare very well.’ My throat tightens, ever so slightly.

      ‘Book club this week?’ Sandra says, changing the subject, and I pause, then nod.

      ‘We ought to keep going, keep a sense of normality,’ she says, ‘perhaps we could do it at yours? I’ve almost finished the Zadie Smith.’

      Before I can answer, she’s waving her gloved fingers at me, then turning to go. I stare after her for a moment, watching her slightly stocky frame make its way across the tarmac, stopping to talk to other mothers on the way. The book club invitation will have made its way through half the town by the time she’s finished. Sandra knows everything about everyone, or she thinks she does, anyway.

      I move away from the school, tucking the strands of hair that have escaped from my scarf back inside the soft grey material. It’s cashmere; Jack bought it for me last Christmas. For the one I love, it said on the gift tag. I put the tag in my bedside drawer, along with the dried rose he gave me when we first started dating, and the faded yellow boarding pass from our honeymoon in Thailand. I look at them sometimes, my little mementoes, to remind myself of his love. Sometimes it’s hard to remember. I didn’t put the hospital tag in there; I cut it off my wrist the day after the incident on the stairs and buried it in an old handbag, stuffed at the very back of our wardrobe. Some mementoes aren’t worth looking at.

      I pull out my phone as I walk back down the high street, send Jack a text. Off to work. See you tonight. A pause. Love you. I keep it on vibrate, in case he replies, but although the little tick tells me he’s read it, the phone stays resolutely silent and still.

      When I get into work five minutes later, Karen, my boss-stroke-colleague, is on the phone. Her voice is sombre and her face looks serious, but despite that, I feel it – the wash of freedom that comes when I am here, in this light-filled shop, away from my husband, away from the house. We’re a tiny little place, selling ceramics and cards mainly; I only took the job part-time because it gave me something to do. I used to work in advertising, back when I lived in London, before the children and Jack, and part of me has always craved that creativity. Sometimes I think of myself, sitting in a London boardroom, MacBook in front of me, and I don’t recognise myself at all. They say marriage and kids don’t have to change you: whoever said that is a liar. I’d say a broken rib changes a lot of things.

      It wasn’t always like this in the beginning, Jack and I. When I met him, I was won over. Jack, for me, presented a life I never thought I could have: money, stability, the house and kids, all in one fell swoop. And for a while, it was perfect. Better than perfect. We were obsessed with each other; I was his little project, the girl he took on and made good. And like any good subject, I rose to the challenge. Made myself into the woman he wanted. Before long, you couldn’t even see the divide between who I was and who I am now. And if it’s up to me, I’ll keep it that way. No matter what.

      That’s all I’m trying to do.

      ‘Morning!’ Karen mouths at me, still on the phone, and I wave my fingers at her, unwrap my scarf from around my neck and hang it on the peg. There’s a small studio-cum-office at the back where Karen and I work, and everything we make is placed at the front of the shop. Art as therapy; I thought something like this would help me deal with life at home and it does, sometimes. The kettle bubbles happily and I tune the radio as I get my teacup down from the shelf: a painted ceramic mug Sophie and Jack made me for Mother’s Day last year. Wobbly hearts adorn the sides and my own heart stretches.

      I make coffee. When I first met Jack, he warned me off it, well they all did there, told me about what it does to your heart rate, your nervous system, your cortisone levels. But he breaks his own rules now. I can break them too.

      ‘Sorry about that, Jane,’ Karen says when she hangs up the phone. The shop belongs to her, and we rub along together, although I find it hard to get as stressed out about ceramics as she does. Most of our income comes from Jack, these days. Good old Jack, Jack the doctor, Jack the breadwinner. The old rhyme goes through my head, Jack be nimble, Jack be quick. There’s nothing fairy tale about our marriage. But it’s what I wanted, I remind myself. What I still want, even now.

      I settle down next to Karen, power up my computer. The screensaver flickers on: Finn and Sophie on the beach, Harry pulling a silly face behind them; our holiday in Cornwall last year that ended in one of the worst fights Jack and I have ever had. I can’t even remember what started it now. In the photo, Sophie has ice cream around her mouth. Bright yellow; quickly, I click onto one of my latest designs, feel a bubble of relief as it replaces the image on the screen.

      ‘No worries,’ I say to Karen, taking a sip of caffeine – it’s too hot, it burns my tongue. Burning off the wine from last night. I feel it again: the impact of the glass, the hideous sadness when I saw the bruise this morning. Purple, the colour of heather. It’ll be green soon.

      Karen tuts. ‘It was Beth again, calling from school. She didn’t want to leave the house this morning – well, who can blame her! After the news. She’s in the same year as Clare Edwards. That poor girl. It’s just so awful. It feels like the whole town is in shock.’ She frowns, rubs a hand across her eyes. I feel a stab of empathy, make a sympathetic noise in my throat. Beth is her daughter at the secondary school, sixteen last week. I helped decorate the birthday cake at work that afternoon, stabbing the little candles into the thick white icing.

      ‘Actually,’ I say, ‘they live next door to us.’

      The reaction is immediate. Karen gasps, her hands flying to her mouth, the silver band on her wedding finger glinting in the light.

      ‘No! Jane! I didn’t realise. I’m so sorry. I—’

      I wave my hand in the air. ‘No,’ I say, ‘really, it’s fine, well, it isn’t, but…’ I pause. ‘Obviously it’s horrible, having it happen so close to home.’

      Karen shudders; I can actually see the shiver going up her spine, snaking its way through her thin stripy shirt, across her narrow shoulder blades. ‘I just can’t believe it Jane, next door to you! In our town! Right after Christmas, too, who would do a thing like that? Beth says she was a pretty girl, was she? One of the popular crowd. Well, you can tell that from the photo. I expect it won’t be long before it makes the nationals.’

      She nods towards the town paper, splayed on the desk. Schoolgirl found dead in Ashdon field. Clare Edwards’ blonde hair shines like a halo, her white teeth grin out at us, frozen in a smile. My eyes fill, and I look back at my screen.

      ‘It’s terrible,’ I say, ‘it’s the very worst thing.’

      I buy a paper of my own from Walker’s corner shop on the way to get the children from school. I don’t know why, but I want to read the details, pore over it all in my own home. I need to be alert, prepared СКАЧАТЬ