Just the two of us.
The words that lodge in my mind upon setting eyes on the palace are green and gold. I gaze at the dazzling buildings, layered roofs and manicured gardens.
It is hot. According to the guide, it is nearly rainy season, and I’m wearing long sleeves to respect the dress code of the sacred site.
‘So romantic, don’t you think?’ I say to the others.
They nod, but don’t reply as they are all, unfortunately, the type of people who are genuinely interested in buildings. They listen to our guide as we are herded around. Sweat snakes my spine. The thing is, to my mind, you can enjoy things quickly. You don’t have to walk around at a snail’s pace just to imprint places on your memory. That’s what cameras are for.
On and on, we walk and listen. At the Emerald Buddha Temple, we ooh and aah over a jade Buddha whose gold outfit is apparently changed at the beginning of each new season by the King.
Finally, we are whisked off to a busy local restaurant for lunch. Thank God it has air conditioning. I can’t take an afternoon of this. All I want is for Katie to mention Nate, then I will make an excuse and return to the sanctuary of the hotel. I plonk myself on a seat next to her. And copy her order: a Diet Coke and a Pad Thai.
‘So, what did you think of the palace?’ I say.
‘It’s so . . . incredible,’ says Nancy.
‘Amazing,’ says Katie, taking a sip of her Coke.
Ajay just nods; he is still browsing through a guidebook.
‘Like I said earlier, I think there’s something really romantic about the place,’ I say.
Katie doesn’t bite. I’m going to have to be less subtle.
Our food arrives, steam rising. I wish I’d ordered something cold, I can’t face it. I pick up my chopsticks and grab a small prawn. I nibble. The aroma of lemongrass turns my stomach. It was the dominant smell permeating the kitchen on the terrible night Nate broke up with me.
‘So . . .’ I say, turning to Katie. ‘Nancy says you live in the same village. Whereabouts is that?’
‘Just outside Peterborough,’ she says, naming a place I’ve never heard of.
‘Oh, so quite a drive, then?’ I tilt my head to one side and look interested.
‘Yeah. But I quite enjoy it. I listen to music or audiobooks. It helps me wind down after a long night.’
I haven’t seen any evidence of her staying over at Nate’s. And as far as I know, he hasn’t been up to her place. Nate doesn’t like to go far on his days off. Perhaps Nancy got it wrong or was exaggerating. Katie hasn’t said ‘Nate this’ or ‘Nate that’ even once. It could have been a short-lived affair, already blown over.
I pick at some noodles.
Katie yawns, quickly covering her mouth.
‘The afternoon sounds really exciting,’ says Ajay. ‘The guidebook says we’re in for a real treat—’
‘Well, it would, wouldn’t it?’ I can’t help saying.
All three look at me.
My mouth is burning as a chilli takes effect, biting my throat and warming my face. ‘I’m sorry. I think I’m templed out. I’m going to get a cab back to the hotel. Are you all meeting up for drinks and dinner tonight?’
‘Stay,’ says Nancy. ‘You’ll regret it, if you don’t.’
‘Actually, I agree with Juliette,’ says Katie. ‘I’ll need a doze this afternoon if I’m going to last the evening.’
I warm to her.
We leave Nancy and Ajay behind, and the guide organizes us a taxi. We offer her a large tip, as she appears upset at our desire to leave the tour early.
The drive back is quicker and our driver is chatty, wanting to talk about English football. Katie seems knowledgeable, so I let her get on with it. Maybe she’ll be a bit more revealing after a few drinks tonight, even though I suspect Nate has tired of her quite quickly.
It is noon back home but sundowners time in Bangkok, when I, along with several others from the crew – including Kevin from first class and Katie – gather at a rooftop bar. Nancy is too tired to join us. Lights illuminate the nearby skyscrapers.
I sip a local beer from a tall glass. It cools my throat as the heat and humidity gently suffocate me.
‘Shall we head for a club?’ suggests someone.
I wait to see what Katie’s reaction is.
‘Sounds good,’ she says.
‘Great,’ I join in.
Katie turns to me. ‘Don’t you want to change first?’
I glance down at my black jeans. ‘Why?’
‘It’s boiling, even though it’s night. Remember how hot it was earlier, traipsing around?’
