White Bodies(53)

Doubtless you’ve gone through my medicine cupboard, noting all the drugs. Have you figured it out? I’ve enough in there to obliterate myself, and that’s the important thing. I’m uneasy if I don’t have the means, the freedom, to kill myself close to hand. But I’m not about to do it. I’d rather leave it to fate—or to put it another way, I’d rather leave it to Felix. Because he’s becoming more violent, and he will kill me. I’m convinced of it now.





27


“He doesn’t look like a brute . . . to the naked eye, I mean.”

Daphne’s poring over pictures in Grazia, of Tilda and Felix on their honeymoon in Greece. On sun loungers, in swimwear. I’m looking over Daphne’s shoulder, studying Tilda’s arms. I can’t see marks—but the picture quality is poor. I’m looking at Tilda’s face too. From her serene expression you’d never know that she’s contemplating her own death. And Felix is lying lazily, one hand behind his head, reading some fat paperback. As Daphne says, he doesn’t look like a brute.

“The photos mean nothing. . . .”

“Of course, sweetness. That was stupid of me.”

I return to my chair behind the shop counter and am about to send Tilda yet another text asking whether she’s okay. At least, on this holiday, she’s still speaking to me—and my main aim is to keep our channel of communication open.

I’m pressing send when the bell jangles and an older guy comes into the shop. He has an unruly gray beard and a baggy checked shirt and, unlike most of the customers, he doesn’t ignore Daphne—he raises his eyebrows at her and with a tentative grin says, “Okay to disturb you while you’re working—just for a minute?” At the same time, he produces from behind his back a bunch of flowers—pink roses, cosmos daisies, and a sprig of white lacy hydrangea. “From my garden,” he says. Daphne is blushing an unseemly blotchy red color, and gets up from her chair, bashing her leg against the worktable.

“Douglas, you’re a darling!” She takes the flowers. “I’ll put them in a glass and have them on my table.”

He exits, with a cheery wave, saying, “Not stopping. Just wanted to drop those by.”

Daphne says, “You see, Callie, romance does happen. Life can be uncomplicated sometimes.”

“Uncomplicated! Are you sure? Don’t you have complicated doubts about Douglas’s beard, and your compatibility?”

She snorts: “You know what—good sex can sort everything out—the complexity falls away.”

“You haven’t!”

“Oh yes I have.”

“You’re going to hate this . . . but what about all that research he did on you before he met you? It was practically cyberstalking. Don’t you find that worrying?”

She leans her chin on her hand, is gazing at me in a benign, smiley way. Sort of kind, sort of patronizing. “Actually no. Everyone does internet research on everyone these days and, you know what? He’s rather lovely. A widower with three grown-up children, and a house in Somerset . . . I think I’ve done well.”

“Sometimes there’s a fine line between romantic and sinister.”

“Sure. But this isn’t one of those times.”

I realize that I’m projecting my fearful state onto Daphne, which is unfair. So I ask, “Would you like an iced bun?”

She says yes, and I make tea for us to have with the buns. Just as I’m serving up, the bell clangs again. It’s Amy Fishwick, the girl that Wilf likes, saying, “Hi. It’s Callie, isn’t it? We met at the Willesden Estates party? I want to buy a book for Wilf—can you recommend something?”

I inspect her, up and down. Extravagant blond hair extensions, styled into a wavy tussled look (bedhead?), white pencil skirt, tight. Discernible cleavage. High-gloss magenta fingernails. Heels. She’d be a disaster in the Bishops Avenue garden, digging and pulling out weeds.

“He likes psychological thrillers. Murder stories. He’s read all of Harlan Coben, and has just started on Jo Nesb?.” In a grumpy way, I pick out a book called Nemesis, and give it to her. “He’ll like this.”

She flashes me a puzzled look, like she thinks I’m sending her a covert message, or the book is a trick.

“Really, he’ll like it.”

“Thanks, Callie,” she says sweetly, tilting her head and widening her eyes, like she’s speaking to a small child.

When she leaves Daphne says, “I don’t believe it. She’s not his type.”

“We don’t know that. I mean, we don’t know him that well.” I’m thinking that Daphne’s wrong, that she hasn’t witnessed the sharp little looks that Wilf and Amy exchange; hasn’t taken into account Amy’s spray-tanned legs or her come-hither smile.

I don’t want to think about her, so I go online and log onto Controlling Men. I want to discuss Tilda’s letter and I write:

Pink has confided that she thinks X will kill her. And she actually wants him to do it. She tries to provoke him.

Within seconds I’m bombarded with advice. I’m told that the situation is “critical,” “highly dangerous.” That it’s not uncommon for women to become so psychologically broken that they become complicit in the violence. Lemon-and-Lime is back, and she writes about “the gaslight effect,” which is when an abuser manipulates situations so cleverly that his partner doubts her own sanity. “This is often the modus operandi of a sociopath.”