The Girl Next Door (20 page)

‘Are you so fucking miserable that you need to spread it wherever you go?’ The same tone of voice he’d used on the beach. It was so new and so hard. It frightened her.

Jason viewed the prospect of Kim’s tears with impatience and distaste. What did she have to cry about? She’d ruined the afternoon and evening for him. Rachael hadn’t come near either of them again, until right at the end as they were leaving. Avery had grown irritable and loud, although the other children had lain silently on the cool sand, in the laps of their parents, watching the fireworks, enraptured.

They were toxic – all three of them. They were toxic and he didn’t know why, or when it had happened. And he hated it.

Kim slept with Avery that night, in self‐imposed exile, although he raised no objection as she collected her pillows and a blanket from the end of their bed, but he couldn’t doze off. The air was still and his mind was racing. At around 3 a.m. he got up in search of cold water. Coming back upstairs, he stopped at the door to Avery’s room. His daughter had climbed in with his wife at some point, and the two of them lay, their faces together, entwined in the narrow bed. Kim had one arm across Avery protectively, and Avery in turn had one tiny hand on Kim’s neck. He felt a jolt of tenderness, so unfamiliar it was almost shocking. He stood and watched them for a while, bathed in the same moonlight of a lifetime ago.

Back in his own bed, Jason sat with his head in his hands and wept – something he hadn’t done, so far as he could remember, since the day Avery had been born.

Rachael

In Southampton, the caterers had just finished clearing up. Leftovers that would feed a small village were wrapped and stacked in the two enormous Sub‐Zero refrigerators in the chef’s kitchen. Rachael’s parents had gone to bed. So had the kids, utterly exhausted. Mia and Jacob had been asleep already, barely stirring when David hoisted them on one shoulder and carried them upstairs to bed. Rachael was lying on the enormous wicker sofa on the terrace, her feet up on David’s lap. The ocean beyond the house was their soundtrack. This was always the best part of the party, Rachael realized with a smile. When everyone had gone home happy, and it was quiet again. She was almost asleep herself. She and the kids had been up, sailing, by 7 a.m., while David had played golf at the Salisbury with some friends from work. He’d burned his nose. He always burned his nose. Long, lovely day. It had been golden. That’s what they called those days when you wouldn’t change a second. Their first one had been the day in the surf, all those years ago. They’d had more than their fair share, she reasoned. And this had been another one. Lucky, lucky them. She thought of Jason and Kimberley, just for a moment, the image of them and the way they looked at each other passing over her golden mood like a black rain cloud.

This had been fun, but she was also eager to get to Connecticut. They’d drive up tomorrow, take the two ferries required. If they left after breakfast, the kids could be in the pool by early afternoon. She’d taken the rest of the week off, and Millie was taking some holiday time, so it would just be the five of them for the next four days. Bliss.

‘So we’ll head off in the morning?’

David was rubbing her feet. His hands slowed, and the pressure of his touch lessened. ‘Aah.’

‘What?’

‘I meant to tell you earlier, only it’s been a crazy day.’

‘Tell me what?’

‘I’ve got to go into work tomorrow. Next two days, most likely. Got a call this morning, while I was on the golf course. Some new information on a biggish case we’ve got pending…’

‘Which absolutely has to be dealt with this week?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Fourth of July week?’

‘They go to trial at the beginning of next week, so yes, I’m afraid so.’

‘Well, that stinks! I was looking forward to the rest of the week – just us.’

He leant down and kissed the big toe on each of her feet. ‘Me, too. Of course. And I will be there on Friday night without fail, even if I incur the wrath of the senior partner. I swear. We’ll have the weekend. Promise.’

Rachael stuck her bottom lip out petulantly. ‘I suppose I have to live with it,’ she said sulkily.

He mimicked her tone. ‘Yes, you do.’

‘Well, all right then. But you have to make it up to me.’

‘Anything! Your wish is my command, m’lady.’

‘Mmm. So let’s start with the foot rub. Pick up the pace a little, will you? I’ve had better from Mia.’

David picked up her left foot and chewed on her little toe playfully. ‘You have, have you?’

She squirmed and squealed, trying to free her foot from his tight grip. He held her down with one hand and moved his lips up her calf, across her knee, and on to her bare, brown thigh. The mood changed in a heartbeat. ‘Anything else?’

