‘Won’t she notice that?’
‘Rich people like to give the impression they’re good with money, but some of them are not; they just got lucky and inherited a shed load. She’s that type. Soon, they get so rich they can’t even keep track of what is where. We’ll probably find she has dormant accounts that she’s forgotten about. We can empty them.’
As per the plan, Mattie discovered the password to her computer easily enough; all he had to do was ask for it when he was ostensibly ordering some tonics online at an overpriced artisanal tonic producer (how the other half lives). This meant I was soon able to find a list of all her passwords stored on her computer – for banks, credit cards, investing companies, pensions. She’s smarter than most, though, I’ll admit that. She stores her passwords backwards to how she uses them. That almost threw me. Almost.
Since I had advance warning about when she was going to be away from home – because she was in London, in a fancy hotel, shagging my boyfriend – my searches of her property were thorough, practically forensic. I used his key to get in and out so there was never any sign of me. It only took me a few visits to quickly ascertain the value of all her assets. I have a good eye, and easily identified the paintings and sculptures that look like kids made them but actually are collectibles. I took photos and sent them to an old friend of mine in the art world, asked for rough estimations, said I knew someone who might be interested in selling. I collated copies of all her bank, savings and investment statements and, where I could, insurance docs or receipts for antiques and jewellery. The lot.
It was never my plan to settle for skimming off the top. Turns out I’m not a bad actor either. I appeared frustrated when I told Mattie, ‘Maybe it’s just the rich men I met at the Concierge who are lax about keeping track of their money. Emma Westly isn’t frivolous with hers, and from what I can gather, she knows where every penny is. She has a spreadsheet she accesses all the time.’ I was poring over the statements with an obvious air of despondency. I have hard copies as well as digital ones. I don’t want to take any risks. The piles of paper lay between us on the crappy little chipped IKEA table I rescued from a skip. I literally hate everything I own. It’s all so pathetic. ‘She has so much, but she’s so careful.’ I said the word in a tone that clearly communicated condemnation.
‘I’m beginning to wonder if this will work. Almost three months in and all she’s done is offer me a poxy loan,’ he said, shaking his head woefully. He’s not a completer.
I know he found the loan thing infuriating. Humiliating. He lost his temper the night she mooted it. He sent me texts saying he was quitting ‘the whole fucking crazy plan’. He stormed back to the Old Schoolhouse insisting we didn’t need to put ourselves through ‘this idiocy’. I happened to be at Mum’s. Later that night, I went round to Emma’s and took out my frustration on her plants and stupid glass domes. He’d riled me. I can’t do this without him, and I was genuinely worried that he was going to pull out. It all worked perfectly, as it happened. He couldn’t even manage a whole night on his own at the Old Schoolhouse. He remembered just how fucking uncomfortable it is there, and was a little more pliant the next morning regarding my plan to make us rich. Meanwhile, Emma felt scared and needy after my demonstration and so suggested he move in with her, resulting in us gaining more access and momentum. Far from a disaster.
Mattie came up with a suggestion of his own. ‘We could steal from her, take all her jewellery and valuables, anything that isn’t nailed down. A clean sweep. Why not?’ He looked excited about this plan. I could see the appeal. A fast one-and-done. But even while he argued the case, I could see the problems. He continued, ‘We could do it while she was away in Scotland on business. She wouldn’t even lose out. She’s insured to the hilt.’
‘But you’d be the main suspect,’ I pointed out. ‘The handsome stranger who recently came into her life and moved into her home in a hurry, only to move out of it again just as her Rothko vanishes.’
‘Well then, you could rob the place on a night when I’m with her. I could hang around for a little while afterwards, a couple of weeks or something, until the heat was off.’
I wondered if his suggestion was simply naive or devious. I’d be taking all the risk. I eyed him, weighing it up, but decided not to call him on it. Instead I pointed out another flaw in his plan. ‘And how much money do you think we’d make?’
‘We could get away with about a hundred thousand worth of valuables, maybe more.’
‘I wonder what that would be worth on a non-legit second-hand market?’ I mused. ‘Probably a tenth of that. It’s not enough to renovate the Old Schoolhouse.’ This is why he’s not in charge of planning. A break-in wouldn’t offer everything I want. It would simply lead to confusion and higher security. Something I’m keen to avoid. ‘The thing is, we’re even worse off now than when we started this. You know I had to give up my job to support you adequately in this venture.’ It was a careful choice of words. I was not manipulating him – it was not as blunt and unsubtle as that – but I did need to guide him round to my way of thinking. Anyone would do the same. ‘We’ve had so many expenses. Travel costs, the new clothes we bought you so you could look the part …’ I pause. ‘Besides, think of the Old Schoolhouse. We’ve invested so much, Mattie. Not only cash, but years of our lives have been devoted to that place. I worked out how much we’ve spent on our mortgage, and it’s heartbreaking.’
