Two Doors Down: A twisted psychological thriller Page 5

  “And me,” Holly says.

  I envision myself throwing up on Mark’s slate tiles.

  “And the rest, as they say, is history,” Mark adds.

  I drink more wine – I am starting to feel the effects of it and warn myself to slow down.

  “Maybe I should open another bottle,” Mark says, seeing how fast the majority of it is disappearing down my gullet. “I need to check on dinner, too.”

  He gets to his feet, leaving Holly and I sitting there with nothing to say to each other.

  NINE

  “And you guys are moving to Broadgate?” I ask gratefully on Mark’s return, rescuing us from the awkward silence.

  “I wouldn’t say moving, as in moving permanently,” Mark explains, “but we certainly intend to spend more time here.”

  He tops up my glass – that’s the first bottle gone.

  So it’s we now? I think bitterly. They’ve only been together a few months, and they’re already referring to themselves as a solid, couple-unit. It also has me seething in jealousy, not least because I don’t see him for half a year or more at a time, but he comes here at the drop of a hat, for her?

  “I love it here,” Holly says wistfully. “It really gets my creative juices flowing.”

  I am still none the wiser as to what she does for a living. I was dying to ask Mark over the phone, as well as over messenger in our brief exchanges, but I managed to contain myself.

  But not anymore.

  “So, what do you do, Holly? Are you an artist, like Mark, as you’re talking about your creative juices?” I let out a strained sounding laugh. “Or a model, perhaps? You certainly look like one.”

  She giggles, displaying perfect, white teeth, like a film star's. “Not for many years, but yes, that used to be my job. But I’m thirty-two now, which is washed up in modelling terms.”

  My heart sinks further. Great. Mark’s dating a model – now I feel even more crappy about myself.

  “Holly’s a writer,” Mark informs me.

  “I wouldn’t go quite that far,” Holly says. “I’m more of an amateur, a struggling writer.”

  Mark rolls his eyes. “Oh, please, don’t be so modest, baby. Holly is an entirely successful, self-published author. She has quite the fanbase.”

  “Oh God, will you stop?” Holly says, her green eyes gleaming with something that might be pride.

  “No, I will not stop.” He turns to look at me for the first time in what feels like an age. “Holly’s one of the most popular names in her genre, and she’s recently been picked up by publishers.”

  “Oh, stop,” she laughs, waving a dismissive hand. “We’re not exactly talking Harper Collins here. I write genre fiction; the pool isn’t that big.”

  “But you’re one of the bigger fishes in that little pond.”

  She doesn’t protest.

  “So, what genre are you in? What name do you write under?” I ask, all the while unable to stop dwelling on the fact she used to be a model – it’s the only thing I’m interested in right now, not her stupid books.

  “I write horror under the name Sam West. Extreme horror. Splatterpunk, it’s called.”

  “Oh. I don’t really read horror,” I say honestly. “Is it your main job?”

  “Yes,” she replies, her green eyes glittering like uncut gems. “For my sins.”

  I don’t follow her meaning. Also, I’m wondering how in the hell she supports herself on a self-published income, yet alone in a city like London. Mark’s right: genre fiction notoriously doesn’t pay much, even for the more popular authors, unless they have a breakout hit, like fifty Shades, or whatever, but such success stories are few and far between.

  “So, what kind of modelling did you do?” I ask, getting to the only thing that really matters to me right now.

  I realise how rude that sounded, implying that she was a porn model, or something, so I quickly rephrase the question:

  “I mean, I don’t know much about it, but I understand that there are a lot of subgenres within it, like, catalogue, and commercial, and catwalk, and glamour…”

  I’m babbling, I realise, and promptly stop.

  “You’re right. Not many models cross over into other areas – me included. I’m too curvy for high fashion, and not quite tall enough for most of it, really. Although, I did land the occasional job at Freemans catalogue.”

  I can feel the way my eyes widen incredulously in my head. “Too curvy? You can’t be serious. You’re tiny.”

  “I’m not, I have breasts, and a bum, God forgive.”

  “Right. I suppose so.” And now I can feel myself blushing, and inside I cringe in shame.

  “I was a glamour model, mostly,” she says with a sly grin.

  “You were?” I splutter, making a mental note to google her later – not that I need to be reminded to do such a thing. Clearly, she didn’t model under her real name, otherwise I’m sure I would’ve come across her modelling pictures online by now.

  “I never modelled under my real name,” she says, as if reading my mind, which makes me blush all the hotter. “I wouldn’t say that I’m ashamed of my past, but I like to keep it separate, as in, in the past, especially when I’m meeting people in whatever capacity, be it business or personal. It’s not so much that I mind people knowing, it’s just, I’d rather be the one to tell them, you know?”

  “Yeah,” I say, like I find this a relatable problem, or something.

  “You’re beautiful,” Mark pipes up, who has been lovingly staring at her the entire time. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. It’s your body, and at the end of the day, it is only a body. It’s up to you what you do with it.”

  “So you always say,” Holly laughs. “That’s one of the things I love most about you – your open-mindedness and your absolute respect for my human autonomy.”

  “So, you were well-known in the glamour modelling world?” I ask, feeling utterly sick with jealousy.

