The Killer Next Door(34)

Who would have thought, thinks Vesta, glancing across at Hossein, that at nearly seventy my best friend would be an Iranian asylum seeker half my age? Not Mum and Dad, that’s for sure. They thought the Pelcsinskis at number seventeen were suspiciously foreign, with their weird cabbage-based food. What on earth would they make of the world now? We hadn’t even heard of Iranians before the 1980s, and now they’re all over the place. Like Somalis. Haven’t had many of them down here, though. They seem to be more of a north London thing.

‘Ooh, I saw your article in the Guardian, by the way,’ she says. ‘Very interesting.’

He raises his eyebrows. ‘Thanks, Vesta. I didn’t think anyone I knew would see it.’

‘Oh, you know. I like to go through the papers in the library. If there’s one thing you have a lot of when you’re retired, it’s time. So tell me something.’

‘Yes?’

‘I thought you weren’t allowed to work?’

‘I’m not. They don’t pay me. They make a donation to the Medical Council for the Victims of Torture.’

‘Oh. I see. That makes sense, I suppose.’

‘It does. They were good to me. They deserve something back.’

‘Still. Seems like a pretty pointless rule. All these people moaning about scroungers and they won’t let you work.’

Hossein shrugs. ‘It keeps my hand in.’

‘True.’

‘And it’ll make it easier to get a job when I get my papers.’

‘That’s true too.’

She starts to reach down to take the cling film off the food, but Hossein puts out a hand, pushes her back by the arm. ‘I’ll do it.’

‘I’m not ninety, Hossein.’

He tuts and gets down on his knees. Looks up as Cher comes round from the side-return, with a tall, fair-haired woman in tow. Vesta gets to her feet to greet them, like an old-fashioned hostess at a cocktail party. ‘You must be Collette,’ she says. ‘I’m Vesta.’

Collette blushes slightly, and shakes her hand. ‘This is very nice of you.’

‘Oh,’ Vesta waves a breezy hand over her bounty, ‘it’s nothing. A pleasure. Always a pleasure to get to know your neighbours.’

‘Hello, again,’ says Hossein, and she stutters a greeting, the colour on her pale cheeks deepening, but only meets his eye for a split second. My my, thinks Vesta, our new lady’s got a thing for the handsome lodger, and it’s only been a split second since she moved in. How cute. He could do with a nice lady friend. I’ve not seen him with a woman since he got here. ‘How are you settling in?’ he asks.

Her eyes are tinged slightly pink. Crying, or hay fever? ‘Okay,’ she says, and looks up at the sky.

‘Here,’ says Vesta, ‘sit down, do. Have the chair.’

‘Oh, no, I couldn’t. Someone else must…’

‘You’re the guest of honour,’ says Cher. ‘Just take it.’

Collette lowers herself selfconsciously into the spare deckchair. The beautiful man has his back turned to her now, uncovering a collection of old-fashioned teatime foods laid out on elegant antique plates. The old lady has a stack of matching cups and saucers and one of those big brown earthenware teapots at her side, on a spindly table. She studies her as she pours: she’s the only neighbour she’s not seen in the flesh before. She’s a surprising-looking woman. Tall and dignified, with nut-brown skin and steel grey hair, and the sort of profile that wouldn’t go amiss on a Cherokee brave. Not what you think of when someone says ‘the old lady downstairs’. Somehow that always conjures up pictures of walking sticks and buns full of Kirby grips. This woman looks like she’d be running an intensive care ward, if you let her.

Cher has sprawled herself on the edge of a blanket, platform soles like orange boxes on the ends of her skinny legs. The man keeps his eyes studiously away from the bare flesh, concentrates on the task at hand. What am I doing here? Collette wonders. I don’t want to make friends. All I want to do is go and lie down and think about Janine.

As soon as the wrapping is off, Cher’s hand darts on to the sandwiches. ‘I’m starving,’ she says.

‘Have a sandwich,’ says Hossein, and she laughs and flicks his upper arm with one fuchsia fingernail.

‘Did you make that cake, Vesta? Ooh, Vesta-cake. I knew you’d make a cake.’

She’s so kiddish, thinks Collette. And these people: they’re enablers. They treat her like some cheeky niece, indulge her. ‘We’re not cutting it till we’re all here,’ says Vesta. ‘Offer those sarnies around, Cher. Don’t just hog them. Would you like a cup of tea, Collette?’