Page 83 of Is She Really Going Out with Him?
Yes, a ladder. Dan bought a ladder to clean the gutters. I rundown to the garage to see if I can find it. But as I open the garage door I remember; Dan took the ladder in the spoils of divorce.
“No ladder,” I tell the children as I come back upstairs.Beep.
“Why don’t we call Dad?” Jess suggests.
“It’s one a.m. I’m not calling your dad,” I tell her. I would rather check us all into a hotel than call Dan.I briefly consider calling Will, but that would be even more pathetic. Ethan goes into his room, then comes out again holding one finger in the air, his way of communicating he’s had an idea.
“What?” I ask.
“Noah’s light is on,” he says.
“Oh no, no, no. We’re not asking Noah.”
“Ask Noah or I’m calling Dad,” Jess threatens. “I have a math test tomorrow.”Beep.“Mum, please!”
Why? Why did I give up the ladder when we were dividing up our possessions?
Throwing on my coat, I trudge over to Noah’s front door, simultaneously hoping both that he answers and that he doesn’t. I knock quietly, tentatively, then hear footsteps in the hall. Noah opens the door, glowering at me. He’s wearing plaid pajamas and moth-eaten snow boots. It doesn’t look like he’s been asleep. “Yes?”
“Hi, I’m so sorry to knock on your door in the middle of the night, but it’s an emergency.” I expect his face to soften, for him to ask what nature of emergency I am having, but he doesn’t. “Do you have a ladder I could borrow? My smoke alarm is beeping, and I can’t reach to turn it off. It’s driving us all mad.”
There’s a long pause before he reacts. I can see from his expression that he doesn’t consider this to be the kind of emergency that requires a swift reaction.
“Backup battery’s probably gone,” he says.
“I had guessed as much,” I say, reining in the urge to saysomething sarcastic as it might jeopardize my chances of procuring a ladder. “My kids can’t sleep through it,” I add, feeling he’d be more likely to help for the children’s sake rather than mine.
“I have one in the basement,” he says, making no move to fetch it.
“Great,” I say. “Could I borrow it?”
He opens the door wider. I have never been in Noah’s house. It’s a similar layout to mine, only mustier, more utilitarian. There are no plants, no art on the wall, and cardboard boxes line the hall. I give an involuntary shiver. I really don’t want anything to do with this man. The way he’s acted over the hedge tells me he’s unhinged.
“This way,” he says, leading me through the house. I notice a framed photo of Noah with a woman. I assume she must be his wife. In the picture they are both in a field, wearing wellie boots and binoculars. She has long dark hair, a freckled face, and a wide smile. She looks lovely, and Noah looks significantly younger and less cranky. Noah pauses in the hall, then opens the creaky door to his cellar as though he wantsmeto go down there. “I need you to hold the torch. Cellar light’s broken.”
No way.I am not going into a dark cellar with Noah. Then an unpleasant thought takes root in my mind: What if Noah’s wife didn’t die? What if he killed her and she’s buried in the cellar? Why does Noah even have a cellar? My house doesn’t.
“I’d rather not go down there,” I say, my hands balled into fists at my sides, ready to punch him if he tries to push me down the stairs.
“I can’t carry the ladder and hold the torch,” Noah says, holding the torch toward me.
“Maybe I don’t need a ladder. Maybe I can live with the beeping,” I say weakly, and he glowers at me. “Or I could just move house, then we’d both be happy.” I laugh at this, but my laugh comes out like I’m hyperventilating.
“What’s the problem here?” he asks.
“I’ve got a thing about cellars,” I explain.
Shaking his head, Noah makes a “humph” sound, then heads down the steps alone. I hear some bashing and crashing, then a couple of expletives from Noah, then eventually him coming back up the stairs with a ladder in his arms and the torch in his mouth.
“Thank you, sorry,” I say, feeling bad because clearly, he did need someone to hold the torch for him, and it would have been a lot easier if we’d both gone down there. As I reach for the ladder, he shrugs me off. “I’ve got it now.” He’s cross, rightly so. I’ve disturbed him in the middle of the night, asked for a ladder, then refused to help him get the ladder. I’m the worst neighbor imaginable.
When we eventually get back to my house, Ethan opens the front door holding a bag of crisps.
“Ethan! Why are you eating? It’s the middle of the night,” I cry, grabbing the bag from him. Salt before bed is not good for his bladder regulation. But I don’t have time to get into it because Noah is marching up the stairs, banging the ladder into my lovely wooden banisters.
“Ooh, mind the banisters, you just—” I start to say, and Noah turns to give me another of his trademark glowers. “Never mind. It’s fine. Just a scratch.”
Once the ladder is up and Noah has reached the smoke alarm, it takes him several attempts and two screwdrivers to pry it open. Finally, blessed silence reigns.
