I listen again. Supposing Crystal has mistakenly left the back door open? It didn’t occur to me to ask who’d make the house safe for the night. What if no one has locked up at all and someone intending us harm has come inside? My mouth goes dry. It can’t possibly be Suresh. He surely would have been unable to find me so quickly. My heart sinks at the thought of him, but I must push this anxiety out of my mind. It can’t be my husband but, despite the security cameras and the high gates, it may be someone who shouldn’t be here. Perhaps Mr Daniels on the top floor won’t hear them, and I’m frightened to wake him. Mrs Ashton, who is old and may have a hearing problem, may also be unaware. I could be alone in this.
The banging continues and I think that I can’t simply lie here and do nothing. I’m a new woman now. The old Ayesha Rasheed would have remained in her room, cringing and afraid, but I’m not that person any more. I must be brave and see what the noise is. If it’s a door banging, I must secure it. Despite the courage I have in my mind, I stay still for a few more minutes in the hope that it will stop and I won’t need to investigate.
But it doesn’t stop.
I consider dressing again, but instead I put on my coat over my nightdress and quietly let myself out of the room. The landing is dark and I’ve forgotten to acquaint myself with where the light switches are, so I stumble around in the darkness, feeling my way in unfamiliar surroundings.
As I creep downstairs, the noise is louder now. Clang, clang, clang. Relentless. It doesn’t sound like a door banging any more, but I can’t tell what it is. I could do with a weapon in case it’s an intruder – an umbrella or golf club – but I look round me and find that in this house there’s very little to be seen. On a table by the door there’s a bronze statue of a woman and, failing to find anything else that might be useful to ward off a burglar, I pick it up. It feels cool when I wrap my sticky, perspiring palm around it.
Inching my way along the hall towards the kitchen, I realise that the sound is rising from beneath the house. There’s a door under the stairs and I can see light shining round the frame. That’s definitely where the noise is coming from.
Gingerly I open it, and it’s definitely louder now. I take my courage in both hands and shout out, ‘Hello?’ My voice sounds more tremulous than I would like and fear constricts my throat.
There’s no reply. So I make my way down the steps. One night Suresh made me watch a horror film with him when his parents had gone to bed. He delighted in the fact that I was so terrified. It showed a woman making her way down to a basement much like this – except she had a torch, which kept flickering, and was wearing only her underwear. I take comfort in the fact that this basement is brightly lit and I have on my coat. But if the light were to suddenly fail, then I have no torch at all. So perhaps the heroine in the film, despite being in her pants, had an advantage.
As I reach halfway down the stairs, one of them creaks beneath me and the noise suddenly stops. Now I’m frozen to the spot and it takes me all my courage to go further. I pause at the bottom of the steps, heart hammering. Then I step out, little lady statue held high.
Chapter Eleven
Just inside the room, there’s a man pressed against the wall, weapon held high above his head. ‘Aaaargh!’ I shout out in terror and brandish the statue in the most menacing way I can think of.
At the same time, the man shouts out too. ‘Aaaargh!’
When he sees me, he lets his weapon drop to his side. He looks at the dumb-bell in his hand and then he laughs with relief. ‘You scared the hell out of me.’ He puts his hand to his heart and puffs out a lungful of air.
I release my own breath, which I didn’t realise I’d been holding. The basement is obviously used as a gym as it’s filled with different fitness machines, but I don’t know exactly what they all are. But I do now know that’s what I could hear.
‘I thought you were an intruder,’ I tell him.
‘I thought you were an intruder,’ he counters, panting hard.
‘I think we’re both mistaken,’ I venture. ‘I heard the noise. The clanging of your machine.’ I nod to the nearest one, which has a towel draped over the side. ‘I didn’t know what it was. I was worried that we may have had a burglar.’
The man laughs. ‘I thought you’d come to brain me with my Ivor Novello award.’ He nods to the statue still raised in my hand.
I lower it. The room is mirrored all along one side and is brightly lit from many bulbs in the ceiling.
‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’ Now I feel foolish that I was worried. ‘It’s my mistake.’
‘You must be my new lodger.’ He puts down the dumb-bell, reaches for a towel from the bench next to him and rubs it over his hair.
I nod. ‘Ayesha Rasheed. Very pleased to make your acquaintance.’
Surely this is my new landlord, Mr Hayden Daniels. I don’t like to stare at him, but I think that Mr Daniels is a very attractive man. He’s wearing grey sweatpants and a white vest which are damp with sweat but, strangely, no less appealing because of it. His skin is very pale, his hair very blond. He has a strong face – full jaw, high cheekbones – and his eyes are a most startling blue. I flush and lower my gaze. I’ve never seen a man like this before. The only man I’ve ever seen without clothes is my husband and he was soft all over, not firm like Mr Daniels.
I realise that I’m wearing my coat and I clutch it to me. Mr Daniels’s eyes follow my hands and I flush under his scrutiny.
‘Sorry. Excuse me,’ he says, clearly aware that I’m now embarrassed. ‘I would have liked us to be introduced in more pleasant circumstances.’
‘Yes.’ Then I can’t help myself and boldly ask, ‘Why do you do this in the middle of the night?’
He looks surprised at my question, but says, ‘I don’t sleep. I like to come and work out when there’s no one around.’
‘And now I’m disturbing you.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that. I was more or less finished here, anyway.’ He glances at the machine he’s obviously been using.
‘Perhaps I might make you some tea. If you have camomile, that can aid rest.’
He hesitates for a moment and I think he might say that he doesn’t want tea at all. Instead he smiles, just a little. ‘No camomile,’ Mr Daniels says, ‘though I could kill for a cup of builder’s tea.’
‘I’ll do that.’
I take in how tall he is. I’m not a good judge of heights, but he’s head and shoulders above me. That, I think, is very tall. He’s a muscular man too and my mouth goes dry again, but this time I believe it’s not with fear.
‘Let me jump in the shower and I’ll be with you in five.’ He looks me up and down. ‘If you’re staying, you could take off your coat.’
Now I look down and it seems silly to be wearing a coat in the house, but I’m glad that my nightgown is long. ‘I have no dressing gown to cover myself. I left my home with very few of my things.’
‘Crystal said you were in danger.’
I lower my eyes. ‘I was.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘I hope my child and I are safe now.’
‘I hope so too.’
‘I’ll make tea.’ I hurry out, glad to leave Mr Daniels to his shower, and make my way back to the kitchen. My heart is still beating like a drum even though I’m no longer scared.
Five minutes later, true to his word, he appears while I’m still searching in the cupboards for something called builder’s tea.
Mr Daniels’s hair is wet and there’s a flush to his cheeks. Now he’s not wearing a top at all, but quickly pulls a clean white T-shirt over his head. Not, however, before I catch a glimpse of his tummy, which is hard and rippled. I’ve never seen a tummy like that before. He’s also wearing black sweatpants and flip-flops, and there’s a towel slung round his neck.
‘I can’t find what you require,’ I tell him.
‘Here.’ He shows me the box of Typhoo. I’m aware that he’s very close behind me and I can
feel the warmth of his body as he reaches up to get it for me. ‘This is builder’s tea.’
‘Oh.’ I laugh. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve not heard that expression before. I’m from Sri Lanka,’ I tell him. ‘If there is one thing I miss from home, apart from my mummy and daddy, it’s the good black tea for which our country is known. Tea is very important to us.’
‘I drink whatever’s in the cupboard,’ Mr Daniels admits. ‘Crystal sees to it. She probably buys the brand that’s on offer.’
‘Then I must treat us to some good black tea. You’ll see the difference.’
Mr Daniels doesn’t seem to be very interested in what he drinks, but I’ll buy some anyway. There’s nothing as soothing as a cup of tea properly made.
He sits at the kitchen table while I brew the builder’s tea. I make it strong, as I think builders would like that too. I make myself one, but not as strong.