I opened my bag and pulled out the piece of paper with the calculation written on it. We have an interest-only mortgage. We’ve been paying it for eight years, and have spent over £90,000, and yet we are not one iota closer to owning the property or even making a dent in the actual loan, which is £800,000. It may as well be £8 million or £80 million – it is an impossible amount for us to pay off as a jobbing photographer and an ex-receptionist at an upmarket private members’ club. We thought we’d be paying it off as a movie star and a supermodel. Then it would have been chicken feed. The world is so unfair.
I had hoped that my detailed searches of her finances, files and life in general might throw up some useful material. Something dark. No one is as good, virtuous and disciplined as she presents, are they? I thought we’d find something dodgy in her inbox: a racist comment that could bring her down, an explicit picture sent to some ex-lover that could do the same, a messy tax return that didn’t declare absolutely every stream of income. She loves her job; she wouldn’t want to lose it. Blackmail could make us a decent amount.
I didn’t find anything. She really does live her life as though the spirit of Mother Teresa is sitting on her shoulder.
I suggested to Mattie that he could take some photos of her. Compromising ones. ‘You’re perfectly placed to do that.’
‘But then she’d know I was the one blackmailing her.’
‘She would, obviously. But if you got enough money out of her, would it matter? You wouldn’t need her any more.’
He looked uncomfortable. I knew he’d resist this idea. I was banking on it. He doesn’t like to think of himself as a bad guy; he wouldn’t like her to think of him as such. ‘I don’t think blackmail would get us the lump sum we need,’ he said. ‘There is a lot of money knocking about here. As you said in the beginning, there has to be a big opportunity. Let’s keep thinking. I’m sure you’ll come up with something.’
‘I’m sure I will,’ I muttered. I already had. It was just a matter of when I revealed it to him.
33
One evening after they’d moved in together, she was in London with her friends and so we had her house to ourselves. He was making me bolognese. There are certain things between couples that from the outside look like one thing but to the couple they mean a whole other thing. We both knew that him preparing this meal showed he wanted to treat me, nurture me. It’s my favourite dish of his. He often makes bolognese for me when he thinks I need cheering up, or if he’s done something wrong, or if we’re celebrating something. It’s multifunctional. That evening I wasn’t in need of cheering up, and as far as I was aware we weren’t celebrating anything; I wondered whether I should brace myself, but decided not to be cynical.
Maybe he just wanted us to have a nice night together. I wanted that.
I stood at the marble breakfast bar, drinking a glass of her wine (I’d picked a dusty bottle from the top shelf that I assumed was a good one) and watching him carefully. He clearly knew his way around this kitchen; I deduced that he must be doing a lot of the cooking for her. He’d never said. I didn’t resent the fact that he looked so settled; I wanted him to have a tempting taste of the good life so that he had a crystal-clear understanding of what he was playing for. I’d always believed he would fit into a luxurious environment. It’s what I’d expected for us both. He looked like the sort of wealthy husband you see in adverts for expensive watches, and not at all like the wealthy husbands who stumbled into the Concierge. They all had great big bellies, wandering hands. They were inadequate, fumbling, stumbling. I guess a lot of people don’t get rich until they are old; it’s such a waste, such a problem.
It amuses me that everyone always says that appearances can be deceptive as though it’s a bad thing. It can be unnerving but not necessarily insidious. The most fascinating and important thing about appearances is that they can become reality. You only have to consider Instagram and the blistering bouts of FOMO you get over people you don’t know – people you will never meet, who are not even having as good a time as they pretend to be having – to know that appearances can become the reality. We all scroll through strangers’ posts and feel beaten up, eaten up by envy because they are bikini-clad on a yacht or drinking Dom in a hot-air balloon or are a size eight in an infinity pool (pick your poison). That jealousy is real; the dissatisfaction we feel with our own lives exists. The self-loathing and hatred is a fact. Appearances become the actuality, so I know that what I’m creating here can be genuine too. I never doubted Mattie would fall effortlessly into this world of wealth and luxury. He is in his prime: attractive, sexy, and he looks like he was born to it. What a shame he wasn’t.
I sometimes let my mind drift to just how simple and brilliant life would have been if Mattie had just been rich. He comes from a loving home, but they couldn’t afford to send him to private school, buy him a car or give us a deposit for a flat. Everything would have been so much easier if that had been the case. Just lovely. I never imagine that scenario for me and my own family, though. It’s too close to the bone and yet too wild and painfully impossible at the same time. Fuck it. No matter, I’ve worked with what we have. I played the cards dealt. I will be successful. I have to be. I must stay focused on the world I’ve planned. The one where we live in Hampshire while the Old Schoolhouse is being renovated. I’m going to keep her place even when the renovation is complete. It’s good to have somewhere in the country as well as London. Mum can live there, not just clean there. That seems fair.
Yeah, news flash. I’m playing for the whole shebang.
Mattie’s head was bent over the Le Creuset cast-iron pot. I smiled to myself, delighted that he was ensconced. I was also very comfortable in Woodview by then. I knew all about how the water and room thermometers work, where the key to the sauna room is kept, the code to the alarms, the range of the security cameras, the storage and management of the security data. I’d searched every square inch of the place; it had no secrets from me. I like the pair of us having it to ourselves, playing house; it feels comfy, secure, right. It is important to me that he doesn’t have all his good times with Emma and associate me solely with poverty, damp walls, dripping taps and rats. That won’t do.
