‘The history of this place is fucking miserable,’ he commented. ‘Poor lice-ridden kids beaten into learning their times tables so they could calculate exactly how many boxes of matches they needed to sell to avoid being evicted from their slum.’
‘That’s rather a pessimistic view. I like to think we’re living in a place where children were inspired through the gift of education.’
‘You’re delusional.’
He said that sort of thing relatively frequently – ‘you’re delusional’, ‘you’re ridiculous’, ‘you’re so stubborn’, ‘we should just sell’. He was wrong, small-minded, lacking in vision. I could see how it could be. How it would be. I could envisage millions in the bank, a stunning property, beautiful clothes and possessions once again. I didn’t want to be ordinary. I wanted to be rich. Properly rich. The poverty and grime wore him down because he’d grown up comfortably. I had not, but even I never got used to the broken windows, iced pipes in the mornings, pigeon shit and rat droppings that festered just metres away from where we slept. It was a step back for me too, yet I wasn’t prepared to give up on my dream. ‘You can walk away if you like,’ I’d respond when he said we should sell. He never would, of course. Where would he go? It was impossible to imagine giving up, impossible to imagine a way out. We rowed. Often. The surprise is not that we rowed but that we didn’t kill each other. He stopped calling me his beautiful girl and started calling me his beautiful problem.
By then, I had started working at a place called the Concierge. It is an incredibly expensive and exclusive members’ club that caters to multimillionaires who want to hang out and behave badly, safe in the knowledge that no one is going to take a sneaky photo of them and sell it to the tabloids. I worked the reception. It wasn’t especially arduous; the hardest thing I had to do was smile after doing a twelve-hour shift in four-inch heels. My skill set was niche. I could source an after-hours gift from Tiffany’s for a wife or mistress in the event that a client had forgotten a birthday; I could get a bottle of Patrón en Lalique if someone wanted to spend £7,000 on a bottle of tequila, or I could charter a private plane if they had a sudden urge to play blackjack in Monaco. I took all the work offered. Mostly night shifts from 4 p.m. to 4 a.m. It was warmer than being at home, so I didn’t mind. Besides, being surrounded by that level of wealth was motivational.
Mattie didn’t finish the courses on carpentry and plumbing. Eventually he decided to retrain as a photographer, which meant more student loans and more debt as he spent thousands of pounds on cameras and other equipment.
It was tiring. I am tired.
One of my friend’s boyfriends proposed to her through a flash mob dance. That was pretty cool. There was another one whose boyfriend ordered a custom-made fortune cookie from Amazon that said Will You Marry Me? Not bad, but honestly if you can get them on Amazon, are they really custom-made? Mattie’s proposal was somewhere on the scale of low-key to grubby. There was no drone above us capturing our special moment, no fireworks, no room full of candles. We’d been together for thirteen years, and one wet Sunday afternoon, we were half watching something or other on TV – Married at First Sight or Say Yes to the Dress – when he said, ‘Do you think we’ll ever get married?’
And I replied, ‘No, you’re too poor.’
He laughed, until he realised I wasn’t joking. Then he stopped laughing and got sulky and weird. Mattie is hot, right. Definitely. And I love him and I love being with him, living with him, fucking him, everything, but he’s broke, perpetually broke, and he lacks ambition, and it’s not what I want out of life. I used to think that eventually someone else would come along, someone wealthier who could buy me nice things, who could buy me something, for God’s sake. But there is only a whisper of a chance of that becoming a reality. By the time he first proposed, I was already the wrong side of thirty. Now, the only rich men who would look at me are drawing their pensions. That’s economics. It’s shit that the world still works that way, but it does.
I probably couldn’t leave Mattie anyway. Not if it came down to it.
Sixteen years, right; even if he’s a disappointment, he is my disappointment.
My girlfriends say I’m a bitch to even think the way I do. That I shouldn’t be so obsessed with money, that I should just be glad that Mattie is really hot and devoted. They say that because they all have more money and uglier husbands than I do. He has asked me to marry him loads of times since that first time. I always say no, for the same reason. Then sometime last year he pushed back and argued, ‘You’re poor too, Becky.’
‘Yeah, but I don’t like it.’
‘Nor do I.’
‘But I dislike it so much I’d do anything to be rich.’
‘So would I.’
‘No you wouldn’t. Not anything.’
‘I would.’
He sounded deadly serious. We were at my mum’s flat at the time. It’s shabby, depressing and small in every sense of the word, but warmer than the Old Schoolhouse, so we often hung out there. Mattie was in a foul mood that day. He had a bad back from sleeping on the bed settee. The nagging pain was making him short-tempered.
‘Like something immoral or illegal or dangerous?’ I asked. Pushing.
‘Yeah, I would. I’m sick of living like this too. Our life is shit. Have you got a plan?’
I did have a plan. I had a complex long-game plan that would make us millions. When the front desk at the Concierge was quiet, I’d let my mind pore over infinite details. I’d imagine all the problems, complexities and possible dead ends, then I’d finesse the solutions, the insurance, the remedies. I researched what the likely punishments were if we got caught. I imagined how we’d spend the millions if we didn’t. I had weighed it all up carefully. So I told him. Not the truth, not the entirety. Because that wasn’t the plan. I told him what he needed to know.
