White Bodies(67)

You had to order at a counter, and a young woman started speaking for the entire group—saying, “What do you want, Lulu? Sanjeev?” and after she’d relayed the orders for almond milk lattes and quinoa salads, she called out, “How about you, Luke?” to a skinny young man with black hair and dark circles under his eyes, who was talking with Lulu, discussing the next day’s filming.

He scratched the back of his head in a way that seemed both nervous and charming, and said, “An espresso and a cheese-and-ham panini. Thanks.” I noted his Manchester accent, and the way his Adam’s apple moved up and down when he spoke.

The group moved to a table and sat down, while I ordered myself a hot chocolate, then sat at the adjacent table. I couldn’t hear everything that was said, but I gathered that they were working on a documentary about dangerous plants. At one point, Luke was talking about the “dapperling mushroom . . . the amatoxin destroys your liver. . . .” Then Lulu told the group about a whole family in Italy who died after the mother added death cap mushrooms to their soup, presumably but not definitely by mistake, and then the group started debating whether they’d recognize poisonous mushrooms if they found them in a wood or somewhere. I wished they’d stop discussing work and switch to their social lives. But they didn’t; they moved on to deadly nightshade.

When they left, I followed them along the street back to the office. Luke, I noticed, had a gangly, uneven walk, and he talked a lot, bending down, since he was taller than the others. It was impossible for me to get his attention, to take him away from the group, so I simply watched as he disappeared back inside the office building, and I was left once more hanging around outside. It was a cold day, but at least it wasn’t raining, and I took up my vigil, leaning against a neighboring shop window and waiting.

I was lucky. After twenty minutes Luke emerged again, this time alone, and I followed him down the street, where he stopped and stood in line to use a cash machine. I stood behind him, as though I was in the queue, then tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hi . . . Are you Luke Stone?”

He looked bewildered. “Yes . . . Sorry, do I know you?”

“No. But I know your girlfriend . . .”

“Charlotte? You know Charlotte?”

I almost laughed out loud. Scarlet, Charlotte. Of course.

“Yes . . . I’m Callie Farrow. We know each other from ages ago.” I couldn’t think of anything specific to say. I know her from the internet? Not good. I know her from her acting and modeling days? Implausible.

“Oh, okay.”

I stamped my feet, as though it was too cold to stay outside, and said, “Luke, do you have a minute to go for a coffee? There’s something about Charlotte that I need to talk to you about.”

“What did you say your name was?” He stepped backwards, like he was trying to get away.

“Callie. Callie Farrow.”

“She hasn’t mentioned you.”

“Oh. That’s not surprising—we know each other from Narcotics Anonymous. We’re not supposed to talk about it.” After having no ideas, that one just came to me from outer space, and I was pleased with my ingenuity. He’d be curious now.

“I see . . . Okay then, a quick coffee.”

We walked back to the Red Onion café, and as we entered, he said, “Wait a minute—weren’t you in here earlier? Have you been stalking me?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. It’s just that there’s something quite serious going on with Charlotte that you don’t know about . . . that I thought you should know.”

“You’re being extremely weird, Callie. You know that I’ll tell Charlotte about this, don’t you?”

I didn’t answer.

We ordered a coffee for him and a hot chocolate for me, and took them to two high stools next to a wooden counter by the window, so that we were facing out, watching the people on the street.

“I have to admit that I know some pretty intimate things about you and Charlotte,” I began, keeping my voice tentative and friendly. “I know about the violence in your lives, and the sex games that you play—”

“What the fuck?”

“Luke, I know that this must seem really strange, but please, do listen to me. I want you to understand that I know Charlotte’s secrets . . . that she thinks the only way to escape, to leave you, is by destroying you, taking your life.” I touched his arm. “Really. She’s dangerous. . . .”

He looked at me with wide dark eyes, trying to compute my words.

“I can’t really explain,” I continued. “But one of you will kill the other . . . I can see that. And the best thing you can do is get out of there, quickly. Please, Luke.”

He stood up, almost knocking his stool over. “I don’t know who you really are, but you’re out of your mind. Just stay away from Charlotte, and from me. Otherwise, I’m going to the police. Do you understand?”

He was leaning over me, spewing his words into my ear, aggressive. The chatty charmer had gone, and I noticed for the first time that his eyes were red, bloodshot, and his skin a pallid gray. I tried to speak again, to tell him to take me seriously, but he left the café, striding past the window without looking in.

I remained at the seat, sipping my hot chocolate and watching the people on the pavement outside. Doubtless Scarlet would be furious with me now, because I had no faith that Luke was going to follow my advice. More likely he’d go home and accuse her of terrible sins, of blabbing to me, of betraying him. God knows what the consequences would be.