Nicci French - Secret Smile

I was still working on the big house in Hampstead. Bill dropped in at lunchtime and took me out for a salad. I finished at half past five, cleaned my brushes and drove home. I wasn't seeing Nick that evening, and Kerry had said something about going to a movie, so I thought maybe I would be able to spend time on my own, which I was craving. I could get a takeaway and listen to music, perhaps. Read a book. Mooch.

It was nearly six-thirty when I pulled up outside my flat. There were no lights on, and the curtains were still open. My heart lifted. I ran up the stairs and even as I pushed the door open I heard it. The sound of dripping, tinkling. A tap running. Except it wasn't the same sound as a tap running; it was bigger, more complicated. Then I stepped inside.

There was water everywhere. The kitchen floor was an inch deep in it and the carpet was sodden when I stepped on it. There was water pouring from beneath the bathroom door. I opened it and stepped into the flood; the remnants of the book I'd been reading in the bath that morning floated by the toilet bowl, along with a mushy roll of toilet paper. There was a steady waterfall cascading over the rim of the tub. The hot tap was half-on. I waded across the room and turned off the tap, then plunged my arm, still in its jacket sleeve, into the water to find the plug. I felt ill and sick and consumed with anguish, and then I thought about the flat below and I felt worse. I found a dustpan and started sloshing water off the floor, into the emptying bath.

It took forty-five minutes to get the worst of the water off the bathroom floor. I laid newspapers everywhere to soak up the rest and started on the kitchen. Then the bell rang.

He was yelling before I'd even got the door open. He sploshed across the carpet, still shouting at me. His face was quite purple. I thought he might have a heart attack or a stroke, or he might just die from his head exploding.

'I'm so sorry,' I kept saying. I couldn't even remember his name. 'So sorry. I don't know how…'

'You'll sort this out, do you hear? Every last thing.'

'Of course. If you give me the details of your in -'

At that moment Brendan and Kerry appeared, arms wrapped round each other, faces glowing from the night air.

'What on earth…?' began Kerry.

'You may well ask.' I whirled on Brendan, 'Look at what you've fucking gone and done. You stay here, you clean out my fridge, you drink my coffee and my wine, you take up every inch of space so I can't move without bumping into you. You have bloody baths in the middle of the day and then…' I was spluttering with rage. 'Then you go and leave the plug in and the water running. Look! Look!'

'And that's nothing compared to downstairs,' said my neighbour grimly.

'Miranda,' said Kerry, 'I'm sure…'

'Whoa!' said Brendan, holding up his hands. 'Calm down, Mirrie.'

'Miranda,' I said. 'Miranda. There's no such name as "Mirrie".'

'Don't get all hysterical.'

'I'm not hysterical. I'm angry.'

'I haven't been here today.'

'What?'

'I haven't been here.'

'You must have been.'

'No. Now sit down, why don't you, and I'll make us all some tea. Or maybe a drink would be better.' He turned to my neighbour. 'What about for you, Mr, er…?'

'Lockley. Ken.'

'Ken. Whisky? I think we've got whisky.'

'All right, then,' he said grudgingly.

'Good.'

He pulled the whisky bottle out of the cupboard, and four tumblers.

'You must have been here,' I said to his back. 'You must.'

'I went to look at the house with Kerry, then I went shopping. Then I met Kerry for lunch.' Kerry nodded. She still looked shaken by my outburst. 'Then I went to Derek and Marcia's to see Troy.' He put his hand on my shoulder. 'No midday baths, Mirrie.'

'But…'

'Did you have a bath before you left, maybe?'

'There's no way I left the plug in and the tap running. I don't do things like that.'

'It's so easy to do. We've all done something like that at one time or another.' He turned to Ken. 'Haven't we, eh? I'm sure Miranda will make sure everything's dealt with. And she's in the building and decorating trade, so maybe she can help you with the painting and stuff. Mmm?'

'I didn't do it,' I said hopelessly.

'Miranda,' said Kerry. 'No one's blaming you. But you were the last to leave. And you had a bath, didn't you?'

'But I…' I stopped. A tremendous weariness came over me. 'I remember cleaning out the bath.'

'Don't worry,' he said gently. 'We'll help you sort this mess out.'

'I don't understand.' To my horror, I felt tears sliding down my cheeks.

'Miranda! Listen…' Kerry's voice was sharp.

'Ssssh,' said Brendan. He actually took her by the forearm and pulled her aside. I saw her flinch. Her mouth hardened for an instant.

'There, there,' he cooed into my ear. 'There, there, Mirrie. I'm here. I'm here.'

I closed the bedroom door and picked up the phone.

'Laura!' I said. I kept my voice low, so they couldn't hear me. 'Listen, Laura, this thing's happened. I need to speak to someone about it…'

'Are you telling me,' said Laura when I'd finished. 'Are you seriously saying that Brendan crept back into your flat and on purpose flooded your flat?'

'Yes.'

'Why on earth?'

'Because he's weird; he's got this thing about me.'

'Oh, come on. I've let the bath run over loads of times,' she said. 'It's really easy to just forget about it.'

'But I don't do things like that.'

'There's a first time for everything. It's a more likely explanation than yours, isn't it?'

'I remember cleaning out the bath. Vividly.'

'There you are, then. You put the plug back in, hosed down the tub, then left the water running a bit.'

I gave up trying to persuade her. It was starting to seem possible even to me, and I'd been there and knew it hadn't happened. And anyway, it was just too tiring.

The couple who lived in the house in Ealing had hired two skips, and they were already almost full. When I left, I peered into them. Among the jumble of old rugs, chipped plates, broken furniture, I saw a computer that looked quite new, a laser printer, two telephones, a large oil painting of a greyhound, several cookery books, a standard lamp, a wicker basket. I should be used to it by now. I often see people throw away TVs still under guarantee, year-old cookers and perfectly functioning fridges. In my job, we're always ripping out new things and substituting the even newer. Last year's fashions are replaced with this year's. Whole kitchens disappear into skips, bathtubs and beds and cupboards, garden sheds and miles of shelving. Recycling centres are mountains of obsolescence. It gives us extra work, I suppose. The people we do jobs for are always talking about beginning again, as if the stainless steel and glass that we're installing everywhere at the moment won't soon be replaced by old-fashioned, newly trendy wood. Everything comes round again. Every decade falls out of favour and then re-emerges in a slightly different form, like the flares on my trousers, which Bill is always laughing about because they remind him of when he was young in the Seventies.

I surreptitiously reached in and pulled out a cookery book. I'd rescue that at least. Recipes from Spain. I put it in my hold-all, along with my paintbrushes.

At home, Brendan was making a great fuss about washing up a few bowls and Kerry was standing over the stove, stirring something. She looked sticky and irritable.

'We're cooking for you tonight,' she said.

'Thanks.'

I took a beer from the fridge and retreated to the bathroom. What I needed was hot water on the outside of my body and cold alcohol on the inside of my body. I was lying in the bath feeling pleasantly woozy when the door opened and Brendan came in. I sat up abruptly and hunched my knees against my body. As if he were alone, he took a piss into the lavatory which was next to the bath. He zipped himself up, rinsed his hands and turned to me with a smile.