White Bodies(78)
“I thought you said you didn’t know he was an addict?” Now Sanjeev leans in to hear my answer.
“Oh, I meant I didn’t know he’d relapsed. . . .”
“Well, if you’re a recovering addict—you know how important it is to have positive people around you. And Charlotte was never that,” says Sanjeev, sounding annoyed.
“Did she or Luke ever mention someone called Felix?”
“I don’t think so . . . why?”
“Oh, no reason . . . I just wondered if Luke knew my friend Felix.”
“Well, it’s an unusual name,” says Lulu flatly. “And I agree with Sanjeev. I don’t think Luke ever mentioned it.”
“I sometimes thought that Charlotte might have had a fling with Felix—it’s not that Luke told me so, but I wondered all the same.” I’m making it up as I go along, and there’s a wild, anxious note in my voice.
“It’s unlikely,” says Lulu. “Charlotte’s not that sort of girl—not at all.” She and Sanjeev exchange a look that I interpret as She was only too keen on Luke, unfortunately.
“And you’ve no idea where she went?”
“No. She could be anywhere. As far as I can make out, she didn’t have friends. Not local friends anyway.”
“What about her work? Doesn’t she work in a beauty salon?”
“Haha! No. She sometimes works as a model. At least, that’s what Luke said. And she’s trying to break into acting . . . not very successfully I think. She’s had a couple of theater roles, in tiny venues, and nothing else. She’d consider herself way too good for a beauty salon. But, look, this evening isn’t about Charlotte, it’s about Luke.” Lulu’s eyes become red.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t mean to distract you.” I can see that Lulu had feelings for Luke. I lean forward and whisper in her ear, “I don’t think Luke killed himself.”
She nods, giving me a sideways glance. It’s not like I’m saying anything that surprises her. It’s like I’m reflecting her own feelings back.
“I’m going to find Charlotte,” I say. I mean it. “I know she’s hiding, but I’ll find her.”
46
Wilf’s avoiding me, staying longer at work, going to the pub afterwards; while I revert to my old self, spending forever online, constructing new theories for the dossier. I give Illicit Hookups one last try. Since Francesca had told me, so seriously, about the site, she must have thought it was significant. Maybe Felix was more than a casual visitor; maybe he was a regular.
I scroll through a hundred women or more, all the Naughty Nikkis and Sadistic Sadies, and stop to inspect someone calling herself Mystery Madam of the Night. In her photo she’s kneeling on a bed, knees apart, skimpy underwear on her bony body and a black mask partially covering her face, leather, with Catwoman eyes. I study her. She could be Scarlet; it’s just possible. I pay £120 for the privilege, and send a message:
Love your photo. But I’m new here. Don’t know how it works.
Hello lover. It’s easy. I’m here to listen. Tell me about your secrets, your fantasies and let’s take it from there, Roxanna xxx
I’d rather tell you in person, Roxy.
I’d rather that also. I adore a first-timer. What’s your name?
Call me Felix. Have you been on here long? Met many guys?
Let’s say long enuff to know how to turn you on, gorgeous. How to satisfy your deepest desires. To give you what you want.
I can tell this isn’t Scarlet. Scarlet’s way of talking is so direct and uncompromising, and she would never call anyone “gorgeous” or write “enuff.” I move on, scrolling through other women . . . not finding anyone who’s more likely to be her. The pictures are wrong—most of the women are too old and too curvaceous. Then something occurs to me, and I go back to Roxanna.
I have something to ask you. Has anyone on here ever wanted you to inject them?
Anything goes on here. Hahahaha!!! Anything. If you want, I can do that.
Has anyone else ever asked you to do that?
Yes. It happens. Heroin or crack. Is that what you want, Felix?
Maybe.
Or something else? Some people just like injections. Vitamins hahahaha.
Who? Who likes them?
Oh, clients . . . We can do that. I won’t charge extra.
What else? What else do you do?
We can discuss when we meet. Can’t wait to see you in person. Tell me what you look like . . .
I don’t answer. . . . I reread our short exchange and as I do so, it dawns on me that I don’t need Illicit Hookups anymore—because, after Lulu and thanks to Roxanna, everything is starting to fall into place. My two short conversations with them have triggered something in me. Lulu saying “She’s not that sort of girl”—I know what she means now, I’m sure of it. And Roxanna’s experiences with vitamin injections make me remember going through Tilda’s bin early in the spring, at the start of all this, and finding that syringe. These revelations are the catalyst for a new clarity of thought. An ability to make sense, at last, of all my work, all my efforts, and it’s like a million unconnected musical notes have lined up and arranged themselves into a recognizable tune. I don’t feel enlightened, though. I feel, instead, that I’m falling in a dark space and that I’ll never stop.