That night, I’d dressed up. I’d helped myself to a ME+EM dress in Emma’s wardrobe – we are the same size. If Mattie recognised it, he didn’t say so. I’d had a blow-dry too. I can’t remember how long it had been since I’d visited the hairdresser. It felt amazing to have someone wash my hair, massage my scalp. I practically had an orgasm over the little biscotti that came with my flat white. I’m allowing myself small treats like a blow-dry now, since I know we’re getting closer. I’m putting stuff on a new credit card; it will be easy to pay it off. I look forward to being so used to being pampered that I’ll get impatient with the hairdresser for taking too long on the head massage and I’ll say no to the free coffee. I bet Emma does both things; she’s always rushing through everything. Not grateful enough that her life is worth wallowing in, not aware that she ought to be appreciating every single second. While she can.
Normally I resist lighting the Jo Malone candles that are scattered around the house, but that night I had. Emma wouldn’t notice if they were burnt down; she has fresh candles delivered every month. I don’t think she even sees this as the epitome of luxury it so obviously is. I think she sees it as a basic, the way the rest of us think about buying loo roll or milk. I was glad to have him to myself; sharing was proving more wearing than I’d anticipated. I was always being confronted with evidence of the sex he had with Emma. The house searches not only threw up details about valuations on art works; I also found massage oil, her underwear lying on the floor, sticky and stained sheets. I shouldn’t keep looking, but somehow I am compelled. Even though it turns my stomach, even though it makes me want to smash things, break and burn things. I don’t, though – well at least not always. Sometimes I content myself with opening the Velux windows in her bedroom so that her rugs and bedding get soaked when it’s raining, or turning off the hot water so that when she returns from work she can’t have a hot bath. Petty stuff. Not enough. The threesome thing, when we were young, hadn’t turned out to be the armour I had expected it to be. That was just sex, there was no doubt about it. Brief encounters, recreational, almost clinical. I’ve asked him to make Emma fall in love with him. It’s risky. I know that. But I am prepared to take risks. I have to.
I often stay at Woodview when she is away. It’s remote enough that no one ever sees me arrive or leave. I’ve shown Mattie how to tamper with the security footage; we’ve both become quite adept at deleting, pausing, editing. We make it look as though he is always on his own, in case she ever checks. I always insist that we sleep in the spare room. I have no desire to sleep in the bed they share; I’m not a masochist. I am always careful not to leave anything behind. I don’t want to give her indisputable proof of my existence, that’s not the plan. I do, however, burn incense before I leave so she never detects my perfume or our sex. I could burn her expensive candles; they would do the same job. Mattie once asked me why I didn’t.
‘Why introduce a new smell to the house and risk alerting her?’
‘The incense is a more natural smell, woodland and stuff. She won’t even detect it,’ I replied. This was a lie. I knew there was a strong possibility that she would notice the strange scent; that she might have already. I want to make her uncomfortable. I want her to know something is different in her home but not be able to put her finger on what exactly. It’s good that she’s confused, disorientated, not quite on top of things.
That particular night, I thought there was a high chance she’d have a drink or two with her friends and then message to say she might as well stay in town because she had an early meeting the morning after. In reality, she didn’t have any such thing. I’d put a fake meeting in her electronic diary to try to tip the scales of her decision to stay away overnight, so Mattie and I could be left alone. If she did decide to travel back to Hampshire that night, I’d at least have some sense of satisfaction knowing she’d get up even earlier than usual to travel to her office, only to discover the meeting didn’t exist. That would probably put her in a bad mood all day.
These tiny paper-cut wounds bring me great pleasure.
Mattie looked up from stirring the bolognese and suddenly asked, ‘Do you think this is ever going to work?’
‘Of course it is,’ I replied swiftly. I thought we were right on track. He wasn’t entirely aware of the race we were running, so he didn’t have the same confidence. Let’s just say his perspective wasn’t as honed.
‘What have we got into?’ he asked plaintively, running his hands through his hair. He looked desperate. The thing is, whenever he makes a gesture like that, a clichéd epitome of a particular emotion, I can’t help but doubt it. You know, like if he throws his head back in laughter, I always think to myself, is he really that happy? Or if he’s biting his fingernails, is he truly nervous? Right then, I couldn’t help but wonder, was he stressed or just frustrated? Impatient? Was he any of these things, or did he just like a drama? OK, that’s not the most charitable thing to think about him, but that’s what happens when you live with an actor; it’s hard to know what is authentic. I’ve found it’s better to listen to his intonation to get a grip on the truth. He gives himself away when his voice gets caught in his throat, when his laugh roars through a room, when he shouts out in ecstasy just as he’s going to come. I felt a swell of impatience at his comment; I mean, how stressed could he be in fact? He was going to endless amazing restaurants, he was hanging out in her beautiful home, and he was sleeping with two women. I was the one who had a right to be stressed.
Still, I found it in me to calmly reply, ‘Good things come to those who wait.’
