There was nothing there.
She felt an icy chill crawl up her spine. She broke out in a rash of goose pimples that were so sharp they hurt her. She could, literally, feel her hair rising from her scalp, as if pulled by a magnet.
For some moments she wanted to shout for Paul to come up. But if she told him what she had just seen it would sound stupid, she thought. And besides, she knew that he was well aware she did not love this house, but had agreed to buying it and moving here because it was a good investment opportunity. With his logical mind, he would give her an explanation that would make perfect, rational sense.
So she said nothing.
They went to dinner with their friends and had a great time. Later, in the taxi heading home, nicely fuzzed with several glasses of the delicious wine Paul had chosen, Meg dismissed what she had seen earlier. It had been her imagination working overtime, she decided. They went to bed, and all was fine. All was fine again, throughout Sunday. And Monday.
On Tuesday, one of Paul’s clients had invited them both to a dinner at the Hotel du Vin in Brighton. Paul warned her in advance that the client was big in international media, rich and flash, and to dress to kill.
After several hours of retail therapy on the Monday, Megan again sat in front of her dressing table mirror at 6.30 p.m. on the Tuesday night, putting the finishing touches to her make-up. Then she saw the one-legged woman again, standing behind her.
She spun around in her chair.
And again saw nothing.
But this time she was convinced it wasn’t her imagination.
In the back of the taxi on the way to dinner, she was about to tell Paul what she had seen when the cab driver, a strange little man, suddenly said, ‘Nice perfume, madam. Armani Code?’
‘Yes!’ she said, delighted. ‘How did you know?’
‘Oh, I know these things, uh-huh.’
She grinned at Paul and squeezed his hand. Then she whispered to her husband, ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’
‘What is it?’
‘Later.’
‘I’m all ears!’
Shortly before midnight as a taxi dropped them home, she waited until they had entered the house and closed the front door behind them. Then, emboldened by a little too much wine, she told Paul what she had seen on Saturday night, and again tonight.
Maybe it was because he had drunk too much also, but his reaction was less sceptical than she had been expecting. ‘If she’s appeared so vividly, why don’t you paint her portrait, darling?’
‘Maybe I will,’ she replied thoughtfully.
Despite a hangover the next morning, Meg set up a fresh canvas on her easel in the living room, then sketched in pencil, the way she always began any portrait, the woman’s head and shoulders. So clear was her memory of what she had seen that within half an hour she had begun painting. The face of a handsome woman in her early fifties, with elegant, brown wavy hair tinged grey in places, and wearing a soft green cardigan over a cream blouse, began to appear. As she stood back for a few moments, she noticed a sad expression in the woman’s face.
She reminded her of someone, and then she realized who. She looked a little like a younger, less beautiful and less vivacious sister of the actress Joan Collins.
She was so absorbed in her work that two hours passed without her being aware. Then the ringing of the doorbell cut through her concentration.
She was irritated by the interruption, and for a moment was tempted to ignore it and carry on. But there was a ton of stuff she had ordered online for the house, so she put down her brush and walked through to the front door, not wanting to risk missing a delivery.
To her surprise, a pleasant-looking silver-haired woman of about sixty stood there. She was dressed in a baggy tracksuit top, shapeless brown slacks and trainers. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Jenny Marples. My husband and I live right opposite you, at number 17. I’m also the local Neighbourhood Watch co-ordinator. Just thought I’d pop over and say hello to our new neighbours!’
‘Nice to meet you,’ Meg said, and she meant it. So far she’d not seen a soul in the street, and had been planning to pop round to all their immediate neighbours to introduce herself. She invited Jenny Marples in for a cup of tea, which the woman enthusiastically accepted.
They went first into the kitchen, which Meg was a little embarrassed about as it was so drab and still very untidy, part of the work surface and the table still piled with crockery and kitchen utensils she had not yet found a permanent home for. While the kettle was coming to the boil, Jenny Marples said, ‘We barely met the previous owners, you see, they were here for such as short time. They moved in, and then, almost before we’d even got to know their names, they’d gone! Overseas, I’m told.’
‘Abu Dhabi. Do you take milk? Sugar?’
She set their cups and saucers on a tray, shook out some chocolate digestives onto a plate, then led the way through into the living room.
‘You’re an artist?’ Jenny exclaimed.
‘A struggling one! I’m hoping to get some commissions.’
‘You’re good!’ her neighbour said. ‘That is really—’
Then she stopped in her tracks and peered more closely at the portrait on the easel. She turned, with a frown. ‘Is that yours, or did you find that here?’
‘It’s mine,’ Meg said, setting the tray down on the coffee table. ‘Sort of a work in progress.’ Then she caught the strange look on Jenny Marples’ face. ‘Found it here? What do you mean, exactly?’
‘Well… that’s extraordinary! You see—’ her neighbour’s voice trailed off. She stared back at Meg. ‘Is it someone you know?’
Meg felt her face redden. ‘Well, not exactly, no. I—’ She watched the woman’s face closely, feeling a deepening sense of unease as she peered even more intently at the portrait.
‘That’s Alwyn!’ she declared. ‘Alwyn Hughes! You painted this? You really painted this?’
‘I did.’
‘The likeness is incredible. I mean it, incredible. It’s her!’
‘Alwyn Hughes?’
‘You must have copied this from something? A photograph perhaps?’
‘I’m sorry, I’m not with you.’
‘She used to live here!’
Meg felt the goosebumps rising up her back. ‘When… when was that?’
‘You don’t know?’
‘I don’t. Please tell me.’
The two women sat down opposite each other on the sofas. Jenny looked at her strangely, then back at the portrait again. ‘You didn’t hear the story? The estate agent didn’t tell you?’
‘The estate agent told us the previous owners had only been here a short while. Shortly after they moved in, the husband was offered a very lucrative contract for a five-year posting in Abu Dhabi. My husband, Paul, who’s an accountant, explained to me that if you want to go into tax exile, you cannot own a home in the UK — so I understand that is the reason why they had to sell the house.’
Jenny Marples nodded. ‘That would make sense. They were such a nice couple; they fitted so nicely into the neighbourhood. We were all sorry when they left so suddenly.’ She sipped her tea, then glanced at her watch.
‘What didn’t the agent tell us?’ Meg asked.
‘It was really so sad, so sad. Alwyn and her husband moved here around the same time that my husband, Clive, and I did. She loved this house so much — well, you know,’ she said, tapping her nose in a conspiratorial way, ‘this is rather an exclusive area. A lot of people dream of living in Hove 4. It was a bit of a financial stretch for them, but her husband had a job with good prospects, she told me, and although they had mortgaged up to the hilt, their children had grown up and were off their hands, so she hoped that within a few years their financial situation would improve considerably. But they had the most terrible luck.’