When I take his tea to the table, Mr Daniels is holding the little lady statue. His arms look strong, well-defined, and are covered in a fine down of blond hair the same colour as his head. I’d like to run my fingers over it. Never before have I felt the need to stroke a man’s arm.
‘It’s very pretty,’ I say, nodding to the statue.
‘Oh, this? Yeah. I got it for songwriting. Used to be quite good at it, back in the day.’
‘You aren’t good at it now?’
‘I don’t know,’ he admits. Then his expression is sad. He puts the statue down on the table and pushes it away from himself. ‘I don’t do it any more.’
‘Crystal told me that you’re a very popular singer.’
‘Did she?’ He laughs. ‘What else has Ms Cooper been telling you?’
‘She said that you liked to be alone.’
‘Ah, yes,’ he says.
I don’t think I should mention that she also told me that they were once lovers.
‘She said that you eat only sandwiches.’
‘Well,’ he says, embarrassed now. ‘I’ve never been much of a cook, and cooking for one is depressing.’
‘I love to cook,’ I admit. ‘Perhaps you will try some of my food.’
‘Perhaps,’ he agrees.
But I’m not sure he means it.
‘I’ll try to be a good tenant,’ I promise. ‘I’ll leave you alone. Sabina and I will be no trouble to you at all. This seems as if it’s a nice house, and I should like my daughter and me to be here for a long time, Mr Daniels.’
‘Hayden,’ he says. ‘No need for formality.’
‘Hayden.’ I try his name, but it feels strange in my mouth.
‘I think it’s probably time you went back to bed,’ he says. ‘You look worn out.’
‘Yes.’ In truth, I’m not tired now. I’ve pushed through it and am, quite probably, beyond sleep. I’d like to talk longer with Mr Daniels, but I feel that he wants to be alone again.
‘Your daughter will be worried where you are if she wakes up.’
‘She’ll not be a nuisance,’ I reiterate. ‘There’ll be no noise from her. She doesn’t speak.’
‘Really?’ He frowns. ‘Why?’
Though it’s hard, I decide to be honest with him. ‘Because she has seen too many bad things.’
He bites down on his lip. ‘Then she and I should get along fine.’
I finish my tea. ‘Goodnight, Hayden.’
‘Goodnight, Ayesha.’
I head towards the door, but before I leave I turn back to him. ‘Does it help?’ I ask. ‘Working out in the middle of the night?’
He shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says wearily. ‘It doesn’t.’
Chapter Twelve
Hayden went through to the living room, taking his mug of tea and the statue he lovingly called Lady Novello with him. She made good tea, his new lodger, which was a promising sign. The strong brew soothed him.
He smiled to himself. What a way for them to be introduced. He hated to admit it, but he’d felt terrified when he’d thought that someone had breached the security measures. For a moment he’d forgotten that they’d got a new resident joining their enclave.
There was no way he’d intended to take in anyone else, but he was always a sucker for a sob story, and the result was that there was now someone new in his house. He’d put up a brief resistance to Crystal’s begging that they take this woman and her daughter in, but in all honesty it was pointless. She knew he’d cave in at the least sign of pressure, and when Crystal set her mind to something she wasn’t easily budged. That much he had learned about her over the years.
At the end of the day, it wasn’t if they were short of rooms here. Would it really matter if one more were occupied? It was probably better than them standing empty, gathering dust. A house this size was ridiculous. He didn’t know what had possessed him to buy it, but now he couldn’t face the upheaval of moving out. Better to fill it with a rag-tag of wounded humanity.
He wouldn’t need to have much to do with their lodger, she was Crystal’s project. These days he rarely wanted to come out of his room. If he could work out a way to get his food fed through to him by a tube or something, he probably wouldn’t ever do so.
