The Perfect Girlfriend(12)

We are now trapped in a long queue at the deserted taxi rank. The smell of kebabs from a nearby takeaway is overpowering. I can’t bear it a second longer. Childish defiance takes over.

‘I have an idea,’ I say. ‘A friend of mine lives nearby, he’s away, but he lets me use his place from time to time. He likes me to feed his fish and keep an eye on things. Let’s go there for a nightcap.’

‘Are you sure?’ says Amy. ‘What about—’

‘Come on! I can’t bear this queue a second longer. We can have a drink in the warm, and I’ll call a minicab.’

Amy still hesitates.

‘Follow me,’ I say and head off down the alley towards the Green. ‘You’ll need to be quiet as we walk upstairs, some of his neighbours work shifts. Once we’re in the flat, it’s fine.’

I feel smug as I let everyone in, like I’m taking even more control of the reins. My eyes dart around the living area. It is neat. No work manuals, no post, nothing too personal. Nate and I are both tidy. I don’t believe that opposites attract; I’m sure it’s a myth. I pull the blinds down and insist that everyone has a liqueur coffee. Nate won’t notice if the amount in the bottle goes down, he hates the stuff. Jack is sitting close to Amy on the sofa. There is a space next to Chris who is sitting on the other one, in Nate’s spot. It serves him right that another man – albeit an unsuitable one – is in his place.

The fish are doing laps. If fish could talk . . . For the first time ever, I feed them, sprinkling a layer of vile-smelling confetti shapes over the surface. Rainbow’s mouth opens and closes as he glares at me.

‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ I say. ‘Just nipping to the bathroom, then I’ll call us a cab for later.’

They ignore me; roaring at yet another YouTube video on Jack’s phone.

In Nate’s spare room, I check his desk. Mostly bare, as usual, apart from a pot containing an assortment of hotel pens. He tends to take his admin away with him, but I can’t resist checking his drawers. With my phone clamped between my ear and shoulder I dial a taxi firm.

It rings.

A male voice answers. ‘Hello?’

My eyes fix on an expensive cream envelope. An invitation? To what? From whom? I carefully slide out a card, even though it’s already been slashed open with Nate’s paperknife.

‘Hello? Bob’s cars?’ I force myself to speak. ‘Oh, hello, yes . . . I’d like to book a taxi please . . .’

Hanging up, I sink down on to the bed, reading the words as they blur in front of me.





5


Whenever I choose to encounter Bella, whether online, from a distance or in photos, I always mentally prepare beforehand. I form an imaginary protective barrier around myself. To anyone else, what I’m looking at would seem like nothing – but to me, it is another setback. Another painful reminder of how she leads the type of life that I desire.

It’s an invitation to Bella’s home to celebrate a friend’s thirtieth birthday. And it’s not the fact that her friend is a fairly well-known celebrity – I couldn’t care less – it’s the brazen exclusivity that needles. I would love to be invited and to mix in the same social circles as Nate. I knew Bella too, once.

‘Juliette?’

Amy is standing at the door, frowning, clearly puzzled despite the glazed look in her eyes.

‘Sorry, I got distracted. I messaged my friend to tell him we were here and he asked me to check something for him.’

I put the card in the drawer, switch off the light and follow her back into the living room. ‘More liqueur coffees?’ I say with a hostess smile. ‘The minicab controller said it’s really busy. The taxi will be about an hour.’

It’s a struggle to remain present. I smile and nod and try to join in, as best I can. But I want to whoop out loud with relief when the cab calls after forty-five minutes to say it’s downstairs.

‘I’ve ordered two,’ I lie. ‘I’ll get the next one back to mine. I want to stay and tidy up a bit more, anyway,’ I add when Amy opens her mouth, as though to protest.

It’s true that I do need to check that I’ve replaced everything correctly. I can’t leave any signs; Nate is fastidious. I check that his Boston flight is well and truly en route before feeling secure enough about my decision to stay for the night. I don’t see why I shouldn’t. I return to the spare room and once again pull out the stiff invitation card.

I’d be delighted if you could join us in celebrating . . .

Amelia’s decision to apply for a boarding school scholarship, rather than letting me continue at the nearest secondary school, neatly coincided with my teenage hormones starting to kick in. She helped me prepare for it, even though I found it straightforward enough to discuss contrasting monologues and perform a series of improvisations. Student head of year, Bella, was assigned to look after me by the House Mother and show me the school ropes. Which, in fairness, she did. At first. Bella was elegant, intelligent, witty, slim and beautiful. Under Bella’s wing, I was protected from those who looked down at my too-tight, dull clothes, unable to conceal my puppy fat.

Most of the ‘inner circle’ were weekly boarders. Bella’s family lived in an exclusive area in Bournemouth. I was vague about how close my home was. ‘Out in the countryside,’ I used to reply, if asked, when in fact it was a thirty-two-minute drive away – I’d timed the taxi driver who’d driven me on my first day. The weekends dragged. I used to keep my head down in the library and escape by flicking through the permitted magazines – Vogue and Tatler – picturing my future invitations to parties where I too would be in the photos on the back pages.