Prologue
Cat Camera
The bathroom is blush pink.Everything in the room the color of your face when you’re falling in love: the cut marble, the basin, the tub, the ceiling. All soft, fleshy, like flushed skin, lips, areolae. The towels, too, fresh, fluffy, hotel-soft.
The scene looks like something from a glossy magazine, or a double-page spread in a matte-finished coffee table book. Everything about it desirable, curated, atelier-sourced.
Hanging over the edge of the tub is a human hand. A female hand, Caucasian.
Her nails are manicured, polished, understated, though the skin of the hand is notably too pale, almost bluing.
Zoom in and a slow pulse can be seen tap-tap-tapping on the flesh of the raised wrist.
She is still alive.
The camera jerks and suddenly we are up on the sink, looking down at her. She is almost submerged in the water, save for her head, which is cocked at an angle, leaving her mouth and nose just above the surface. She is in her underwear.
Her eyes are open, wide open. Though there is seemingly no other movement from her, every so often she blinks. She is conscious.
Beneath her delicate skin, her veins are visible tangles of blue and green rope. The water must be cold. So cold.
Her auburn hair is suspended in smooth tendrils just beneath the surface. She looks like a mermaid. She looks beatific. Well, almost.
Her gaze is forced up to the left, as if she is looking up at her own unmoving hand against the tub’s rim.
Her breath ripples on the water’s surface, in-out-in-out, in-out-in-out. This and the rise and fall of her chest are the only movements visible.
The camera swings up to the window high above us. That must be how the cat got in, how the camera hanging from his neck is filming this now, the iris of the pet camera taking everything in.
The live stream is showing us this in real time. The woman needs help, soon, or she is going to die.
The woman is me.
Day One
Chapter 1
Party of One
I have a feeling something isoff the day I move in. Nothing big, nothing that can quite be vocalized, the kind of feeling that you ignore and chalk up to first-day nerves, because change is scary, and a new life will always feel off-kilter until you settle into it. It’s easy, at first, to attribute that yawning sense ofsomething not quite right,the one in your gut, in your bones, to the jitters.
The pastel-hued frontages of this exclusive enclave of North London lie pristine in facing rows, beautifully crafted and ready to be enjoyed, like bright cakes in a French patisserie, like pick-a-mix in Marie Antoinette’s dressing rooms, a plethora of possibility, each perfectly made, decorated, and presented, each different, but all luxurious, every one with a thrilling center yet to be discovered.
It would be mad to trust that first-day nagging feeling, after all of the logistics that got you here: the endless house viewings, the offers and counteroffers, the stamp duty and agreements on fixtures and fittings and the packing and movers and paperwork: changes of address, driver’s license amendments, new-doctor registration forms. Imagine turning on your heels after all that work because of a tiny feeling, because of some tiny little something that you found unsettling.
So you tell yourself:Don’t be silly—you’re tired, you’re stressed.And in my case:Remember, your life took a nosedive fourteen months ago—nothing willeverbe the same—obviously you’re inclined to feel that something is off.
So I decided to see if things would resolve.
Don’t say you wouldn’t do the same.You would,you have. Or, I guess, you’re someone who’s constantly running away from things on the basis of vibes, in which case, my condolences on missing half the joy of life. Because sometimes you’re projecting, sometimes the red flags are the ones you have brought with you from home. This is what I assumed when I moved to 18 Northcroft Road.
Who you are, they say, is the amalgamation of the six people you spend the most time with. Does it count if the people you spend the most time with don’t know you’re spending time with them? Does it count if you don’t even know their names?
But I’m skipping ahead. We need to go back to the first day, the day I moved in, the day I got the feeling something wasn’t quite right.
—
The movers shift the final piece of furniture into the hall, and I press hard against the newly rendered Farrow & Ball paneling to let them pass. I paid a little more for the premium service: I watch them carefully maneuver, edges protected, everything done justso. It’s reassuring, as if I, too, am bubble-wrapped and being carried gently into the rooms, the furniture getting more love than I have for a long time. I watch the men disappear up the stairs and reappear with arms full of discarded wrapping, leaving withgoodbyesandgood-lucksthrown back over shoulders.
