White Bodies(19)
Now, despite the hot day, I feel as shivery as Tilda seems to be. The long term fills me with dread. I spend some time chewing on my toasted sandwich, considering how I might sound supportive and, importantly, reasonable.
“I realize you’re not telling me everything,” I begin, in a measured, even tone, “and I just want you to know that I understand men like Felix, and I know that they can be dangerous. So, if you ever need me, I’m here. I’ll look after you—”
“Oh, I can’t stand this! Felix is wonderful, adorable, not dangerous. I don’t need or want you to look after me. Can you get that into your tiny pealike brain? If you can’t, I won’t spend time with you. You’re way too toxic. . . .” She’s downing the last of her wine, grabbing her hat, and I panic:
“Please, please, Tilda, face facts. Felix has poisoned you against me. And he’s violent. You have to leave him!”
She looks right into my eyes and I think for a second that she’s going to cry, then she shakes her head slightly before checking the time on her phone and saying that she doesn’t want coffee and needs to go home; so we collect our bags and leave. Tilda, I notice, has left her muffin in a state of devastation all over the plate. As she walks to the door, I gather up some crumbs and put them in my pocket.
At the tube she puts her hat on and some big sunglasses, and as we part she calms down and says: “Please don’t get carried away. It’s all in your head, you know.”
I get back to the bookshop and Daphne says, “That was short. Nice lunch?” Then we resume our normal day, except for me it’s far from normal. I’m churned up inside, terrified that by arguing with Tilda I’ve driven home the wedge between us and made her situation a whole lot worse. In one of the many quiet moments I eat the crumbs from her muffin.
? ? ?
When I get home I make supper, a microwave bacon risotto, and write up my meeting with Tilda for the dossier, letting out all my frustration and anxiety. I’m not ready to talk to Scarlet and Belle about this, but I’m looking forward to hearing their news when I log into the Zone at seven thirty. To prepare myself I go online and check up on the Chloey Percival case, but nothing much has happened. She’s still in intensive care because of the stabbing, and Travis Scott’s still missing. The police say he mustn’t be approached by members of the public and that he has a distinctive tattoo that crisscrosses his neck—in the picture it looks like his head is held up by barbed wire. The only new details are totally predictable. Travis Scott was identified as Chloey’s ex-boyfriend, and she had dumped him when he became too “possessive.” Travis had never had a girlfriend as pretty as Chloey, and his Facebook page had been plastered with pictures of the two of them—sharing a bag of chips, up to their waists in choppy English sea, screaming on the Nemesis Inferno roller coaster. The other development is that Travis’s mother, who hasn’t seen him in the past two years, is making “an impassioned plea” for him to give himself up.
I log on to the Zone and find a message already posted from Scarlet. Just Click on this link. It’s an online rant by Travis Scott a month before he attacked Chloey, and posted on a website called Revenge Buddies, which allows its members to fantasize about payback plans for all sorts of behavior, most of it trivial—leaving bags of dog poo on the pavement, wearing leaky headphones, putting a BABY ON BOARD sticker on your car—but one section is devoted to violent threats against feminists who post messages on Twitter. Travis’s comments are in the romance section.
His spelling is worse than Belle’s, but that isn’t the main point. What sticks out is the force of his message—the pain he’s been feeling, the desperation. All he could think about was Chloey. My Chloey is prettyer than any model. Her beuty comes from the inside she is a PERFECT girl and our love is perfect and without her I wudnt want to live but I Know she is sometimes thinking of someone else, and who it is. Hes called Cameron and hes suposed to be my mate Im not going to take this believe me she is making a mistack. He went on for ages like that, and added more a day later, when Chloey had dumped him. Believe me I wud never harm Chloey she is a good girl but love is biger than a single persons feelings it gos deep like a knife and takes over so you have to do what you have to do it cant be helped. One day she will feel pain like I do, then she will understand.
This puke is vile, writes Scarlet. His language is so menacing. My X says the same things—he doesn’t want to go on living without me; I am the only woman he could ever love; he thinks I want to leave him. He’s right, I do want to leave—but you know why I can’t. Blood will be shed unless we take control and do something.
I didn’t expect this. Scarlet’s usually the one to calm us down and tell us not to catastrophize. Also, I can’t think what she might mean—because the whole point is that the prey don’t have any control, that they are in an impossible situation. So I write in the dossier that Scarlet is just expressing frustration, especially when she uses that ugly word—puke.
11
Wilf comes into the shop clutching his Jo Nesb? but then he doesn’t mention the book, or say that he’s looking for another one to read. Instead he just stands at the counter, focusing on the reserved-items shelf above my head. I study his arms. He has rolled up his shirtsleeves, and I inspect the dark red hairs on white skin, the square tips to his fingers, the dirt under his nails. I’m about to do my “Can I help you?” knowing I’m being way too formal—it’s Wilf after all—but before the words come out, he says, “I was wondering, Callie, would you like to meet for lunch today? At the Albany?” I’m not sure that I’ve heard right, and I mumble, something like, “What? Did you say lunch?” But I had heard correctly, and we arrange to meet at one o’clock.