Chapter 14 Hampstead
To-do list
Morning swim at Heath Pond
Foxtons house viewing, Hampstead
Lunch with Tor
Relocate corpse
Hampstead Village sits on a hill right beside Highgate. It’s a mix of cobbled lanes and Georgian town houses, sitting next to the beautiful Hampstead Heath. It’s only a few miles from Muswell Hill but a detached family home in Hampstead can go for twenty-five million.
The village is known for its intelligentsia, artists, and celebrities.
There are ancient trees, traditional pubs, and an abundance of private schools, including Adams Prep.
John Keats died of syphilis and mercury poisoning here.
Harry Styles lives here. Muswell Hill, on the other hand, has Tony Hadley (exactly), someone who used to be on Coronation Street, and a small private school quite unlike Adams.
The house is an imposing six-bedroom, red-brick Victorian villa set behind electronic gates on a quiet lane just moments from the Heath, and it’s on the market for a reasonable ￡8 million.
It has been extensively remodelled, bringing cutting-edge design to Victorian grandeur.
There are views of lush greenery and village rooftops from every window, and a self-contained apartment for two staff.
The large south-facing garden even features a wellness centre with sauna, steam room, and pool. One up on Tor, for the moment.
Stephen went into the office first thing, as we agreed some extra hours might help his cause, but he promised that he’d meet me here. I’ve known this is my house ever since I first saw it, almost a year ago, just as I knew Stephen was my husband the moment I found out how rich his father was.
Esmae, our articulate and manicured estate agent with glistening hair and abundant enthusiasm, arrives on time.
I decide to wait for Stephen before going into the house, so Esmae shows me the garden and wellness centre.
The pool is twelve metres long and has a blue safety cover that Esmae rolls back automatically to reveal an expanse of blue tiles and clear water.
I imagine my daily dip and an hour in the sauna with friends.
In my musings, I would have new friends, of course – my Muswell Hill companions wouldn’t be quite right for my new life, so they would probably have to go.
Perhaps I could keep Sophie, though, to show my new friends that I enjoy helping the less fortunate.
The only downside is that Tor would be a near-neighbour.
As we’re admiring the pool, I have a sudden brainwave.
Since last night, the parcel in the back of my Porsche has leaked a dark, foul-smelling liquid.
Two dogs were sniffing about the boot this morning, and getting excited.
I need to relocate the corpse, and if we have an offer accepted and they stop showing the property, the pool might be the perfect temporary solution as the cover will be closed all winter.
We hear Stephen’s car pull up on the gravel drive, and I rush to meet him.
I throw my arms around old misery-face, tell him he looks dashing in his V-neck sweater and checked shirt, and suggest that Esmae won’t be able to resist his rugged off-duty policeman look.
He pulls a face, and when I suggest that we sneak to the pool house for a little extracurricular, he winces.
‘We’re not in a position to do this, Lalla. You do understand? This can’t happen,’ he says with the shrill urgency of a parakeet.
‘I don’t agree,’ I said. ‘You’ll make partner later this month, I just feel it, and it’s such good value for money.’
‘It’s eight million quid, that’s one point six million per bedroom. In what universe is that good value?’
‘Oh, you little pessimist. I know we can do it. I have a really good feeling about it.’
‘A feeling? Well, in that case . . .’
I kiss his cheek and say, ‘Thank you, darling.’
He tries to argue with me, but I’m too full of the joy of property.
Putting aside the decomposing corpse, Cait’s knowledge of the murder, Stephen’s depression, and Nelly’s disregard for the sanctity of life, I feel certain this will be the thing that changes everything.
Pressure cookers must have safety valves, and there’s only so much Pilates can do for you.
Perfectly manicured Esmae patters away in a bold yellow suit with large flares and larger lapels. I fear she’s watched too much Selling Sunset. She’s only in her early twenties, but could earn fifteen thousand commission on this house alone. No wonder she’s glowing.
This is a magical moment for me, the culmination of a serious piece of reconstructive surgery on my life, and testament to holding on to a tiny vision that I’ve kept locked in my heart (or the space therein) for so long.
I’ve looked at Tor many times over the years and thought, if someone so limited can achieve this, so can I.
Stephen’s passive-aggressive approach to house-hunting is exceedingly tiring, but even his undisguised annoyance can’t take away from this moment. He is simply the means, or will be, just as soon as he makes partner.
‘What do you think?’ I hold onto his arm as we stand in a glorious glass atrium, staring out on to manicured lawns and topiarised bay trees.
‘Too expensive.’
I nudge him and he turns to me but his face sags with thoughts of bridging loans and mortgage repayments.
‘Plenty of wow-wow-wow factor,’ says Esmae, wafting us into the generous oak-floored drawing room. ‘There’s over four thousand square feet of living space, plus the wellness centre. It’s a dream home.’
I love the sound of my heels on the polished wood, the vast sweep of the bow windows, the voluminous kitchen with two huge walls of glass, the sunken garden and the view of the Heath. I could hit 10,000 steps just making coffee.
‘What are the heating costs like?’ asks Stephen. It has only just occurred to me that I married a man who would look at a Titian and ask how much it cost to insure. But Esmae likes him – he’s good-looking, and she can just smell money.
‘All the windows have been double glazed in thermal glass, and there’s a ground-source heat pump, so it’s also environmentally sustainable.’
‘Why don’t you show Stephen upstairs?’ I say. ‘I just want a moment to imagine myself in the kitchen.’
‘Of course, of course,’ chirps Esmae, then lowers her head to one side, looks up at Stephen and says without any irony, ‘Shall we explore the bedrooms, Mr Rook?’
I know something about human psychology and when a man is with his wife, whom he perceives to be profligate, he will dig in his heels, but alone with a younger woman, who carries none of the complexity of his primary relationship, and who is, into the bargain, flirty, attentive, and attractive, he will want to show off his impressive plumage.
I head towards the kitchen but am drawn to a narrow door on the right. I can’t resist the temptation to look and find myself staring down a set of low-lit stone steps. I descend, my hand steadying myself on the bare brick walls.
I feel memories fighting for air, as the darkness thickens and sounds deaden. I stand in a grotto with a deep bath in the centre. From a cold, dirty cellar to water glistening against a domed mosaic ceiling. I smile at the difference I have made to my life.
Some would imagine romantic candlelit evenings in such a place, or the more adventurous might even consider an unusual end to a dinner party, but I am thinking of how easy it would be for Madeleine to drown accidentally here. No one would even hear her scream.
I hear Esmae’s sing-song voice chirping endlessly and feel a little sorry for Stephen. We re-join in the back garden.
‘Do you like it, darling?’ I trill like some submissive wife from yesteryear.
‘It’s an investment really,’ says Esmae. ‘Many of my high net-worth individuals see property as the best way to secure their assets.’
‘I know how finance works,’ says Stephen, sharply. I realize I misjudged the depth of Esmae’s charms.
‘Isn’t it perfect?’ I say.
‘As a money pit,’ says Stephen.
Esmae, detecting tension, subtly moves away from us.
‘We’d have to sell first, raise another million in cash, and then borrow a barrow-load. Do you know the monthly repayments on a five-million-pound loan?’
‘I’m sure you do, darling, you’re so clever with money,’ I say. ‘But your bonus will cover it all.’
‘There’s no guarantee I’ll make partner.’
‘I hear you, darling, let’s reflect,’ I say, deciding that discussion is futile at this point and will only further entrench his position. A successful marriage is about many things, not least knowing when to give your husband the impression that he has won.