Our silence is uncomfortable until our waitress appears and sets down a mug of dark tea for Ella, then slides an early breakfast of sausage, scrambled eggs, and beans toward me. I pepper the eggs and saw at the sausage, then pile up my fork. But the moment I open my mouth my stomach protests. I push the plate away.
“Not hungry?” Ella asks, her mug held like a begging cup in both hands.
“Not particularly.”
“Not like you.”
“How would you know? What I like, what I don’t like. What’s like me or not?” I snap. “Do we even know each other anymore?”
“I get it,” she says, putting down the mug, “you hate me.”
I look away. Tears loading up in my eyes like bullets.
I search my pocket for tissues, feeling a sudden urge to wipe down the table, realizing I have none.
Ella clears her throat. Retrieves a cotton handkerchief from her purse, offers it to me.
“How long are you going to punish me?” she asks in a small voice.
“For as long as it takes to sink in,” I say, leaning over my food, my chest an umbrella, and wiping the tabletop. “You slept with the pimp we were trying to whistleblow. Are you insane?”
She is silent.
“Are you in love with him?” I ask.
“No!” she defends.
“Look at me!” I hiss. “Why? Why did you sleep with him?”
Ella lowers her eyes, now half-mast and pinned on my chest. Contempt breathes between us, something that might identify as hatred.
She looks up. “Because I could. Because it’s the one thing I can do better than you. Attract men.”
I look at her, nerves jangled. Heart low in my chest. Her envy-fueled attack on me undoing our bond.
“So this is what we’ve become,” I say. “Rivals.”
A pause.
“No. I—”
“You did this,” I spit, eyes ablaze. “You made me someone to compete with. I’m your best friend. Why did you do this to us?”
“I was jealous,” she says, her voice low and controlled. “Look at you. You’ve got everything: a great job, a future doing something you love, a stepmom who’s not running in and out of your life, a shrink who actually cares. And then there was Shaun. I was even jealous of him.” She snorts, rolling her eyes. “When we slept together that night, part of me wanted to make you jealous. Show you what it felt like; punish you by letting you see he wanted me too. But it didn’t work. You seemed to enjoy it.”
“Of course it didn’t work,” I say, the control of her tone tempering mine. “You’ve always meant more to me than some random guy. Always.”
She starts to cry. And I allow her this, at least.
“Nothing’s changed,” she finally says. “I still want justice, to take Navid down. I lost my head. He just showed up at my house and we got into something. I regret it now.”
“Grace was in the house,” I say, shaming her further. “You have a responsibility to look after her. Keep her safe.”
She looks away.
“You do know he sleeps with every girl in the Groom House, and the club?” I say. “He doesn’t even care how old they are.”
Ella’s eyes slide down into her mug of tea. “That’s sick,” she says.
“You fucked him,” I spit, a forgotten headache now returned. The cruelty found in my voice not altogether comfortable.
A pause.
“I shouldn’t have lied to you,” she says, pitching her words with care. “I’m sorry.”
Silence.
Runner steps out. Collects the knife and fork and nudges the sea of beans around my plate. She jabs at the eggs and squashes the beans, stabbing at them over and over with no intention of eating, and then, like a frustrated teen, throws the knife and fork down on the table.
Ella leans forward, tears filling her eyes with regret, and takes hold of my angry fists. Runner turns on her heel and hands back the Body.
You deal with her, she orders, huffing off.
This is my best friend, I remind myself.
This known fact is far more important than anything else, Oneiroi says.
Ella squeezes my hand three times, no words, then looks up. “He hit me,” she says.
I look up, Oneiroi, Runner, and Dolly peering over the Nest, awaiting my response. For once I applaud their silence.
“What?” I say, firmness in my voice.
“Across the head.”
“When?”
“The first time was—”
“The first time?” I interrupt, forcing myself to delete any impatience in my voice and throwing my hands in the air.
“Please,” Ella says, taking my palms, squeezing again, “let me finish.”
