The Perfect Girlfriend(36)

I soon discover that the inconvenient thing about having a car is that you have to park it. I drive around, getting caught up behind buses and bikes, until eventually, I park on the outskirts of Richmond. I send Amy a message reminding her to give me a call if she changes her mind.

She doesn’t reply.

As soon as I follow a navy-skirt-suit-wearing estate agent into a contemporary one-bedroomed apartment, I just know that this will be the perfect home for me. It feels like mine already. From the bedroom window I can just about see Nate’s front door. If I use binoculars, I will be able to watch his comings and goings, which may be a useful thing, even when we are back together.

I will never trust anyone again. Trust is a luxury.

Back home, whilst waiting for the kettle to boil, I ring in an offer for the flat. I get back to work on my plans and re-google honey trap. All I have to do is send in a photo of Nate – that’s not hard – provide my credit card details and the time and address of Nate’s whereabouts. The hardest question to answer is about Nate’s type of woman. I’d like to say me. But, in truth, I really don’t know. I have brown hair – currently blonde – and am of average height. I did trawl through pictures of Nate’s old girlfriends, but the more I think about it, the more I don’t think he has a ‘type’. I tell the agency that it needs to be someone discreet and classy, with no visible tattoos.

I didn’t question Nate too much about his past when we were together. I didn’t need to, I’d kept tabs on him over the years. And besides, a lot of my history was embellished – apart from the area I came from, my school and the fact that I’d never made it as an actress. I wanted an excuse for the succession of job changes.

He once asked me how well I’d known Bella.

I replied, ‘Everyone knew of Bella, but I didn’t have that much to do with her,’ then changed the subject. I could hardly tell the truth – that I was a loner, drifting un-anchored, waiting to put all my eggs in the one basket. His.

I couldn’t admit to being virtually friendless either. That’s why Amy is so important – every girl needs a best friend, and she’ll make me look good.

Nate’s bound to approve of my friendship with her. And she’ll be living proof that I am not a total social outcast.

The day before the party, I call the scheduling department, seeing as I can’t be on two continents at once.

‘Staff number?’

‘959840. I’m calling in sick for my Perth flight tonight.’

I can hear the tapping of a keyboard. ‘Is it a work-related injury? Do you need any support from your manager?’

‘No. Thank you. I’ll call in when I’m feeling better,’ I say in a ‘sick’ voice. Smiling, I end the call.

I love the anonymity of my job. Whenever I’ve faked illness before, in previous jobs, I’ve had to suffer false concern when, really, colleagues were pissed off that they had to cover my work.

Three hundred guests are expected at the party tomorrow night. A perfect number. It is a James Bond theme. Katie is going in a Chinese blue silk dress, as worn by double agent Miss Taro in Dr No. She’ll need to add a dark wig. Nate is going as James Bond. Heaven forbid he’d go as someone interesting, like Jaws. Bella’s keeping her costume a secret; like anyone cares. She used to do the same at school, whether it was a party or a school play. I google Bond girls and I suspect I know who she will dress as, because there is one who is described as the ‘most revered’. Mine is an elegant, simple dress similar to one worn by a KGB agent in The Spy Who Loved Me. I can’t wear a catsuit; I need to blend in with subtle elegance.

I check Nate’s messages. I love my spy app, when it isn’t being temperamental; it’s akin to being psychic. As planned, Nate is still going to stay at the hotel tonight.

As am I.

The country hotel is situated in several acres of grounds and boasts a maze, a lake and a golf course. Ancient oaks line the long, sweeping drive. As I slow down for speed bumps, it reminds me of school. I feel slightly sick as the grand, old house comes into view. Beyond, a break in the clouds becomes visible as weak evening sun pokes through. The reception is quiet, probably the calm before the party storm, as presumably most guests will arrive tomorrow. I check in, refuse the offer of help with my bags and head upstairs, considering it safer than being trapped in a lift.

The room is dingy and the flowery decor is depressingly old-fashioned. Delicate, cloying pouches of lavender potpourri, tied with twee mauve ribbon, rest on the pillows. The overwhelming stench of lavender almost chokes me. I fling open a window, but it sticks at a few inches wide. I inhale fresh air through the gap, before rummaging through my handbag to remove my perfume, which I spray generously around the room. I drop the lavender ‘sleep aids’ through the crack in the window and watch them disappear as they are swallowed by a bush. The disturbing memory the smell evokes is too much to bear.

I phone the honey-trap agency.

‘Is the woman vetting my boyfriend at the venue yet?’ I ask. I must sound like a desperate, insecure girlfriend, but I don’t care.

‘Yes, but please don’t worry. Most men are loyal to their partners. We usually find that there’s nothing worth worrying about.’

‘Really?’ That’s a shame.

I sink down on to the bed.

Nate’s phone is silent. No messages, no social media, nothing. Obviously, he is preoccupied.