Two Doors Away Read online

  For Dad

  Contents

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Elle Spellman

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Why now? Why tonight, of all nights?

  I don’t want to hear it. Not that song, not now. But as the opening piano notes grow in familiarity – in volume, in confidence – I have no choice but to listen, to feel my world collapse all over again.

  I turn on the taps in a hasty attempt to drown out the sound, but the song is still there, echoing around the bathroom, making it feel as though the walls of this already tiny box are closing tightly, tightly in.

  Every night, at exactly 10 p.m., my next-door neighbours sit down to play the piano. Number 26, the neat house with the glossy red door and the hanging baskets filled with bright geraniums. On the other side of the wall they play, loud and beautiful, the nightly melodies drifting into my own little world. Not all noisy neighbours are annoying, inconvenient – sometimes, they’re a blessing. They can unknowingly brighten your day. They can give you something to look forward to of an evening, to sing along to, make the world feel that little less lonely.

  Until now.

  Now, I just want it to stop. I want that song to go away. That particular tune comes complete with a memory I don’t want to relive.

  Gripping the side of the bathtub, I haul myself out and don’t bother to dry, leaving puddles in my wake as I head for the other room. It’s much louder in there, the song gathering intensity with every note. My musical neighbour is on a roll tonight.

  ‘Stop!’ I shout, tapping lightly against the magnolia wall.

  The music continues.

  ‘Stop!’ Louder this time.

  I hit harder, shout some more, until I’m screaming, pounding my fists against the hard plaster, the barrier between us. I hit and hit until my hands are red and numb.

  ‘Stop! Please.’

  I’m tired. I’m exhausted. I can’t take this.

  Why now, why this song, why tonight of all nights?

  ‘For fuck’s sake! Shut. The fuck. Up!’

  My legs give way for the second time today and I crumple in a heap, a naked, wet heap on the cold floor of my bedsit, angry tears streaming down my face.

  The music stops.

  On the other side of the wall, there’s a distinct thump of a piano lid closing. Then silence. It falls like a blanket over my tiny room.

  And suddenly, I wish I could take it all back.

  STEPH HIGGINS

  Facebook Memories

  #MadeTheMove #NewHome #NewCity #NewLife

  Hi, gorgeous people! Sorry for the week of radio silence. But – drum roll – it finally happened. I’ve moved. Hello, glorious new home. Hello, Bristol!

  You know when I said America was an unforgettable adventure? It was. But while there I realised things need to change. It came as a mild epiphany during a crisp, early morning jog through Central Park (you’ve got to try it once!). Which, I’ll admit, was after one too many cocktails.

  Anyway, something became astoundingly clear: I didn’t want the excitement to end. I need to be away, visiting new places, trying a new life on for size. It’s always been the way for me. So after some time, and some soul-searching (and apartment-hunting – my God, I have stories!), I can confirm I’ve left Weston.

  I need the adventure. So let the fun commence.

  And the unpacking!

  Comments:

  Jack: Good luck, Steph! Although why you didn’t take me with you will remain a mystery. We shared so well at uni! I miss our pub crawls. And how you always did my washing-up. (You know I love you.) Have a great time.

  Amanda: Yaaay! I’m so happy for you. And excited. Not that I’m surprised. When we were kids you were barely able to sit still for longer than five minutes. I’ll call you tomorrow. X

  Alisha: When did you get back from the States?! We need to meet up! Let me know when you’re back home. Gutted I missed you before you left. I want to hear all about that guy from the bar on your Insta …

  Claire: Where are the pics of this new place of yours then??

  Amanda: Yes, we require photos! Also, ‘apartment’? Babe, you were in America for a mere five months. It’s a flat.

  Miles: This is great news, Steph. I’m glad to hear you’re doing so well after … well, after what happened. I hope your new home is amazing and everything you hoped for. Would still love to talk to you. Call me at some point? X

  Sent Items

  TWO YEARS AGO

  From: Steph Higgins

  To: Amanda Higgins

  Subject: Re: Moved!

  Hi, Mand!

  It’s been two weeks since moving and I’m loving every minute! There are some serious perks to having your own space. Behold:

  PROS OF LIVING ALONE:

  The bed’s always half-empty, so you can have the entire thing to yourself. Miles would always conduct an entire bed takeover during the night, inching his way closer and closer to the middle, and I’d wake up holding on to the edge of the mattress for dear life. Now? I can spread out like a starfish Every. Single. Night. It’s utter bliss.

  You can leave clutter wherever you damn well please. OK, so I’m currently typing this with a newly organised colour-coded wardrobe behind me, but … well, you know me. We shared a room for years, so you know I’ll soon have the dreaded ‘chair pile’ that used to drive Mum mad. But now, nobody’s here to judge me and my sordid, messy, cluttered ways.

  You have free rein of the fridge and bathroom, and therefore don’t need to succumb to the needs and bad habits of others. (Case in point: Jack from uni.) Also, I can cook what I like, when I like. If I want to eat Coco Pops for dinner, that’s my choice. No judgement, besides you – you’ll be rolling your eyes as you read this, I can tell.

