Chapter 6
ELIZA
Apart from the aeroplanes overhead, well-off Bramhall was a lovely place to live for people of a certain income and age, with its trendy cafés and bars, its leafy park, the Tudor manor house and sense of safety.
You’d have to have a very good reason to want to leave, such as wanting a life with more of an edge.
Or needing to run away.
Pleasant as the cul-de-sac was, where the bungalow stood, the bank holiday weekend had been stressful and Eliza was looking forward to her walk into the village – looking forward to an escape.
She sat in an armchair, sipping a cup of tea, making the most of that magical early morning peace when she was totally alone.
The newspaper fell onto the hallway floor and the noise made her jump.
The paperboy always was especially early – the sign of a hard-working entrepreneur in the future, perhaps.
Or maybe he dreamed of a more artistic career – sculptor, architect, tattooist. Eliza had dreamt of being a dancer and her parents had paid for ballet and tap classes throughout her childhood, believing in her talents as her teachers did.
She’d watch movies starring Gene Kelly and Shirley Temple and practise the moves whenever she had a free moment, and had starred in several of the classes’ performances onstage.
But their little girl grew up and when she’d met Howard, they had agreed with him that stage lights weren’t for an ordinary Stockport girl like Eliza.
They had encouraged her to take the sensible option – the job-respectable, reliable churchgoer Howard offered her in the factory where he was supervisor.
That meant a white uniform instead of a colourful tutu, a daily soundtrack of machinery instead of Tchaikovsky.
As Howard had said to them, this would bring their daughter security and a future.
Eliza looked at the clock on her phone, got into her coat and fetched her handbag.
By the time she’d have walked into Bramhall centre, the Costa Coffee shop would be open, hoping to catch commuters heading to the office.
Heart thumping, she glanced up the stairs, wanting to get out before the mess that was her home life began another day.
Too late. Thumping came through the ceiling, along with shouts.
How much longer could she put up with this hell?
Eliza crouched down and picked up two newspapers, one being a monthly local, her snow-white bobbed hair falling over her face.
She stood up again, rubbed her back and hurried out of the house, closing the door quietly behind her, already dreading her return.
She began her walk into the village, ignoring the shouts following her, and ignoring that twinge in her back.
Eliza considered herself lucky to have reached the age of almost seventy-five in one piece.
The young barista gave Eliza a smile and prepared her regular drink; he didn’t have to ask. Black coffee, strong, large.
‘A chocolate croissant today?’ he asked.
‘Go on, why not?’ Eliza handed over cash, instantly cheered as she breathed in caffeine and listened to the pop music the shop always played which kept her current with music trends.
With a sigh of relief, she sat down at her favourite table by the window, staring at the pretty florist’s over the road, not open yet.
It was called Flowers For One. The window frames were wooden and its pebble-dash walls painted mint green.
Pretty flowerpots stood either side of the door, with a green metal bench on the left, a big, ornate heart shape in the middle of its back.
Eliza loved flowers, her favourite being the striking orange and blue bird of paradise.
Not only was it beautiful, but its shape of a bird in flight represented freedom.
As early sunrays fell onto her face, and customers queued already for their takeout lattes and cold brews, she bit into the flaky pastry and closed her eyes for a second. Simple pleasures meant everything.
Sometimes they were all you had.
Her foot tapped as a K-pop song came on.
She’d first heard it a while back. The barista was singing along and told Eliza how he’d been to one of the artist’s concerts and that the intricate choreography had been amazing.
When she’d finished eating, Eliza opened the local newspaper that she’d brought with her and flicked through, not really reading, unable to stop worrying about life at the bungalow and having to go back. On autopilot, she skimmed every page.
Then she spotted it. An advert that stopped Eliza in her tracks. Out of curiosity at first.
Life for sale! screamed the headline.
Imagine that.
Indeed the offer included everything – a temporary six-month rental contract, the first month paid, all belongings including clothes, coats and shoes, kitchen gadgets, a guitar, bits of furniture, a stack of make-up, books, even a car, and, gosh…
a cat called Boo. Plus a trial at a job in the hospitality industry and an introduction to friends. All of this for three thousand pounds.
A spike of discomfort jabbed her chest as it always did when she thought about Socks, not forgotten after decades. Her fists curled with anger that was deeply embedded in her bones, towards Howard, towards herself.
Her eyes narrowed at the photo of the mid-terrace property and half of a street name. Oh. It was in Reddish. Not that far. She took out her phone and went onto Google Maps and found another photo of the house.
For a very long time Eliza stared at the screen and she zoomed in on a lime-green, small Ford car parked outside – on double yellow lines.
Such an unusual colour. It must have been offloading something.
The house’s front door was open. Parking must have been around the back.
She could see a teddy bear in a hammock in the back window of the vehicle.
You’d have to be desperate to want to ditch your whole life so completely.
Eliza knew what it was like to be trapped and miserable.
She searched for bus times from Bramhall to Reddish, not wanting to go back to get her car. Because of him, the man making her life hell, day in, day out. No harm in taking a look. She wouldn’t be gone long. And it wasn’t as if she’d actually buy someone else’s life. That really would be desperate.