Cuckoo (aka Claire, Darling)

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Six

I’m unsure if it’s the alcohol, the adrenaline, or the cloak of darkness that makes 48 St Margaret’s Avenue look so different by moonlight. Everything seems hazier, dreamlike and, if possible, even more perfect than before. I emerge from my hiding place behind a tree opposite their home, and next thing I know I’ve rushed across the street, squatting beside Noah’s goddamn car again, still parked in front of Lilah’s house. Without even realising what I’m doing until it’s already happening, I take out my front door key and drag it hard down the side of his precious BMW before I slink closer to the property. It makes a satisfying high-pitched scratching sound that sets the hairs on the back of my neck prickling. Enjoy that, Noah.

The front room is lit, emitting a warm, flickering glow through the window. The plantation blinds are shut but they’ve been yanked closed half-heartedly and I can probably peer in through the slats if I get close enough. Part of me thinks, What the hell are you doing here, Claire? This is ridiculous, go home. But then I think of the Rottweiler website and a raging curiosity takes over, a desperation to know what’s going on behind that yellow door, to reveal whatever sick, dark secret it is that Lilah’s guarding. Something is not right .

Normal Average Joe couples do not spend ten grand on a protective security dog if they don’t have something mega-valuable to guard. I don’t think it’s something as normal as a safe either. Perhaps it’s not about their money, but where that money’s coming from? I don’t really know much about Lilah’s father, but I’m sure no model makes enough to set their daughter up like this in London unless they’re Cindy Crawford.

I slowly edge right into the strip of shrubbery beneath the front window, shuffling awkwardly until I’m squatting beneath their windowsill planter, holding my breath. What for? I don’t know. In case someone comes and suddenly pulls aside the shutters and then opens the window and randomly leans right out and finds me? I convince myself I’m being overly cautious, but the wine has made me woozy. A sudden loud noise could be the end of my investigative mission. I have to keep it together. Better to be over-cautious than caught out.

I’m listening, my fingers splayed out in in the dirt in front of me to help keep me balanced, and I can hear the low, monotonous buzz of a television. Slowly, so slowly that it feels almost comical, I begin to rise until my hands are gripping on to the window ledge and I’m peering over the flowers and through the slats, hunched over in the darkness. I inhale sharply as I see him, leaning back casually on that luxurious cream sofa from the photos, her body tucked in beside him and her head resting on his chest as they watch a gardening show together. Noah doesn’t garden. This is wrong, all wrong . This isn’t what he likes. She’s changed him. He would never spend his free time watching something as dull as a gardening show. I’m grinding my teeth and leaning so close to the glass that my nose is almost pressing against it.

They aren’t moving, aside from his thumb which I notice lazily tracing circles on her shoulder. Apart from that, I could almost pretend that I’m looking at a photograph, another snapshot posted to her showy Facebook album. I glare at her, daring her to see me. Then I shake off this poisonous hatred and remind myself to focus on the setting, what clues I can find as to why Noah left me for this horrible, awful woman. Any hints as to what they need an attack dog for. Noah’s well off, but this is another level of wealth. Of course, I don’t know what his new job is paying him, but even with a much higher salary, a house like this would be pushing it. Plus, all the decor is clearly hers. This screams old family money. For a split second, the question of whether that’s why he’s with her crosses my mind, but I shrug it off immediately. He has money. He is not the type of man to rely on anyone else for finances, so no. This is just a happy coincidence for him, I’m sure.

Beneath the TV (which is now going into detail on seed types, for God’s sake) is a gorgeous marble mantelpiece. There are framed pictures displayed along the top of it. I squint, trying to force the images into something sharper, the effects of the wine blurring the edges a little too much. I can make out one of Lilah with two other beautiful blonde girls– cousins, perhaps?– and two featuring herself and Noah, his arms around her in both. I inhale slowly through my nose, allowing myself a second to close my eyes as I do so, breathing deeply and trying to quieten my brain like my mindfulness app taught me. I count to five, then to ten as I let the breath go. Once I’m done, I feel better. Lighter, more in control, and more sober somehow, too.

The lounge adjoins a dining-room area, divided from it by glazed double doors, which are standing open. Lilah’s handbag is visible on the table and of course it’s a beautiful black Prada bag, which probably cost an arm and a leg.

I feel myself childishly roll my eyes at her predictability.

God, I hate her. I feel hatred literally bubbling beneath my flesh as I watch her draped over my boyfriend as though he is hers. I snap back into focus though when Noah says something to her, then stands and leaves the room. He must be going to the toilet. I watch her for a moment, as she replaces the warm, muscular body of my boyfriend with a sofa cushion, still in the same curled-up position, her head resting on the plumped velvet pillow. She’s wearing pyjamas, and of course they’re fucking silk. Cream silk trousers, trimmed with lace, a matching top, and Ugg slippers on the floor beside her. Her golden-blonde hair is wrapped up in a messy bun that it would require an entire team of hairstylists to replicate on my own head. Her skin is glowing and her lashes are dark, even though it looks like she’s not wearing any makeup. I’m just about to assess her bone structure in more detail when, beside me, the front door flies open. My whole body freezes in shock and anticipation, my heart in my mouth and the wine frightened out of my bloodstream. Moments later the ginger cat sashays onto the front path where it stretches lazily, before peering over at me with interest. The door has shut again. Noah was letting it out. My body sags with relief. I wasn’t seen, but it was all a bit too close for comfort.

I slowly edge backwards, away from the house, and away from my cheating fiancé.

I spend the night tossing and turning. By 5 a.m. I can’t take it anymore. I want to message my only friend, but obviously Sukhi will be asleep. So I put on a film, try to take my mind off things. It doesn’t work. I’m overwhelmed with thoughts and emotions after my trip to St Margaret’s Avenue and too hyper to sleep although I’m exhausted.

Around 9 a.m. on Friday morning I become aware of sunlight streaming through my windows.

I must have dozed off for a few hours. The TV is playing something random, the film long over.

On the coffee table, my phone blinks at me with a notification. Lilah has uploaded a new photo.