Katie does a twirl. Red and white dots on her dress spin, and bangles jingle. A butterfly tattoo smudges her right ankle.
A rush of relief; Nate thinks tattoos are tacky. She is probably yet another tool, another plaything, to distract him.
I can’t be bothered to change. We hail a tuk-tuk that weaves violently as our driver negotiates dense traffic. I grip the metal side-bar, inhaling petrol fumes. A pink flower garland dangles from the rear-view mirror, rocking in time to the jerky manoeuvres. We arrive at a converted warehouse which gives a good impression of being unhampered by health and safety standards; haphazard electrical wires criss-cross above us and wooden floorboards protrude. An Elvis impersonator massacres ‘Always On My Mind’. The tinny microphone screeches at regular intervals.
‘I wish I was back home with my boyfriend,’ I say to Katie as we jostle for space at the bar.
‘Me too,’ she says. ‘Although, having said that, my boyfriend is away at the moment. He’s a pilot too.’
My legs wobble.
The barman turns his attention to us. We order beers.
I remember to breathe.
We join the others huddled round a high metal table. We chat about work for as long as I can stand it.
‘So, any pictures of your man, then?’ I say as nonchalantly as I can manage.
‘Loads. I love boring people about Nate.’
I almost feel sorry for Katie – almost – but it’s not my fault that Nate is vain. And weak when it comes to women who throw themselves at him.
‘Here, look . . .’ Katie grins. ‘We were in Rio and . . .’
Nate’s image beams from her phone.
I freeze and listen to every stabbing word of her smug, minute-long monologue before excusing myself. Outside, I repeat my mantras, over and over. I can barely breathe. Music blares from multiple directions. Groups of locals mingle by taxis and motorbikes. Clusters of stalls groan under the weight of fake designer goods, T-shirts, shoes, handbags. Neon signs advertise drinks, massages, sleeping pills. The odour of frying onions emanates from a nearby food cart.
I whip out my phone from my back pocket and log on. Nate’s crew are spending their down time on safari in Kruger National Park. He’s posted pictures of long, brittle grass broken by spiky trees bearing little foliage under the caption Anyone spot the lion?! There he is, cavorting with wildlife, whilst I’m dealing with a fresh betrayal on the other side of the world.
Deep breaths. In-bloody-hale. Ex-bloody-hale.
A whiff of sewage temporarily pulls me back to the reality of my surroundings.
Sleeping pills? The words catch my eye again. Maybe I should get some. I can then spend the remainder of my time here in blissful oblivion. They can be a plaster. A temporary fix.
‘How much is a bottle of twenty?’ I ask the pharmacist behind the counter.
‘Why don’t you buy forty?’ she says. ‘Cheaper.’
Whatever. In for a penny . . . I drop them into my bag before briefly browsing the stalls. I spot a small wooden Buddha. I buy him too; he could bring me luck.
I force myself to re-enter the bar. Katie’s chair is empty. I follow the signs to the toilets. She is in front of the mirror, tying her hair into a ponytail. I can smell her sickly perfume from the doorway.
Don’t stand for it a moment longer, my mind silently screams.
I step forward, a
voiding wet patches on the dirty tiles, until I am alongside her. I smile into the mirror. She smiles back, albeit with a slightly puzzled expression.
‘I thought that I recognized Nate from the picture you showed. His face is familiar,’ I say. ‘It’s been bugging me, but I’m sure it’s him.’
‘Oh. Have you flown with him?’
‘No.’
‘Where do you know him from?’
‘I don’t. Something happened between him and a friend of mine. I don’t know what exactly, but whatever it was it shook her up quite badly. She said she could never tell anyone.’
‘It can’t have been Nate then. He’s a total gentleman.’
‘Maybe.’
I look down and rummage in my bag as a distraction, but not before I catch a fleeting, yet concerned expression flash across her face. I reach for a mascara. When I look back up, Katie is heading towards the door.
‘Join you in a minute,’ I call out.
If she replies, I don’t hear. The door bangs shut behind her. I apply my mascara slowly, irked at her dismissive attitude. I didn’t tell her a complete fib; Nate does have a shadowy side. As I turn to leave, I replace my make-up in my bag and it makes a clinking sound as it hits the jar of sleeping pills.
