Chapter 72 Georgie
It’s not been such a good day. The police interfering with my marriage.
Krill getting the better of me. Husband keen on divorcing me.
On the positive side, Nelly’s success is now almost guaranteed.
Although Tor continued to squeal at me for the dreadful crime of ensuring my child succeeded at the expense of hers (surely the foundation of her own social class), when we received our children’s confidential candidate numbers the day before the exam, she caved in and swapped numbers with me.
Nelly, joyfully, said that she found the examination easy, which probably means she simply made up her own questions. I checked that she put the swapped examination number on her paper, and she said that she did, so as long as she’s not lying, her mark will be assigned to Hero, poor thing.
I just need to find a way to delete Hollis, nullify Krill’s disgusting demands, and keep Stephen. A problem of being over-married, over-desired, and under-loved, but at least it’s a puzzle that I can put right.
I try the mortice. It turns easily and without a sound.
The Yale also works, and the door opens quietly.
I slip inside and smile at the sensation of being a secret and unwelcome guest. I walk through her kitchen and open her fridge, which is completely empty like everything else about her.
Her living room is not only small, it’s so devoid of character I feel nauseous.
I stop at the shelf built into an alcove.
There are several framed photographs of Georgie and Stephen from long before I met him, along with several more recent ones.
I am simply an interregnum. From Stephen’s haircut and clothes, I can just about date them.
Two go back to before Nathan was born and one is not long after, and I thought I was the deceitful one in our relationship.
The more I find out about people, the more I realize that I’m the normal one.
At this point, I want to do harm. An emptiness rises within me and then a growing anger.
I take each photograph, one by one, and place them face down.
I leave my shoes by the door and tiptoe upstairs.
Her bathroom is rather messy and there are flecks of toothpaste on the mirror.
My pale face looks back at me steely-eyed.
I take each precious tube, brush, stick and case from her bathroom cabinet and put them one by one in the toilet bowl.
Each little splash of water fuels my anger.
I draw a broken heart on the mirror in red lipstick, then put the plug in the bath and run the hot tap.
I head for her bedroom with nail scissors in my hand and open the door.
I stand there, watching her sleep, twisting the razor-sharp scissors in my hand.
Her body is long and thin. I doubt there’s too much blood in it.
I think of it as assisted suicide. Alcohol, pills, bath and wrists.
Standard procedure for someone with a broken heart jilted by their married lover.
I take a bottle of vodka from my handbag and a large box of paracetamol.
The bath will soon be ready. I move to her bedside and stare down at her.
Even with a to-do list, I’ve struggled to make Stephen feel how I want him to feel.
What does she have that I don’t? Is it just that he wants to be needed and I don’t have needs? Men are so weak.
By her bedside is a notebook from Liberty decorated with pretty pink and purple flowers.
There’s a pen beside it. I can’t imagine what someone like Georgie has to write about.
I open it and immediately realize who it was that sent the anonymous letter to Stephen.
In these days of texting and sexting, Stephen didn’t even recognize her handwriting.
Was this a clever ploy to push him to the edge or even to push me to the edge?
It seems too clever for Georgie, who only managed to pass two GCSEs, one of which was PE.
Staring down at her rather innocent-looking face, I see that she’s clutching a teddy bear.
It’s so incredibly threadbare that I can only presume she’s had it since she was young.
An image of Nelly lurches from the recesses of my mind.
I see her asleep with Dolly, clutching something that she knows, as the world around her seems so unknowable.
Without thinking, I reach out and touch Georgie’s cheek.
I pull back as she stirs and find my eyes are wet with tears.
I have no idea why, but looking down, I have a sudden change of heart.
I don’t want to hurt this woman. I actually think it’s Stephen I want to kill right now, not Georgie with her teddy bear and romantic fantasy.
She just tried to win something back that she’d lost, that’s all. Nothing wrong with a trier.
I reach down and slowly prise the teddy bear from her arms. If I’m not going to kill her, I should at least be allowed to annoy her intensely.
It pleases me more than it should. I take the teddy bear, pick up the diary and leave.
Downstairs, there’s a large black leather Prada tote bag.
I have an identical one. Something tells me that Stephen bought one for each of us, which is another sudden imaginary stab against him.
I tip out the contents and drag the scissors through the sides of the bag, leaving three long gashes, like tiger claws.