Питер Джеймс - Short Shockers - Collection Two

‘Position,’ Paul said to Meg. ‘Don’t they say that the three most important things in a property are location, location and location ?’ He looked at the estate agent, who nodded confirmation.

Meg gave a wan, dubious smile, wondering what it would feel like to live here.

‘At the price they are asking,’ the agent said, ‘It’s a bargain.’

Paul led Meg a short distance away, down the street, out of earshot of the estate agent. ‘The thing is, darling, you have terrific taste. We could buy this, transform it, and in a couple of years we could make a good profit on it, and then be able to afford something we love more, perhaps in the Clifton area.’

Megan stared up at the mock-Tudor gables, then the brick-tiled carport and the integral garage, feeling a conflict of emotions. Paul was right: it was a great buy. It had a nice garden at the back, with three beautiful, mature trees, and the wooden structure at the far end could make a pleasant studio. But…

But.

It really was so suburban.

Was it John Lennon who said, Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans ? What would happen if they bought this place and then, for whatever reason, they couldn’t sell it in a couple of years? She knew from experience that life never did work out the way you planned it. What if they ended up stuck here for years? Spending the rest of their lives here? Could she be happy in this house forever?

And suddenly she realized she was being ungrateful. There were many people who would love to live in this area, and she was lucky to have a husband who worked damned hard, in a job he didn’t particularly enjoy as an accountant in a small Brighton practice, to support her ambition to become a portrait painter. OK, so it didn’t have the character she had dreamed of, but they were still young — she was thirty-one and Paul was thirty-three — and if the family they had been hoping to start did come along, this was actually a good and safe location to bring up young children.

‘Why are the owners selling?’ she asked the agent, a smartly dressed woman about her own age. ‘They’ve only been here just over a year, right?’

‘The husband’s an economist with an oil company. From what I understand, he got offered a five-year contract in Abu Dhabi, with the chance to make a lot of money, tax-free. They had to make a quick decision, and they took it. They’ve already gone, and I’m told they are throwing in all the carpets and curtains — and they’ll sell you any of the furniture you’d like at a good price.’

‘Carpets and curtains cost a fortune,’ Paul said, ever the accountant. ‘That could save us several grand easily.’

Megan nodded. None of the rooms was furnished to her taste, but they could change that, she supposed, in time. Not having to buy curtains and carpets was a big saving — but not enough to justify buying a house you did not love.

But, she had to admit, the agent was right on one thing. This house was a bargain — and would be snapped up quickly.

They moved in on a Friday in late May. Megan was feeling a lot more positive about the house, and already thinking ahead to Christmas that year. The dining room was big enough to seat ten people at a pinch, unlike the one in their flat in Kemp Town where six had been a squeeze. They could have Paul’s parents, her brother, her sister and brother-in-law and their four-year-old over. Magic!

By Saturday afternoon, they had got the old-fashioned kitchen, their bedroom and the lounge straight. The dining room, the two spare bedrooms and the garage were still filled with unopened tea chests, put there by the removals company. The summer house at the end of the garden — in reality little more than a glorified shed — was a long way from being habitable, so she had made the lounge into a temporary studio, setting up her easel at one end, and laying out her paints on an old trestle beside it.

At around tea time they had both come close to losing the will to live, and were looking forward to an evening out at the trendy fish restaurant at The Grand — GB1 — with their best friends, Tim and Sally Hopwood.

For the past week, Megan had done nothing but pack, pack and then unpack. She’d been covered in dust from head to toe, and had begun to despair of ever looking human again. But tonight, hey, she was damned well making an effort! They were in their new home, and today was the start of their new life. She felt happy about the house now, loved the view from their bedroom out across the long, narrow garden, with the summer house at the far end — beneath the three beautiful old trees — that would, one day, be her studio. She had started making big plans for the garden, sketching out a design which included a Zen pond, a brick-walled vegetable plot and groups of shrubs.

Paul was in the small third bedroom, upstairs, facing the street, which he had commandeered as his home office, working away on his computer. Megan stepped out of the shower in her dressing gown, a towel wrapped around her head like a turban, and sat down at her Victorian dressing table. She stared into the mirror, and began to apply her make-up.

And froze. A shiver snaked through her.

In the reflection she could see a middle-aged woman standing right behind her, on one leg, supported by crutches. The woman was staring at her, as if curious to watch the way she was applying her make-up.

For an instant she did not dare move. It felt as if a bolus of ice had been injected into her veins. She spun around.

There was nothing there.

She felt an icy chill crawl up her spine. She broke out in a rash of goose pimples that were so sharp they hurt her. She could, literally, feel her hair rising from her scalp, as if pulled by a magnet.

For some moments she wanted to shout for Paul to come up. But if she told him what she had just seen it would sound stupid, she thought. And besides, she knew that he was well aware she did not love this house, but had agreed to buying it and moving here because it was a good investment opportunity. With his logical mind, he would give her an explanation that would make perfect, rational sense.

So she said nothing.

They went to dinner with their friends and had a great time. Later, in the taxi heading home, nicely fuzzed with several glasses of the delicious wine Paul had chosen, Meg dismissed what she had seen earlier. It had been her imagination working overtime, she decided. They went to bed, and all was fine. All was fine again, throughout Sunday. And Monday.

On Tuesday, one of Paul’s clients had invited them both to a dinner at the Hotel du Vin in Brighton. Paul warned her in advance that the client was big in international media, rich and flash, and to dress to kill.

After several hours of retail therapy on the Monday, Megan again sat in front of her dressing table mirror at 6.30 p.m. on the Tuesday night, putting the finishing touches to her make-up. Then she saw the one-legged woman again, standing behind her.

She spun around in her chair.

And again saw nothing.

But this time she was convinced it wasn’t her imagination.

In the back of the taxi on the way to dinner, she was about to tell Paul what she had seen when the cab driver, a strange little man, suddenly said, ‘Nice perfume, madam. Armani Code?’

‘Yes!’ she said, delighted. ‘How did you know?’

‘Oh, I know these things, uh-huh.’

She grinned at Paul and squeezed his hand. Then she whispered to her husband, ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

‘What is it?’

‘Later.’

‘I’m all ears!’

Shortly before midnight as a taxi dropped them home, she waited until they had entered the house and closed the front door behind them. Then, emboldened by a little too much wine, she told Paul what she had seen on Saturday night, and again tonight.