Move overGirl on the Train theres a new day-drinking voyeur in town.
The view outside her window gets exponentially more interesting when a seemingly perfect family moves in across the street.
But when Anna sees something one night thats not meant for her eyes, everything changes.
Credit: William Morrow
Excerpt fromThe Woman in the Windowby A.J.
Finn
SUNDAY, October 24
1
HER HUSBANDS ALMOST HOME.
Hell catch her this time.
Their wedding registry lives on at Macys.
I could still buy them flatware.
As I was saying: not even a window dressing.
Whatisit about that house?
Its where love goes to die.
This particular specimen works near Gramercy Park and does not accept insurance.
According to the deed of sale, he paid $3.6 million for his house.
Business must be good.
I know both more and less about the wife.
(This evenings selection:The Man Who Knew Too Much,for the umpteenth time.
I am the woman who viewed too much.)
Ive noticed she likes a drink in the afternoon, as do I.
Does she also like a drink in the morning?
I think of her as Rita, because she looks like Hayworth inGilda.
Im not in the least interestedlove that line.
I myself am very much interested.
Two more than Ive got.
I lift the camera to his head.
He takes better care of his shoes than his face.
Dr. Miller is maybe half a minute away from the front door.
His wifes mouth glosses the contractors neck.
Off with her blouse.
Five, six, seven.
Twenty seconds now, at most.
She seizes his tie between her teeth, grins at him.
Her hands fumble with his shirt.
He grazes on her ear.
Her husband hops over a buckled slab of sidewalk.
I can almost hear the tie slithering out of his collar.
She whips it across the room.
I zoom in again, the snout of the camera practically twitching.
His hand dives into his pocket, surfaces with a haul of keys.
She unlooses her ponytail, hair swinging onto her shoulders.
He mounts the steps.
She folds her arms around his back, kisses him deep.
He stabs the key into the lock.
I zoom in on her face, the eyes sprung wide.
I snap a photo.
And then his briefcase flops open.
A flock of papers bursts from it, scatters in the wind.
One tearaway scrap has snagged in the fingers of a tree.
Rita again, plunging her arms into her sleeves, pushing her hair back.
She speeds from the room.
The contractor, marooned, hops off the bed and retrieves his tie, stuffs it into his pocket.
I exhale, air hissing out of a balloon.
I hadnt realized I was holding my breath.
The front door opens: Rita surges down the steps, calling to her husband.
He turns; I expect he smilesI cant see.
She stoops, peels some papers from the sidewalk.
The contractor appears at the door, one hand sunk in his pocket, the other raised in greeting.
Dr. Miller waves back.
He ascends to the landing, lifts his briefcase, and the two men shake.
They walk inside, trailed by Rita.
New neighbors, I tell my daughter.
Theyre out there now, dim as ghosts in the dusk, exhuming boxes from the trunk.
What are you eating?
Its Chinese night, of course; shes eating lo mein.
Not while youre talking to Mommy, youre not.
She slurps again, chews.
This is a tug-of-war between us; shes whittledMommydown, against my wishes, to something blunt and stumpy.
Let it go, Ed advisesbut then hes still Daddy.
You should go say hi, Olivia suggests.
Id like to, pumpkin.
I drift upstairs, to the second floor, where the views better.
Oh: There are pumpkinseverywhere.
All the neighbors have one.
The Grays have four.
Ive reached the landing, glass in hand, wine lapping at my lip.
I wish I could pick out a pumpkin for you.
Tell Daddy to get you one.
I sip, swallow.
Tell him to get you two, one for you and one for me.
I glimpse myself in the dark mirror of the half bath.
Are you happy, sweetheart?
She never had real friends in New York; she was too shy, too small.
I peer into the dark at the top of the stairs, into the gloom above.
Do you miss Punch?
She didnt get along with the cat, either.
I look for him now, find him swirled on the library sofa, watching me.
Let me talk to Daddy, pumpkin.
I mount the next flight, the runner coarse against my soles.
What were we thinking?
It stains so easily.
Hey there, slugger, he greets me.
Didnt you just get new neighbors?
That was two months ago.
I pivot, descending the stairs.
Where are these other people?
I reach the landing, round it.
They didnt bring much with them.
Guess the movers will come later.
Now Im in the living room again, by the fire, shadows steeped in the corners.
Listen… Ed begins.
They have a son.
Theres a son, I repeat, pressing my forehead against the cold glass of the window.
A teenager, I add.
Before I can stop myself: I wish you were here.
It catches me off guard.
Ed too, by the sound of it.
Then: You need more time, he says.
The doctors say that too much contact isnt healthy.
Im the doctor who said that.
Youre one of them.
A knuckle-crack behind mea spark in the fireplace.
The flames
settle, muttering in the grate.
Why dont you invite those new people over?
I drain my glass.
I think thats enough for tonight.
I can almost hear him breathe.
Im sorry were not there with you.
I can almost hear my heart.
I am, too.
Punch has tracked me downstairs.
I scoop him up in one arm, retreat to the kitchen.
Set the phone on the counter.
One more glass before bed.
Itll befun, he promised.
Ill install a bidet, just for you.
I batted him on the shoulder.