  Total peace and quiet. Everyone needs ‘me time’.

  See? Not at all scary.

  Love you! Missing you and Stevie and little Poppy as always. I’ll see you soon, promise. All is well. You don’t have to worry about me, honestly. Xx

  S xx

  Chapter 1

  Steph

  It’s one of those broken mornings, I can tell.

  One that will inevitably lead to one of those broken days. Where one disaster, however slight, leads swiftly into another, and soon you can see the entire day panning ou
t like a vicious domino rally of disappointment in which everything is spoiled.

  Take this morning, for example. Having had approximately three hours of sleep after last night’s neighbour debacle, I woke late, feeling the distinct jab of my broken sofa bed digging into my side, only to make it halfway down the street before realising I’d left my umbrella at home. I stood, frozen in time, for a second that felt like forever, mentally debating whether to jog back and grab it, or carry on and get the bus on time. Overhead, the gloomy sky threatened an imminent storm, the strange September humidity causing my clothes to stick to my skin. I chose the latter, rushing for the bus stop against a downpour of sheet-like, sniping rain, only to see the bus pulling away. ‘Wait!’ I’d yelled, to no avail, watching as it vanished into the distance without me.

  When the next bus pulled up in the city centre, depositing me a four-minute run from the office with only one minute to spare, I realised I’d had my top on inside out the whole time.

  Cons of living alone #148: There’s no one around to say ‘Steph, your top’s on inside out.’ Or hand you the umbrella before you leave the house, in that loved-up, wide-eyed way, your fingers brushing as you realise how lucky you are.

  Thankfully, nobody seems to notice I’m a few minutes late. The open-plan office of Everly Cope Associates is quiet besides the tapping of keyboards from the overly keen early birds and the dull roar of the kettle from the communal kitchen. I slip through, heading straight to the toilets in a bid to tidy myself up; putting my top on the right way, wringing out my hair and trying to salvage my make-up. Less ‘drowning raccoon’, more ‘dewy’. I even take a selfie for good measure once the transformation is complete.

  ‘Steph! Oh my God, you’re here!’

  OK, someone notices.

  Saskia accosts me the minute I enter the brightly lit office. Her voice is almost a shriek, startling our colleague Jeff as he walks in carrying an overfilled Star Wars coffee mug. I watch the dark liquid slosh over the rim as if in slow motion, landing on his shoes with an almighty splat. He lets out a disgruntled sigh.

  ‘Steph,’ says Sas. ‘You’re just the person we need!’

  A flutter of panic works its way up from my stomach to my throat as I wonder what outraged client Saskia will bestow upon me today.

  I look at her, taking in her pristine blouse-and-skirt ensemble, her blonde hair styled into enviable waves, and hurry to my workspace, dropping my rucksack and bright pink unicorn-themed lunch bag on the desk. I turn on my PC.

  ‘Oh?’

  Saskia looks at me. Really looks. There’s a hint of concern etched into her doll-like features.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asks me. ‘You look a bit …’ She points at my eyes with a beautifully manicured finger that puts my own stubby nails to shame.

  ‘Me? Oh, yeah. I’m fine.’ Clearly, my concealer didn’t do the trick. ‘I just didn’t have much sleep, that’s all.’

  ‘Ohhh!’ she says, her eyes alight with glee. ‘I see.’

  She says it coyly and I’m momentarily confused until I realise what she’s getting at. She thinks I’ve been kept up all night in the fun way.

  ‘No, nothing like that …’ I begin, ready to burst her bubble.

  To Sas, my sloppy appearance is undoubtedly down to a night of mind-blowing sex. Alas, that’s not the case, even though I wish it was.

  As it happened, my sleepless night mainly involved a lot of crying. And shouting at my next-door neighbour, for which I feel mildly guilty.

  I’m about to elaborate but stop myself. Admitting the truth would make me sound even sadder. Maybe going along with it would be worthwhile, even though it would be an outright lie. For starters, she and the others might finally cease trying to convince me that dating apps are amazing, because I’m single and therefore obviously need someone.

  But I can’t bring myself to lie. I’ve done that all too often recently.

  ‘I just wasn’t feeling too great,’ I conclude.

  ‘Anyway!’ Saskia continues. ‘We need your opinion on something. Can you come and help us?’

  I trot behind Sas like an obedient puppy, wondering why she seems so desperate for my expertise first thing in the morning. It can’t be good.

  ‘Does this have anything to do with Mr Chambers?’ I ask, groaning at the thought of yet another phone call with the argumentative client who wouldn’t let me get a word in edgeways. ‘I thought that had been resolved.’

  ‘What? Oh, no. It’s not work-related.’

  Breathing a massive sigh of relief, I arrive at the other end of the office to see the other account managers poised around their little hub. Behind them, a sliver of morning sunlight peeks in through the big window that overlooks the Floating Harbour. The sky is still a looming grey, but the glint of the sun is present, edging its way out from behind the clouds like a positive affirmation.