  She does look familiar to me, but that is maybe just because of my freakishly accurate nightmare last night, and the fact she is objectively beautiful. I always find that there is something inherently familiar about beautiful people, I’m not sure why. Maybe because of all the films I’ve watched and media I’ve consumed over the course of a lifetime. Because, let’s face it, the parameters of what society deems beautiful are very narrow indeed.

  “I suppose that I was reasonably well-known, in my little field,” she says. “Oh, what the hell, I’ll tell you. Mark trusts you, so therefore I do, too. And I’m sure you’re curious to know more about who your best friend is with now. My maiden name is Turner, and my middle name is Anne, so I went under the modelling name Anabelle Turner.”

  She must know full well that the first thing I am going to do is google her when I get. I think she wants me to look at her pictures. She wants to show off, to remind me that she is in a different league to me, looks wise.

  As if I need reminding of that.

  I wonder how far she went with the naked stuff. Did her knickers come off, too?

  Guess I’ll be finding out later.

  “Maiden name?” I suddenly blurt out, only then registering what she has said. I am too obsessed with her modelling career to focus on anything else, and the wine is clearly dulling my mind.

  Stop bloody drinking so fast, I tell myself sternly.

  “Yes. I was married before.”

  She doesn’t elaborate, Mark doesn’t volunteer anything, and I don’t push. Even in my increasingly numbed state, I sense that I’ve overstepped a boundary.

  But I am dying to ask what happened to her husband. Her ex-husband.

  “Oh,” is all I can think of saying.

  “I kept my married name, purely for the reasons I mentioned before. Holly Butler is a far cry from Anabelle Turner. It stops all and sundry potentially googling me when they first meet me. It adds a bit of distance with my past.”

  Mark pats her on the knee and scrapes his chair across the slate floor.


  “Excuse me, ladies, I must tend to dinner.” He looks pointedly at my glass. “And open another bottle.”

  I don’t know if he is excusing himself from a conversation that has ventured into slightly awkward territory, but I am certainly grateful for the prospect of more wine.

  And dinner smells delicious; it is really starting to permeate the air. Mark is a first-class cook, among his other talents, and the mouth-watering aroma of the slow-cook beef casserole drifts under my nose, making my stomach growl.

  I really do not like this woman, I realise with a jolt. And not just because she is with the man that I love.

  There is something badly wrong with her, I sense it on a deep, primal level.

  I just don’t yet know what this wrongness might be.

  TEN

  Dinner passes in a blur of light conversation where nothing too personal is explored. We stick to safer topics, like current affairs, and Mark’s upcoming exhibition in Germany, which he will be flying out for within the week.

  “Thank you, that was lovely,” I say after I have polished off my second plate of beef casserole.

  “It truly was,” Holly agrees. “I am such a lucky girl.”

  Yes, you are, I think sadly.

  “Why don’t you two ladies go into the living-room while I clean up, then I’ll bring in cheese and a little nightcap?”

  “I’ll wash up,” I offer.

  “No, you won’t,” Mark laughs. “It won’t take me long.”

  I don’t push it, even though I don’t relish the idea of being in a separate room with Holly, away from Mark. The conversation has flowed just fine among the three of us, but I don’t want to be alone with her. I’m here for Mark, not for her.

  “Come on,” Holly smiles, grabbing what remains of the third bottle of wine, and getting to her feet. “Let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  Having little choice in the matter, I follow her out into the hallway.

  *

  Holly lowers herself into a corner of the long, dark leather, Chesterfield sofa with a contended sigh. I hate how at home she looks here.

  I take the nearby, matching leather armchair, figuring that the lovebirds will want to cosy up together on the sofa when Mark is finished in the kitchen.

  Unlike Mark’s kitchen, which has been knocked through into the dining-room forming one big room, thereby making it twice the size of my kitchen, this room is almost identical to my living-room.

  It is the mirror image, in fact, layout wise. The only difference is Mark’s living-room doesn’t have a bathroom sectioned off against the far wall, which makes this room larger. But, unlike my room which is all pale, beechwood floor and sunny yellows and blues, this room is darker and far more grown-up in tone. Like the rest of the house, the floorboards are dark, broad and glossy, the furniture classic and expensive. It looks nearer an old-fashioned, gentlemen’s club, with the red, velvet curtains, and bookshelf stuffed with first edition, leather-bound books, the bookshelf of which taking up almost the entirety of the back wall where my bathroom is.

  I perch awkwardly on the edge of the armchair, not looking or feeling nearly so relaxed, decadent or glamorous as Holly.

  I’ve drunk too much; my mental and physical reflexes are dulled, and I really need to keep my wits about me. Holly is not a person I should let myself be vulnerable around.

  I take another sip of the wine that I am cradling, almost sloshing it down my fitted beige pullover, when Holly unexpectedly jumps to her feet.

  “Let’s have some music,” she says, over by the large fireplace, where Mark’s spare smartphone is perched in its speaker cradle. With her back to me, she scrolls through what has to be a playlist. “It’s one of the things that I love most about Mark; his taste in music is almost as obscure as mine.”

