When You Are Mine(93)
‘I have to go,’ I say.
‘Where?’
‘I need to talk to Carmen. I want to know what happened last night.’
‘Maybe you should stay home.’
I wait for an explanation, but his only response is a puzzled frown. ‘Every time you go charging off, you seem to make things worse. If you stopped … took a breath …’ He doesn’t finish.
‘I didn’t start this.’
‘You can walk away.’
‘It’s too late for that.’
His eyes have filled with a pained hope, and I realise how distant we’ve been. We used to talk about everything, chatting about friends, gossip and current affairs; swapping internet memes and cat videos. Binge-watching Bob’s Burgers and Fleabag on TV. All that has changed. I have changed.
I’m almost back at the house when he calls my name. ‘Tempe found your phone. It’s in the kitchen.’
‘Where was it?’
‘She didn’t say.’
My phone is plugged into a charger on the island bench. The screen shows a dozen missed messages, from Tempe and Henry and from the other girls. Georgia has sent me a drunken emoji. Why do other people find hangovers so amusing? I was drugged, not drunk, although I can’t be certain. My brain feels like a computer that has crashed. Eight hours are missing. Erased. Corrupted.
Carmen’s bookshop specialises in storybooks for children and has a reading corner with tiny tables and chairs in primary colours. Her young assistant is dressed up like Alice in Wonderland, but I’m not sure if it’s her normal fashion choice or a costume. Carmen is out back, ‘doing the returns’.
She hears my voice and emerges, wiping ink from her fingers. I pull her back into her office, which is barely big enough for both of us.
‘What happened last night?’
‘Why?’
‘I woke up this morning at Tempe’s flat. I can’t remember getting there.’
Carmen seems ready to make a joke, but stops herself. ‘You seemed to be having a great time, dancing and drinking. The life and soul.’
‘Who was I dancing with?’
‘Loads of people.’
‘Who invited Tempe?’
‘I thought you did.’
‘No.’
‘How did she know where we’d be?’
‘I don’t know.’
Clearly, Carmen is telling the truth because she’s not the sort to embellish stories or exaggerate to make them more interesting.
‘How did I seem when you last saw me?’ I ask.
‘A little emotional. You were telling us how much you loved us. We decided to take you home.’
‘Why didn’t you take me?’
‘Tempe offered. She lives the closest. Georgia had hooked up with some guy, who said he would take her to Madrid for the weekend. I had to rescue her. Brianna bailed early because of work.’
My voice breaks. ‘Why can’t I remember?’
Carmen realises something is wrong. ‘Did something happen?’
‘I think someone spiked my drink.’
‘No. When?’
‘At the last club. I remember Tempe showing up. A guy came over and asked us to dance. Tempe went to the bar. I spoke to Georgia. That’s it.’
Carmen’s face is a picture of concern. ‘But nothing happened, did it? I mean, you were always safe.’
My phone chirrups. Tempe has sent another message, asking if I want to have a final fitting for my wedding dress. I’m only five minutes from the bridal shop. It’s almost as though she knows where I am.
In that instant the machinery of the world seems to fall silent and I hear only the sound of my breath escaping. Tempe didn’t accidentally bump into me at the Chinese restaurant in Wandsworth, or at Brixton Markets, or when I was training at the Chestnut Grove Academy. Each time we had laughed it off. We were so simpatico that we ran errands at the same time. Pretty soon our cycles would synchronise, or we’d be finishing each other’s sentences.
My mind skips through other examples, which had seemed so random at first, with no method or reason. Gradually a pattern emerges. No, nothing as definite as a pattern – a faint, almost-meaning that grows clearer as I put the pieces together. It was never a coincidence. It was always by design.
51
The young guy in the computer shop is cultivating a beard that is sprouting in patches across the lower half of his face. He seems quite proud of it, stroking his chin as he studies the screen.
I put my phone on the counter and ask, ‘How do I find out if someone is tracking me?’
He looks up. Straightens. Adjusts his crotch. ‘A jealous boyfriend?’
‘Something like that.’
The nametag on his shirt pocket says Symon, spelled with a ‘y’.
‘I can run an anti-virus program,’ he says.
After attaching my phone to a computer, he taps at the keyboard. On the screen, I watch the red bar slowly filling, indicating progress. For all I know he’s downloading all my images, but I don’t think I need worry. I don’t have embarrassing photographs. Naked ones, I mean.
‘What are you looking for?’ I ask.
‘Viruses. Malware. It shouldn’t take long.’