The Perfect Girlfriend(34)

I look at my phone. I’ve got about forty minutes, if he sticks to his routine. Weather conditions are favourable; sunny, but not too hot. I jog towards his flat without hesitation, as though I have every right to be heading in that direction. I pull up my hood as I approach the communal doors and put on my sunglasses. I don’t know his neighbours that well, but there’s rarely any point in taking unnecessary risks. I run lightly upstairs and let myself in, as silently as I can.

I stand and wait.

No sounds.

I creep towards the bedroom and bathroom. Both unoccupied. My heart lifts at the absence of Katie or any female equivalent. I head for the kitchen. Nate’s phone lies on the table, beside a mug which has I NY printed on it. He bought me a matching one. I lift it to my mouth. It’s not warm, but it’s not cold either, so I know this is the mug which Nate has drunk from this morning. It feels intimate and rewarding. But, I mustn’t get distracted. I tap in Nate’s code.

Incorrect code.

No fucking way!

I tap it again. It works. Phew. I must concentrate and pay attention. The app starts to download. Halfway through, it stops. Just like my heart almost does. The whole screen freezes. I turn off his phone by pressing down the on/off switch for several seconds, then wait whilst it reboots. On my second attempt, it downloads completely. I scroll through and hide the icon, then return the phone to its original spot. I’ll have to set up a specially created account to keep track of the data, but I need to do this at home. I’ve been given a free forty-eight-hour trial period to see if it works.

I have a quick glance out the window. No sign of a returning Nate.

I can’t help it. I do a quick scan of the flat.

His rectangular flight bag with the gold catches is lying open. I flick through. Paperwork, manuals, flight plans, maps. Boring. His suitcase is closed. I lift it up; it is empty. His wallet lies on the side. I open it. Receipts. Restaurant, hotel and bar bills. I scan them. White wine, hmm. A Sea Breeze. A Cosmopolitan. Female drinks. All at a swanky bar in Cape Town, Bar on the Rocks. Perhaps Katie does have something to worry about, after all. I catch sight of his passport and airline ID resting on the bedside table among a pile of foreign coins. I flick through the fine passport pages. I’ve done this lots of times; I used to try to drink in every piece of information about him. I slip out my phone and take photos to update my collection. Nate is one of the few people I know who has a decent passport picture.

I open the wardrobe. Nothing female, ditto the bathroom. I check my phone. Shit. Thirty-five minutes have passed. I take out a bottle of his favourite red from my rucksack and quickly slide it into the wine rack, because it’s his birthday soon. Then I head for the front door, giving the fish a wave as I leave. Rainbow must be bursting with silent indignation.

As I begin my descent at the top of the stairs, I hear the slam of the communal doors below.

I wait.

I hear footsteps coming up. Then voices.

‘All right, mate?’

‘Yes, thank you. Yourself?’

Crap.

Nate’s voice. He is having a cosy little exchange with a neighbour.

‘Fine, thank you. My knee has been playing up a bit . . .’

I’ve nowhere to hide. Think. I run back up to the third floor and press the lift button. I can hear it cranking to life. It is so old. I hope it doesn’t break down. It did once when I lived with Nate. The maintenance man who fixed it mentioned that, even if the residents voted to keep up repairs, it would still probably need replacing before too long. The lights illuminate. Ground floor. Second floor.

The voices stop.

Footsteps.

Shit, shit, shit.

The lift doors open. I step in and jab the letter G. The doors judder to a close. Descending, I hold my breath until it stops. I yank up my hood and put on my glasses. I step one foot out and look around.

Empty.

I head for the main doors, jog down the path and away from the flats, without looking back.

Back home, elation hits.

I did it!

I have full and total access to Nate’s world. It’s like the best reality show, ever. I analyse to my heart’s content, even though it’s a bit slower than I expected to access the information.

I can even see his browsing history. He’s invited Katie to Bella and Miles’ engagement party at a five-star hotel situated on the edge of the New Forest next month, on the last Saturday in June. He didn’t make Bella’s celebrity friend’s thirtieth – he wasn’t in a single picture – but of course Bella would have chosen a date to suit her revered brother for her engagement party.

I make a coffee and nurse it, pondering. I stare at my pinboard for inspiration, then go online and type in random words like revenge and cheating partner. I ignore the ridiculous posts that mention murder, public billboards and garage sales of the cheater’s belongings. Nonetheless, the internet proves its loyalty and faithfulness as a true friend by providing multiple solutions. My mind keeps coming back to two words: honey trap. Related ideas run through my mind, but I dismiss each one as too risky. And yet, a tangible solution feels within my grasp if I mull things over for long enough.

In some ways, it’s like having some kind of ‘buy one, get one free’ equivalent. I will, hopefully, be impacting negatively on Bella’s night too if I can execute the right turn of events at her party. Nate is not the kind of person who will disguise his feelings if he’s in a bad mood.