Not so giggly now, Rachael moved her hands to the back of his head, pulling him a little northward on his delicious journey, and ran her fingers into his hair, across his earlobes. ‘I can probably think of something… we should go inside…’

‘Why? When did you get so prudish? Your parents are in bed. The kids are dead to the world…’

‘Mmm… prudish. How dare you!’

‘I want you now, Rach. Right here and right now…’

David

Early the next morning, when Rachael had dropped him at the Jitney stop in town (he having refused her offer to drive out to Westport via Manhattan to drop him off ), David’s heart sank slightly when he recognized Jason Kramer in the fifth row. The bus was very quiet – most people must be staying out to make a long weekend of it – and he couldn’t avoid his gaze. Jason looked up from his book and waved, and David slumped into the double seat across from his neighbour.

‘You got to work, too?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Stings to leave, hey?’

‘Absolutely.’

This verbal badminton was a stretch for him at this time in the morning. He wanted to drink his coffee and doze and watch the rural landscape turn urban. He didn’t want to chew the fat with Jason Kramer.

‘Great party last night. Those fireworks were spectacular.’

‘Rachael’s parents throw a great fourth of July party.’

‘It must have been thousands of dollars, just for the pyrotechnics.’

David had lived in New York for a lot of years now, but he’d never quite got used to the money conversation. He never really wanted to discuss how much he’d paid for his car, or his apartment, or his kids’ tuition or his wife’s engagement ring – all areas completely within bounds for a New Yorker, it seemed.

‘Suppose. They don’t consult me on their party budget.’ He knew he sounded testy, and Jason looked a little discomfited. Good. So he should.

‘No, no, of course. I just meant that they were amazing.’

‘They were.’ David nodded, and half smiled, letting Jason off the hook.

‘And Rachael looked wonderful. You’re a lucky man, David.’

‘That, I do know.’

He knew, too, that this was an appropriate opportunity to reciprocate, but he didn’t feel entirely comfortable complimenting Jason on Kim. She didn’t do much for him, to be honest. Sour‐faced, and a bit of a mess, most of the time, though she hadn’t looked bad last night, from a distance, which was as close as he’d gotten.

Still…

‘You, too! Avery’s grown. She’s going to be a tall one, that girl.’

‘Eighty‐fifth centile for her age.’ God, Jason didn’t believe he’d said that. Kim recited these numbers at him after every visit to the paediatrician (and there seemed to be a disproportionate number of visits to the paediatrician). He wasn’t even sure what that meant, to be honest. But he knew it was good, as far as Kim was concerned.

David looked vaguely puzzled, too. Guess he didn’t know what it meant, either. Jason tried to look busy with his BlackBerry for a few minutes, sending emails and listening to voicemails. There weren’t that many. He could probably have stayed out on Long Island for the next day or two. If he’d wanted to. He looked at David, who was dozing now, his head lolling back against the headrest of the seat. Jason didn’t give much thought to other men’s good looks, but he took a long hard stare at David now that he had the chance. He was handsome, but not conventionally so. And not especially so. His suit was expensive, Jason could see that, but his whole look was less Wall Street, more Venice Beach – the Californian in him would not be constrained by a navy, light wool single‐breasted and a Ferragamo tie. Curls escaped from where they had been brushed back, and his hair was definitely a little too long at the back. His nose was red from too much sun. He’d hung his suit jacket on the hook beside the seat, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone beneath the loose tie. Jason could see thick, dark hair. And good muscle definition, underneath the shirt. David must be a regular at the gym.

This was the man who slept beside Rachael Schulman every night. The man who got to touch her whenever he wanted; to hold that smooth, brown, taut little body in his arms, and have those chocolate‐brown eyes look into his with love and desire and happiness.

What the hell was he doing on the first Jitney on 5th July?

He’d watched them say goodbye. Rachael had been leaning against their car. She had to have just tumbled out of bed into it. Her hair wasn’t as tamed as he was used to seeing it, although he liked it like that – big and wild. She was wearing voluminous floral trousers, the waistband too big, so that they sat low on her hips, and he could see her flat stomach. And a white vest, with thin straps.

David had kissed her, open‐mouthed, one hand holding her head, the other pulling her arse in towards his hips, possessively. It was a kiss other people were not meant to see, but Jason had watched every second of it.

And he knew for certain that he would not be on the 7.30 a.m. Jitney if he had that at home.