I lower my hands.
“The first time,” she continues, “was after you caught us. I knew how upset you’d be, so I got dressed to come find you. He hit me when I tried to leave. Told me I was being pathetic, a stupid little girl.”
She breaks down. Rocks back and forth on the café’s white plastic chair. “I was scared.”
This time I place my hand on top of hers. “Why did you go back to him, after he hit you?” I ask, again attempting patience.
“I guess I convinced myself it was a one-off. A blip. And after he calmed down I believed him when he said he was sorry, that it wouldn’t happen again, that he loved me. I missed you and I was lonely. You’ve been so busy with work. And I figured you wouldn’t want anything to do with me after you knew I’d slept with him. The next day I caught him in bed with Jane, even though he said they were over and promised he only wanted me.”
She clears her throat.
“And by the way,” she continues, “you were right about Sylvie, she is sweet. I bumped into her at Planet Organic before Christmas. We went for a coffee. She said she’d never go back to Electra again, after the way Navid’s treated Jane. She tried to get Jane to leave. I don’t think they really see each other anymore.”
“That’s what Shaun said to me too: that I was the only one. They’re born liars, both of them. And that’s a shame about Sylvie and Jane.”
I take a breath, thinking of our own friendship. “So now what?”
“Now I want revenge.”
“You should have wanted that months ago.” I judge, again.
For a moment I consider reading her the riot act. Reminding her of the times we’ve talked about girls who end up with violent men. The kind of girls we said we’d never be. We sneered at girls like this, the ones you’d see yapping at the ankles of shitty men. Later drinking, drugging, or having sex with another man just to numb the pain of their rejection. We called them weak. Pathetic. But of course we are, and have been, this kind of girl. Both of us. Fatherless, and looking for a man to put right the wrongs done to us. Repeating madness, hoping for a different outcome.
Just for today I am strong. Just for today, I will try my best to be the person I needed when I was young.
“You know, I haven’t been able to forget what happened in the girls’ dressing room.” I touch my wrists. “What that monster did to me. I can’t shake it. Forcing himself on me like that. What kind of man handcuffs and rapes a woman who can’t move?”
“A complete sicko, that’s who.”
“Every time I see a man in a gray suit I flinch. I should’ve done something about it. We should have never gone back after that.”
The waitress appears and stares at the breakfast carnage on my plate.
I attempt a smile, hoping it’s enough to let her know it’s nothing personal. That my hunger has lapsed because my best friend has just told me she’s been hit and now that I have this piece of information I don’t quite know what to do with it. Or what to say. My appetite now gone.
I wanted that, Runner says, glancing the waitress’s thick back, carrying away our mangled breakfast.
Me too! Dolly joins in.
Runner shrugs, Meh, and then rummages around the Nest for a smoke.
You need to eat somethi
ng, Oneiroi adds.
Yeah, go get the eggs back.
Where the hell are my cigarettes?
Settle down.
Go on, before she throws it away.
Don’t bother; you could do with losing some weight. Worthless piece of shit.
Please stop this.
Worthless—
I’m tired.
Piece—
Go home.
Of—
Where are those goddamn cigarettes?
SHIT—
Please, I wanna go home.
“QUIET!” I scream.
I am standing.
Everyone in the café turns: their mugs held in the air, forks fixed midbite. I glance around, my breath heavy and exposed. Ella places her hand on my waist.
“I have to go,” I say, standing.
Ella tugs on my sweater. “Sit down, Alexa,” she whispers.
“The Voices . . .” My sentence tails off.
“What about them?”
“They’ve gotten so loud. All the time now.”
“It’s okay. Tell everyone inside things are gonna be okay.”
I sit down and rap the side of my head with my fist.
Ella takes my scarlet face in her hands and moves in closer. “Look, I’ve got a plan. Wanna hear it?” my Reason whispers, fingering the dainty key on her gold necklace.
I nod yes.
