SHOWSTOPPERS
‘Hello!’ Emily called as she went into her flat on Friday evening, before the front door was fully closed behind her. She lived alone. Calling out was a deterrent strategy in case she had been followed home by an opportunistic thief. The thief was to assume, from hearing her cheery hello, that she lived with a tough, dangerous man or men who wouldn’t stand for Emily being attacked on her doorstep or pushed inside and attacked there. It was a strategy that she no longer thought about or questioned, she just did it. It was one of many little survival tactics she had adopted since coming to live in London – but still, when she called out hello and got no answer, it always seemed, somehow, as if the silence was mocking her for living alone.
She picked up her mail from the doormat: a phone bill, a begging letter from a charity, a voucher for free delivery from a supermarket, and a letter addressed to her neighbour, Victoria. It wasn’t unusual for Emily to get letters delivered to her that were meant for other residents of the street, as though the postmen at the local sorting office were conspiring to bring the community into closer contact with each other. She took the letter across the street to where Victoria lived in a three-storey red brick Edwardian terraced house with her husband and three sons. Emily Castles was a bright, clever young woman with a natural curiosity. When she walked anywhere she walked quickly, usually, and she looked up at her surroundings as if she expected to see something interesting at any minute. But today hadn’t been a good day, and she looked down at the chewing gum-grey pavements without really seeing them, scuttling towards Victoria’s house to avoid being seen as much as to avoid seeing anything. But Victoria opened the door to greet her before Emily could get away. Victoria was very slim, and she had naturally curly brown hair that fell to her shoulders in fat spirals. She was in her early-to-mid forties, Emily thought. Victoria rarely wore make-up unless it was a special occasion because she had lovely skin and even features, and she looked perfectly fine without it. She was bare-faced now, as usual, though Emily couldn’t help noticing she looked paler than usual, even a little drawn.
‘Letter for you,’ said Emily.
‘Oh God, no!’ said Victoria. ‘Oh my God!’ She put one hand to the base of her throat and reached for the door behind her with the other, as if planning on whipping it off its hinges and using it as a shield. Her reaction was unexpected to say the least. ‘Come in, Ems,’ she said. ‘Please.’
Emily longed to get back home so she could spend the evening on the sofa with a packet of ginger biscuits and a nice cup of tea, watching rubbish on TV.
‘Please!’
Emily followed Victoria into the lovely kitchen, where the family ate most of their meals. Everything was just so, in a country-living kind of a way: there was a range oven and a conventional oven; cupboards and units painted in forget-me-not blue; French windows opening onto the garden at the back; big wooden storage boxes for the boys’ Wellington boots and trainers; and something deliciously Italian-smelling (herbs and tomatoes and cheese in it or on it for sure, Emily thought) cooking in the oven.
Emily put the letter on the big scrubbed pine table. Victoria eyed it as though Emily had put a pet snake there. ‘Will you open it for me?’ Victoria said. ‘Only I think it might be bad news.’
Victoria and Emily weren’t close. Victoria was Emily’s neighbour. Sometimes Emily looked in and fed the cat and watered the plants when the family was away. Sometimes she delivered letters to their house that had been delivered to her by mistake. If this letter contained bad news – a death in the family? An estrangement? Foreclosure? Bankruptcy? The expulsion of one of the boys from school? – then Emily was hardly the right person to open and read it and convey the news to
‘Hello!’ Emily called as she went into her flat on Friday evening, before the front door was fully closed behind her. She lived alone. Calling out was a deterrent strategy in case she had been followed home by an opportunistic thief. The thief was to assume, from hearing her cheery hello, that she lived with a tough, dangerous man or men who wouldn’t stand for Emily being attacked on her doorstep or pushed inside and attacked there. It was a strategy that she no longer thought about or questioned, she just did it. It was one of many little survival tactics she had adopted since coming to live in London – but still, when she called out hello and got no answer, it always seemed, somehow, as if the silence was mocking her for living alone.
She picked up her mail from the doormat: a phone bill, a begging letter from a charity, a voucher for free delivery from a supermarket, and a letter addressed to her neighbour, Victoria. It wasn’t unusual for Emily to get letters delivered to her that were meant for other residents of the street, as though the postmen at the local sorting office were conspiring to bring the community into closer contact with each other. She took the letter across the street to where Victoria lived in a three-storey red brick Edwardian terraced house with her husband and three sons. Emily Castles was a bright, clever young woman with a natural curiosity. When she walked anywhere she walked quickly, usually, and she looked up at her surroundings as if she expected to see something interesting at any minute. But today hadn’t been a good day, and she looked down at the chewing gum-grey pavements without really seeing them, scuttling towards Victoria’s house to avoid being seen as much as to avoid seeing anything. But Victoria opened the door to greet her before Emily could get away. Victoria was very slim, and she had naturally curly brown hair that fell to her shoulders in fat spirals. She was in her early-to-mid forties, Emily thought. Victoria rarely wore make-up unless it was a special occasion because she had lovely skin and even features, and she looked perfectly fine without it. She was bare-faced now, as usual, though Emily couldn’t help noticing she looked paler than usual, even a little drawn.
‘Letter for you,’ said Emily.
‘Oh God, no!’ said Victoria. ‘Oh my God!’ She put one hand to the base of her throat and reached for the door behind her with the other, as if planning on whipping it off its hinges and using it as a shield. Her reaction was unexpected to say the least. ‘Come in, Ems,’ she said. ‘Please.’
Emily longed to get back home so she could spend the evening on the sofa with a packet of ginger biscuits and a nice cup of tea, watching rubbish on TV.
‘Please!’
Emily followed Victoria into the lovely kitchen, where the family ate most of their meals. Everything was just so, in a country-living kind of a way: there was a range oven and a conventional oven; cupboards and units painted in forget-me-not blue; French windows opening onto the garden at the back; big wooden storage boxes for the boys’ Wellington boots and trainers; and something deliciously Italian-smelling (herbs and tomatoes and cheese in it or on it for sure, Emily thought) cooking in the oven.
Emily put the letter on the big scrubbed pine table. Victoria eyed it as though Emily had put a pet snake there. ‘Will you open it for me?’ Victoria said. ‘Only I think it might be bad news.’
Victoria and Emily weren’t close. Victoria was Emily’s neighbour. Sometimes Emily looked in and fed the cat and watered the plants when the family was away. Sometimes she delivered letters to their house that had been delivered to her by mistake. If this letter contained bad news – a death in the family? An estrangement? Foreclosure? Bankruptcy? The expulsion of one of the boys from school? – then Emily was hardly the right person to open and read it and convey the news to
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