We are complete opposites in terms of appearance, and I like that where she is slim and pale, I am curvaceous and partial to a good spray tan. There has never been any competition with us when it has come to men. They seem to prefer one type to another so there has always been plenty for both of us to entertain.
I watch her dancing around with her arms in the air to an old school R&B playlist from her Spotify; her hair slick with sweat as it sticks to her forehead. She's singing all the wrong words and I don't know why but it irritates me hugely.
My jaw feels a bit achy; I can’t stop yawning. I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s been quite an exhausting night trying simultaneously to keep up with Jacobs texts, whilst feigning interest as she's harped on and on about her latest failed relationship. Her disastrous love life is always a topic of conversation, and after a while it has become extremely mundane. I know why she constantly has problems with the men she dates – she’s too clingy and much too quick. As soon as she starts dating, she gets overly attached and it doesn’t take long to scare the guy off. She doesn't need to do this, she's beautiful and if she just played things a little bit cooler, she might actually stand a chance.
I used to try and explain this to her delicately, but she always seemed pathetically wounded by what I had to say before turning defensive and using my own relationship with Jacob as a sharp weapon against me. I eventually stopped trying to help her out and to this day her bunny boiler tendencies have remained the same.
As the night drags on, I simply don’t have any energy left to stay up and dance with her any more. My head feels fuzzy from the home-made cocktails we concocted from whatever liqueur we found in my kitchen cupboard and what appears to be three quarters of a bottle of tequila. I slump down onto my couch and melt into its cushions.
I know I really shouldn’t, but I can’t resist the urge to look her up on Facebook. It's niggling inside me, gnawing away at my curiosity, desperate to get out. Hannah’s phone is sitting next to me and so I pick it up and enter her passcode – which is her birthday and oh so predictable. I reason that if I look her up on Hannah’s Facebook account, it won’t matter if my finger slips and accidentally hits something it shouldn’t because she has no idea who I am, never mind who Hannah is. My mind jolts back to a time of panic where I made that clumsy mistake once before. It was some time last year when I was looking at her pictures and to be honest it's so easily done. One minute your thumb is hovering over the phone and instead of scrolling down, you've hit the like button. I quickly rectified my mistake and nothing ever came of it, so I don’t think she noticed. It didn't stop the anxiety I had waiting for Jacob to call and ask me what I was playing at and so I’m more careful these days.
My siren red gel painted nails are a blur beneath me as I slowly type in the search bar - the name I hate the most. The screen fills with a list of people to choose from, but I know that she is always the fourth option down. There she is with her lusciously dark shiny hair draped gently around her shoulders as she smiles widely at the camera. She’s wearing a pair of black distressed denim shorts with a plain grey t-shirt tucked in; a black western style belt with silver buckles pulls in her already tiny waist. Her legs look tanned, but it’s not natural because I know from previous searches that she hasn’t been on any holidays recently. Her bronzed arm is stretched behind her as she clutches on to a male hand - his hand, but that’s the only part of him in this picture.
Her privacy settings are terrible, I can browse through all her recently uploaded pictures so easily, but I never allow myself to land on one of her dressed in white. That’s something I can never bring myself to explore.
Scrolling through her status updates I can’t help but roll my eyes at how boring she seems. What excitement does he get from her? It isn’t until I lift another shot of tequila to my lips that I notice that she posted only 3 minutes ago.
Lauren Cruthers: 2 days to go until a week in the sunshine with the girls! Tenerife here we come! #Girlstrip
My head feels so heavy as I stare at the screen, but I still understand perfectly what this means. She’s going away – and she's going without him. As the opportunity races through my mind, I scramble to my feet and push past Hannah roughly as I head towards my bedroom. Her phone falls to the floor out of my now lazy hand.
I need to find it, oh god I need to find it quick. My diary, where the fuck is my diary? I know I left it in here somewhere. My head is pounding from adrenaline mixed with tequila. I don’t need to look for long, I see it almost instantly, sitting on my dressing table staring right at me, as if a bright light has highlighted its desirability. I snatch it up and frantically flick through the crisp pages to find where I had last jotted down how many holidays I had left to take from work.
