Looking Good Dead

9

Kellie, dressed in a purple jogging suit, squatted on the floor of the living room, keyboard on her lap, leaning against the sofa, munching her way through a tube of salt-and-vinegar flavoured Pringles. Not exactly the healthiest lunch, but they were low fat – wouldn’t do her figure any harm, she thought.

Logged on to the Web, she stared at the purple crystal Swarovski bracelet on the television screen, then double-clicked on the image to make it larger. Guiltily, she thought how well it would go with the outfit she had on. A bit bling, perhaps, a bit chav. But Swarovski costume jewellery was definitely classy; she loved their stuff. The RRP, it showed, was £152.00 and the highest bid showing so far was just £10.75. With only three hours, forty-two minutes of auction time remaining!

That was nothing! She entered a bid of twelve pounds. That wouldn’t make an appreciable dent in their finances – and if she could get it for close to that price then in a few weeks she could put it back on at a higher price and make a profit!

She watched the screen for several minutes more, and no further bids appeared. So far, so good. She reached out her arm, picked up the bottle of Smirnoff – the one from her secret stash that she kept hidden from Tom at the back of her underwear drawer in the bedroom – unscrewed the cap and took just a little nip. It was only her third drink of the morning, she rationalized, ignoring the fact it had been a new bottle and was now a third empty.

Outside, rain was pelting down. Lady trotted into the room, lead in her mouth, cocked her head and whined.

‘You want your walk, my darling, don’t you? Have to wait for the rain to ease off, OK?’

The dog whined again, louder.

She put the bottle down and raised her arm. Lady nuzzled up to her then rolled over, clumsily, onto her back.

‘Typical woman, aren’t you?’ Kellie slurred affectionately, the buzz from the vodka lifting her midday blues. ‘Just want your tits caressed.’

She stroked the dog’s belly for some moments, then crooked her arm around her neck and kissed her on the head, breathing in the animal’s strong, warm, furry smell. ‘Love you, Lady.’

Hearing some noise outside, Lady suddenly jumped back to her feet, growled, and prowled out into the hall. She barked, and moments later Kellie heard the thump of the dog flap in the kitchen as Lady ran off into the garden, no doubt to chase off some bird that had dared to land on the lawn.

Her bid on eBay still stood unchallenged.

One day she would get this online auction thing right. There had been an article in the Daily Mail a couple of weeks ago, which she had cut out and kept, about all the people who had made fortunes selling things on eBay. She had tried telling Tom – but he just didn’t seem to understand – that all she was doing was trying, in her own way, to make them some money. But she just wasn’t any good at it. She would be, though; she would get the hang of it.

Then she looked at the bottle. Maybe just one more small mouthful?

She closed her eyes, thinking. What the hell is wrong with me? With my life? Is it crap genes?

Kellie thought about her parents. Her father with all his dreams, whom she adored, was now housebound with advanced Parkinson’s at just fifty-eight years old. She remembered as a child all the different business ventures he had tried and failed at. He had driven a cab in Brighton and had started his own limousine hire service. That had gone under. He’d bought a franchise selling a health drink which was going to make his fortune. That had cost them their house.

Her mother had supplemented their income by working long, tough hours at Gatwick Airport, promoting perfumes in the duty-free section, until she had had to leave to look after her father. They now lived, in a state of permanent fear of vandals, burglars and muggers, in a council flat in Whitehawk, the roughest estate in Brighton. Two days ago, when she had gone to visit them, she had left her old Espace outside for just an hour. When she had come out, the hubcaps had been stolen.

She remembered when she had first met Tom, at the twenty-first party of a girlfriend from teacher training college in Brighton. She had been struck by how much he reminded her of her father – the father she wanted to remember, the young, handsomely boyish man with immense charm, passion for life and such enthusiasm. Tom had had such great vision, such amazing plans, and unlike her father’s, his had been carefully thought out. He wanted to get experience working for one of the most successful companies in his field and then start out on his own.

And she had believed in him. It had seemed impossible to her that Tom could fail. All her friends had liked him immediately. Her parents adored him. She had fallen in love with him that night. Two nights later she had slept with him, in his tiny basement flat just off Hove seafront, with a Scott Joplin CD playing on repeat for hours. They had barely spent a night apart since.

For the first few years of their marriage everything had been brilliant. Tom had started his own business and it had really taken off. They had moved to a larger flat, and then to this house. It had started to go wrong when she had left her job teaching in a primary school shortly before Max was born. She grew bored, then she’d suffered a long bout of post-natal depression. She had found it tough being at home all day with a baby, while Tom left early to go to London and arrived home late, usually too tired to talk. It would not be for ever, he had promised her. He just needed to put in the hours now, investing in their future.

Then Jessica had been born. And the same lonely struggle had repeated itself. Only Tom’s business had got harder. He worked even longer hours and talked to her less. She had started taking Max to school, made a new bunch of friends. All the other women seemed to have successful husbands, great clothes, nice cars, swanky homes, wonderful holidays.

This whole business with eBay that Tom just did not seem to understand had started because she was trying to help him. OK, there were some things that she did buy for herself, but mostly it was bargains she bought with the intention of selling again at a profit.

But she never seemed to get bids anywhere close to the prices she had paid.

There was another reason for her spending, both on eBay and on the QVC Shopping Channel, which she could never tell Tom: it masked the forty pounds a week out of her housekeeping that her vodka habit was costing her.

It was just a phase, a way of getting through the stress. She wasn’t an alcoholic, she told herself. She was just coping with a small crisis she was going through, her own way. As if to convince herself, she picked up the Argus and turned to the jobs section. That would be the best solution – find something part time. Make a contribution to the housekeeping, at least. And have some cash to buy the occasional drink – not that she really needed it.

Her mobile phone rang. It was out in the kitchen, where she had left it.

Cursing, she scrambled to her feet and walked, a little unsteadily, out of the room, glanced at the caller display, saw it was her best friend Lynn Cottesloe, and answered it.

‘Hi,’ she said, ‘how’re you?’ conscious that her voice was a little slurred.

‘I’m sitting in Orsino’s restaurant. Where are you?’

‘Oh, shit,’ Kellie said. ‘I’m – sho shorry.’

‘Are you OK?’

Shit, Kellie thought. Shit, shit, shit! She had totally forgotten they were meant to be having lunch today. She looked at her watch. It was 1.15 p.m.

‘Kellie, are you OK?’

‘OK? Me? Absolutely,’ she said breezily.