The Perfect Girlfriend(74)
I can feel him crouching down next to me as he tries to roll me on to my front. I sit up and I throw a towel over his head. He automatically reaches up to remove it so I lean forward, grab his right wrist, slide on a handcuff and attach the other side to the metal towel rail. Then I quickly step out of his reach.
He pulls the towel off with his free hand and stares at me. His hair is sticking up.
‘Lily? What? Let me go! I’m calling the police.’ He feels his pockets for his phone with his left hand, as though he’d forgotten he was wearing pyjamas.
I switch off my torch and the light. We are in darkness. The bathroom fan continues to whir. Metal clanks as he tugs.
‘This isn’t funny. How the hell did you get in?’
‘Long story.’ I pause as metal clanks again. ‘I want you to listen to me, for once—’
He interrupts me. ‘Can you switch on the light?’
‘Please.’
‘Please.’
I turn the main light on. Nate blinks. I sit on the edge of the bath. He lunges forward to try to grab me, but cries out as the handcuff holds him back.
‘Let me go!’
‘Not until I say what I want you to hear.’
He tugs his handcuffed hand again and swears several times. He kicks the bath panel with his bare feet. Nate’s flat is old and solid, with thick walls and carpeted floors, so he’ll have to be very persistent with the noise if he wants someone to hear. Still, it’s probably safer if I calm him down.
‘If you don’t quit the noise, I’m going to leave you here, trapped. You’re in control, believe it or not. Play nicely and you’ll be free soon. If not . . .’
I walk out and leave him for several minutes. He stops banging and shouting. I return, carrying my bag. I switch on the bedroom light and I dump it on his bed. He watches me from the bathroom. I sit on the end of the bed.
‘Ready to talk?’ I say.
‘I’m a captive audience.’
‘There’s no need for that attitude. I’m serious.’
‘I don’t doubt that you are.’
‘I don’t want us to split up.’
‘We already have.’
‘Exactly. And I want you to give us a final stab at our marriage.’
‘Jesus, Lily. Untie me. You can’t break into my home in the middle of the night and handcuff me, then expect me to agree to stay married to you. Come on! You don’t seriously think you’re going to get away with this?’
‘We can make this process longer or shorter. It’s up to you.’
‘What are you proposing now?’
I unzip my bag and remove two photo albums, then I walk over and hand them to him. ‘Look at these.’
Every photo I’ve taken of him or us, places we visited, things we did, I’ve had printed. I want him to remember the good times.
I watch him flick over the pages. ‘Slow down. Look at them properly.’
He does so, with exaggerated slowness. ‘I had no idea that you’d taken so many,’ he says. ‘I don’t remember.’
That’s not the only thing he hasn’t remembered. Never mind. He’ll realize soon enough. Whilst he’s busy, I take out a wedding dress from my bag. I bought it years ago, when I first realized that Nate was the man I was destined to marry. I hold the hanger up high and let the dress unfold. It is a classic style, in white and silver. Crystal beads and pearls adorn the bodice. I step into the bedroom and hang it in the wardrobe, smoothing out the creases.
‘What’s that for?’ he calls out from the bathroom, a slight tremor in his voice.
‘I think we should have a blessing,’ I call back. ‘Like I’ve already explained many times, our Vegas wedding wasn’t the one of my dreams either, much as you like to imply that it was. I’ve ordered you a suit, but unfortunately it hasn’t arrived yet. And we need to buy rings.’
I return to the bathroom. Nate is hitting his head against the palm of his free hand. He stops and looks up at me.
‘When I finish these albums, are you going to undo the handcuff?’
I ignore his question and carry on unpacking my belongings. By my side of the bed I place some bridal magazines, a tube of hand cream and two books. I sit at the end of the bed and watch Nate through the open door. He glances up, then swiftly returns his gaze to the photos. When he gets to the last one, his eyes fix upon it for several seconds before he looks up at me. There is horror – definitely not love – in his eyes.
The final picture he would have seen is a family photo. Nate and I had a picnic by the Thames, the summer before last, and joining us on our rug, either side of the hamper, is a superimposed picture of a young boy and girl. The images cut from a children’s clothing catalogue have similar features to how I envisage our children would look.
Above the picture, I have written a simple title: Our Future.
26
‘Oh my God,’ he says. He looks back down at the picture.
‘That’s how our lives should’ve ended up. You can’t go around treating people badly. It’s not right. Even your mum agrees.’
‘You agreed to keep my family out of this.’
‘I bought you a present from her studio.’
I take out the frame containing the photo of the regatta and hold it up, Exhibit A-style, for his viewing pleasure. Then I crouch down and lean it against the wall.