I slump to the floor with a loud thud, allowing my head to lull backwards against my bed. The room spins as I shut my eyes and the black and gold striped book falls into my lap. My lip curls upwards in satisfaction. I have seven days remaining.
Jacob
Her texts have been all over the place tonight. She’s quite obviously been drinking, and I wonder who she’s with? I suppose I never truthfully know what she’s up to. She could be with anyone for all I know. She doesn't tend to ever lie to me though. She's many things; impulsive, mischievous, and sometimes a little dangerous but one thing I will give her credit for is that she is painfully honest. She is also by no means stupid. She understands the boundaries to stay within if she wants to continue speaking to me.
I'm not being cruel you know. If anything, I'm the one who has it hard here. I put my relationship, my marriage at risk every time we speak but it's all under control. I’ve made sure that we only text when I’m at work or home alone. Admittedly that hasn’t always been the case. There have been a few times when I’ve sent a quick message to Karly when Lauren was sitting right next to me on our sofa. I know that’s a shit head move but sometimes I just can't help myself. It's exciting.
Over the years Karly has continued to push and push the idea of us meeting up, even more so when she found out about Lauren. I have considered it a few times; who wouldn't? I mean she's fucking gorgeous, but I’ve always stood my ground. That causes issues of its own, the rejection I mean. She doesn’t like when I do that. In-fact thinking about it, sometimes she has a real fucking attitude problem that betrays her attractiveness.
Nothing to worry about though, it's not like she can do anything wild and reckless. She doesn’t even know where I live so I don’t ever need to worry about her turning up at my door like some sort of psychopath. I’ve always been careful with that type of information, even telling her a completely different town from the one I actually live in. Shit, that would be a right mess if she got hold of my address wouldn’t it? Can you imagine?
I rattle out a few words and press the send button on my phone.
What are you wearing? X
This time she doesn’t reply instantly, which is strange. I stare at the screen blankly for a minute or so. Still nothing. Surely, she’s not going to leave me hanging? Our texts have been pretty flirty all day, which usually leads to things heating up a notch as the night goes on. A few compromising pictures are usually exchanged and sometimes even an explicitly filthy phone call.
She can't be doing much, she doesn't even like celebrating her birthday for fuck sake. Frustrated, I shove my phone inside the pocket of my grey jogging bottoms and pick up the remote control that’s fallen onto the carpet. Scanning through the sports channels I become more and more agitated at her lack of response. I hate that she has this effect on me. I’m not used to being kept waiting; I like to be in control.
I find myself wondering what I can do to grab her attention. What I could send her to pull her back to me. I yank the phone back out of my pocket and open my stored photos, searching for any that I might have previously taken that would send the ball back into my court.
Suddenly, K pops up on my screen.
Somethings come up babe, Night x
I
stare at the screen in pure disbelief. She’s kidding right? What the fuck could be so important that’s taken her away from me. Is it some other bloke? Has she invited some random geezer round for a night of fun? My stomach churns at the thought of someone else touching her, their grubby hands groping her curves. I know I don’t have a right to be jealous, but I am.
Furious at her I decide to turn the television off and retire to bed. Heading upstairs, the warm scent of amber fills my nose which only heightens as I gently push open the white wooden door to our bedroom. A candle glows gently on the window ledge and I blow it out as I walk past. Lauren has fallen asleep with a book still firmly attached to her hands. I slide it out gently and place it on the bedside table next to her.
She looks beautiful; even with her dark hair splayed messily across the pillow and her mouth hanging slightly open. I should forget all about Karly once and for all tonight and climb into bed next to my wife - where I should be, but I just can’t help myself. I reach into my pocket and take my phone back out and slide open her name.
