White Bodies(52)

At home, in the evening, I’m drawn back to Controlling Men, and find that Scarlet has linked me into the details of dozens more female deaths, this time from around the world: America, Australia, Brazil, South Africa, Italy, France . . . I shut my laptop forcefully, pour myself a large glass of Strongbow, and lie on my bed, thinking about Tilda and about the memory stick. I need to look at it again, urgently, before Tilda and Felix return.





26


I’m back at the desolate, sanitized flat on Curzon Street, heading straight for the linen cupboard, extracting the little red ingot. Before I examine its contents, though, I tour the flat—checking the medicine cupboard, inspecting Felix’s boxed-up shirts, marveling at the cling-filmed crockery. But there’s nothing to arouse my interest apart from a pile of papers on a table. I’m shocked—I thought Felix never left papers lying around. I sift them, finding an invitation to an art exhibition on Dover Street, another to a drinks party in Pimlico. Also, the paperwork for a conference called New York or London? It will last two days, apparently, and take place at the Ashleigh House Hotel near Marlow in Buckinghamshire. I see that Felix has registered as a delegate, and I find myself noting down the name of the hotel and dates of the conference in the dossier. Then I insert the memory stick into my laptop, and scroll down. As I’d hoped, there’s new material. Tilda has updated her letter:

Now we’re about to be married there’s a change in Felix. I’m sensing a shift away from passion towards violence for its own sake and—I admit it, Callie—I’m less turned on by his behavior and more scared.

I wonder whether you noticed anything that time that Lucas came round for supper, a few days before the wedding. It was unbearable for Felix to listen to Lucas boasting about the French house he’s designed because, for Felix, there’s only one thing worse than Lucas throwing his life away on failed creative projects—and that’s Lucas succeeding, proving himself as an architect. And then he started portraying himself as a sort of renaissance child—so talented at everything, while Felix was the “observer,” silently weighing up Lucas, endlessly watching him. I’m sure Lucas knew the effect he was having and was relishing it; and I was totally aware. It was only you, Callie, who didn’t seem to realize what was going on. Then we were talking about “which animal is Felix,” and Lucas said a snake—and you let out the noisiest belly laugh (very unflattering, btw!). Of course, Felix was seething. When you all left he started cleaning the (already clean) kitchen, in the foulest mood, barely speaking to me. I tried to help, but he hissed at me, “Get out!—I’ll do this,” pushing me away.

I was going to do as he said, and sat down on the sofa, opening the Vogue magazine—but then I had a brilliant idea—I wanted to provoke him, so that we’d end up in bed in our most passionate, frenzied state, and I said, “Lucas is a fantastic guy—and so gifted. Those architectural drawings were beautiful.” I returned to the kitchen space. Felix was bending down, setting the dishwasher, ignoring me. And I softly stroked his hair, saying, “Does he take after your mother? She’s the creative one of the marriage isn’t she—with her children’s books?” Still he ignored me, and I said, “Really, darling . . . I’m interested. What was it like growing up with him? Was he always doing beautiful drawings like that?”

He stood up, stared into my eyes with a fierce wounded expression on his face, and using all his force he slammed me against the wall, one arm forcing my body backwards, the other across my throat, throttling me. I was in a state of complete surrender, my adrenaline pumping, suddenly light-headed, in a sort of blissful trancelike state, and I was expecting him to drag me to the bed. But then he was hissing into my ear, “What the fuck are you playing at? Why would you do this?” putting greater pressure on my throat, so hard and painful that I couldn’t even choke, although my chest was heaving uselessly. I thought I was going to die, but then he stopped and I slumped to the floor, while he stormed out of the house. He returned at some early hour of the morning—three or four o’clock—I was in bed, waiting, and he just got in with me, turned his back and went to sleep.

That night was horrible, but I’m sure I’ll be able to suppress thoughts of it on my wedding day. Yes, Callie, I am going through with it—because I love Felix and will never cease to be excited by him. I just need to be careful in how far I push him, and make an art of it. And my career? (I can practically hear you screaming the question at me.) I guess I’ll have to take it very slowly if I’m to act again. A high-profile film role right now would be intolerable for Felix, I know it. So—we’ll see.

Truth is, it’s becoming more likely that I will be killed by him and that you will get to read this letter (what shall I do? Print it out and leave it in a sealed envelope with my solicitor—to be opened by Callie in the event of my death?).

I want you to know this, little one—that my only regret is that I will leave you alone; though sometimes I think you’ll be better off without me stealing the limelight and dominating you. If I’m gone, please don’t be sad. Remember that I’ve chosen this path, and I’m sure that, deep down, you were always aware that I’ve had a romantic relationship with the idea of death, that I’m fascinated by death; part of me longs for it. Think about it—all that self-harming and bulimia when I was a teenager. And maybe that was why I made such a convincing Peter Pan—to die is an awfully big adventure! These days, I don’t see it like that exactly—the word adventure is too positive, too cheerful. I see death as terrifying and also mesmerizing—I imagine the ecstasy of that total, ultimate release.