Page 51 of The Woman Who Said Yes

‘So what film did you and Lucy see?’ I ask overeagerly, just to make him laugh. He chuckles obligingly and tells me that it hadn’t been his choice. He can’t even remember what it was called, probably because all of his mental efforts are going into making a man frying eggs in a dressing gown – ‘Well, no, in a pan,’ he clarifies – sound at least mildly interesting.

‘Did you enjoy it?’ I ask.

‘It was… okay!’ he says gamely. Like the way a woman might say, after she’s had her hundred-year-old coil yanked out of her uterus, You know, it wasn’t too bad in the end!

I smile, grateful now that we’re doing this thing together, even though I’m perfectly capable of getting myself around London without Sam’s manly assistance. Although I do wish we were just heading off for a fun day in the country instead. As Sam clicks on the radio I check the satnav on my phone, as his car doesn’t have it. Another abomination, according to Theo.

‘Almost there,’ I say finally as we find ourselves in a neighbourhood of modest brick-built terraced houses.

‘Really? You reckon Dom lives around here?’

‘We don’t know that for sure,’ I remind him. ‘I was hedging my bets when I told that woman I’d been at the barbecue. But he was definitely there, wasn’t he? We saw the photo…’

‘And it was one of “Dom’s famous barbecues”,’ Sam remarks. ‘So we’re assuming he was the host, aren’t we?’

‘That’s right.’ It’s as if we’re playing it all out again, just to reassure ourselves that we haven’t made a crucial misstep. My heart quickens as we turn into Storey Road. You have arrived at your destination, the satnav tells us. ‘This is it,’ I murmur, and Sam pulls into a kerbside space.

For a moment we sit and take in our surroundings. There is no sign of an impressive riverside home undergoing a dramatic renovation in this rather ordinary street. No extensive garden being entirely remodelled – no river, even. At this point we are a fair distance from the Thames.

We climb out of the car and I indicate a house a few metres down the street. ‘I think it’s that one. Can’t see any builders though.’

‘Well, it is Sunday⁠—’

‘But look,’ I say as we approach it. ‘Nothing’s being done to it right now. There’s no work going on. Seems like it’s been this way for years, doesn’t it? Decades, even.’

Sam nods mutely as we stop to take it all in: the tiny overgrown front garden, weeds smothering the low brick wall and creeping their way down to the pavement. The badly rusting gate with most of its dull green paint having flaked away. The wheelie bin with the house number roughly daubed on it in white paint, parked next to a shabby front door.

In the downstairs room, vertical blinds are closed. The upstairs windows are shrouded in greying net curtains. There’s no sign of life here and I’m starting to think that at some point along the trail – from finding the ‘G’ in Dom’s contacts to wangling this address from a nameless woman – I’ve somehow got it all wrong.

I touch Sam’s arm. ‘We should find the back gate. That’s what she said – to come in through the back. I guess she doesn’t want to be disturbed.’

‘Let’s do it,’ he murmurs. So we stroll with affected casualness to the end of the street and turn the corner. Here we discover a weed-infested alley that runs between the bottom of the terrace’s gardens and a football field. My chest tightens as we step into it. One side is bordered by a wall, furred with moss and punctuated by waist-high wooden gates in various states of disrepair, leading to each of the gardens. On the other side, a plastic-coated mesh fence marks the edge of the football pitch.

At first we are able to walk side by side along the alleyway. But soon the untended shrubbery – still damp from a brief shower – makes it impossible. Sam takes the lead, our feet crunching lightly onto the muddle of flattened undergrowth and crisp packets and mangled drinks cans. We step over the charred remains of a small fire, into which beer bottles and takeaway cartons have been piled up neatly. It’s as if, once the party was over, someone’s mum appeared to tidy it all up.

‘Nice,’ Sam observes, glancing back at me.

‘Salubrious,’ I agree. ‘D’you think Dom was involved in the design and consultancy side of this bit?’

He smirks, and his eyes glint in the weak sunshine. ‘Can you remind me why we’re doing this again?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I admit, feeling a little sheepish now. Have I simply got carried away with all of this?

‘Let’s just have a quick look and leave,’ Sam suggests as I scan the back of the terrace.

‘Which one is it?’ I ask. ‘The gates aren’t numbered⁠—’

‘It’s the fourth house along.’ He stops, indicating the partly rotted gate to his right. I try not to look impressed that he knows this. ‘So, this one.’

‘Right.’ We peer over it in silence. Like the front, the back garden is badly neglected and overrun with rampant weeds.

‘What did the woman sound like?’ Sam murmurs.

‘Kind of… gruff, I suppose. Not exactly warm and friendly. But then, maybe she’d just got up—’ I break off at the sound of a voice. A woman’s voice, possibly filtering out from the house.

‘D’you think that’s her?’ he asks.

I strain to listen, and as my heartbeat accelerates I clutch Sam’s arm, just to reassure me that he’s here, right beside me, and if anything should happen… well, what exactly? I mean, what could Sam do to protect us? The most violent act I’ve ever seen him commit was to snap extra-long spaghetti into more manageable lengths for boiling. But still, his presence settles me a little. ‘I’m not sure,’ I whisper.