Make it up to me tomorrow, night babe x
Chapter 4
Karly
The past two days have passed me by in an absolute blur. It took an unreasonable amount of time to successfully persuade management to grant me a week’s holiday at such short notice. In my opinion they were just flexing their muscles, showing me who was boss by flaunting their power. Reminding me that there is still a hierarchy that demands be obeyed.
Whatever they were doing, it was pretty pointless. If they had said no, it wouldn’t have mattered one little bit, because I was taking a week off with or without their permission.
I had contacted all my clients who were scheduled for an appointment and explained to them that sadly there had been a death in the family, a complete shock and therefore I would need to take some time off. I didn't feel too bad about lying because everyone in my family was already dead; it's not like I would be jinxing anything. A death in your family is an excuse that cannot be disputed no matter how disgruntled you are and so they were all more than happy to rearrange.
The man next to me erupts into some sort of coughing fit, bringing me back to the here and now. Sitting in Edinburgh Airport I realise I’ve been clutching the printed flight ticket a little too tightly in my hand and it’s started to rip at the edges. I tend to clench my fists painfully tight when I’m nervous; it allows my face to remain impassive during difficult situations because the tension is directed elsewhere. I don't know why I didn't just save an e-copy of my ticket onto my phone. Perhaps holding the ticket physically in my hands makes everything all the more real. Something solid, not virtual or electronic.
Sitting across from me is a family of five. Mum is cradling her chubby legged baby girl, at least I think it's a girl, and dad is engrossed in today’s paper. Their other two furiously loud and frustrating brats are pretending to be aeroplanes in the middle of the two rows, zooming up and down, up and down. The noise is driving me mad when I'm trying my best to stay calm, and I can't understand the thought process in allowing the sheer chaos their offspring are causing.
I try my best to ignore them, turning my attention to other commuters waiting patiently to travel. Airports are full of all different types of people: bigwigs on their way to an important meeting, happy holiday makers eager to relax before a long and compact journey, groups of boisterous teenagers ready to fling away their dignity on a popular party island, regular travellers who use flight as their means of transport to work on a weekly basis. Regardless of who they are or where they are going, I doubt they want to be disturbed by furiously loud and uncontrollable children.
Enough is enough, my attempts are futile and so I decide to take a walk through the departure lounge, hoping it will also pass some time. There aren’t many shops at this airport which is disappointing, especially it being in Scotland’s capital. The ones that are here are ridiculously overpriced but still claim to offer you substantial discounts from the high street prices.
Dissatisfied by what I’ve seen so far, I retreat through Duty Free and browse the aisles lazily; picking up loads of different delicately shaped bottles of perfume, spritzing a couple on to those flimsy strips of white paper. Some smell nauseatingly sweet and others have too many citrus notes for my liking. The mixture tickles the inside of my nose, threatening to erupt into a series of explosive sneezes.
I wonder what fragrance Jacobs' play thing wears. I don’t tend to stray from my favourite Thierry Mugler scent but maybe I should treat myself to something new, after all this is a special occasion. I try a couple more out and decide on an exquisitely shaped purple bottle; a seductive rich scent with notes of fraikle rose and amber by Stella McCartney - my favourite by far. As it lingers on my wrist, I embrace the air of confidence it gifts me, something I need in abundance right now.
I stroll back to the waiting area in the departure lounge and I notice that my gate has now been displayed on the big screen attached to the white pillar. Other travellers have started to notice their newly announced gate too and have hastily begun to pick up their belongings – and their children - before starting to make their brisk way to boarding point. I always wonder why some people are in such a rush to get to their gate so early. The plane isn't likely to leave without them, especially if they are here in plenty of time. These are the same maddening people who insist on forming a lengthy queue and end up standing in the same spot for at least an extra thirty minutes longer than necessary.