30
I’m well aware that the division of labour is very unbalanced here. My part of the deal largely centres around sneaking into Emma Westly’s house, looking through her computer and paperwork and getting to grips with her finances. Later, of course, if everything goes to plan, I’ll have to do more. I’ll have to do the worst. But there’s no denying the lion’s share of the early part of this venture has rested on Mattie’s shoulders. That, frankly, made me nervous in the beginning, because he isn’t, you know, always the most reliable. This is a one-shot venture; I can’t afford for there to be any mistakes, so I’ve micromanaged everything I could and Mattie has been fine with that, used to it. In most relationships there’s a proactive one and a reactive one. It’s a relief that things are working out.
So, she’s batshit crazy. She thinks his dead wife is haunting her. Even I hadn’t thought of that.
I started following her on social media as soon as my mum told me who she was cleaning for. However, it’s an official work account and it didn’t give me much. The tone is preachy, patronising, telling us all which bog roll we should use and how ethical purchases might be a ‘few quid more’ but ‘cost the earth less’. Lady, I’d love to have the choice. I can’t believe she scores so many likes for that sort of condescension.
Once Mattie agreed to my plan, I started making more comprehensive searches, started to follow her in real life. I got my doctor to sign me off work with nervous anxiety and exhaustion, which bought me a few weeks’ research time. I’m not anxious or exhausted, I’m euphoric. For the first time in a long time, I’m getting ahead. I’m on to something big, something I’ve long since been owed. First I took up guard outside her office – it was the easiest place to track her from. It’s where she spends most of her time, as she’s a live-to-work type. I positioned myself on the street opposite, sitting in the window seat of a café or standing in a doorway or lingering by the bus stop. It’s a busy London street, so no one ever noticed me. It’s easiest to go unseen in a busy place.
Her office is as you’d imagine: shiny, flashy. The employees who drift in and out are of a type: self-consciously cool, hip and earnest. They ride electric skateboards or scooters; they leave work wearing bike helmets or headphones; my guess is they listen to zeitgeist trending podcasts. I’ve never seen one of them go for a post-work drink; they invariably march straight past both the nearby grubby little pub and the trendy bar. If they ever do stop for a beverage, it’s an oat milk vanilla latte or a high-protein green spirulina smoothie at the overpriced café I hide in. I imagined that being surrounded by these young people probably made her feel old. That pleased me. I calculated that it would work in our favour when Mattie stumbled into her life. I’m a patient woman, which was useful, as for the first three days, I didn’t spot her. Then I did.
She looked different from how she appeared on social media. Her body was as toned and trim, but her face looked nearer to her real age. On inanimate photos she appears smooth, composed, younger. In real life she looked a little more worn in, a little more troubled. I watched and noted how she dashed in and out of the building faster than any of her employees bothered to; they tended to saunter. She arrived earlier than them too, which is possibly how I missed her at first. I quickly understood that she does everything at speed; it is exhausting to watch. I asked myself, what has she got to rush for? OK, she’s the boss, but she has hundreds of underlings who are probably doing all the real work; she certainly has loads of staff to manage her home. She can’t be that busy. I deduced that her constantly hurried manner comes from a puffed-up sense of her own importance. She wants to give off the ‘I’m a very busy and important person’ vibe.
I watched her carefully, followed her closely. To and from wherever she was going. I started to understand her habits: which days she came into the office, what her commute route was, what groceries she picked up on the evenings she returned to Hampshire, and when and where she met friends. I worked out what’s important to her, her likes and dislikes. I kept notes so that I could thoroughly brief Mattie. She was often on the phone, lots of dull business calls, but some were fun ones to her friends. I’ve never heard her speak to her brother. My feelings towards her were unambiguous from the off. She’s a spoilt bitch with everything I don’t have. If I had a brother, I’d keep in touch with him even if he was an annoying addict. Especially then. She is oblivious to everyone around her. I was able to get close enough to smell her perfume, and I often sat behind her on the train back to Hampshire. She never noticed me.
I saw the conference announced on her company Instagram, where she humble-bragged about speaking at it. Great honour, great responsibility, etc., etc. She really is nauseating. I’m OK with that, though, as I know Mattie likes my sort of sense of humour – sarcastic, fast. I felt confident that he’d find her saccharine sincerity a bit wearing. Good. I don’t want him liking her. I bought the tickets to the conference, trailed around charity shops in the posh part of London to buy clothes with designer labels that could look like he’d worn them for years. She wasn’t the type to appreciate fast fashion, and brand-new clothes would be suspicious. My attention to detail was, if I say it myself, incredible. I briefed him with all that I had learnt about her tastes, beliefs and preferences those past few weeks, so that he knew what to bring up in conversation. I guessed it would be the little details that would seduce her. Women like her like to think they’re unique and special and that others have noticed just how unique and special they are.
‘She doesn’t give money to the homeless on the street.’
‘That’s tight, she’s loaded.’
‘Yeah, but she does buy sandwiches and water from Pret and hands those over nearly every day. I have also seen her stop and talk to those annoying people who canvass for charities.’
‘You always walk straight past those,’ murmured Mattie.
‘Well, yeah, I have no money. I’m poorer than most of the people benefiting from the charities. Besides, although they canvass with extraordinary energy, they’re not sincere. They’re on commission and earn with each direct debit they secure. I’m surprised she falls for it.’
‘Which charities did she sign up for?’
‘WaterAid, Trees for Cities, Keep Britain Tidy and Women in Sport.’
‘All of those since you’ve been stalking her?’