  Unlike Saskia, I’m not an account manager here at Everly Cope. I’m a complaints handler. Which means I know a thousand ways of politely telling someone to fuck off – a universal skill, if you ask me – and a million ways of saying sorry. But that’s hardly useful when it comes to their roles, unless some of their angry clients land in my inbox. Curiously, I peer bleary-eyed at Saskia’s screen and I’m greeted by a picture of a sprawling country manor house.

  ‘Caz got engaged,’ Saskia says, now looking serious.

  ‘Caz? Who’s Caz?’

  Saskia’s head whips round, surprised. ‘Caz? From the fourth floor? About five foot three, blonde hair? Everyone knows Caz.’

  I don’t know Caz.

  But I nod anyway as I conduct an identity parade in my head.

  ‘She’s thinking of having the wedding here,’ Sas continues, jabbing at the dreamy historic manor on the screen, ‘but as you already know, Tamzin here was planning on booking that venue. Quite rude, if you ask me!’

  Nods. Nods everywhere. Shame on you, Caz.

  ‘Wait,’ I say. ‘When did Caz get proposed to?’

  ‘Last night.’ Sas stops for a moment, opening Insta. ‘She posted at around 8 o’clock.’

  ‘And she’s booking the venue already?’

  ‘Things move quickly, Steph.’ Don’t you know?

  It’s too early in the morning for this.

  ‘Anyway, now Tamzin has to change her venue and we were thinking … here.’

  She clicks and up comes a huge Gothic hotel, incredibly charming, set among sprawling, lush green fields. To be fair, it’s stunning.

  ‘I can’t fucking believe it,’ Tamsin herself interjects, through a mouthful of croissant.

  ‘What do you reckon, Steph?’ enquires Sas, as if I’m the fount of all knowledge. Even though I’m the only one who’s single.

  I laugh. ‘Why are you asking me, of all people?’

  ‘Because you’re sensible,’ confirms Tamz, picking apart the remaining half of her buttery pastry.

  Sensible. I don’t know whether to feel grateful or offended.

  ‘Should I lose the deposit and change the venue, or just keep the booking?’ asks Tamz. ‘I have to decide today.’

  ‘Can’t you just … both get married at the same place?’

  Both women look aghast at the suggestion.

  ‘Caz is looking at early June,’ says Tamz, who’s on the verge of frantic tears.

  Sas gives a solemn nod. ‘Tamzin’s wedding is in July. ‘It’ll look like she copied.’

  I have absolutely no interest in people’s pending nuptials, but if I admit that, they’ll just think I’m bitter. Nobody wants to be bitter.

  ‘Um, OK, so … I think you need to make a pros and cons list. That’s what I always do. For example, does it really matter who does it first? I mean, it’s your special day, right? Both weddings will be so different …’

  ‘I guess we could try to bring the date forward …’ says Tamz thoughtfully.

  ‘No, you don’t need to!’ I say, perching on the edge of the desk, looking at the website on Saskia’s screen, imagining
having that whole luxurious place to myself for an entire day. ‘If you give up the deposit, how much would that set you back? Is it worth it overall? How do you …’

  I trail off, because my attention is caught by something on the site. As they stare at me like some sort of guru, awaiting my next sensible suggestion, my gaze falls on the price list on the right-hand corner of the screen. I lean forwards to read the elegant text: Prices start at £20,000. Find out more about our full wedding packages …

  Suddenly, I feel a bit sick.

  ‘I don’t really care about the deposit,’ says Tamzin, who’s turned the page of her notebook and has started jotting down her list already. ‘It’s not about the money.’

  Twenty thousand pounds.

  Who can afford just to wave away twenty thousand pounds? I mean, Tamzin’s husband-to-be is a doctor. She makes no secret of the fact they’re doing very well. That amount is probably nothing to them. It would maybe mean one less extravagant holiday. But just … I can’t even formulate a response.

  My mind races. I think of my overdraft, where I’m currently hovering in that frightening in-between of red and black. I checked this morning, saw the numbers slipping dangerously into warning territory, reminding me to be careful. I think of the council tax bill pinned, threat-like, to the corkboard in my tiny bedsit. I think of the home I’ve always dreamed of owning but is unlikely ever to happen, every curious peek at Rightmove ending in abject misery.

  I think of my parents who had their wedding party in their garden. Their marriage may not have lasted, but that’s not the point. At the time, they loved each other. They were happy, and they didn’t care that the buffet was served on paper plates, that the cake was an off-the-shelf selection that Gran decorated. Mum’s dress was second-hand, taken in to her measurements and topped with a beautiful veil made by Gran. She looked amazing.

  To my parents, back when things were promising and wonderful, all that mattered was the two of them. That they were in the company of everyone they loved.

  ‘We should try to find out what Caz’s bridesmaids will be wearing,’ Sas suggests, a glint of mischief in her eyes. ‘Would be a shame if you outdid her.’

  I’m suddenly warm. Warm and too tired and too damp and too annoyed, and my knuckles are red from hitting the wall last night. They glow, an unattractive reminder, and I quickly tug my sleeves down to conceal them. I want to be home, sleeping. Or in the bath, singing along to my neighbour’s piano like I usually do because it brings me some kind of weird comfort. It’s nice.