It didn’t look as if Ayesha was going to be a difficult tenant either, and Crystal had promised that it was nothing more than a short-term thing until the woman had got her life together. Days, she’d said. Weeks at the most. If he was honest, now that he’d met her, he felt sorry for her. She was a plain little thing, clutching her coat to her like a security blanket. Quiet. Timid. It didn’t look as if she’d say boo to a goose. It wouldn’t really matter to him if she stayed around for longer.
Being a soft touch was how he’d ended up with Crystal and Joy living here too. Crystal had been down on her luck when he’d first met her. She’d picked him up in a nightclub in the West End. He’d gone there at a particularly dark time in his life, thinking he could ease the pain, get blind drunk, hang with his old crowd once more. That night he’d found some relief, but not in the way he’d imagined. Crystal came back here with him in a cab. They were almost undressed by the time they arrived and he’d rushed her inside, desperate to lose himself in some anonymous sex. Yet by the time he got her to his bedroom he was more sober than he’d ever been. His body had gone through the motions, but his brain wasn’t there at all. It made him realise that booze and sex weren’t what he needed. However, Crystal had proved to be pleasant to have around and she didn’t seem to bear a grudge that, after a promising start, he’d been a less than enthusiastic lover. They’d slept together once and it was fine. More than fine. But that was it.
The next morning she’d slipped on one of his shirts and stayed. When he woke, she made him breakfast. After that, she’d tidied the house, had filled the fridge, and had never moved out. He didn’t eat all that much these days as everything tasted like cardboard, but she still insisted on cooking for him whenever she thought he was looking too thin. Then she forced a ready-meal on him, of lasagne or fish pie. He obliged her by eating it and making the right noises while simultaneously hoping that she wouldn’t give him food poisoning. It was always a bonus if the dish wasn’t either blackened or still-raw. Other than making him play occasional Russian roulette with her food, she never made any demands on him. Ideal company.
Then there was Joy. She’d been a neighbour in the same street, in a house just across the road from him, and had already lived in the suburb for half of her life when he’d bought this place. She’d complained vociferously about the renovation work, of course. Joy had come marching over, bristling with high dudgeon. He’d done his best to placate her and had sent her away mollified. Later, when he and Laura had moved in permanently, she’d complained about the paparazzi who used to be permanently camped outside his gates. She’d even turned her garden hose on them once. If he ever braved the photographers and ventured out to get a newspaper, she would always nod to him before turning back to tend her flowers. He couldn’t say that they’d ever been close, but Joy was the only person in the street who came to see him after
what happened with Laura. She’d held his hand and told him that she understood what it was like to lose someone.
Joy was widowed. Her husband wasn’t snatched away from her in the prime of his life. He died after a long, debilitating illness, but that doesn’t necessarily make it any easier. Instead of being well provided for, as she’d thought, he’d left her in thousands of pounds’ worth of debt. He’d sunk money into a raft of shaky investments, the house was remortgaged a dozen times and there was nothing left. Joy had two grown-up sons – one working out in Hong Kong and another in Singapore – but she never saw them as she wouldn’t get on a plane. Hayden had tried several times over the years to introduce her to the wizardry of Skype, but she wasn’t interested.
Before she moved in, Joy had also complained a lot about Crystal coming and going in a taxi at all hours of the night and, in the course of the bickering, the two women had somehow struck up an uneasy friendship too. When Crystal heard that Joy was on the brink of losing her home, she’d asked Hayden if their neighbour could move in with them. Once again, he’d capitulated in the face of Crystal’s begging and, in the end, he could think of no good reason to turn Joy away. Besides, where would she have gone if he’d said no?
It was getting on for eighteen months now that Joy had been with them. Perhaps longer. Time blurred these days. She still complained constantly, about everything, but with less venom now. It was just her way.
The people who bought her house drove huge, blacked-out Range-Rovers and had torn out all the flowers to have the front garden block-paved so they could get more cars on it. They cut down Joy’s beloved apple orchard at the back that she’d nurtured with such great care, and put in a swimming pool and acres of plastic decking. Every time she looked out of the window and back towards her old home, she muttered, ‘Bloody foreigners.’