‘Number nine. I’ve come to—’
The woman looked at her and then at the badge clipped to her shirt. ‘Jane Mills,’ she said, the smile suddenly warming a degree or two. ‘Jane? Oh, I’m so sorry. Gosh. Well, how very nice to meet you at long last. How are you settling in? Presumably the showerhead in the guest bathroom is OK now? I had Barry pop over and take a look. He’s naturally terribly versatile and, let’s be honest, even in properties of this calibre there are always going to be a few little snags, but anything you need, anything at all…Oh, apologies,’ she said, in response to Jane’s bemused expression, and held out her hand. ‘I’m Miranda Hallsworth. We’ve spoken on the phone a couple of times. I’m only in the show house at weekends—’
Jane took a breath. ‘Actually,’ she began, ‘I’m not J—’ but before she could explain who she wasn’t, a souped-up low-slung Ford Escort, with flames custom-painted onto the metallic blue bodywork, growled to a halt alongside them, bass beat pounding away inside.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ said Miranda. ‘You know we applied to make this a gated community? Why do these people insist on coming in? I mean, honestly, do they look as if they belong in Creswell Close?’
Jane turned to look. A large man with a belly like a well-upholstered fireside chair eased himself slowly out of the driver’s seat. He was very tall, and wearing a spotless white singlet, a pair of very shiny navy-blue tracksuit bottoms, and white trainers—all immaculate. His companion was tiny, a pocket Venus, with breasts like ripe melons and a waist that couldn’t have been more than twenty-two inches, above an impressively pert bottom. She had an unmoving burgundy-coloured bob, a tight peach-coloured top, cropped spray-on denims, raffia-heeled espadrilles and an ankle bracelet strung with tiny silver bells. Both of them were tanned the colour of Caramac and both were a long way the other side of fifty
They were tasteless to perfection. Miranda Hallsworth’s outrage was tangible.
‘Number seven, Tone and Lil,’ said the man, extending hand as Miranda glared at them.
‘What?’ snapped Miranda.
‘Number seven.’ He peered myopically at her name badge. ‘Miranda? Oh, right. You’re the bird in the brochure; you don’t look nuffin’ like yer photo,’ he said, catching hold of her fingers in his great hairy paw. ‘“Our well-trained staff will be only too happy to answer any questions.” Pleased to meet you, darling.’
Alongside him Lil nodded. ‘Likewise. It’s lovely, isn’t it? We saw this place on the Internet. And I says to Tone, I says, “you know I’d love a little place like that,” I says. Little place in the country—nothing flash, so’s we can pop over from España. Didn’t I, Tony? I says—’
‘Number seven,’ Miranda managed as Tony continued to pump her hand.
He nodded affably. ‘That’s right. Six beds, three baths, master bedroom, with spa-pool bath en suite. We’ve come to pick up the keys, but there weren’t nobody over in the show house. We wanted to have a little butchers before the furniture van gets here tomorrow. We’re staying at a hotel in town tonight. The Metropole, booked the honeymoon suite, didn’t we, Lil?’ He winked salaciously and when Miranda didn’t instantly react continued, ‘Tony and Lily Butler. Pleased to meet you.’
Miranda almost choked.
‘Seven’s Lil’s lucky number.’
But not apparently Miranda’s. ‘Anthony and Elizabeth Butler?’ Miranda said slowly, her face a picture.
‘That’s right. See, there y’are, you’ve got us now,’ said Tony.
‘We’ve got a lovely place in Spain,’ said Lil, to no one in particular, while pulling a packet of cigarettes out of her handbag and from it, with impossibly long acrylic French-manicured nails, produced a cigarette that had to be six inches long. ‘Great big pool, Jacuzzi, loads of land. I says to Tone, I says, “I reckon there’s room round the back for a pool and a hot tub here.” What do you reckon?’ She lit up, then, looking at Miranda through a rolling boil of cigarette smoke, said, ‘Oh my God, sorry—what am I like?’ And offered her the packet. ‘What must you think?’
Jane didn’t hang around to hear what Miranda thought. Instead she turned the key in the ignition and pulled away, heading through the open front gates up the drive to number 9, her spirits lifted by the encounter.
Number 9 had a dark green wooden door under the lee of an elegant little portico, with brass door furniture and a bell push like a big white chocolate button, set on one side of the wall in a silver and ceramic bowl. Jane rang and waited. She couldn’t hear the bell ring but then maybe the bell was quiet, or the walls were thick, or—she thought about Barry’s natural versatility—maybe it didn’t work at all. She waited a minute more and then pressed the button again. She couldn’t just post the letters and leave them—after all, they were all open. She needed the chance to explain. Across the road Miranda was heading back towards the show house, flanked by Tony and Lil.
Lil was telling Miranda about her plastic surgeon, and asking Miranda if she’d ever thought about having a little lift.
Jane looked away. Maybe she should just write Ms Mills a note and pop the post through the letter box.
Jane glanced at the door again and wondered if she might have more luck round the back, or maybe knocking. She lifted the brass knocker and, as she did, the door swung open silently on well-oiled hinges.
Jane took a step back in surprise. This wasn’t meant to happen. This was the sort of thing that happened in horror films. People who lived in houses like number 9 Creswell Close most certainly did not leave their doors open. Actually, looking back over her shoulder it struck her as odd that the gates were open too.
The front door opened directly into a large hallway with a wooden floor, a long cream runner emphasising the elegant proportions. A curved staircase rose from the centre of the room to a galleried landing above. There were half-glazed double doors each side of the hall and a corridor heading towards the back of the house. The huge hall was panelled to waist height and, above, the off-white walls were hung with modern abstracts, which looked as if they might be originals. Jane felt her pulse flutter. No, this wasn’t right at all. This kind of house should have alarms and locks and CCTV, not open front doors.
Jane glanced back over her shoulder again, this time to see if she was being watched. Miranda had vanished into the show house.
‘Hello?’ she called self-consciously. ‘Hello?’ Nothing. Jane leaned inside. ‘Hello. Is there anybody in? Hellooooo?’
Zilch. Zip. Nada.
The long hellooooo echoed down past the handsome hall table and the perfectly arranged white lilies, flowing unheard over the floor-length cream drapes and the beautifully designed lighting.
Jane bit her lip. How bad did it look to be standing by the open door of a house that didn’t belong to you, with a handful of opened post that didn’t belong to you either? What the hell was she supposed to do now? Jane looked round and considered her options.
Across the road Tone and Lily were respectively ambling and teetering out of the show house brandishing their keys. Any minute now they would drive up to number 7 and see her standing there on the threshold, maybe Miranda too. Should she get in her car and go? Come back another time? Shut the door behind her and head home?
Jane