  “Oh, me too,” I say, instinctively, almost protectively.

  Because Mark and I spent many happy hours together when we were younger, just lying on his bedroom floor, listening to music. We like the same stuff, although that’s probably because I idolised him to such an extent that I consciously – as well as unconsciously – allowed his tastes to become my own.

  Music suddenly fills the air around us, and my heart gives a painful little lurch in my chest as I don’t recognise the song playing. It serves as a stark reminder that we’re not as close as we used to be, that he is slipping away from me, little by little.

  Holly spins around on the spot to face me, one hand resting on her hip. Her feet are bare, and I fancy that her green eyes are gleaming in a less than friendly way.

  “You and Mark are very close, aren’t you?”

  It is less a question, and more an accusation.

  “Yes,” I say simply.

  “Are you in love with him?”

  I don’t find the question as blunt and rude as I perhaps should’ve done, which might have something to do with the vast quantity of wine that I’ve consumed. My inhibitions – as well as my defences – are lowered.

  “Yes, I do love him; I love him like a brother,” I lie.

  “Really?” Her expression is unreadable, her beautiful face as blank as one of Mark’s virgin canvasses.

  “Yes. I mean, I’ve known him forever, I don’t think of him in that way.” Liar, liar, pants on fire, I think, but I plough on. “We hit it off instantly when we were kids, probably because we’re both only children, and we’re only a year apart in age. And we both moved to Broadgate at a very young age, I don’t even remember meeting him for the first time, he’s always just been there, you know? It was almost fate that we should become friends. Me and Mark were both like fish out of water when we were children, and we bonded over that. Take me, for example – my mum had inherited the house in Broadgate from an uncle that she never really knew that well. We had no relatives to speak of in Manchester, and as my now-dead father had walked out on us, we came to Broadgate to live…”

  I realise that I am rambling because I am so on edge, despite the wine, and I force myself to shut up.

  “You mention fate. Do you believe in fate?”

  The strange question throws me for a second.

  “I… I don’t know. It was just a figure of speech, more than anything.”

  “Well, I believe in it; it was fate that I met Mark. He was perfect in every single way. It was meant to be.”

  “I’m glad Mark’s so happy,” I say robotically. I want to mean it, really I do.

  I take yet another sip of wine. My lips are starting to go numb. That can’t be good.

  “We are happy. He’s the best thing that has happened to me in a long while. After Jasper died, I was in such a bad place.”

  My ears prick up.

  “Jasper?”

  I’m quite sure that she’s not talking about a pet dog.

  “Yes. My husband. Well, ex-husband.”

  “Your husband died? My God, I’m so sorry, that’s terrible. How long ago did it happen?”

  And why the hell has Mark not told me that he’s dating a widow? What else is he keeping from me? It’s like I don’t know him at all anymore.

  And needless to say, I’m desperate to ask how her husband met his unfortunate demise.

  “It was almost two years ago, now. I wouldn’t say that I was necessarily on the rebound when I met Mark, but I was still struggling. I had forgotten how to have fun; the depression was lingering. Mark showed me that life can be so beautiful. He reminded me how to live.”

  “Wow,” I say, somewhat foolishly, but how else was I supposed to react to a bombshell like that, especially in my inebriated state?

  “Yes. Life throws us some strange curveballs sometimes,” she says softly.

  “I’m sorry.” How did he die? is on the tip of my tongue, but somehow, I manage to refrain.

  “Don’t be. I’m just happy to be with Mark, now.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And, speaking of which, Mark and I are going to be spending a lot more time in Broadgate, so we won’t be needing you to ke
ep an eye on the place, anymore. One or both of us are always going to be here from now on.”

  Her words are a real blow. Quite apart from the extra, top-up wage that Mark pays me to look after his home, I simply love doing it. It keeps my dreams alive that one day we will be together.

  I swallow the sudden lump in my throat, alarmed to discover that my eyes are hot and prickly.

  I clear my throat. “Of course.”

  The lyrics of the song that I don’t recognise float in the air around us. It is an indie sound, like a rougher, dirtier version of Coldplay.

  You are a good old-fashioned, killing machine… the man sings, over and over.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sure you understand.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about, of course I understand. The whole point was for me to keep an eye on the place in Mark’s absence, but as you pretty much live here now, I quite understand that there’s no longer any need.”

  I recognise the truth of my words, and hers, too. What she has just asked of me is reasonable and logical, but it in no way lessens the sting.

  I am losing Mark, piece by piece, and it is killing me.

  “I knew you’d understand,” she sighs. “Mark says you are always the calm voice of reason.” She wanders back over to her corner of the sofa where she sits down, gracefully tucking her legs under her flared satin skirt so that they completely disappear from view. “You know, I can’t wait to spend more time here. Broadgate is such a fascinating place, don’t you think?”

  “I guess,” I reply, still dangerously close to tears. That won’t do at all, I decide, and I make a conscious effort to pull myself together.

  “Oh, but it is, Claire. It’s steeped in mysticism, and it’s so decadent. It is the perfect place to concentrate on my writing – the energy here is so invigorating.”

  Absently, I think about how much she sounds like Blythe right now, with all this talk of mysticism and energy.