But then he left, and she with him.
My domain and its outposts:
Basement:Or maisonette, according to our broker.
Sub-street, floor-through, with its own door; kitchen, bath, bedroom, tiny office.
Eds workspace for eight yearshed drape the table in blueprints, tack contractor briefs to the wall.
Garden:Patio, really, accessible via the first floor.
Every so often I long to hug it.
First floor:Ground floor, if youre British, orpremier etage,if youre French.
White-birch floors, now blotched with puddles of merlot.
In the hall a powder roomthe red room, I call it.
Tomato Red, per the Benjamin Moore catalogue.
Living room, equipped with sofa and coffee table and paved in Persian rug, still plush underfoot.
I think Im losing interest.
Third floor:The master (mistress?)
Ed programmed his side for an almost downy softness; mine is set to firm.
Youre sleeping on a brick, he said once, strumming his fingers on the top sheet.
Youre sleeping on a cumulus, I told him.
Then he kissed me, long and slow.
Also the guest bedroom and en-suite.
Fourth floor:Servants quarters once upon a time, now Olivias bedroom and a second spare.
Some nights I haunt her room like a ghost.
Some days I stand in the doorway, watch the slow traffic of dust motes in the sun.
Ill speak to them again tomorrow.
Meanwhile, no sign of the people across the park.
I slug a glass, float upstairs, settle myself at my desk.
Reach for my Nikon.
I press the camera to my eye and zoom in: theTodayshow.
I might head down and switch on my own TV, I muse, watch alongside my neighbor.
Or I might view it right here, on his set, through the lens.
I decide to do that.
Yesterday a platoon of movers arrived, hauling sofas and television sets and an ancient armoire.
The husband has been directing traffic.
I havent seen the wife since the night they moved in.
I wonder what she looks like.
IM ABOUT to checkmate Rook&Roll this afternoon when I hear the bell.
Heishandsome, with his long jaw, his eyes like trapdoors, dark and deep.
Gregory Peck after a late evening.
(Im not the only one who thinks so.
David likes to entertain the occasional lady friend, Ive noticed.
Heard, really.)
Im heading to Brooklyn tonight, he reports.
I drag a hand through my hair.
You need me to take care of anything before I go?
It sounds like a proposition, like a line from a noir.You just put your lips together and blow.
He gazes past me, squints.
Its dark in here.
I like it dim, I say.Like my men,I want to add.
Is that the joke fromAirplane?
… a good time.
He turns to go.
Chances are Ill be home.
I hope hell smile.
Hes been here two months, and I havent once seen him grin.
I kill the door.
I STUDY myself in the mirror.
Wrinkles like spokes around my eyes.
My belly has gone slack.
Dimples stipple my thighs.
Skin almost luridly pale, veins flowing violet within my arms and legs.
Dimples, stipples, stubble, wrinkles: I need work.
I had a downhome appeal once, according to some, according to Ed.
I thought of you as the girl next door, he said sadly, toward the end.
At last, a problem I can fix.
THURSDAY, October 28
5
THE DEED OF SALE POSTED YESTERDAY.
My new neighbors are Alistair and Jane Russell; they paid $3.45 million for their humble abode.
Google tells me that hes a partner at a midsize consultancy, previously based in Boston.
Shes untraceableyou try pluggingJane Russellinto a search engine.
Its a lively neighborhood theyve chosen.
Olivia named her stuffed rabbit Yuppie.
What did you think ofJude,Anna?
Christine Gray would ask me, and Id say I found it rather obscure.
Theyre laughing now, in fact.
I try laughing with them.
I take a sip.
West of the Millers are the Takedas.
The husband is Japanese, the mother white, their son unearthly beautiful.
Number 206208, a vacant double-wide brownstone, flanks the Takedas house.
An LLC bought it two Novembers ago, but no one moved in.
Behold my southern empire and its subjects.
None of these people were my friends; most of them Id not met more than once or twice.
Urban life, I suppose.
Maybe the Wassermen were onto something.
I wonder if they know whats become of me.
Wed threaten to send Olivia there when she misbehaved.
Pitted brown stone, windows dark with grime.
Or at least thats what I remember; its been a while since I laid eyes on it.
It is, as that quotable broker said, very quaint.
Then theres the house beyond the park: number 207.
Enter Alistair and Jane Russell.
My physical therapist had never heard of her.
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, I said.
Not in my experience, she replied.
Binas younger; perhaps thats it.
The pain left me breathless.
Your hamstrings need this, she assured me.
You bitch, I gasped.
She pressed my knee to the floor.
Youre not paying me to go easy on you.
Can I pay you to leave?
Only in Binas case its because shes picky.
And theotherhalf are single for a reason.
Thats three halves, but you dont debate math with someone whos rotating your spine.
I joined Happn a month ago just to see, I told myself.
Happn, Bina had explained to me, matchmakes you with people whose paths youve crossed.
But what if you havent crossed paths with anyone?
What if you forever navigate the same four thousand vertically arranged square feet, and nothing beyond them?
The first profile I spotted was Davids.
I instantly deleted my account.
ITS BEEN four days since I glimpsed Jane Russell.
The son Ive seen only that once, yesterday morning.
