Window Dressing

Window Dressing1

Sometimes she leaves the light on all night, a dull orange glowing through heavy cream lined curtains. I know they’re cream even though it’s the lining that faces outwards, but if you look really closely you can just about make out the cream edging. It’s very tasteful, everything about her’s tasteful, her car, her clothes and of course her bedding. I love that more than anything. It’s white, hanging plain and crisp on her rotary line. Some of it has a borderie anglaise trim, all very feminine. She must smell like heaven.2

I love summer because she’s outside more often then, hanging washing, playing with those creatures, or relaxing in the sun. Those days I make sure I always check the weather forecast so I know if she’ll be out there. When the smiling blonde lady tells me it’s going to rain I feel sad because I won’t see her. If it’s hot she’ll sit on her padded chair reading but it’s best when she stretches herself on the lounger. Occasionally she falls asleep and I watch the sun playing softly along her skin. She always uses a high factor lotion, factor fifty it says and it’s usually from Boots, it makes her gleam and slippery, like an elegant fish. When she thinks she’s private she rubs the lotion along her arms and pauses briefly before slipping her fingers in. I like it when she does that, she smiles almost guiltily to herself, pulls it up, and relaxes again under that umbrella. There she lies, plugged in, sunglasses protecting her eyes, just glistening.3

When the skies darken and the clouds spit frustration she’ll soon be using either the maid or her dryer and there’s no more hanging temptations for another few months. She’d never shop at some discount store or anywhere like that, her bags come from the tasteful high street chains, not cheap mass-produced rubbish. When she buys new clothes and she does this regularly, she always tries them on as soon as she’s home. She leaps up her stairs, two at a time probably, flinging her coat onto the banister, desperate to see what she looks like in her full-length mirror. And she buys a lot, dresses, trousers, jackets, cardigans, skirts, and other things. Most of the time she draws the curtains, but I know she’s standing there, gazing at herself. I can’t blame her. My favourite time is when she forgets, not thinking anyone would ever notice, but I do.4

She’s quite vain, always tweaking and brushing, smiling at her reflection, almost as if she’s daring herself to go that little bit further each time she stands there. As I said, summer’s my favourite, no more full-length dressing gowns and cotton pyjamas. She likes standing in her window, watching those creatures play fight on the lawn, laughing, hands on her hips, the painted nails gripping her flesh. When the light’s perfect there’s nothing hidden from me but she doesn’t seem to be bothered. She keeps her windows ajar in the warm weather too, and I can hear her, and him. I have to close mine tight to shut him out, I don’t want to know what’s going on in there, hear him grunting like the pig he must be. He’s quite different from what I expected. I always thought she’d prefer the business type, you know, a manager, lawyer or perhaps even a doctor, someone with a neat suit and tidy hair. The type of man who might drive a BMW 3 series, and play squash to keep himself in shape. That’s how I’d like to be, fine wine, foreign cinema and cricket, not like him. He looks like he’s dressed himself under a hedge, and neither does he seem particularly clean, though I’m sure he must be, she wouldn’t allow his dirt to soil her skin, but he’s never clean-shaven. He must scratch her, but she doesn’t seem to mind. At least he’s not there all the time, I don’t understand how he can bear to leave her on her own but he does.5

She sings softly to herself when she hangs his things out. He wears check shorts under those tatty blue pants he seems to live in, and I see her patting them tenderly as she pegs them up, as if she’s reliving the feel of his flesh inside. Those shorts really disgust me, especially when the wind blows them into the tiny transparent triangles that appear when he’s there. When he’s gone it’s all cotton shorts, sometimes they match the surprisingly large moulded cups she can’t possibly fill.6

I hate it when he talks to her from upstairs and you can easily tell what he isn’t wearing, but he doesn’t care. Some of the things they exchange shouldn’t be heard in public but she likes it. It’s better when he’s away, and I often wonder about what he must do for his money. He’s too unkempt to be a professional, even when he cut that bird’s nest hair he looked like a thug. She hated it when he first turned up with it. I heard her, everyone did.7

‘What’ve you done that for?’ she was almost shrieking at him. ‘You know how I love it long.’ Her voice was beginning to catch, the tears waiting. ‘It was getting too long, getting in the way. It’ll grow quickly, you know it always does.’8

‘But why all of it?’ she was relentless. ‘Why can’t you ever just trim it? Surely you didn’t have to shave it all off like this?’9

‘It’s easier. Don’t worry, it’ll grow, it’ll grow.’10

He’s always able to pacify her, I was glad the windows were shut then. Even more glad when he suddenly snapped the curtains to because he was already half naked, he looked like a new egg. I’m happier when he’s gone, but she isn’t, that’s when her light’s on all night. She’s probably talking to him, wherever he’s gone, or crying into her pillow, missing him I suppose. I hope she’s just reading, she’s a great reader, that house must be full of books. 11

I thought my heart would crack when I first saw the sign poking from the front lawn. I gasped, feeling the tears already pricking at my eyes, blurring the image of the estate agent’s men hammering my sentence into the turf. It’s his doing, she wouldn’t choose to leave, he must have decided for her. She was standing in her doorway, I hadn’t noticed she’d had the dusty red freshly painted, just smiling and joking. She was wearing her jeans, the wide legged ones she likes, a t shirt with the name of some band or other emblazoned across her chest, she’s a great fan, and her toes painted scarlet as usual.12

