I didn’t tell William I was planning to go to London. I forced myself to wait an hour after he’d left the house the following morning before picking up my bag and heading out the door. I was dizzy with a reckless, headstrong sensation I hadn’t felt in years. I wore a bright lipstick and winged eyeliner as sharp as a knife and when a man smiled at me on the Bakerloo line I returned it with feeling. By the time I got to Tufnell Park I was fizzing with adrenaline. My mother used to say I was spoiling for trouble when I got like this as a kid. She’d tell my sister not to come near me. She was right.
I found Tufnell Park Food & Wine quicker than I expected. Outside the tube station I handed a couple of pounds to a young woman with damp, grey skin sitting with a cardboard sign in front of her reading Need WORK, Need MONEY.
There but for the grace of God, I thought as I pulled my phone from my pocket and opened up the picture I’d transferred to it. I lifted the screen so I could find the angle seen through the window, moving it slightly left and right until I discovered a match. I looked up towards the building above the phone shop I was standing outside, the windows reflecting the cobalt sky like still water.
There were three buzzers at the entrance to the flat and as I pressed the first one I felt the first tremblings of anxiety. What the hell are you doing? a voice in my head asked me, and I answered in a whisper, raking my fingers through my hair: ‘Spoiling for trouble.’
There was no answer at the first buzzer and after ringing it a second time I moved on to the one above it. This one had a name label attached but the writing had rubbed off. After a minute a voice blared out, fuzzy with distortion.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m looking for – uh, a girl, a woman who lives here—’
‘Oh yeah? Which one?’
Shit. Shit. I hadn’t thought this through.
‘She has dark hair. Very pretty.’
I waited. The voice, young-sounding, female, seemed to consider for a moment.
‘Probably Kim. Wait there.’
I waited, digging my hands into my pockets. Behind me a car horn blared and a cyclist responded crisply: ‘Go fuck yourself!’ When the door opened there was a young woman standing there, dark hair cut into a sharp bob, round blue eyes looking down at her phone. I felt a spike of disappointment.
‘You’re not Kim.’
‘Nope.’ She looked up at me once, scanning my face. I could almost see her interest drop off. I’m old, I’m plain. I’m a hausfrau. ‘Kim’s at work.’
She extended her hand, still tapping on her phone. ‘You’ve got a package, have you?’ When I told her no, she rolled her eyes. ‘Give me your name, I’ll tell Kim you were here.’
‘Wait, hang on. Where does she work?’
‘Today she’s in Arlo’s. You might still catch her.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘God,’ she huffed. ‘Mate, you want me to draw you a map as well? It’s down on the high street.’ She pointed to the left, and without looking up from her phone, slowly closed the door in my face. I stared at it for a moment before turning and walking away.
Arlo’s was a cafe with steamed-up windows and a radio playing too loud. The dance music jarred, given the mainly geriatric clientele mopping up fried egg with slabs of white bread. I picked up a laminated menu but barely looked at it. She was here: behind the counter, that sweep of glossy hair held back from her face in a bun. I recognised the jut of her chin, the slim line of her neck, her expression giving her an air of sweeping contempt. Not William’s type at all. Oh, she is, a sneaky little voice in my head interjected; you just didn’t know it.
‘What are you after?’ she asked me. Like her friend at the door, her eyes slid away from me with disinterest. She peeled a page of her notebook back and picked up her pen.
‘Tea,’ I told her, unsmiling. I took a seat at a table near the window and swept the crumbs from it on to the floor. I watched her approach, skinny hips and ankle boots and studs in the curves of her ears. I waited, predatory. My heart raced and I liked the feel of it, that edge. When she put the cup on the table I grabbed at her hand and pinned it there, pulling her towards me in a quick, jerking motion.
‘Hey, what the fu—’ she cried out, trying to pull away, but I was too strong, too angry. Her mouth formed a neat, pink ‘o’ of surprise.
‘I know you,’ I whispered, and gave her hand a brisk squeeze that made her eyes snap up towards me. They were round and shocked. Good.
‘Let go of me!’
‘You’ve been fucking my husband.’ I said it as quietly as I could beneath the music, spitting the words into hard little bullets.
To my surprise she let out a bark of laughter. ‘What would I want with your dusty old husband?’ She clucked her tongue. ‘You better let go of my hand, yeah?’
I didn’t. I scrabbled for my phone. She watched me with nothing more than mild
