The Perfect Girlfriend(33)

She is no longer snoring, but her breathing is heavy. Her hair has fallen over her face. I gently move it away. I sit down in the armchair and watch her. Does Nate watch her when she’s asleep? I used to watch him all the time. He always looked so vulnerable, so peaceful, all traces of worry or anger ironed out. I wanted to claw inside his head. I wanted to know what he was thinking, all the time.

He said that his thoughts were wispy and intangible. Well, that was a lie. He kept his thoughts together enough to plan to get rid of me.

Like I was nothing.

I stand up and take out her phone, even though scrolling through any messages from him will be like picking scabs, but it’s code-locked. I search her handbag; there is no sign of her passport. Sliding open the wardrobe, I see that the safe is locked. I check her bag again and find a driving licence in her purse. But even by tapping variations of her birth date into the phone – and the safe – I still can’t achieve any results.

I search the bathroom, checking out her products. She uses anti-frizz shampoo. I bet Nate doesn’t know that, does he? That her hair is naturally brittle. I go through her suitcase, it contains mainly clothes, and then I rifle through her flight bag. Manuals. A thriller. A travel book. I recognize it. It is one I bought for him. Five Hundred Places to Visit Before You Die.

He has given or lent her a book from me! How dare he?

I flick through. The man has no imagination, none. His default gifts are chocolates. I bet he forgot her birthday – or something – so decided to give her something of mine. Unless . . . she helped herself from his bookshelf. I stare at her, all calm and peaceful, not a care in the world, then I take the book to the desk and pick up a pen.

On the last page, I write a belated inscription: To my darling Nate. Love you always. Look forward to exploring the world with you. E XXX

At best, Nate probably flicked through the book. He won’t have noticed whether or not I’d written anything.

It serves him right.

I replace it. I hope it jolts her into momentary jealousy when she is confronted with evidence of Nate’s romantic past, if she stumbles across my words. I rummage through her handbag and record her address and other potentially useful bits and pieces of information in my phone. There is nothing more I can do for now, so I place the key card on her bedside table and leave.

Back in my own room, I browse the internet for ideas. I need greater access to Nate’s inner world. I discover an app that can track all his messages and activity. A jilted lover’s dream. I bet the person who created it was in a similar situation to me, because necessity is the mother of invention. It is marketed as an anti-theft tool, or for those wanting to keep a close eye on their teenagers or elderly parents. There is a warning that it is strictly forbidden to install the application on a phone that you do not own, but I’ll ignore that.

All I need now is access to his phone. It seems that the majority of people who have installed it without the owner’s permission did so when their partner was asleep or in the shower. To do that, I would have to break into Nate’s flat when he is home, in the middle of the night, or hide in the flat until he takes a shower.

Not ideal options.

Katie comes down for crew pick-up, right as rain. She doesn’t mention the other night and neither do I – or Kevin – as far as I know. She is probably embarrassed, assuming she can’t hold her drink.

The pills are going to be more use to me than I originally realized.

I think about things all the way home, mentally tweaking my POA.

As we touch down at Heathrow, the perfect plan dawns on me.

Nate doesn’t take his phone when he goes for a jog. He feels it’s the one time he can be cut off from the world. All I need to do is hang around, wait until he goes for a run, let myself in and install it before he’s back.

Simple.

On my first day off work, I have a two-hour intensive driving lesson, in preparation for my upcoming practical driving test. I concentrate as best I can on mastering all the essentials, but it is frustrating to have no control over the other drivers, who overtake or pull away in front of me at traffic lights.

I catch a train early the next morning so I can be there in time for Nate’s likely exit from his building. However, I feel more exposed now that summer is imminent. The light is not my friend. I’m slightly concerned that if he looks out the window, he may clock me. I need a better disguise.

I sit on a bench. Pigeons peck around the bare patches of ground by my feet. I shoo them away.

I wait and I wait, but he doesn’t appear. Aircraft roar above every minute.

I want to kick a nearby tree with frustration. I know he’s home. I bet Katie is there with him. He always went out for his jog when I was with him.

I stride to the high street. And then I loiter by the river, in case I spot him there, but there’s no sign of him.

Could he have gone to Peterborough? Unlikely, but then how would I know?

That’s the problem. That’s why I need access to his phone.

Deflated, I head home.

Nate has two more days off, which means I have no choice but to trek over there every bloody morning and wait.

Perseverance always pays off. It never, ever fails.

The next day, Nate goes out for his jog. I watch from behind a nearby tree, pretending to tie my laces. I wish I could give him a cheery wave for being so obliging; he has no idea how much teamwork is going into our reunion.