The Perfect Girlfriend(31)

‘It’s boiling, even though it’s night. Remember how hot it was earlier, traipsing around?’

Katie does a twirl. Red and white dots on her dress spin, and bangles jingle. A butterfly tattoo smudges her right ankle.

A rush of relief; Nate thinks tattoos are tacky. She is probably yet another tool, another plaything, to distract him.

I can’t be bothered to change. We hail a tuk-tuk that weaves violently as our driver negotiates dense traffic. I grip the metal side-bar, inhaling petrol fumes. A pink flower garland dangles from the rear-view mirror, rocking in time to the jerky manoeuvres. We arrive at a converted warehouse which gives a good impression of being unhampered by health and safety standards; haphazard electrical wires criss-cross above us and wooden floorboards protrude. An Elvis impersonator massacres ‘Always On My Mind’. The tinny microphone screeches at regular intervals.

‘I wish I was back home with my boyfriend,’ I say to Katie as we jostle for space at the bar.

‘Me too,’ she says. ‘Although, having said that, my boyfriend is away at the moment. He’s a pilot too.’

My legs wobble.

The barman turns his attention to us. We order beers.

I remember to breathe.

We join the others huddled round a high metal table. We chat about work for as long as I can stand it.

‘So, any pictures of your man, then?’ I say as nonchalantly as I can manage.

‘Loads. I love boring people about Nate.’

I almost feel sorry for Katie – almost – but it’s not my fault that Nate is vain. And weak when it comes to women who throw themselves at him.

‘Here, look . . .’ Katie grins. ‘We were in Rio and . . .’

Nate’s image beams from her phone.

I freeze and listen to every stabbing word of her smug, minute-long monologue before excusing myself. Outside, I repeat my mantras, over and over. I can barely breathe. Music blares from multiple directions. Groups of locals mingle by taxis and motorbikes. Clusters of stalls groan under the weight of fake designer goods, T-shirts, shoes, handbags. Neon signs advertise drinks, massages, sleeping pills. The odour of frying onions emanates from a nearby food cart.

I whip out my phone from my back pocket and log on. Nate’s crew are spending their down time on safari in Kruger National Park. He’s posted pictures of long, brittle grass broken by spiky trees bearing little foliage under the caption Anyone spot the lion?! There he is, cavorting with wildlife, whilst I’m dealing with a fresh betrayal on the other side of the world.

Deep breaths. In-bloody-hale. Ex-bloody-hale.

A whiff of sewage temporarily pulls me back to the reality of my surroundings.

Sleeping pills? The words catch my eye again. Maybe I should get some. I can then spend the remainder of my time here in blissful oblivion. They can be a plaster. A temporary fix.

‘How much is a bottle of twenty?’ I ask the pharmacist behind the counter.

‘Why don’t you buy forty?’ she says. ‘Cheaper.’

Whatever. In for a penny . . . I drop them into my bag before briefly browsing the stalls. I spot a small wooden Buddha. I buy him too; he could bring me luck.

I force myself to re-enter the bar. Katie’s chair is empty. I follow the signs to the toilets. She is in front of the mirror, tying her hair into a ponytail. I can smell her sickly perfume from the doorway.

Don’t stand for it a moment longer, my mind silently screams.

I step forward, avoiding wet patches on the dirty tiles, until I am alongside her. I smile into the mirror. She smiles back, albeit with a slightly puzzled expression.

‘I thought that I recognized Nate from the picture you showed. His face is familiar,’ I say. ‘It’s been bugging me, but I’m sure it’s him.’

‘Oh. Have you flown with him?’

‘No.’

‘Where do you know him from?’

‘I don’t. Something happened between him and a friend of mine. I don’t know what exactly, but whatever it was it shook her up quite badly. She said she could never tell anyone.’

‘It can’t have been Nate then. He’s a total gentleman.’

‘Maybe.’

I look down and rummage in my bag as a distraction, but not before I catch a fleeting, yet concerned expression flash across her face. I reach for a mascara. When I look back up, Katie is heading towards the door.

‘Join you in a minute,’ I call out.

If she replies, I don’t hear. The door bangs shut behind her. I apply my mascara slowly, irked at her dismissive attitude. I didn’t tell her a complete fib; Nate does have a shadowy side. As I turn to leave, I replace my make-up in my bag and it makes a clinking sound as it hits the jar of sleeping pills.

That’s when the idea hits me.

Inside a cubicle, I remove the blue pills from my bag. The dosage reads one tablet every twelve hours. Hmm. So what is a good amount? Two? Three? Four? I unscrew the lid and remove three capsules, sliding them into my jeans pocket. After screwing the top back on, I rummage in my bag for the small envelope which contains my room key card. I ram the card into my purse. Carefully, I pull the capsules apart and tip the powder into the envelope. I flush the husks away and leave the relative quiet of the toilets for the noise and mayhem outside.





11


The Elvis impersonator has changed outfits into Tom Jones. Same leather trousers, different blouse. He launches into ‘Sex Bomb’, gyrating and swinging a leather jacket like a lasso.