Traffic was light. David opened his eyes and they were already in Queens. Twenty‐five minutes later he said goodbye to Jason, and was standing on the sidewalk in midtown. It was going to be another relentlessly hot day. Already the oppressive, heavy dampness of midsummer midtown hung in the air.

He flipped open his cell, and dialled a number, simultaneously hailing a cab. Uptown.

‘It’s me.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Fifties and Third.’

‘Already? You must be keen.’

‘I’m keen, all right? That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it?’

‘I’m waiting.’

He hung up, and climbed into the yellow cab that had stopped next to him. He gave his destination, then sat back, and wiped the sweat beads that had already formed from his brow.

Jason watched the cab pull away, wondering why David would be heading north when he knew his office was at Grand Central, about a block or so east.

Emily

Emily had begun doing mini triathlons in her first year at high school. She’d always been sporty. At first she’d done them in teams. She could swim or cycle, although she preferred to run. She’d been a senior when she’d done her first solo event – a half triathlon. And a freshman at college when she’d completed her first full one. This would be her fourth, and her first in New York City.

At home, her mum would have come to cheer her on, but here she kept it pretty quiet. No one at work knew she did it. It wasn’t about support, for Emily. It was about being alone. She’d never cared much for team sports. She liked to compete against herself, not other people – her satisfaction came from shaving seconds off her time, not from beating the competitor next to her. She’d told Charlotte, who’d said she was her hero and that she was in awe of her. But Charlotte was going home to Seattle that weekend for a cousin’s wedding, so she wouldn’t be around. Which was fine. She’d make a fuss, Emily knew, because she was sweet and kind, but Emily didn’t like a fuss.

Her mum had given her her bike for her twenty‐first birthday. She knew it had cost a fortune – she must have saved for ages. It was a Kestrel Talon, carbon road bike, with a frame weight of less than one and a half kilograms. There’d never been a lot of money for extras. Enough for what she needed, always, but her mum would have gone without to buy the bike. There was a bike room in the building, but there was no way Emily would leave it there among the rusty sit‐up‐and‐begs and kids’ bikes with training wheels. It lived up on a hook on her living‐room wall, which was fine with her because she thought it was more beautiful than art. Actually, to her, it was art.

The run was still her favourite. Ten kilometres. A breeze if you hadn’t swum and cycled first. You used your legs as economically as you could during the swim, but your thighs were still like jelly after 40km on the bike. It was the Hudson swim that made her most nervous this time. Not the swimming so much as the water. She didn’t like the human soup part of the race – even though they were in groups, split into amateurs and professionals, and then, as amateurs, again, into age and gender packs – that first part, when everyone charged in, and jockeyed for position in the water, that part could make her feel panicky.

She’d spent three months’ spare cash on a new wet‐suit – specifically designed for this event. It meant you didn’t have to change, and that would save minutes. Coming out of the water was the worst.

The adrenalin was coursing through her. She loved that feeling. She could get addicted. Last summer, she’d gone paragliding, back in Oregon. Same feeling – hot and breathless and excited. You couldn’t explain the rush to someone – they had to feel it.

She’d just finished registering in the tent. They’d written her race number on her arm and leg – 1232 – with a Sharpie marker, and put a timing band around her wrist. She would set off in twenty minutes. The weather was pretty much perfect. It was early, so it wasn’t too hot yet. The forecast promised relatively low humidity for this time of year, although the sun would be hot by the time she got to the run. She wondered if she needed the bathroom, and decided that it was just nerves. She jogged on the spot for a minute or two, and swung her arms from side to side. This was the worst bit. She just wanted to get on with it.

The swim took 28 minutes. She’d been right – the first part, until things spread out a bit – was grim. Too many bodies, too many flailing arms and kicking legs. Someone had kicked her, hard, in the right hip – she’d have a bruise tomorrow. She’d been worried, too, about swallowing too much dirty water, but in the splashing, it was impossible not to. Good time, though. Not her personal best, but good enough. She’d been working hard on the bike. It was there she was hoping to shave off minutes. She’d done the last 40km in 59 minutes. But last week, in training, she’d managed 54. She ran out of the water, ignoring the shaking in her thighs, and oblivious to the large group of cheering supporters gathered behind the tapes at 79th and Riverside, found her bicycle, and climbed on, slipping her feet into the special shoes attached to the pedals.