The House That Jack Built

FOUR

'That's horrible,' said the new woman.

'It is,' Gloria replied, sucking the pale blue smoke of her cigarette deep into her long-suffering chest. It wheezed under the assault, huddling behind the cotton of a knock-off designer blouse her husband had brought back from a 'business trip' to Thailand. As long as that was all he brought back, Gloria had long decided not to ask questions. 'And you can bet there'll be drugs behind it. They're all on drugs these days.'

Gloria peered through the privet hedge, trying to get a look at the woman who'd moved into Jackson Leaves. She looked young — though Gloria thought that about most people these days.

'I knew Joan,' she said. 'The lady that used to own the house.'

'My aunt.'

'Really?' Gloria relished the surprise she conveyed in her voice. 'She never mentioned you.'

There was little polite one could say to that of course.

'We weren't all that close.'

'So sad.' Gloria's casual spite had some bite left to it. 'It's terrible a woman of that age being so alone. Especially at the end.'

There was a slight pause from the other side of the hedge, and Gloria wondered if the young woman was going to argue. She hoped so; there was nothing she liked more than a good argument.

'At least she had her friends,' the young woman said. 'And neighbours of course. If you'll excuse me, I really must get on with the unpacking.'

Gloria let the woman go, too angry at having been outdone to think of a suitable reply. She ground her cigarette into the blue-granite gravel of her driveway, which was a considerable improvement on the cheap, weed-strewn grit of Jackson Leaves she assured herself, and turned her Ferragamo shoes — or at least a market-stall approximation of them — back toward the house. She couldn't loiter in the garden all day, after all.

Inside, she glanced at the clock in the kitchen and sighed. It was only four o'clock, and that limited her choices as far as slaking her thirst was concerned. Sometimes she just couldn't understand how time went past so slowly. It felt nearly time for bed, it really did.

She flipped the switch on the kettle and shuffled through the box of exotic teas she kept mainly for show. She was sure there was an Earl Grey left in there, which was as much of a concession towards the exotic as she was willing to make if not in company. No, no Earl Grey… There was a 'Lady Grey' though… How different could it be? A little more long-suffering and capable of multitasking than the Earl, she imagined, pulling the cardboard tab from the top of the bag and dangling it from its clean white thread.

The kettle bubbled like her anger at the woman next door. It didn't have her patience, though, and was quick to boil. She poured the water on the teabag, cursing as a droplet of boiling water splashed from the cup and scalded the back of her hand. She slammed the kettle onto the worktop and seethed. She simply wasn't a woman used to not getting her own way in everything. Her entire life was constructed around her need to win. Certainly she had chosen her husband Trevor for his submissiveness; that and the fact he was able to earn the amount of money she deemed a bare minimum for comfortable living. If he didn't get a promotion soon, though, she'd have words. Penylan wasn't what it once was, and it was time they moved somewhere a little more exclusive. She didn't want to share a postcode with people like Danny Wilkinson, let alone have them turn up dead on her doorstep. Dear lord, she might as well be living in Splott.

Did you have milk with Lady Grey? She checked the little envelope it came in, but it didn't say. She supposed it didn't matter as long as she wasn't in company. A dash of skimmed milk and she was walking through to the lounge. She was so tired…

She put her tea on a side table, dropped down into her reclining, tan leather armchair and promptly burst into flames.

The fire burned with sufficient intensity to fix her to the spot, her muscles constricting in the heat and drawing her legs and arms to the chair as if she were gripping it in terror. In fact, there was too much pain for fear to even enter her head. She smelled herself cooking for a few moments before the heat seared the sensory cells in her nose. She saw a bubble of fat from her thigh pop and fizz — hadn't she always said she needed liposuction? — but then her eyes turned from weak brown to creamy white to nothing but rivers of hissing milk that cried themselves dry along her bursting cheeks. This was a blessing, there was nothing to be gained from watching her own flesh blacken and crack even as — bizarrely — the rest of the room escaped unscathed.