hungry so opened her purse to check how much cash she had left. She found two pounds and a scrap of paper scrawled with Le Petit Palais, La Rue de Grassière, Trinity. Rob’s home address. She had surreptitiously obtained it from the office before she left the Bretagne. She hadn’t known why. A vicious letter to his duped wife? An anonymous threat? A dog turd in a box? She looked back at the café where the parents of the local family were wolfing their food, the wife clutching her handbag on her lap rather than risk putting it on the floor against her chair. What did she expect would happen? That it would be hooked and tossed into the throng of the great unwashed who would close ranks like a League of Thieves from a nineteenth-century romance? This Island had branded her since she had first touched down, a two-star accent in a five-star town: Scousers were thieves, untrustworthy. Very well, if that’s what the Island wanted, maybe that’s what the Island should get.
She strode back to her bedsit and used the communal phone in the hall to dial a cab, then went back to her room and took a tenner from Danny’s wallet, leaving him an IOU and a promise to be in touch in the week.
On the way into the belly of the Island, sunbeams darted through the spindly branches of the wind-stripped trees, adding to her headache. She shifted to the other side of the car and wound down the window to let the cool breeze enliven and narrow her sense of purpose. This had the bonus of drowning out the insinuations of the prying local driver.
‘Friend’s house?’
‘Yeah, going for lunch.’
‘Nice houses round there.’
She wanted to say, ‘Keep the car running while I rob them,’ but settled for ‘Hm.’
The houses on the hawthorn-edged lane began to thin out and swell. As, she imagined, did the hair and girth of the male owners, fattened by the confluence of middle age and wealth. The waists of their wives would slim with the need to retain the attention and resources of the tailored sloths.
‘Just pull up here,’ she said. She paid and got out in the road.
The white house looked big but, then, anywhere looked big compared to the council flat in which she’d grown up. It had had two windows: the front and the back. This house had twelve on the front, all with wooden shutters painted gold to match the fake Victorian gas lamps that lined the snaking drive at intervals too close for the desired effect to work.
A metallic green Renault 5 approached, its indicator flashing to turn in, so she continued walking towards the next house to muster her courage. After it had pulled into Rob’s drive, she snuck back to see who it was. She knew who it wasn’t: there was no way that the man she had fucked would drive a car like that.
She peeked round the trunk of a beech tree that stood at the edge of the front garden and saw a rowing couple get out of the now parked car. The woman was attractive, in spite of her frown, which looked to Louise as though it had become the default setting for her face. Their raised voices drifted over.
‘I can’t believe you only mention this now. Where’s the letter?’
‘Back at the flat.’
‘And he said he was a pupil? I’ve got to go back now.’
‘You can read it later. This is embarrassing.’
‘No – I’ve got to go now. I’m sorry … I’ll come straight back – we’re just down the road.’
‘Fucking hell, Colin, why does everyone have to come before me? Fine, piss off. And don’t bother coming back. I’ll get a taxi.’
‘I’ll be back …’
As he jumped back into the car and began to reverse clumsily at speed, Louise ran forward to hide behind one of the large bushes that pocked the garden. He headed out of the drive and back the way he had come, while she spied on the woman she supposed was Colin’s girlfriend or wife. She watched her collect herself, then ring the bell. The door was opened by a blonde woman in a Breton top and white jeans with a gold chain-link belt. She was pretty, but the kind of pretty you could buy. Rob hovered in the background. Louise bristled at the sound of indiscriminate shrieking. She knew their sort: they were finicky orderers and bad tippers. As the door with its large fish knocker shut behind them, she thought of how people like that didn’t know they were fucking born. She’d love to choke the forced shriek in that stupid bitch’s throat and give her a real howl of pain.
She collected herself. The wife wasn’t the enemy. Rob was. She pitied the poor cow. She looked at the cars parked in front of the house and in the open garage. A Porsche, a small jeep, some kind of classic car, an old soft-top VW Beetle and a sporty yellow cabriolet. More cars than her dad had owned in his life.
The phone was ringing as she eventually approached the house. She heard Rob yell that he’d get it and caught a glimpse of him through the glass panels at either side of the door that looked on to the front hall, which was bigger than her living quarters. It sported an oak sideboard the size of her bed, on which sat a large pink conch shell, a piece of white coral and a golden bowl overflowing with sunhats and sunglasses. He had picked up the phone and had his back to her.
‘Hi … Oh, hi, you going to be joining us eventually? … Sure, I’ll get her.’ He held the receiver away. ‘Emma, Colin for you!’
As Emma approached, her view of Louise blocked by Rob, he pointed at the phone with his spare hand, motioned ‘ssh’, then opened his arm for an embrace. Emma allowed him to kiss her, while Colin waited at the other end of the line. Louise stood still and smiled: this prick couldn’t be asking for it more if he tried. As Rob moved aside and Emma took the call, she spotted Louise and pointed, then turned her back, terror in her eyes.
‘Hi … I put it on the coffee table … Well, you must have moved it without knowing what it was …’
Rob caught sight of Louise and his jaw dropped, as if he’d just been told he had thirty seconds to live. She moved in front of the door, which he opened, then stepped through, shutting it behind him.
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