The Perfect Girlfriend(61)

I don’t know who she thinks she is.

I seethe all the way back home. It is an effort to drive safely, because I want to put my foot down and take off. I am hooted at twice and I have to brake suddenly when I forget to slow down whilst approaching a roundabout.

At home, I take out my lists. It’s a shame I didn’t bulk-buy voodoo dolls when I had the chance, but I could probably order some more online.

I update my plans for all three of my enemies and it keeps me going until the early hours.

I force myself back to the training centre in the morning, because I have one more day of my course left. Amy has two. I vow to avoid her all morning, but my rage resurfaces when she pretends not to see me in the canteen.

I really, really hate being ignored. Does she think I’m going to pull her ponytail? It’s pathetic.

I check out the course list in reception. Amy finishes an hour after me today. I head towards the practical training area, praying that the code I watched Brian and Dawn key in endless times still works.

It does! I look around.

I walk in, as though I have every right to be here, passing the short-haul aircraft on my way. I can hear shouts as Amy’s group complete their emergency evacuations.

I peek through the access door at the back of a Boeing 777. It is wedged open. The economy seats are deserted apart from scattered belongings. Everyone will be huddled by the main doors. I step in, holding my breath. An emergency evacuation alarm screeches, before being silenced, and I hear the rumble of a main door being pulled open and crew shouting instructions.

I search for Amy’s bag; hers is the fifth one I come across. I remove her phone and switch it off.

I walk back through the access door, then hide by an equipment training station among the infant cots, oxygen bottles, life jackets and emergency packs.

I wait.

Twenty minutes later, Amy’s group emerge from the mock-up, led by two trainers. Amy is near the back. She opens her bag, rummages and stops. I bet she’s dying to see how many times wonderful Rupert has messaged her today. She walks back towards the mock-up.

I count to thirty, then walk up to the access door. I look around. I remove the wedge, push it shut and walk away once I hear the lock click. Out of sight of any cameras, I drop Amy’s phone on the path between the canteen and reception. I swipe out at security and cross the road to the car park.

Whilst driving, I think about Amy alone in the darkness, if all the aircraft exits have been locked. Whatever time Security find her – when it’s noted that she hasn’t swiped out – it won’t be late enough, as far as I’m concerned. But, hopefully, whilst she’s sitting in the ghostly graveyard of economy, trapped inside the shell of a plane with only passenger safety cards to pass the time, she’ll also have time to think about the error of her ways.

I manage to get a parking space right outside the shoebox.

I have two missed calls. One from the estate agent, the other from my solicitor.

It’s good news; I’m going to be Nate’s neighbour by Halloween.





21


On the day of one of Bella’s many pre-wedding gatherings with her clique – today being the deluxe spa experience – I drive to Bournemouth. I park, re-apply my perfume – a musky, strong one I bought in duty free – and walk down a hill towards the centre, until I reach the right address. I give my name to the receptionist, then sink down into a soft chair in the waiting area. The cream walls are decorated with pictures of yachts, mansions and exotic beaches. The carpets smell new.

‘Miss Price?’ says a man who appears through a door on my left.

I stand up, smile and we shake hands. I hold his hand a fraction longer than necessary. He is easily recognizable from the photos I’ve seen of him: normal-enough looking, shorter than Nate, with brown hair. Although, give it a few years and his hair will slip to the side and his stomach will swell. Miles must be a good ten years older than Bella and myself. He has kind eyes, which crease at the sides when he smiles. His fingernails are well manicured.

‘Please, come in and take a seat,’ he says. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’

‘That’s quite all right,’ I say. ‘I can totally imagine that you’re in demand.’

I flash my left hand as I reach into my bag for a file to ensure he can see my engagement ring. It is a single diamond set in gold – bought in Abu Dhabi, duty free.

I’ve contacted Miles a few times for ‘advice’ and then – slowly, carefully – reeled him in. I know Bella. I know her attitude towards the male sex: not-so-hidden-below-the-surface disdain. An ice maiden who has cultivated all the essential qualities to make good wife material for certain types of men. Miles does not seem the sort of man to take risks, though. If he thinks I am single, he will be harder to snare. He won’t take the chance that he could end up in a bunny-boiling situation.

‘So, Miss Price—’

‘Please, call me Juliette.’

‘Of course. And you must call me Miles.’ He hesitates and smiles.

I smile back. ‘Miles.’

He clears his throat and turns the screen on his desk around, ready to refresh my memory of our discussions by phone and mail.

I lean forward and listen attentively. ‘Thank you for explaining everything so well.’

‘As I’ve said before, some people make out that managing money is complicated, when it isn’t. I like to dissolve the mystery for my clients.’