The Perfect Girlfriend(37)

Inhale. Exhale.

I shouldn’t have come here tonight, I should have waited until tomorrow. I am trapped, in this room, whilst downstairs I can only imagine the kind of flirtatious scenario that may be unfolding. I consider my options: I could go to the bar, but I don’t think it will be busy enough for me to conceal myself adequately. I could also order room service, or try to watch a film. But neither option appeals.

I need to get out.

Dusk is imminent as I walk to the car park. I press my key-fob and slide into the driver’s seat. I aim for the exit, with no clear idea of where I’m headed. I make my way along narrow roads, edged with giant redwoods and rhododendrons which are past their full bloom, their leaves sagging. I pass several old cottages with cattle grids at the driveway entrances, before the lane snakes into open heathland with patches of heather and frequent signs warning motorists to Beware of Ponies and to Slow Down. Clusters of ponies gather near the edge of the road in twos or threes, beneath oak canopies. Initially, I intend to drive for at least an hour or two to keep my mind occupied, but within minutes, I have to switch my headlights on to full beam. Instead of wide-open spaces the darkness shrinks the forest, and I feel isolated – moments away from unseen threats.

I return to the hotel car park. I turn off the engine and sit, in the darkness, staring at the bright lights of the building. A taxi pulls up and a couple emerge from the entrance and descend the stairs. An overweight man in a dinner suit comes out for a cigarette.

I don’t move. I don’t trust myself.

A woman walks down the hotel steps and into another waiting cab. I sit up straighter. I didn’t catch much more than a glimpse of her, but she was curvaceous, with long, blonde wavy hair, and she was definitely wearing heels. It has to be the woman from the agency, because I can’t see why else someone would be leaving alone at this time of the evening, all dressed up.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I start up the engine and follow the taxi out of the driveway. It turns right. Ensuring I’m not too close, I keep the vehicle in sight. As suspected, it drives down the gentle slope towards the station. I park in the small car park, beside a four-by-four. Looking up, I can see the driver is reading from an e-reader or tablet, the screen illuminates his face.

I step out of my car, glad that I’m wearing trainers, and walk towards the red-brick entrance. The woman is alone on the platform. I look up at the information board; there is a train to London in seven minutes. She leans against a white pillar, well back from the yellow platform line, tapping her phone. I sit down on a cold metal seat and look around. There is nothing much to look at: a vending machine, a help point and, of course, CCTV. I need to know if she’s enjoyed Nate’s company tonight. I could phone the agency, but it’s late. And even if they answer, I suspect I will be fobbed off with a promise of a ‘full report soon’.

I walk up to her. She startles a little as I approach.

‘Excuse me, do you know how long the train journey is to Waterloo?’ It’s the best I can think of for now.

‘It’s nearly two hours.’

‘Oh. That’s annoying. I meant to get one earlier.’

‘Me too.’ She smiles. ‘You’re lucky. This is the last train tonight.’

Her large brown eyes are heavily made up, and she is wearing lipgloss. I can imagine Nate being drawn in by her and I feel the familiar stab of envy uncoil inside.

‘Did you go anywhere nice? I was visiting an aunt.’

A loud recorded announcement interrupts us: The train now approaching platform one is the . . . White lights appear in the distance, aiming for us.

‘Nice to meet you,’ she says, making it clear that she does not want to be stuck chatting to me all the way to London.

‘You too,’ I say.

The track vibrates as the train gets closer.

On some level, I get that it is not this woman’s fault if Nate has been beguiled by her. But at this very moment, to me, she represents every other woman. Every Katie, every preceding woman and every future one. I try to take a deep breath to calm myself down, but my lungs feel tight and my throat constricted. I can’t quite get to the safe place in my head. As the train is about to pull in, I take a step forward. Behind me, the waiting-room door is pushed open. The driver I parked next to appears on the platform near me.

Inside the train, I can see a few heads, reading, watching screens, dozing. I briefly wonder whether to embark and return tomorrow – but that, too, would be pointless. I’ve already wasted an entire evening. The woman pushes the button to open the door and steps on to the train. I watch as she selects a window seat. To my side, the man greets an elderly gentleman and takes his small bag, guiding him by the arm towards the exit.

As the train pulls away, I notice my suspected honey-trap woman’s puzzled expression as she clocks me, rooted to the platform, staring. I remain standing for several more moments, feeling adrift, until I accept the fact that the best course of action for now is to return to my lonely hotel room and sleep.

The following morning, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. My phone rings.

‘Juliette? Juliette Price?’

‘Speaking.’

‘It’s Stacy. From the agency.’

I sit up. ‘Hi?’

‘You said you’d like a verbal report as well as an email?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’