Who is Maud Dixon?(64)

Whitney took a giant gulp, then laughed and spluttered. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“You’re a good friend, Florence.” Whitney’s speech had taken on a sludge-like quality. Florence came out sounding like Florsch.

“Speaking of friends,” Florence said brightly, “Amy must be wondering what I’ve done with you. Let’s go back out there.”

Whitney stumbled a little when she got to her feet. Florence steadied her and asked, “You good?”

“Fiiiine, fiiiiiine.”

Florence pried the drink from Whitney’s fingers. “Here, let me take that. I think we’re done with this.” She poured the rest of the drink out the window, then looked in the empty cup. Some of the powder had congealed into a white sludge at the bottom. She chucked the whole thing out the window. She led Whitney back into the living room, holding her by the hand. Nick and Amy weren’t there. She found them in the kitchen laughing by the sink.

“Hey,” Amy said brightly, then her smile fell when she saw Whitney’s slack-eyed expression. “Whoa, you okay, Whit?”

“Oh, fiiiiine.”

Amy turned a questioning gaze at Florence.

“She downed her drink in like one gulp,” Florence said. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have made them so strong.”

Amy took Whitney’s hand and looked her closely in the eyes. “Whit?”

Whitney’s eyes struggled to focus on her friend. She smiled, but couldn’t maintain the tension in her lips, and they collapsed into a limp gape.

“Okay,” Amy said. “Apparently we’re going to call it a night after what has apparently been a very wild ten minutes. Quick work, Whit.” She turned to Nick and said, “Sorry, do you mind calling us a taxi? I don’t have an international phone plan.”

Nick took out his phone. “Of course.”

“We’re staying at Riad Lotus.” She turned to Florence. “I’m so sorry, she’s not usually like this.”

“Oh, we’re all allowed to lose ourselves on vacation,” said Florence.

“Five minutes,” Nick said, putting his phone back in his pocket.

All three of them helped corral Whitney down the stairs and into the back of the car. She lay her head on Amy’s lap. Amy stroked her hair gently and apologized again to Florence.

“It’s totally fine. It happens to the best of us.”

“You’re so sweet, both of you. Thank you again.”

As they drove off, Nick put his arm around Florence’s shoulder and pulled her close.

*



Later that night, Florence lay nestled in the crook of Nick’s arm as he rubbed her back slowly up and down.

“Can I ask you something?” he said quietly.

“Mmm.”

“Amy kept calling you Florence.”

She opened her eyes.

“And she seemed kind of confused when I referred to you as Helen.”

Neither of them spoke for a few moments. She noticed that Nick had stopped rubbing her back.

Finally, she said, “I was known as Florence growing up. I started going by Helen in college. It’s my middle name.”

Nick didn’t say anything. It was too dark to see his face.

Then he said, “Oh. Okay. I like the name Florence, though.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. One of Nick’s greatest assets—for her purposes at least—was his total lack of mistrust. He tended to see the best in people, and to believe whatever he was told.

“No, it’s so stodgy.”

“It’s not. It’s pretty.”

“Well, thank you, but I prefer Helen now. Okay?”

“If that’s what you want, sure. I don’t care what your name is. I just like you.” He pulled her closer, and Florence smiled bright-eyed into the darkness.





36.



The next morning, she woke before Nick. Her chest felt tight with anxiety. And then its bedfellow, regret. Why had she let Nick be alone with Amy? She should have drugged Amy too, of course. That was obvious now. She had shrunk from leaving them both incapacitated, trying to find their way home like two injured lambs. But that was silly. They were adults. It was one drunken night. She was sure they had both had plenty of them in the past.

Her plan had been too limited; she saw that now. She needed to loosen the restraints. Boldness, audacity—that was what was required of her. No more half measures. How many times did she have to remind herself?

She wanted to roll over, to curl up onto Nick’s chest again, return to where she’d spent last night—a place of comfort and warmth. But that, she knew, was a trap. She forced herself to sit up. She pulled on her clothes and went into the kitchen, where she scooped handful after handful of cold water into her mouth. Then she patted her cheeks with her wet hands. Onward. The plan was still in effect. She wasn’t tossing away this opportunity just because of an ill-timed encounter with an old friend.

She paused for a moment. She’d made the same mistake with Greta, she now realized. She’d been too cautious. That story about food poisoning had been too small, too tame, too short-sighted. Not Helen’s style at all.

She went back to Nick’s room and woke him up.

“Hey,” she whispered, “can I borrow your laptop?”