That’s when the idea hits me.
Inside a cubicle, I remove the blue pills from my bag. The dosage reads one tablet every twelve hours. Hmm. So what is a good amount? Two? Three? Four? I unscrew the lid and remove three capsules, sliding them into my jeans pocket. After screwing the top back on, I rummage in my bag for the small envelope which contains my room key card. I ram the card into my purse. Carefully, I pull the capsules apart and tip the powder into the envelope. I flush the husks away and leave the relative quiet of the toilets for the noise and mayhem outside.
11
The Elvis impersonator has changed outfits into Tom Jones. Same leather trousers, different blouse. He launches into ‘Sex Bomb’, gyrating and swinging a leather jacket like a lasso.
I order several beers. I take one, hold it down low, whilst tipping the contents of the envelope into the bottle.
‘Can I have some glasses, please?’ I ask the barman.
He shakes his head questioningly.
‘Glasses, please. And . . .’ I scan the counter, ‘those too, please.’ I point to some chilli-coated nuts. ‘Five packets, please.’
He hands me four warm tumblers, fresh from the dishwasher, and then a small black tray.
I make my way back to Katie and the others before pouring a beer into the glass in front of her. I have to; I can hardly shake the bottle.
‘Sorry about what I said earlier,’ I say, handing her the beer. ‘Peace offering. I have a big mouth sometimes. I’m sure I’ve made a mistake.’
She hesitates, picks up the glass and raises it in a ‘cheers’ gesture.
I rip open the nuts and flatten out the foil packets. ‘Help yourselves,’ I say to everyone, but of course meaning Katie.
The potential flaw in my plan could be that the pills taste of something strong. Hopefully the nuts will mask anything untoward. Tom Jones belts out the chorus of ‘Delilah’. Several of our group join in, giggling, Katie included.
I smile and pretend to enjoy myself. I hope she falls off her stool. She looks so alert that I fear I may need even more of a helping hand, so I walk off and order some local rum shots.
‘Go on,’ I shout. ‘Last one to finish gets the next round.’
Most people, including Katie – phew – rise to the challenge.
‘You’re going for it tonight,’ says someone. ‘Win the lottery?’
I laugh politely, as though he has genuinely said something funny.
‘One, two, three . . .’ the group chorus.
It nearly makes me sick. ‘God, that’s hideous,’ I shout.
‘What is it?’ asks Kevin, coming into focus.
My eyes are watering. ‘Rum. No more for me.’
‘Lightweight,’ smiles Kevin.
He has nice, brown eyes which compliment his dark skin and cheeky smile.
I smile back before I look over at Katie. Finally, she is looking a little spaced out. ‘I might head back soon,’ I say to Kevin. I point at Katie. ‘She looks like she could do with a ride back too.’
‘I’ll join you. I wasn’t planning a very late night.’
I slink up to Katie. ‘Kevin and I are heading back. Do you fancy coming with us? You look tired.’
‘Tired?’ She looks confused. ‘No, no, I’m fine. You guys go. I’ll head back with some of the others later.’
‘I think you should come.’ I turn to Kevin. ‘Don’t you?’
He shrugs. ‘Up to the lady herself,’ he says.
I pull him to one side. ‘She looks a bit the worse for wear.’
‘Seems OK to me.’
Katie slides off her stool, leaning against the table for support. She drops her bag in the process. She struggles to retrieve her belongings: a hairbrush, some mints and a lipstick.
Kevin rushes over. He helps Katie upright.
I throw him an ‘I told you so’ look.
Outside, we hail a taxi. A proper one. A tuk-tuk might jerk her into full consciousness. During the ride, she leans her head against the window, eyes fluttering open, then shutting.
A doorman opens the back door after we pull up outside our hotel.
‘Help me get her to her room,’ I say to Kevin. ‘She looks like she could do with a good sleep.’
‘I’m fine,’ she mutters, but doesn’t complain when he puts his arm around her to assist.
‘What room are you in?’ he asks.
‘Um . . . seventeen . . . six . . . two.’ She yawns and frowns, as though in deep concentration. ‘One. Seven. Six. Two.’
