Not ideal options.
Katie comes down for crew pick-up, right as rain. She doesn’t mention the other night and neither do I – or Kevin – as far as I know. She is probably embarrassed, assuming she can’t hold her drink.
The pills are going to be more use to me than I originally realized.
I think about things all the way home, mentally tweaking my POA.
As we touch down at Heathrow, the perfect plan dawns on me.
Nate doesn’t take his phone when he goes for a jog. He feels it’s the one time he can be cut off from the world. All I need to do is hang around, wait until he goes for a run, let myself in and install it before he’s back.
Simple.
On my first day off work, I have a two-hour intensive driving lesson, in preparation for my upcoming practical driving test. I concentrate as best I can on mastering all the essentials, but it is frustrating to have no control over the other drivers, who overtake or pull away in front of me at traffic lights.
I catch a train early the next morning so I can be there in time for Nate’s likely exit from his building. However, I feel more exposed now that summer is imminent. The light is not my friend. I’m slightly concerned that if he looks out the window, he may clock me. I need a better disguise.
I sit on a bench. Pigeons peck around the bare patches of ground by my feet. I shoo them away.
I wait and I wait, but he doesn’t appear. Aircraft roar above every minute.
I want to kick a nearby tree with frustration. I know he’s home. I bet Katie is there with him. He always went out for his jog when I was with him.
I stride to the high street. And then I loiter by the river, in case I spot him there, but there’s no sign of him.
Could he have gone to Peterborough? Unlikely, but then how would I know?
That’s the problem. That’s why I need access to his phone.
Deflated, I head home.
Nate has two more days off, which means I have no choice but to trek over there every bloody morning and wait.
Perseverance always pays off. It never, ever fails.
The next day, Nate goes out for his jog. I watch from behind a nearby tree, pretending to tie my laces. I wish I could give him a cheery wave for being so obliging; he has no idea how much teamwork is going into our reunion.
I look at my phone. I’ve got about forty minutes, if he sticks to his routine. Weather conditions are favourable; sunny, but not too hot. I jog towards his flat without hesitation, as though I have every right to be heading in that direction. I pull up my hood as I approach the communal doors and put on my sunglasses. I don’t know his neighbours that well, but there’s rarely any point in taking unnecessary risks. I run lightly upstairs and let myself in, as silently as I can.
I stand and wait.
No sounds.
I creep towards the bedroom and bathroom. Both unoccupied. My heart lifts at the absence of Katie or any female equivalent. I head for the kitchen. Nate’s phone lies on the table, beside a mug which has I NY printed on it. He bought me a matching one. I lift it to my mouth. It’s not warm, but it’s not cold either, so I know this is the mug which Nate has drunk from this morning. It feels intimate and rewarding. But, I mustn’t get distracted. I tap in Nate’s code.
Incorrect code.
No fucking way!
I tap it again. It works. Phew. I must concentrate and pay attention. The app starts to download. Halfway through, it stops. Just like my heart almost does. The whole screen freezes. I turn off his phone by pressing down the on/off switch for several seconds, then wait whilst it reboots. On my second attempt, it downloads completely. I scroll through and hide the icon, then return the phone to its original spot. I’ll have to set up a specially created account to keep track of the data, but I need to do this at home. I’ve been given a free forty-eight-hour trial period to see if it works.
I have a quick glance out the window. No sign of a returning Nate.
I can’t help it. I do a quick scan of the flat.
His rectangular flight bag with the gold catches is lying open. I flick through. Paperwork, manuals, flight plans, maps. Boring. His suitcase is closed. I lift it up; it is empty. His wallet lies on the side. I open it. Receipts. Restaurant, hotel and bar bills. I scan them. White wine, hmm. A Sea Breeze. A Cosmopolitan. Female drinks. All at a swanky bar in Cape Town, Bar on the Rocks. Perhaps Katie does have something to worry about, after all. I catch sight of his passport and airline ID resting on the bedside table among a pile of foreign coins. I flick through the fine passport pages. I’ve done this lots of times; I used to try to drink in every piece of information about him. I slip out my phone and take photos to update my collection. Nate is one of the few people I know who has a decent passport picture.
