They Thought I Was Dead: Sandy’s Story

93 June 2017

‘And this is the master bedroom,’ the estate agent said. ‘It’s a good size, that’s what you get with these older houses, much more generous spaces than today’s new-build homes. And there’s an en suite, of course.’

He appeared to be barely out of his teens, with mussed-up hair, dressed in a cheap charcoal suit, white socks and snazzy grey loafers. There was a thin line of fur above his upper lip that looked like it might want to be a moustache when it was older.

I held the particulars in my hand, nodded and gave the pretence of looking at the document. But in reality I was looking around the master bedroom. Our room. Our king-size brass bed, my vintage mahogany dressing table, on which still sat, as if in a time warp, all my bottles of perfume and make-up items.

I stared at the Art Deco chaise longue we’d bought at the weekly antiques market in Lewes. At a silver-framed photograph on the dressing table. It was Roy’s mother and father’s wedding day. It used to be downstairs, I thought to myself. But instead, it was here replacing one of my favourite photos of Roy and me smiling on a beach in France, which must now be long gone. Tucked away in a drawer or thrown in the trash. Smiles of a couple in love.

That was the thing with photography. Those captured moments. Like the lovers in that Keats poem, frozen in time on the Grecian urn.

I stared at the dressing table a while, then felt tears welling at the thought he may have just thrown that photo away or ripped it up or burned it. I turned away and walked over to the window, which had a view of the rear garden, as well as the back of a house in the next street along, which was partially masked by three tall leylandii. One had turned brown — clearly dying or dead. When that came down, you’d see that house even more clearly. Smart of Roy to try to sell while it was still standing.

I looked down at the wide lawn, which was dominated by the water feature I’d created as the focal point. A cluster of smooth stones, with a dried-up channel around them and a fountain that was not switched on. And slime that had gone black.

The agent indicated the door to the en-suite bathroom and I went in. It was bare, denuded of toiletries. There were just two scented candles, that had long ago lost their scent, at either end of the shelf above the twin sinks. I had put them there. That’s how long they had been de-scenting. There was also an unopened Molton Brown handwash. Presumably put there for the brochure shoot, to look classy.

‘I’m afraid we need to keep moving,’ he said. ‘We have another viewing in twenty minutes — this kind of house, at this price level, is in high demand in this current market.’

He was an arrogant tosser, I decided, and I’d already forgotten his name. I decided to think of him as White Socks.

I walked across the bedroom to the doorway, then stopped and looked back, thinking hard about my plan. I glanced around the room. It looked too tidy, there was nothing lying around, no slippers, dressing gowns, nothing to indicate anyone had slept in this room for some while. It felt unaired, unlived-in. It didn’t smell of Roy, it smelled of polish, sterile and slightly musty, like a room in a museum.

The bed looked like it had been made by a professional — Roy could never have got it to look this neat, he would never have thought of stacking cushions in front of the pillows, hotel-style. A woman’s touch? Roy’s new lady? But there was nothing to indicate a woman had been sleeping in here. No lingering scent, nothing. No photos of them. I was thankful for that.

I had a couple in my bag that my PI had obtained for me. She was nice-looking, I guess. I had to admit she was attractive in a kind of classic English rose way. Which is how I always saw myself. Perhaps that’s why Roy likes her. Because she reminds him of me.

But she will never be me.

And she doesn’t know I’m still around.

I followed White Socks out, steering Bruno, his hand gripping mine, across the landing into the large spare room.

‘This would make a great space for your son,’ he said, looking at Bruno for approval, but Bruno stayed quiet.

But I reacted with interest. Because someone was clearly living in this room. Who? There was a row of polished, expensive-looking men’s shoes by the skirting board. Several flashy suits — not Roy’s taste — in dry-cleaner cellophane hanging from the dado rail. An untidily made bed. As I entered the bathroom I saw a whole stack of men’s toiletries, an electric toothbrush, and a couple of towels, one lying on the floor. There were droplets of water inside the glass shower cabinet. And a strong smell of cologne — not one that Roy had ever worn. Not his type.

So who was living here? It wouldn’t be Roy, not in his spare room, surely? And the intel I had from the PI was that he had moved in with this Cleo Morey.

Must not get distracted from my mission. From my plan.

‘What’s the owner’s reason for selling?’ I asked White Socks.

‘He’s a detective, I understand, with Sussex Police.’

‘OK.’

‘This was his marital home. I understand he’s separated from his wife. I don’t know any more really. I can find out if you’re interested?’

‘I’m not interested.’

‘I’ve got a cousin in the police. He told me the divorce rate is very high among coppers,’ White Socks said.

‘Is that so?’

‘Yeah, it’s their lifestyle. Lot of shift work, late hours, stuff like that.’

Bruno and I followed him downstairs.

