White Bodies(41)

It’s good to know these details. I owe it to her. It’s strange, though, to see the fevered discussion on the website, page after page of it, by people who have no idea that she was actually a member, a proper befriender. Scarlet doesn’t let on, and neither do I. We don’t want them to claim her, to manipulate her story, to make her their own martyr.

My private emails with Scarlet are intermittent and unsettling. We seem so at odds with each other because Scarlet is in a rage, a fury, constantly hoping that Joe will rot in hell or, at least, spend the rest of his life behind bars. But I’m too exhausted to care about Joe, too drained by sadness. And any anger that I waste on Joe seems to eat away at the loving thoughts I want to devote to Belle, as if my emotions are finite, and I have to think carefully about where to direct them. And when Scarlet keeps insisting that she and I meet up, I repeatedly ignore her, unable to summon the motivation to have the conversation. After a week, though, when she returns to the subject, I do at last engage:

Why is this so urgent?

Belle is dead. Can’t you see how this affects us, you as a befriender, me as prey?

How are things with Luke?

I regret the question as soon as I write it. It comes not from curiosity, but more from a difficulty I have in assessing whether Scarlet’s situation is like a chronic illness, just an ongoing dysfunction, or whether it’s the relentless escalation of danger that she claims.

She writes:

I told you before, he ties me up around my neck, and one day he will strangle me. And he leaves me in the flat, abandoned, tied up. What if I had some emergency while he’s gone? I could have an asthma attack and not be able to get to my inhaler.

This is the first time that she’s mentioned asthma.

What happens when you explain that to him?

I write with trepidation, anxious that I’ll receive a reply full of detail about depraved sex games.

It’s simple—he says “Sure babe” and then completely ignores me. In fact I think I suffer later . . . I have cigarette burns on my back btw.

What?! That’s dreadful.

Yes, it’s all dreadful. That’s why we MUST meet. I’m not going to end up like Belle. I could come to London on Monday—could you meet me then?

Maybe . . . I’ll let you know.

Please, let me know QUICKLY. I need to plan. Also I have to concoct a story for Luke, to explain my absence. Really, it’s ESSENTIAL that we meet.





20


I call Wilf, and he answers with a note of laughter in his voice, as though I’ve caught him in the middle of a funny anecdote.

“Hey! Callie. At last . . . It’s been ages you know, since your impressive spadework in the garden . . . and afterwards . . . and everything. Can I persuade you to come out again?”

Raucous chatter in the background. “You spend too much time in the pub,” I say.

“Not the pub—it’s a going-away drinks in the office for Amy Fishwick—come and join us.” Then in a lower tone, “Really, come over. I’d love to see you, and maybe we can go out later, for a meal or something . . . or just go back to my flat.”

“Okay.” Even though I’m so low, I find myself applying makeup—eyeliner and mascara and lipstick—swapping trainers for my gray suede boots. And because I’m nervous about seeing Wilf, because of the leak to the Mail, I drink down a large glass of Strongbow.

At Willesden Estates it feels like the leaving party has passed its peak, is becoming stale. Drunk people in the street lean against the display window, and something unsavory is splattered over the pavement. Inside, rock music is playing, and the small groups of people still there look tired. Wilf sees me by the door and comes to collect me.

“It’s been so long,” he says. “Am I still okay for a kiss?”

“Maybe.” I give him my cheek, although it’s obvious that he’s expecting my lips.

“Come on in. I want to introduce you to people.”

“It’s you I want to see.”

“And here I am. But, please, Callie, I’d like you to meet my colleagues. I’ve told them about you, and they’re curious.” He puts his arm round my shoulders, and I flinch. He leads me into the office, picking up a glass of sparkling wine, and I take a gulp, feeling distant and detached—my new way of being.

He moves me this way and that, to introduce me to Bruce Oswald, whose handshake is clammy, and Tony Craig, the boss, who puts his face close to mine and slurs, “You need to keep an eye on that fella.” And then: “This is Amy, who’s leaving.”

“Hello, Amy who’s leaving.” I offer my hand, and as she takes it a flicker of a look between her blue eyes and Wilf’s blue eyes makes my chest tighten, and my question comes out too directly: “Are you going a long way away?”

She and Wilf laugh together, to the same beat.

“Oh,” she says. “I’d never go too far from the Wonderwilf. . . . The Maida Vale office.”

“The Wonderwilf?” I look at him, making a crazy face.

“She was headhunted,” says Wilf.

“I’m waiting to be headhunted . . . by a bookshop conglomerate.”

“Or a gardening multinational?” Wilf squeezes my waist, making me start.

I gulp more wine and whisper, “Can we go outside?”