‘Think it’ll sell quickly?’ she was asking. ‘I’ve tidied it up a lot, had a declutter, you know that type of thing.’ I’d wondered about all those black bin bags loaded into the boot.13

‘Shouldn’t have too much trouble with this one love,’ one of the men leered. How dare he call her his love, he doesn’t know her. ‘Great for a couple this. You been here long? You’ve got it nice.’14

‘Few years.’15

‘You staying local?’16

‘No, off to the sunshine.’17

‘Really? Big change then? Can’t blame you. I’d love to live in the sun, but the wife won’t have it. Kids settled and all that. Good for you girl. New life eh?’18

‘Oh definitely a new life. Can’t be any worse than this one. It’s a nice area though, quiet, no one bothers you, I like that.’19

‘Can’t really ask for more than that can you?’20

I was virtually blind by then, my breath clawing at my throat, all I wanted to do was flee and I hated him so much. This was all his fault, his doing. He’s making her leave me. I thought his accent was out of place, the cut of his scruffy clothes different and no wonder I never saw him in a car. 21

All I could do was log on and locate her details, just to be inside with her again. They always take pictures, it quickens the sale, and she’s no exception. I’m not interested in their estate agent speak, I know how many bedrooms she has, how large her lounge is, how her attic’s converted for storage and how her garage is accessed through the kitchen. What I didn’t know fully was the contents of that bedroom, the carved bed with the familiar white linen, the artistic prints and an overlarge photograph of a bespectacled man dominating one wall. The fairy lights were something of a surprise, draped almost childishly above her bed, the bed I know he’s slept in, with her. I’m sure he leaves things in that chest of drawers, or the wardrobe; his checked shorts, his scruffy polo shirts and those baggy pants next to her clothes, contaminating them. The furniture’s co-ordinating, of course and everything’s immaculately neat. She must have spent hours sorting because I know she isn’t always the tidiest, her windows went unwashed for nearly three years. The carpet’s red throughout; one room’s used as a sort of office study space, complete with trendy notebook computer and a wall of books. She probably surfs the net in there. Surprisingly the bathroom’s tiny, I’m not sure how even she fits into that bath, perhaps that’s why she prefers a shower. I know how she stands under the gush, first washing her hair and working downwards. It’s worse when he’s there, the shower’s on more than ever, and for longer. I’m glad the frosted glass protects me.22

The lounge is tasteful and comfortable though it’s a room I’m not familiar with. Two sofas in a subdued sage look accommodating even though one’s clearly longer. That’s probably the one he swings his legs onto. I’d love to sink into its softness, watch her flat-screened TV, fashionably hanging from the wall, or listen to her music on the state of the art I-pod station. I certainly hear that floating out of the ever-open kitchen door when it’s warmer. Yet more books line the walls, along with DVDs, cds, the usual trappings of someone like her. It’s a home anyone would love, I know how happy I could find myself in there. I’d sit neatly on her sofa, he probably just sprawls open legged, leaving his shoes on when he first walks in. I’d never do that. I’d never leave my mug to grow cold on the wooden floor, I’d make sure it went straight into the dishwasher because I’d never let her dirty her hands with washing up. He likes to cook but I don’t see him hanging his shorts out. He watches her do that, a leering smirk on his face, unshaven as ever, but he never offers to help. 23

Her kitchen’s quite plain, light coloured units, the usual photos and magnets on the fridge, a microwave and built in hob and oven. He’s the only one who uses it, she prefers the ping of a ready meal but not him. He fancies himself a chef, chopping, dicing, slicing, stirring, tasting. The smells are always more exotic when he’s there and I hope he chokes on it.24

The price seems reasonable enough, perhaps she doesn’t need the money wherever she’s going. I take the virtual tour, feeling her presence in all the images I visit. She may have decluttered, following the advice of that irritating style guru on TV I suppose, but it’s still her home, she’ll never alter that. No one else should live there, she’s special. No one else would do what she does or wear her clothes with such grace. I can’t think, I don’t want to think of anyone else standing in front of the mirror or gazing out of her smeary windows. Then suddenly it’s easy, I know exactly what I must do, the site’s telling me. I can do it online or by phone, how simple, but I pause, something holds me a moment. Perhaps I’ll just read the details again, retrace the images, spend a little more time just thinking about her alone in her house. He probably won’t be back for a while, perhaps not until she’s ready to leave, so there’s no one else now. He’s only a phone line away but it’s far enough. 25

There, I know what to do now, it’s clear. Click on the hyper link, that’s it, all done. All I need do is wait for the response. Anyone can do it, it’s simple, takes little more than minutes and the agent’s replied. He’s called Jeff, I note the trendy abbreviation, and he’s arranged it all. He asks me when would be convenient, giving me the times she’s suggested as best for her. I tell him my choice and he promises to mail me straight away or would I prefer a call? No, e-mail’s fine, thank you I reply, I don’t trust my voice enough to share an actual conversation. Give me ten minutes he says, and that’s all it takes. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, after all it’s another day.26