When You Are Mine(95)

‘Why?’

‘Because of the threats he made and the vandalism.’

‘I don’t have any proof it was him.’

‘Who else could it be?’

Tempe doesn’t answer. I expected more. Some sense of shock or sadness. She talked of loving him once; of hoping he might leave his wife and marry her, although she quickly changed her mind and grew to hate him.

Martina returns with my tea. She has taken the dress from its tissue-lined paper box and left it hanging in the changing room. I go inside and begin undressing. Tempe follows.

‘I can handle this,’ I say, pulling the curtain closed. The sharp tone of my voice seems to register, which is unusual for Tempe, who misses or ignores the most blatant of clues.

I strip down to my underwear and pull the dress over my head, tugging it down over my hips. It falls to my knees. It has a figure-hugging, sixties vibe, with a tight bodice and flared skirt and reminds me of the dress my mother wore when she married my father. I need help to do up the bodice. Martina obliges, tugging the strings and tying them into bows.

‘You’ve lost weight,’ she says, making a tish-tosh sound. ‘I’ll have to adjust the bust.’

‘Most brides are happy to lose weight.’

‘Don’t lose any more.’

I step into the viewing area. Tempe claps her hands gleefully. She has put our earlier conversation about Darren Goodall out of her mind. Martina has me step onto a stool, while she tugs at the hem of the skirt and pinches fabric on my arms, considering what minor adjustments might be made.

‘It’s perfect,’ I say, not wanting her to make a fuss.

‘I can make it better.’

‘No. Please. Don’t bother.’

I step back into the changing room and struggle to unfasten the bodice and release myself from what feels like a straitjacket. Growing frustrated, I rip it from my arms and crush it under my feet.

Martina pokes her head through the curtains and lets out a cry of alarm. She rushes past me and gathers up the dress like she’s carrying an injured child. I feel embarrassed. It’s not the dress’s fault or Martina’s.

‘Pack it up, I’m taking it with me,’ I say.

‘But I need to adjust—’

‘It’s fine. Thank you.’

I get dressed quickly and leave the store, carrying a polished white cardboard box with my wedding dress. Tempe has to run to keep up with me, asking what happened. When I don’t stop walking, she grabs at my arm, but I shrug her away and spin to face her.

‘How did you find us last night?’

‘What?’

‘At the nightclub. How did you know we were there?’

‘Henry told me.’

‘No. He didn’t.’

‘I guessed. There aren’t that many clubs.’

‘No. You followed me. You infected my phone with a virus that keeps track of me.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

We’re arguing in the middle of the pavement outside an Italian restaurant with a chalkboard menu propped near the door. Pedestrians are stepping around us. I can hear my voice getting louder.

‘That’s how you’ve been finding me for months. You know when I’m at home, or at karate, or at work, or shopping.’

Tempe is shaking her head. ‘You’re sounding paranoid.’

‘The other day, you turned up at the markets in Brixton. How did you know I was there?’

‘It was a coincidence.’

‘And when I was at the restaurant in Wandsworth with Henry and Archie?’

‘The same.’

‘What about when I chased that knifeman in South London? You knew it happened near the Brandon Estate.’

‘I heard something on the news.’

‘The estate wasn’t mentioned.’

‘You must have told me.’

‘No.’

‘Why would I follow you?’

‘Because you’re obsessed. Because you’re jealous. Because you don’t have any friends.’ Am I shouting? ‘Because you’re toxic. You’re manipulative. You’re dangerous. Your mother told me the truth about you. You don’t have a dead sister, or a soldier father. You’re a pathological liar.’

Each statement should be landing like a slap, but Tempe doesn’t even flinch. She tells me to calm down and reaches for me again. I slap her hands away.

‘Don’t touch me! Never touch me!’

‘You need to calm down,’ she says sternly. ‘Let’s talk about this.’

‘OK. Let’s talk,’ I say accusingly. ‘What happened last night?’

‘I told you.’

‘Did you spike my drink?’

‘I looked after you.’

‘You undressed me.’

‘You vomited over your dress.’

‘Did you try to kiss me?’

‘That’s not what happened. You kissed me.’

‘Bullshit!’

She shrugs. ‘Believe what you like.’

‘You could have put me to bed on the sofa. You didn’t have to sleep with me.’

‘I was worried that you’d be sick again. People die that way all the time, aspirating their own vomit.’