By the time we reach her floor, she is practically sleepwalking. I ease her bag from her shoulder and search for her key. I slot it into the door and Kevin walks her to the bed. I remove her shoes. Kevin and I stand side by side, like concerned parents, looking at her.
‘Do you think she’s all right?’ I say.
‘Yeah. Probably just needs to sleep it off.’
‘Let’s put her in the recovery position, just in case.’
‘You think so?’
‘Yes. You’ll have to help me.’
Kevin grips her torso. I hold her legs and we roll her forwards, placing her arms in the correct position. She snores gently. Very ladylike.
‘Let’s go,’ he says.
I dim the lights, sliding her key card into my pocket as we leave. The door clicks shut behind us.
We wait for the lift.
‘Fancy a nightcap?’ says Kevin.
‘Thanks. Sorry, but I’m exhausted.’
‘Fair enough.’
The lift arrives. In another time and place, maybe. This is another one of the problems Nate causes for me. Kevin is nice and, let’s face it, why should Nate have all the fun? But, sadly, not only am I a one-man woman, I’m too busy. I have things to do.
His room is on the floor above mine, meaning he exits first.
‘Good night,’ we chorus.
The lift doors shut. They part on my floor but I stay put and wait for them to close again. I press floor seventeen. When the doors open, I check that the corridor is deserted. There’s no obvious CCTV. I slide Katie’s room key from my pocket. The lock indicates green. I am in.
She is no longer snoring, but her breathing is heavy. Her hair has fallen over her face. I gently move it away. I sit down in the armchair and watch her. Does Nate watch her when she’s asleep? I used to watch him all the time. He always looked so vulnerable, so peaceful, all traces of worry or anger ironed out. I wanted to claw inside his head. I wanted to know what he was thinking, all the time.
He said that his thoughts were wispy and intangible. Well, that was a lie. He kept his thoughts together enough to plan to get rid of me.
Like I was nothing.
I stand up and take out her phone, even though scrolling throu
gh any messages from him will be like picking scabs, but it’s code-locked. I search her handbag; there is no sign of her passport. Sliding open the wardrobe, I see that the safe is locked. I check her bag again and find a driving licence in her purse. But even by tapping variations of her birth date into the phone – and the safe – I still can’t achieve any results.
I search the bathroom, checking out her products. She uses anti-frizz shampoo. I bet Nate doesn’t know that, does he? That her hair is naturally brittle. I go through her suitcase, it contains mainly clothes, and then I rifle through her flight bag. Manuals. A thriller. A travel book. I recognize it. It is one I bought for him. Five Hundred Places to Visit Before You Die.
He has given or lent her a book from me! How dare he?
I flick through. The man has no imagination, none. His default gifts are chocolates. I bet he forgot her birthday – or something – so decided to give her something of mine. Unless . . . she helped herself from his bookshelf. I stare at her, all calm and peaceful, not a care in the world, then I take the book to the desk and pick up a pen.
On the last page, I write a belated inscription: To my darling Nate. Love you always. Look forward to exploring the world with you. E XXX
At best, Nate probably flicked through the book. He won’t have noticed whether or not I’d written anything.
It serves him right.
I replace it. I hope it jolts her into momentary jealousy when she is confronted with evidence of Nate’s romantic past, if she stumbles across my words. I rummage through her handbag and record her address and other potentially useful bits and pieces of information in my phone. There is nothing more I can do for now, so I place the key card on her bedside table and leave.
Back in my own room, I browse the internet for ideas. I need greater access to Nate’s inner world. I discover an app that can track all his messages and activity. A jilted lover’s dream. I bet the person who created it was in a similar situation to me, because necessity is the mother of invention. It is marketed as an anti-theft tool, or for those wanting to keep a close eye on their teenagers or elderly parents. There is a warning that it is strictly forbidden to install the application on a phone that you do not own, but I’ll ignore that.
All I need now is access to his phone. It seems that the majority of people who have installed it without the owner’s permission did so when their partner was asleep or in the shower. To do that, I would have to break into Nate’s flat when he is home, in the middle of the night, or hide in the flat until he takes a shower.
The Perfect Girlfriend Page 10