I open the wardrobe. Nothing female, ditto the bathroom. I check my phone. Shit. Thirty-five minutes have passed. I take out a bottle of his favourite red from my rucksack and quickly slide it into the wine rack, because it’s his birthday soon. Then I head for the front door, giving the fish a wave as I leave. Rainbow must be bursting with silent indignation.
As I begin my descent at the top of the stairs, I hear the slam of the communal doors below.
I wait.
I hear footsteps coming up. Then voices.
‘All right, mate?’
‘Yes, thank you. Yourself?’
Crap.
Nate’s voice. He is having a cosy little exchange with a neighbour.
‘Fine, thank you. My knee has been playing up a bit . . .’
I’ve nowhere to hide. Think. I run back up to the third floor and press the lift button. I can hear it cranking to life. It is so old. I hope it doesn’t break down. It did once when I lived with Nate. The maintenance man who fixed it mentioned that, even if the residents voted to keep up repairs, it would still probably need replacing before too long. The lights illuminate. Ground floor. Second floor.
The voices stop.
Footsteps.
Shit, shit, shit.
The lift doors open. I step in and jab the letter G. The doors judder to a close. Descending, I hold my breath until it stops. I yank up my hood and put on my glasses. I step one foot out and look around.
Empty.
I head for the main doors, jog down the path and away from the flats, without looking back.
Back home, elation hits.
I did it!
I have full and total access to Nate’s world. It’s like the best reality show, ever. I analyse to my heart’s content, even though it’s a bit slower than I expected to access the information.
I can even see his browsing history. He’s invited Katie to Bella and Miles’ engagement party at a five-star hotel situated on the edge of the New Forest next month, on the last Saturday in June. He didn’t make Bella’s celebrity friend’s thirtieth – he wasn’t in a single picture – but of course Bella would have chosen a date to suit her revered brother for her engagement party.
I make a coffee and nurse it, pondering. I stare at my pinboard for inspiration, then go online and type in random words like revenge and cheating partner. I ignore the ridiculous posts that mention murder, public billboards and garage sales of the cheater’s belongings. Nonetheless, the internet proves its loyalty and faithfulness as a true friend by providing multiple solutions. My mind keeps coming back to two words: honey trap. Related ideas run through my mind, but I dismiss each one as too risky. And yet, a tangible solution feels within my grasp if I mull things over for long enough.
In some ways, it’s like having some kind of ‘buy one, get one free’ equivalent. I will, hopefully, be impacting negatively on Bella’s night too if I can execute the right turn of events at her party. Nate is not the kind of person who will disguise his feelings if he’s in a bad mood.
I return to the pinboard. The photos are divided into past, present and future. Nate’s young self grins at me. He is wearing shorts and a T-shirt and looks happy. Bella had a family photograph on her bedside
table. Even then, he had a knowing look in his eyes, a barely concealed confidence.
My past pictures of Bella are cut out of the school yearbooks because she featured prominently throughout them, whether it was to do with drama, cookery, academic achievements or sport. Although she excelled at horse riding, hockey and tennis, her real strength was swimming. She was horrified when she discovered my secret shame, my inability to swim.
‘But I thought everyone learned when they were young?’ she said in the mocking tone of voice she’d started using more frequently when addressing me.
I had to arrive for swimming lessons fifteen minutes earlier than everyone else, so that I could have extra tuition, and during the main lesson I was stuck in the shallow end like a toddler. One time, when I emerged from the smelly, damp changing rooms, the pool was deserted – apart from Bella, who was never afraid of rules because, of course, they didn’t apply to her. I sat on a bench at the side, waiting for Miss Gibbons, but there was no sign of her as the clock ticked away the minutes.
Bella saw me. ‘Come in, I’ll watch you,’ she said, beckoning me into the pool.
