Page 26 of Cuckoo

Feeling like a detective on a true-crime show, I open a new tab and start working my way around Google Maps, starting in Chelsea and searching for a street near the river with the same length of lettering as the pixelated road sign in the photograph. I soon find what I’m looking for. St Margaret’s Avenue. TheStandAvmake it quick to find easily, and I can just about make out the blurryMfor Margaret. I google the road name and feel slightly nauseous as the first result records the average house price for that street. It’s more than I could ever hope to earn in a lifetime in PR.

With a bitter stab of the mousepad, I switch to street view and immediately recognise the view from Lilah’s window.

Before I know what I’m doing, I’m closing the door behind me, my coat wrapped around me. It’s a forty-minute walk from my house in Clapham to St Margaret’s Avenue in Chelsea, and I could do with some more fresh air.

Chapter Twenty-Three

I gaze around in awe. After arguing with myself and questioning my sanity for the entire walk to Chelsea, I have made it. Just when I had almost convinced myself to turn back, I’d spotted the road I was looking for ahead of me and knew I had to see the house itself. Lilah’s house.

The street is gorgeous. It’s a postcard version of London, the sort of street I’ve walked past without a second thought a hundred times; but being here now just a stone’s throw away from the Thames and knowing someone who lives on the street, knowing thatNoahhas spent time here, is making me see it in a whole new light. I don’t want to be, but I’m impressed. Even more than impressed, I’m jealous. I can feel envy slowly filling me to the brim with every new luxurious detail I take in.

All the homes have beautiful, intricately patterned encaustic tiles leading up to porticoed facades, fancy French shutters hiding away beautiful cream-painted lounges and open-plan spaces, which flow outside onto terraces and patios bordered by lush green planting. Cherry trees line the pristine pavement– there isn’t a takeout box or littered flier to be seen. I’m not at all surprised to spot two teenage girls doing an impromptu photoshoot outside one of the houses, giggling as they assess their poses together, heads craning over a phone.

So this is how the other half lives. This is how the otherwomanlives.

I am thankful for the teenage girls’ background presence– without them, I would feel painfully out of place, waiting for someone to storm out of their front door and tell me to leave, that I don’t belong.

I nod politely to a woman who walks past me, striding confidently in a pair of red-soled shoes as a little fluffy dog in a leather jacket struts beside her, eyeing me suspiciously when we cross paths.

Range Rovers and Porsches sparkle in driveways, and I’m eyeing them all up enviously when a sight stops me in my tracks. It’s Noah’s car. His shining black BMW is parked in a driveway, his C00R5 licence plate mocking me. My chin wobbles, but I purse my lips together and continue stepping forward, edging closer to the property.

It’s beautiful. Ivy crawls up the white stucco exterior while wisteria in flower hangs artfully around the soft butter-yellow front door. A gleaming 48 is painted onto the transom above: 48 St Margaret’s Avenue.

I see a flash of movement at the window and duck down, dropping behind Noah’s car. My heart is beating so hard. After what feels like an eternity, I dare to peer carefully over the bonnet and see a ginger cat on the windowsill inside Lilah’s house, watching me carefully through the glass, its tail flickering behind it. I breathe out with relief and even have a little laugh at my own silliness. Look at me, creeping behind a car for fear of a cat.

Then the realisation that Noah now shares a cat with thiswoman, a living being that he cares for and loves alongside her, hits me. The ginger cat glares at me, as though taunting me.I see you,it’s thinking.And I am in here, living in this house with your fiancé and Perfect Lilah while you are out there, squirming around like a garden slug.

I stare back at the cat. I imagine it curled up in Noah’s lap, Lilah beside him, stroking its ginger head absent-mindedly while they watch TV together. I imagine it jumping onto their king-size bed in the mornings, rubbing against them for attention as they laugh together, naked. I imagine Noah coming here after work, Lilah texting him and asking him to feed the cat.

He may as well have a child with her. The very thought makes my blood run cold, but I shake my head resolutely.It’s just a cat.There was no sign of a child on any of the Facebook pages I trawled through. It must just be the cat. Which is irritating in itself because I know for a fact that Noah is a dog person. He’s always wanted a German Shepherd, so this cat must be a Lilah Thing, something she’s forced on him and which he resents her for. Yes, that must be it. It’s Lilah’s cat.

I stick my tongue out at the animal childishly, and it eyes me nonchalantly.

I’m still half-crouched beside Noah’s car. I desperately want to see into the house, but the lights are off and so all I can see are reflections bouncing off the glass from the last of the September sun rays. I need to get closer, but I’m afraid, and the parked car means that Noah is probably inside. I don’t think I can handle seeing him right now. Especially not here, inherterritory.

The sudden realisation of where I am jolts me, and I physically reel backwards into one of the cherry trees.

I grasp at the trunk and edge slowly around it, so that if someone were to look out of the window of number 48, I would be mostly hidden. I stand with my back against the trunk, my eyes shut, breathing in and out slowly and trying to calm myself.What am I doing here?What did I hope to accomplish by coming? Do I feel better for finding out that Lilah lives in a stunning townhouse with a stupid cat and my cheating boyfriend’s car parked outside?

Do I hell.

Without looking back, I rush down the street, head hanging, bound for my lonely studio apartment.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Back at home I stalk up and down the kitchen area like a restless caged animal. Sukhi has tried to call twice but I can’t speak to her, to anyone. My fists are clenched and my eyes keep involuntarily darting to my laptop, which I have turned off and stuffed beneath the sofa in an attempt to dampen my urge to scroll up and down Lilah’s Facebook page, endlessly comparing myself to her.

As though that’s even possible, with her perfect body and perfect personality and perfect life.Whydid I go to that house? It’s only exacerbated my self-torturing imagination, setting a scene for this long-standing affair that I can see even more clearly in my head now. The front door where they stumble in together after a few too many drinks at the local gastropub, Lilah giggling as she trips and Noah catching her before she falls. The front of the house where she’ll pose for her Instagram photos before an event, Noah proudly leaning against his car to snap a picture. So many scenarios that before I could tell myself were just self-torture. Now there is at least an element of truth to them.

Despite my good intentions earlier, seeing the beautiful house Noah is living in has sent me spiralling down a hole of self-pity and I fish the rest of the bottle of white out ofthe fridge. I pour it lazily into the nearest receptacle but realise too late that I’ve poured it into Noah’s lettered mug. I stop drinking, shove the mug away and swig from the bottle instead– the mug was just slowing me down, anyway– but find it empty. I grab my keys and purse and head out to stock up. It’s going to be a long week. I’m just stepping into the corner shop when my phone vibrates. I hastily unlock it, but it’s only Sukhi.

In Clapham, fancy a drink?

I squint at the message, dithering. I look at the wine shelves with a new sense of longing, then back down at my phone. I think of Georgia, and with a sigh, I find myself replying, Sure. The Falcon?

See you in ten.

‘God, Claire, are you alright?’ Sukhi asks, wide-eyed. It’s only then I realise that while she is in post-work drinks attire, her blazer stripped off but smart-casual day-dress and brogue combo intact, I am still in a mucky tracksuit, which I can’t remember putting on. I’m not even sure if I have used deodorant. I pull a face at her in response.

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