“Every Monday, Cassie goes to the bank with the week’s takings. But if she can’t go for whatever reason, Shaun goes instead. They keep note slips and coin bags in that top drawer where the dark web codes are, right?”
“Okay . . .”
“So next Monday I’m going to distract Cassie, make up some problem that she has to sort out at the club—I don’t know: I’ll block a toilet or have the girls lose something, clothes or their makeup. Something. I’ll figure it out—so Shaun will have to go to the bank. Then I’ll get the key off Cassie and offer to help Shaun bag up the takings. But I won’t lock the drawer, I’ll leave it open so you can go down there later and get the codes and all the other men’s contact details. Then we hand them in to the police. Once and for all. The codes, as well as the photographs of Poi-Poi.”
“But we have enough proof. Christ, Ella. Haven’t we both put ourselves in enough danger?”
She takes my hand, squeezes it three times. “Please trust me, Alexa,” she whispers.
For a moment I have trouble wresting my eyes from her necklace, but I manage to nod again before she gathers her things to leave.
Ella smiles. “I love you.”
65
Daniel Rosenstein
I know I should leave but I don’t.
Psychiatry regulations would have my guts if they knew, my license withdrawn, but I decide to risk it and remain. Seated in the corner, I watch Alexa drink her coffee, both hands wrapped around the mug protectively while she blows. Across from her, a man in a black leather jacket. They talk quietly. He leans forward, she lowers her eyes. Their conversation intense and still. The rules say that should I, the shrink, enter a public space to find one of my patients there, I must leave immediately. But I don’t. I remain. A snoop. Unable to take my eyes off her.
Thinking I’d grab a coffee in the West End on my way to my AA meeting, I was shocked to look up and find her seated at a table across the room. I was curious, charged, a hit of adrenaline surging through me that I knew wasn’t from coffee. I felt a craving to watch and observe. A voyeur.
I’ve already decided that should she recognize me I’ll pretend I haven’t seen her, feign reading. I’ve pulled out my clinical notes from my leather briefcase in preparation. I’ve even got my response down: “Alexa, hello.” Surprised face. “What a coincidence. Look, I’d better be on my way.” She’ll understand, respecting my boundaries and considering my exit both ethical and safe.
I wonder who the man is. Could this be Shaun? Navid? Jack? Someone she’s been keeping secret from me? I scan my memory of the descriptions she’s given of all three men. He could be any of them.
The man stands and heads for the bathroom and I note he is cleanly shaved, handsome, casually dressed but smart. Navid? Maybe. I feel my breath escalate thinking about the Groom House, the Electra, and the girls. Alexa’s wild and dangerous involvement with each and her entanglement with Poi-Poi and the photo shoot. The risks and exposure she’s taken now mirroring my own as I sit here, waiting.
Alexa takes out a lipstick and compact mirror, applies and pouts. A tug on her bangs. Or maybe it’s Shaun? Maybe she’s trying to win him back?
She moves her face from side to side, checking, I imagine, her profile. Runs her finger slowly along the edge of her mouth and presses together her rouged lips. Who does she see staring back? Who is she right now? Oneiroi? Runner? Unlikely.
I look down at my notes, pausing on January 8:
To switch from a regular personality to seductress to killer within minutes is terrifying. Neither of us is safe.
I wonder if she’s scheming. Planning her next move, seducing Shaun, or possibly even Navid, so she can seal the deal—bring their whole operation down. Why would she be with Navid, unless Ella put her up to it? Is she planning another photo shoot, further espionage? Christ, no.
A metal taste in my mouth.
A jolt in my chest; a racehorse; a gunshot start.
My father’s voice all of a sudden in my head without warning: Where’s your backbone, you little wet wipe? Why are you being such a coward? Such a lily-livered bystander? And now Mohsin’s words also flood back: Intervention is needed. Clear your mind. Sooner or later you need to make some decisions.