I wanted to say no, but I never did to Bella. So, slowly, reluctantly, I climbed down the ladder and eased myself into the water at the shallow end. I shivered. A reel of memories unravelled, slowly at first. Then faster, until they collided. I decided to be braver, to edge towards the deep end, egged on by Bella. Water shot up my nose, stinging the back of my throat. As I lifted up my head, I was aware of Bella. I caught a flash of her navy swimsuit before our limbs felt locked together and we both disappeared beneath the water.
I forced myself to open my eyes and, mercifully, the blurred edge of the swimming pool came into sight. I reached up and gripped the edge as hard as I could.
I felt myself being helped out. Miss Gibbons. Sitting on the edge, shivering, I coughed so much that I thought I was going to be sick. I could barely hear Miss Gibbons rant at me and thank Bella.
Although I had no proof, I strongly suspected Bella had read my diary and wanted to scare me. I’d found it facing upwards at the bottom of my desk and I always put it face down. My guilt about Will had been exposed and it felt terrifying to have my own words – It was my fault – misinterpreted, as though she’d decided I was some kind of murderer.
It had been getting harder and harder to ignore the fact that Bella was a nasty piece of work, that she’d tired of me the way that some people do of a pet. A catty comment here, a snigger there. My drawers messed up in our dorm, my deodorant or toothpaste missing. I tried to pretend that it wasn’t happening, to keep a stiff upper lip and hope she and her gang would tire of it. But now I had to face up to the fact that my loyalty had been severely misplaced. And because of that, I don’t know who I hated more: her or myself.
That night, I ripped out some pages of my diary and tore them into tiny pieces. Earlier sections detailed my fantasies for the future, my frustrations about my mother, and the difficulties of looking after my annoying little brother. And what happened to Will. The stress, the fear of the worst mistake I had ever made, my own damning words, being read by Bella and any others, burned like acid almost constantly inside my stomach.
And that wasn’t even the worst thing that she did.
I need to focus and concentrate on the present if Bella is to fully pay for the past. Month by month, small action by small action, I’m getting closer.
Ditto when it comes to my future with Nate. Which is why it makes total sense that Katie must go. I dismiss idea after idea, until I think of something that could work because Nate is going to stay at the New Forest hotel on the eve of Bella’s party to catch up with old school mates.
A calmness descends as I update my POA.
Sometimes, now that I have a bit of distance from the situation, I wonder why I persist with Nate. The conclusion I always return to is that, if I hadn’t seen below the surface – to the man who can be kind, funny, tender and caring – then, of course, it would have made it harder. But, I love him. I’ve accepted that I simply can’t fight destiny. And, because I am temporarily powerless, a honey trap seems a viable solution to ease Katie on her way out, as it will force her to experience Nate’s weakness and vanity first-hand. And simultaneously give Nate a valuable life-lesson on how it feels to be dumped.
12
On Nate’s birthday – the fifteenth of June – after a further eight intensive driving lessons, I pass my driving test. Finally, I am able to go and collect my car. A present for myself, seeing as I can’t buy Nate a proper gift. I pull away from a car showroom with the roof down, wearing Sophia Loren-style sunglasses.
Twenty minutes later, I’m already lost; the talking map screen goes blank. I pull into a garage and ask a mechanic how to reset the navigation system properly. Before I pull away, I call Amy.
‘Hi, fancy coming for a spin in my new car?’
She hesitates. ‘Sorry, I can’t. My mum is coming to visit and . . .’
‘Maybe later, then?’
‘I’m not sure.’
I feel a slight sense of unease as I hang up. Amy didn’t sound herself, as though someone else was with her. I like Amy, I really do, but sometimes she can be a bit selfish. The sort of person who, if you ask how they are, tells you in too much detail. I call the estate agent and ask if I can view the properties they’ve lined up for me earlier than arranged. I type Richmond into the satnav and set off.
I soon discover that the inconvenient thing about having a car is that you have to park it. I drive around, getting caught up behind buses and bikes, until eventually, I park on the outskirts of Richmond. I send Amy a message reminding her to give me a call if she changes her mind.
She doesn’t reply.