We went into the sitting room, and I took a deep breath. It was like entering a time warp. It was almost exactly as I had last seen it, almost a decade ago. The minimalistic style in which I’d decorated this room, with black futon sofas and a low, black Japanese table. I’d do it differently now. Darker cosy walls and a light sofa, a couple of chairs and a nice deep-pile rug is more how I’d see it, I think. In the far corner stood Roy’s antique jukebox, but, to my surprise, on the floor in front of it were spread out, untidily, some of Roy’s prized collection of vinyl records, many out of their sleeves.

Why had they bothered to tidy some rooms, but not others?

‘Great room, this,’ White Socks said. ‘Lovely big windows and a working fireplace. Ideal family room. Converted with real taste!’

I stared around, smiling at his last comment, transported back a decade, thinking how funny it is that everything dates. Back then I thought this style would last for ever.

‘Yeah, but I’d give it a makeover, looks like it hasn’t been done for a decade!’ I said, amusing myself.

‘Well, we all have different tastes. It has huge potential, doesn’t it?’

Still smiling, I followed through into the equally minimalistic open-plan kitchen-diner.

My emotions were all over the place. I wanted to tell him that this was my house too. My home! That he had no right to be selling this without my permission, and that I wasn’t dead at all.

But somehow I managed to keep schtum and just listen.

‘I understand this used to be two rooms, which the present owner knocked into one. It could of course be kept like this, or changed back to a separate kitchen and dining room,’ he said.

Of course it could! I thought. And then I saw the goldfish. It was in a round bowl on the work surface, close to the microwave, with a plastic hopper for dispensing food clipped to the side.

Marlon? Could it possibly be Marlon, still alive after all this time?

No way!

I walked over and peered closely. The fish looked old and bloated, opening and closing its mouth in a slow, steady, gormless rhythm. Whatever golden orange colour it had once had was now faded to a rusty grey.

I crushed away a tear. Could this really be him? The goldfish Roy had won at a funfair? He’d be fifteen years old now, at least.

Bruno suddenly joined me, peering into the bowl, too. ‘Schöner Goldfisch!’ he said.

Stupid, I know, but I really was close to tears. ‘Marlon?’ I said, quietly, willing this so much to be him.

The fish opened and shut its mouth.

I was aware of White Socks watching us.

‘Marlon?’ I said again, louder, tears running down my cheeks now.

‘Warum nennst du ihn Marlon, Mama?’

‘Because that’s his name, mein Liebling!’

‘You know its name?’ White Socks asked.

Could a goldfish really live this long?

At that moment, the front doorbell rang.

White Socks hurried out of the room to answer it.

And I took the opportunity. I told Bruno to stay where he was and I dashed back upstairs, into our bedroom and straight through to our en-suite bathroom. There must be something. For God’s sake! I stared, frantically, at the bare shelf, and then at the equally bare shower cubicle.

Roy’s washbasin was on the right. I opened the drawer beneath.

Bingo!

It was crammed with all kinds of bathroom stuff that had been removed from sight.

Toothbrush. Hairbrush. Oh yes! Brilliant. Perfect!

I’d learned all about DNA testing from Roy. How just one hair follicle could be enough to nail a suspect. I had a whole jungle here! I dropped the hairbrush and toothbrush into my ever-trusty handbag — a new genuine Louis Vuitton I’d treated myself to.

Then one more thing. Was it still here?

I walked furtively into the bedroom and was relieved to hear the crass voice of White Socks downstairs, no doubt starting the next viewing.

Then I had to look. Had to.

I opened my wardrobe door. And saw all my clothes hanging there, exactly as I had left them. I tugged open the drawers and my underwear, pullovers, T-shirts and everything else still lay there.

Have you moved on, Roy? Or do you keep all this because you hope I may come back into your life?

I hurried over to my bedside table and opened the middle drawer.

It was still there. The silver bracelet Roy had given me for my birthday. It was antique Tiffany and he’d bought it at one of the jewellery shops in Brighton’s Lanes — one of the few shops he trusted. It had meant a lot to me, and I’d planned to take it when I left, but I forgot — guess I had a lot of other things on my mind.

It was tarnished, but I could still see the engraving on the inside:

More tears rolled down my cheeks. Shit. Get a grip, girl.

I popped the bracelet inside my bag, then went back downstairs.

White Socks was standing in the hall with two almost indescribably dull-looking people, busily pointing out how wide the staircase was, and that you did not get staircases this wide in new-builds today.

‘Will you send me a report on all the damp spots we found?’ I asked him gaily. ‘And that dry rot you mentioned in the kitchen floor?’

As he gave me a completely baffled look, I ushered my son towards the front door. Then I stopped at the threshold, as the couple stared at me, and added, ‘I do hope you tell this couple about the subsidence in this area — that the houses on either side have needed underpinning. Such a shame, such a nice street otherwise!’

Then we were gone.