Page 57 of The Best Friend
He stares across at me. ‘Every day, Lou. Every day. It’s Darcy’s done this, or Darcy’s done that. I want to be supportive, but I think it would be better for everyone if you just stayed away from her. Don’t go to her house, or organise joint parties, or go for coffee with the woman. Just stay the hell away, and then we won’t have all this constant drama.’ He rakes his fingers through his hair and takes another swig of beer. His plate of cheese and crackers still sits untouched on the table.
I scrape my chair back and stand up, my whole body shaking with hurt and rage. Then, I turn my back on my husband and leave the kitchen.
‘Where are you going?’ he calls.
‘Out.’
‘Louisa!’
I ignore him, fumble on the floor for my handbag and snatch at my coat from the coat rack. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely get my arms through the sleeves. Jared comes out of the kitchen.
‘Lou, I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m just tired.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s fine, you’ve made it perfectly clear that I’m a demented woman who’s making a mountain out of a molehill. So, I’ll leave you in peace. Joe’s in bed. It’s Saturday tomorrow, so you can have a nice boys’ weekend together.’ I glance around for my car keys. They’re not in my bag, or on the hall table. I pat my coat pockets and hear the metal jingle.
‘Where are you going?’ he says, putting a hand on my coat sleeve. ‘Stay. Please. I’m sorry. I’m just cranky, that’s all.’
I glare at him, open the front door and walk out into the cold night, closing the front door behind me with a soft click. My hurt over Darcy’s behaviour is bubbling up into a cold, determined fury. I’m sick of being a victim. Sick of being treated like I’m behaving unreasonably. That woman has been undermining my confidence since the day I met her. Manipulating me, fooling my family, and I’m not going to stand for it any more.
I’m shivering, my hands are clammy and my head doesn’t feel right, but the best thing now is to get this over and done with. I draw the keys from my pocket and unlock the car.
I’m going to go to Mike’s place and I’m going to get him to tell me all about his wife. I’m going to ask him exactly what Darcy’s problem is with me and why she told meheleftherwhen it was quite clearly the other way around. I’m going to tell Mike exactly what she’s been saying and doing, and I’m going to get answers. And if Mike doesn’t know, or if he won’t talk, then I’ll drive round to Darcy’s and demand that she tell me exactly what the hell is going on.
I slide into the car. It’s cold enough in here to see my breath. There’ll probably be a frost tonight. I take my wallet out of my bag and draw out the business card Mike gave me earlier. It’s too dark to see, so I switch on the car’s interior light and check the address – Chaddesley Glen – I know where that is, so I start the engine and pull away with a judder and screech.
Disappointment pulls at my gut, reminding me that Jared didn’t follow me out of the house. That he didn’t try to persuade me back in. I might have let him if he’d at least tried. Maybe it’s better this way. I need to find out what’s really behind Darcy’s passive-aggressive behaviour. If I can end her subtle attacks on me, then I can go back to having a normal life with my family.
The apartment isn’t far away – only about ten minutes by car, yet it might as well be on the other side of the world. Jared and I couldn’t afford a garden shed on this road. Mike’s place is situated on the top of a hill, minutes from the harbour. I pull up outside a new block of blue and glass apartments. I don’t give myself time to stop and think about anything. Determined, I turn off the engine and exit the car, the chill air making me catch my breath.
The street is silent. Next door to the apartments, a beautiful 1920’s arts-and-crafts house sits on its own, alone amid all the shiny new blocks, its garden wild and untended. I have a sad feeling its days are numbered. I wonder how long it will remain there. How long until developerslike Mike and Darcy seizethe land and dump another multi-million-poundconcreteand glass apartment block on it.
I make my way up the stone steps and through the automatic doors into the spacious lobby. A man comes out and holds the inner door open for me. I murmur a thank you, go straight through and call the lift. Flat 9 – Mike’s flat – is on the top floor. It’s the penthouse, of course. After a short wait, the lift doors slide open and I step inside. The unforgiving lights and the gleaming mirror inside declare me a mess. My face is pale, my mascara smudged, my hair greasy and my clothes crumpled. I don’t even try to repair the damage. Instead, I turn away from the mirror and face the doors, trying not to inhale the cloying scent of pine air freshener.
The lift whooshes up and the doors open with a loud ding. Stepping out, I find myself in a small lobby with a leather armchair and a tall, leafy pot plant.
There’s only one door. He must have the whole top floor to himself. I’m curious to see what it’s like inside. I press the buzzer and wait. No answer. I check my watch – almost nine o’clock. He said he would be in all evening. I press the buzzer again.
Nothing.
I was all geared up to get this sorted out. I’ll be gutted and annoyed if he’s not at home. Maybe he’s got the TV turned up too loud to hear the buzzer. I’ll call his mobile. I sit in the leather armchair and root around in my bag for my phone and Mike’s card. I punch in the number. It goes straight to voicemail.
‘Hey, Mike,’ I say. ‘It’s me, Louisa. I’m at your apartment. You asked me to pop by this evening. No worries if you’re out. Anyway, give me a call if you need to talk. Bye.’
Maybe he forgot, or maybe he changed his mind. Maybe Darcy didn’t want me to come over here, so she invited him to hers. Whatever. I’m done with it. Done with the Lanes and their crazy lives. What am I even doing here? I need to go back home, make up with my husband and stay the hell away from all three of them. I’ll talk to Jared about moving Joe back to his old school. Everything will be fine. Relief sweeps across me and I suddenly feel lighter.
I slip my phone and Mike’s business card back into my bag and stand up. As I do so, I notice that Mike’s front door isn’t closed properly. I push with my fingertips and it swings open, revealing a large hallway with polished wooden floorboards, a geometric-patterned rug and Scandi-style hallway furniture. The hall light is on but the rooms beyond appear to be in darkness.
‘Hello!’ I call out.
There’s no reply. I tilt my head, listening for any sounds within, hesitant to step over the threshold.
‘Mike?’ My voice sounds loud. The back of my neck prickles. Everything suddenly seems too quiet. Maybe he had to go somewhere in a hurry and forgot to lock up properly. I hope he hasn’t had a break in. The hall looks untouched. I should probably go in and double-check that he’s not here, then I can lock up and leave him a message that his door was open.
I step inside. All my senses on heightened alert, telling me to get out. To leave and call the police. But I can’t stop myself moving forward into the silent hallway. I push open one of the inner doors and press the light switch. A bedroom. Empty. I move to the next two rooms, one is another bedroom, the other an office. Nothing looks as though it’s been disturbed. I enter the living room, next. It’s a vast space opening out onto a glass balcony, the harbour lights twinkling below. The TV is on with the sound down, bright images of some American city flickering across the screen. I can’t imagine Mike would have left without turning the television off. Unless there was some kind of emergency…
I leave the lounge and open the next door along the hallway. It’s dark, so I fumble for the light switch. And now I see him. Mike is here. In the kitchen diner. On the floor. Eyes wide and staring. The tang of blood and fear in my nostrils.
He’s dead.
