The Perfect Neighbours. Rachel Sargeant
“Is there nothing that bloody woman doesn’t do?” Helen asked Gary. “Do all the neighbours kowtow to her?”
“I’ve heard her coffee mornings are fun. All the wives who don’t work are happy to help. And it’s thanks to her you’ll get to swim tomorrow.”
“I think I’ll drive to Center Parcs instead.”
“Don’t be silly; it’s thirty kilometres away. Not even someone as stubborn as you would hack off their own nose in spite.”
“Hi, it’s me.” I was out of breath after dashing from the languages block to get a signal.
“Shall I phone you back?” Mum said. “Save your credit.”
“I’ve got a lecture now. I just wanted to tell you something.” I cradled my mobile under my chin and got out my lit folder. “Do you remember that extended essay I had to write when I was in Lyons?”
“I think you mentioned it. Eight thousand words, wasn’t it?”
“That’s the one,” I said, almost dropping the folder in my excitement to get my words out. “I got a First for it.”
“That’s brilliant.”
I propped the folder against the wall. “Listen to what my tutor said: ‘This is one of the best undergraduate analyses I’ve read. I have high hopes for your results this year.’ Can I tell Dad now?”
“He’s having a nap, love, but I’ll tell him later.”
“Is he all right?” I couldn’t keep the alarm out of my voice. He’d slept in the daytime during his treatment. But he was better now, wasn’t he?
“Of course. He’s just taking it easy.”
“If that’s all it is …”
“Definitely. Stop worrying. So are you celebrating in the uni bar tonight?”
“I don’t think I’ve got time.” I still had a business case study to finish and some vocab to learn.
“You can give yourself one night off.”
“I suppose I could go to the George.” Liz and Cheryl preferred the pub to the uni bar. I tagged along last week but left when the engineering lads moved in for a flirt. I had an essay to write anyway.
“Go on, love,” Mum said, “you never know, you might meet the man of your dreams.”
Monday, 3 May
Cold pinched Helen’s arms and thighs as she stepped out of the changing room into the open air. It turned to tingling, comforting heat as she slid into the water. She dropped under the surface and set off at a gentle crawl.
It felt like home.
She quickened her stroke, her hands cutting deep through the water. Of course, Gary had been right to insist she came to this pool, but he’d called her silly and stubborn. He’d never said that to her before, not even when she wanted to stay in England. Their marriage, so serene during the weekends they spent in Shrewsbury, was changing. She looked up at the clock by the exit. The last 200 metres were not far off her personal best.
The exertions of the early lengths caught up with her and she slowed her pace. There was no sign of Louisa’s 400 petition signatories and they couldn’t all be at the wives’ breakfast; even Louisa’s catering had its limits. On the far side of the pool was an elderly couple, floating from one end to the other, the full 50 metres, at a rate too slow to be classed as swimming. The woman was on her front with her flowery swimming cap so high out of the water she was almost standing up. Her husband was on his back, also head high, as if sitting in a favourite armchair.
The only other swimmer was a man who, with the whole pool to swim in, chose to carve out lengths a mere three feet away. He was constantly in her field of vision, keeping pace. Just like Louisa – wherever she turned, she found her. Louisa must have sent her envoy to the pool to stalk her. She smiled to herself, knowing how ridiculous she was being. She upped her speed to shake him off but was surprised he didn’t stay with her for a second length. She slowed down, despite all her competitive training telling her not to, and finished the length at a leisurely rate.
When she looked back, he set off from the far end swimming butterfly. His technique was good: arms sweeping wide and low, allowing his shoulders to clear the water, conserving energy. He was veering to the left, towards Helen, as his stronger arm pushed deeper. She should move out of his way but she was annoyed at the invasion of her space and stayed put. His left arm reached the wall about six inches from her shoulder.
“Entschuldigung,” he said, lifting his goggles. “Mein Fehler.”
“I don’t speak German,” she replied although she was pretty sure his unfamiliar words were an apology.
His shoulders stiffened. “You are from the international school.” It sounded like an accusation. He climbed out of the water and slipped on the flip-flops he’d left on the poolside.
He walked towards the shower on the grass area behind the pool. Tall and rangy. In swimming trunks his arms and chest were sleek with good muscle definition. In clothes he would appear skinny. How old was he – 21, 22? He’d fill out with age. He turned around in the shower and saw her looking. She blushed. He came back and squatted on the poolside behind her. “You are from the school,” he said again.
“I’ve just arrived from England,” she conceded.
His shoulders relaxed. “So you are new. Do you like it?”
“I’m looking forward to getting to know Germany.”
“Germany. But not the school?” He shook his head. “It’s okay you mustn’t explain. I work there also, IT support, but I live here in the village. My name is Sascha Jakobsen.” He had an accent, although he pronounced “village” with a v rather than the w favoured by most Germans trying out the English word.
He pushed the wet fringe out of his eyes. A tiny wave of something unexpected rippled through Helen’s body. He was waiting for her to introduce herself but to talk for longer would stop them being strangers and she sensed danger in that.
“Bye then,” she said, preparing to glide away.
“Tschüs,” Sascha said. He walked towards the changing room.
Helen launched both arms over the water and dolphin-kicked her legs. He wasn’t the only one who could swim butterfly. She wondered whether he was watching her but told herself to stop.
When Gisela went to get the second bottle of Sekt from the kitchen, she saw Sascha on the balcony. He was hanging out his trunks and towel. It wasn’t that long ago he would have left them in his bag on the floor, expecting that his washing would reappear clean and dry on his bed. But he no longer expected that of his mother; he no longer expected much of her at all.
He turned round, and she darted into the lounge. With the first bottle already inside her, she had to grab the doorframe to keep herself upright. She fell into an armchair and hid the new bottle under a cushion. She lit a cigarette