My temples start to pulsate at speed. A matching heartbeat. What if this were Susannah? What would you do then? I ask. Would you let some man control her? Put her in danger? I picture Toby, his ugly teeth and flashy dress sense, remembering how smoothly he’d moved in on Susannah, such easy prey after Clara’s death. How I’d known after meeting him just once that he was a prize prick. What kind of father am I? I should have protected her, loved her. Made her feel safe. It won’t happen again.
Forcing my notes back inside my briefcase, I stand. Rushing to gain distance. Alexa snaps shut her compact mirror, pulls out her phone.
I imagine grabbing her wrist, dragging her away and forcing him, the unknown man, down in his seat. Leave her the fuck alone! I try out in my head, my heart suddenly racing. What kind of monster are you? I scan the men’s bathroom door. Where is he? Get out here, you piece of shit. The rush has me surging forward, no care that I could lose my license. My livelihood.
Suddenly another man pushes past me and sits down beside Alexa.
She smiles, but only slightly.
What’s going on?
I stop.
Who is this one? Is that Shaun? Navid? Who’s in the bathroom?
Two against one. I’m outnumbered. What if I take them both on? What if I get Alexa away before the other man returns?
Wait. Think.
What am I doing?
The bathroom door opens. The man returns to his seat. Alexa and the two men now returning to their coffee, their conversation.
Attempting control, I catch my breath, reaching for an abandoned mug resting on the table next to me, ready to hurl.
Put it down, you fool, a voice orders in my head, and I retreat.
66
Alexa Wú
Feeling rather famished, my earlier attempt at breakfast with Ella a disaster, I tap my foot, wishing he’d get to the point of our meeting.
“I fancy a pastry with this.” He points at his mug of coffee. “You?”
“Why not,” I say, with relief. “Danish would be great. Thanks.”
He takes another sip of his coffee, glancing around for the waitress. “So, you’re aware of how busy we’ve gotten lately?” he begins.
I nod.
“Well, I need extra help, and that’s why I’ve asked Sam to join us. This way I won’t have to worry about being without an assistant or missing any
deadlines. I’ve decided you guys will work together, at least for the next few months. Alexa, you’ll be my first assistant. Sam, you’ll be second.”
I warned you about taking time off work, Oneiroi says, miffed.
I worry now that my flakiness has brought this upon me. Jack’s decision to hire a new assistant causing me to sweat.
Jack, still not spotting the waitress, gets up and heads to the counter.
“This is going to be great, right?” Sam says. The sparky new boy.
“Right,” I reply.
I check my phone, desperate for a distraction, and sure enough, there are two messages from Ella.
Sorry I lied to you (all). Love you xxx
I meant what I said about my plan. Tell everyone inside I miss them. We can do this, can’t we? xxx
Ok, I write. Clean and simple.
No kisses? Oneiroi asks.
Christ.
I think about our morning together. How I’d been meaner than I needed to be. A certain satisfaction felt that I’d called her out, hurt her, forced her to apologize and take ownership of her sex crime with Navid. How when she threw her arms around my waist and kissed me with her eyes wide open I’d turned away. Our once juvenile sweetness turned tart. I imagine her proposed heist, Ella blocking a toilet or hiding the girls’ clothes, anything to jeopardize a night’s takings and cause Cassie to panic. I shudder at my cruelty but delight at Ella’s revenge and decide to text her again, a jolt of forgiveness suddenly pulsing inside me.
Yes, we can do this xxx
Happy?
Oneiroi nods.
Jack returns, landing three pastries.
“I’ll go grab some waters,” says Sam, standing up.
I clench my jaw and reach inside the pocket of my fleece, Runner having placed a Stanley knife with a retractable blade there. I trace my thumb along the switch, feeling a certain comfort from the clicking plastic.
Why do you keep putting these in our pockets? I ask. It’s like every day, a different weapon.
For safety, Runner snaps.
Jack clears his throat.
“You’ve been a little preoccupied lately, Alexa. It seems you’ve had more sick days than workdays the past couple weeks.”
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