Mrs Snipcock said, “Hah! That’ll teach you. I’ll be spending Tuesday mornings at Mega Bingo then, thank you very much.” Mega Bingo in Tooting High Street, was Mrs Snipcock’s other vice and she was already looking forward to the addition of next Tuesday to her thrice weekly session plus jacket potato with beans and a double portion of grated cheddar on top. She carried on chatting to herself as she shifted upstairs, vacuum cleaner and polish in hand. Brenda was blushing as the depth and scope of her crime began to sink in. An accident, a terrible accident and she’d stolen the car. Two hours later when Mrs Snipcock banged the front door shut behind her, Brenda was only just beginning to rouse herself from the shock and horror of what she had done.
It was cold sitting there so Brenda crept cautiously down the basement steps to begin her investigation of Audrey’s house, bottom to top. The basement was dimly lit by small ceiling height windows, and she found herself in a cosy little guestroom with an en suite bathroom. She was alone for at least a week and no one knew where or who she was. It was as if she didn’t exist. She would stay here, out of the way, hidden and preparing for reinvention, although she wasn’t sure into what.
Now there are choices to be made, a whole vista of possibilities stretches before her, but she can’t see them. Brenda’s first decision is to read through Audrey’s Filofax. It said no one was coming to the house this week except an Ocado delivery on Tuesday which is today and a man coming to fix the boiler also today, but later. Audrey has an appointment to meet C in St. J on Wednesday at noon. No number. The daughter, Brenda knew, was somewhere far away.
Brenda fetches the suitcase from the car, carrying it bold and brave up the narrow stairs to a nonbedroom that looks like a study. A halfstair up past a bathroom tiled in greys and pale greens, and she’s in Audrey’s bedroom, a space warm with spiced oils and shades of subtle rose. Mrs Snipcock has traced lawnlike stripes on the plush damask carpet and polished every surface in the ensuite bathroom to a dazzle. Brenda places the small suitcase on the massive bed and slowly unpacks. Who is this tidy organised woman? Can I have her life? Would she mind if Brenda borrowed some clothes from that rack she’d glimpsed in the study perhaps? Yes she would. Would she mind if Brenda accepted the Ocado delivery? Probably not. Brenda puts everything back in the suitcase, making sure that it is exactly as she found it, leaving it on the floor and closing the door behind her. She explores three more rooms marked with anonymous convention, ending at last at the top of the house hemmed in with rooftops and views of chimney pots. Everywhere is tidy organised. Even the boxes of papers and files are neatly arranged, numbered, dated, labelled.
Returning to the study she sees more of Audrey. Shelves are stacked with fashion magazines organised by date in regimented rows. On the walls are framed prints of clothes, designers, strange blockish art and paintings of shoes, all against blood red walls. The huge bay window is curtained in heavy black velvet and the window seat a riot of satin cushions in reds and pinks that Mrs Snipcock has arranged with geometric precision. The furniture is old, polished and carefully positioned. Every picture placed just so. The rack of clothes behind the desk confuses Brenda, but she daren’t touch anything. Looking out across the room through the large bay window, Brenda could see the square with its gated gardens steaming, as spring sunshine hit the damp greens. In the study Brenda finds pictures of a young woman, and one of mother and child, from some other world. Now she knows that Audrey looks like. And Fiona. They are on some azure blue seafront, eyes squinting, a slight breeze rustling their hair. Audrey is taller than her daughter, heavier, with a deep tan glowing through a fine white lawn shirt. Her teeth are perfect and she seems to be laughing. A man features in many pictures. Jolly big, sunglasses hiding much of his face in most of them. There are pictures of them together, all against that amazing sky. All of them smiling and happy. It’s almost suspicious.
Brenda finds letters, all neatly organised, filed, tidy, perfect. Invoices to clients in dwindling numbers. There are many books organised by genre, and author name, and publication date. In a desk drawer there is a stack of bills neatly held in a bulldog clip and arranged by amounts owing. They go from quite high to eyewatering and Brenda is amazed as she tots it all up in her head. Other drawers hold pencils and pens, paper clips, coloured pencils and sketch books, fabric scraps, colour combinations and strange shapes, annotated. She reads aloud: “Block print ambers and gold. Leopard skin prints. BAFTA”. This is Audrey. Brenda has no knowledge that can help her put it all together. But the numbers, those bills, the blue skies and smiles tell something of the tale.
Settled back in the basement, rather than sprawling too much across Audrey’s life, Brenda wonders what should happen next. Luke’s world is gone, he can’t reach her, but what should happen now, and what should happen after that? She won’t turn on the phone yet even though the original plan and the revised one to wait for Audrey to come home, apologise to her and ask for help wasn’t going to work. But Brenda hasn’t had to make a decision for herself in years, so where to start? Food. Tea. Watch the television. Have a nap. The answering machine might help. She listens to the answering machine messages again, all of them. She builds up more pictures of Audrey and her daughter, whose name she now knows is Fiona. When the phone rings again Brenda is ready. Years of lying to social services have left her surprisingly adept at deceit.
“Audrey Saxton’s phone”, she purrs. “Hello Audrey good, this is Leonie, Camilla’s new assistant.” “Hello Leonie” says Brenda in her best telephone voice. “This is Brenda. I am sorry Audrey isn’t here at the moment, can I help you?” Heat rising across her throat and flushing hot her face make Brenda’s voice sound breathy and slightly distant. “Oh, it’s just that Camilla has to cancel this week’s session. She’s stuck in Cornwall unexpectedly and won’t be back in town until next week. We’re sorry for the late notice, but wanted to let Audrey know to save a wasted journey. Do you think she could just put it on the bill?” “Of course, Leonie, don’t worry about it. I’ll make sure Audrey gets the message. Is there anything else?” There wasn’t and Brenda hung up the phone letting out a long sigh and making a note in Audrey’s Filofax that the meeting with Camilla was cancelled. She was beginning to think clothes were involved.