As soon as I follow a navy-skirt-suit-wearing estate agent into a contemporary one-bedroomed apartment, I just know that this will be the perfect home for me. It feels like mine already. From the bedroom window I can just about see Nate’s front door. If I use binoculars, I will be able to watch his comings and goings, which may be a useful thing, even when we are back together.
I will never trust anyone again. Trust is a luxury.
Back home, whilst waiting for the kettle to boil, I ring in an offer for the flat. I get back to work on my plans and re-google honey trap. All I have to do is send in a photo of Nate – that’s not hard – provide my credit card details and the time and address of Nate’s whereabouts. The hardest question to answer is about Nate’s type of woman. I’d like to say me. But, in truth, I really don’t know. I have brown hair – currently blonde – and am of average height. I did trawl through pictures of Nate’s old girlfriends, but the more I think about it, the more I don’t think he has a ‘type’. I tell the agency that it needs to be someone discreet and classy, with no visible tattoos.
I didn’t question Nate too much about his past when we were together. I didn’t need to, I’d kept tabs on him over the years. And besides, a lot of my history was embellished – apart from the area I came from, my school and the fact that I’d never made it as an actress. I wanted an excuse for the succession of job changes.
He once asked me how well I’d known Bella.
I replied, ‘Everyone knew of Bella, but I didn’t have that much to do with her,’ then changed the subject. I could hardly tell the truth – that I was a loner, drifting un-anchored, waiting to put all my eggs in the one basket. His.
I couldn’t admit to being virtually friendless either. That’s why Amy is so important – every girl needs a best friend, and she’ll make me look good.
Nate’s bound to approve of my friendship with her. And she’ll be living proof that I am not a total social outcast.
The day before the party, I call the scheduling department, seeing as I can’t be on two continents at once.
‘Staff number?’
‘959840. I’m calling in sick for my Perth flight tonight.’
I can hear the tapping of a keyboard. ‘Is it a work-related injury? Do you need any support from your m
anager?’
‘No. Thank you. I’ll call in when I’m feeling better,’ I say in a ‘sick’ voice. Smiling, I end the call.
I love the anonymity of my job. Whenever I’ve faked illness before, in previous jobs, I’ve had to suffer false concern when, really, colleagues were pissed off that they had to cover my work.
Three hundred guests are expected at the party tomorrow night. A perfect number. It is a James Bond theme. Katie is going in a Chinese blue silk dress, as worn by double agent Miss Taro in Dr No. She’ll need to add a dark wig. Nate is going as James Bond. Heaven forbid he’d go as someone interesting, like Jaws. Bella’s keeping her costume a secret; like anyone cares. She used to do the same at school, whether it was a party or a school play. I google Bond girls and I suspect I know who she will dress as, because there is one who is described as the ‘most revered’. Mine is an elegant, simple dress similar to one worn by a KGB agent in The Spy Who Loved Me. I can’t wear a catsuit; I need to blend in with subtle elegance.
I check Nate’s messages. I love my spy app, when it isn’t being temperamental; it’s akin to being psychic. As planned, Nate is still going to stay at the hotel tonight.
As am I.
The country hotel is situated in several acres of grounds and boasts a maze, a lake and a golf course. Ancient oaks line the long, sweeping drive. As I slow down for speed bumps, it reminds me of school. I feel slightly sick as the grand, old house comes into view. Beyond, a break in the clouds becomes visible as weak evening sun pokes through. The reception is quiet, probably the calm before the party storm, as presumably most guests will arrive tomorrow. I check in, refuse the offer of help with my bags and head upstairs, considering it safer than being trapped in a lift.
The room is dingy and the flowery decor is depressingly old-fashioned. Delicate, cloying pouches of lavender potpourri, tied with twee mauve ribbon, rest on the pillows. The overwhelming stench of lavender almost chokes me. I fling open a window, but it sticks at a few inches wide. I inhale fresh air through the gap, before rummaging through my handbag to remove my perfume, which I spray generously around the room. I drop the lavender ‘sleep aids’ through the crack in the window and watch them disappear as they are swallowed by a bush. The disturbing memory the smell evokes is too much to bear.
The Perfect Girlfriend Page 11