I follow the crowd of eager passengers at a snail’s pace and even pause to take a quick look at my reflection in a shop window. I’m happy with my choice of travel outfit; a pair of light blue skinny jeans that hug my bum perfectly, an oversized white shirt with a singular leopard print pocket that looks pristine against my tan, and a pair of brown and white sandals with multi coloured fringes. I give my shiny dark hair a quick ruffle, injecting some extra volume into the roots and check my teeth for any red lipstick marks. I’m satisfied that my appearance expertly disguises the angst I’m feeling inside. I don’t look nervous but I am and I feel a world away from the girl who borders on cocky rather than confident. The only thing that lets me down physically are my hands that are trembling by my side. I'm not entirely sure if my shakes are purely from nerves or too much coffee – perhaps a mixture of both; coffee always gives me the jitters.
My phone vibrates quickly in my hand and two messages ping through simultaneously.
The first text is from Hannah.
Please be careful! It’s not too late to change your mind! Xxx
I exhale slowly, releasing the small puffs of anger that she has roused within me. I need her support, not her concern. I want to scald her for not being more positive, but I close the message without replying. I’d only say something out of anger that I would later regret.
I met Hannah during my first year working at the department store. She was a sales assistant in one of the concession departments too when I became a Personal Shopper. She was always keen to strike up a conversation with me when I was searching for a client's outfit. I started to drop by more often, during breaks and rare gaps in my diary, and she would fill me in on any outrageous gossip like who’s getting the sack or who’s been caught shagging who, that kind of stuff. It was refreshingly nice to have someone to talk to and she made me laugh.
I realised she didn’t have many friends outside of work either and so naturally a strong friendship blossomed between us. It doesn’t bother me only having one real friend, I found out very quickly that I didn’t really need any more. Hannah is more than enough drama for me to handle, but that suits me fine having her all to myself. Nobody to come between us, nobody to divert her attention from me.
I'm not embarrassed or anything, why should I be? But I was reluctant at first to tell her about Jacob. I guess I was a little scared that she might mock me if she didn't understand the depth of our relationship but I didn't have a choice. She kept quizzing me; always asking why I wasn’t intereste
d in anyone from the store when there were plenty of fit guys in the menswear department. And when we would go out clubbing, she couldn't understand why I wouldn’t give anyone who approached me a chance. So yeah, I had to tell her that someone else held my heart and had done for a long, long time.
She was understandably shocked at first, which I totally expected but she didn’t laugh at me or tell me I was stupid. Instead she seemed a little excited by it. She told me it was like some sort of modern day fairy-tale and wanted to know absolutely everything. I was so taken aback by her readiness to accept my unusual situation that I spilled the beans on everything, start to present. It even felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders at being able to talk to someone so freely about my feelings and having them totally understand me. She asked me frequently what the latest on our situation was and always had my back when Jacob ghosted me, turning up at my flat with face masks, tequila and king-size bars of chocolate. I think she gets a thrill from the wildness of it, and sometimes I think she might even be a little jealous that she doesn't have a Jacob of her own.
The second text is from Jacob.
Oi, are you playing hard to get today? X
I smile, he’s cute when he’s needy. I much prefer it when he’s chasing me instead of the other way around. I take a quick snap of the runway from the glass window in front of me and add a quick message.
Speak soon x
A little while later I’m standing outside the terminal, grateful for the chance to stretch my stiff and achy legs. The budget airline that I flew with was basic and so there wasn’t much leg room. A light breeze gently blows through my hair but it’s not cold by any means. As the heat from the summer sun penetrates my skin, a similar warmth runs through me internally from the three miniature bottles of rose wine I necked on the plane. I only planned on ordering one to calm my nerves, but I soon needed more to distract me from the two bimbos sitting beside me. God, I wish they did single seats on a plane. I don’t imagine they were much older than eighteen - possibly nineteen, but they were highly excitable; like two new puppies being taken for their first walk. I lost count of the number of times the high-pitched Barbie wannabe next to me banged into my shoulder as she posed for selfie after selfie. She did apologise the first few times but after a while the little bottles of vodka she was starting to collect seemed to dull her manners.
The Lies She Told: A wickedly twisted psychological thriller that you cannot put down! Page 3