The Perfect Girlfriend

by Karen Hamilton

  I phone the honey-trap agency.

  ‘Is the woman vetting my boyfriend at the venue yet?’ I ask. I must sound like a desperate, insecure girlfriend, but I don’t care.

  ‘Yes, but please don’t worry. Most men are loyal to their partners. We usually find that there’s nothing worth worrying about.’

  ‘Really?’ That’s a shame.

  I sink down on to the bed.

  Nate’s phone is silent. No messages, no social media, nothing. Obviously, he is preoccupied.

  Inhale. Exhale.

  I shouldn’t have come here tonight, I should have waited until tomorrow. I am trapped, in this room, whilst downstairs I can only imagine the kind of flirtatious scenario that may be unfolding. I consider my options: I could go to the bar, but I don’t think it will be busy enough for me to conceal myself adequately. I could also order room service, or try to watch a film. But neither option appeals.

  I need to get out.

  Dusk is imminent as I walk to the car park. I press my key-fob and slide into the driver’s seat. I aim for the exit, with no clear idea of where I’m headed. I make my way along narrow roads, edged with giant redwoods and rhododendrons which are past their full bloom, their leaves sagging. I pass several old cottages with cattle grids at the driveway entrances, before the lane snakes into open heathland with patches of heather and frequent signs warning motorists to Beware of Ponies and to Slow Down. Clusters of ponies gather near the edge of the road in twos or threes, beneath oak canopies. Initially, I intend to drive for at least an hour or two to keep my mind occupied, but within minutes, I have to switch my headlights on to full beam. Instead of wide-open spaces the darkness shrinks the forest, and I feel isolated – moments away from unseen threats.

  I return to the hotel car park. I turn off the engine and sit, in the darkness, staring at the bright lights of the building. A taxi pulls up and a couple emerge from the entrance and descend the stairs. An overweight man in a dinner suit comes out for a cigarette.

  I don’t move. I don’t trust myself.

  A woman walks down the hotel steps and into another waiting cab. I sit up straighter. I didn’t catch much more than a glimpse of her, but she was curvaceous, with long, blonde wavy hair, and she was definitely wearing heels. It has to be the woman from the agency, because I can’t see why else someone would be leaving alone at this time of the evening, all dressed up.

  With a renewed sense of purpose, I start up the engine and follow the taxi out of the driveway. It turns right. Ensuring I’m not too close, I keep the vehicle in sight. As suspected, it drives down the gentle slope towards the station. I park in the small car park, beside a four-by-four. Looking up, I can see the driver is reading from an e-reader or tablet, the screen illuminates his face.

  I step out of my car, glad that I’m wearing trainers, and walk towards the red-brick entrance. The woman is alone on the platform. I look up at the information board; there is a train to London in seven minutes. She leans against a white pillar, well back from the yellow platform line, tapping her phone. I sit down on a cold metal seat and look around. There is nothing much to look at: a vending machine, a help point and, of course, CCTV. I need to know if she’s enjoyed Nate’s company tonight. I could phone the agency, but it’s late. And even if they answer, I suspect I will be fobbed off with a promise of a ‘full report soon’.

  I walk up to her. She startles a little as I approach.

  ‘Excuse me, do you know how long the train journey is to Waterloo?’ It’s the best I can think of for now.

  ‘It’s nearly two hours.’

  ‘Oh. That’s annoying. I meant to get one earlier.’

  ‘Me too.’ She smiles. ‘You’re lucky. This is the last train tonight.’

  Her large brown eyes are heavily made up, and she is wearing lipgloss. I can imagine Nate being drawn in by her and I feel the familiar stab of envy uncoil inside.

  ‘Did you go anywhere nice? I was visiting an aunt.’

  A loud recorded announcement interrupts us: The train now approaching platform one is the . . . White lights appear in the distance, aiming for us.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ she says, making it clear that she does not want to be stuck chatting to me all the way to London.

  ‘You too,’ I say.

  The track vibrates as the train gets closer.

  On some level, I get that it is not this woman’s fault if Nate has been beguiled by her. But at this very moment, to me, she represents every other woman. Every Katie, every preceding woman and every future one. I try to take a deep breath to calm myself down, but my lungs feel tight and my throat constricted. I can’t quite get to the safe place in my head. As the train is about to pull in, I take a step forward. Behind me, the waiting-room door is pushed open. The driver I parked next to appears on the platform near me.

  Inside the train, I can see a few heads, reading, watching screens, dozing. I briefly wonder whether to embark and return tomorrow – but that, too, would be pointless. I’ve already wasted an entire evening. The woman pushes the button to open the door and steps on to the train. I watch as she selects a window seat. To my side, the man greets an elderly gentleman and takes his small bag, guiding him by the arm towards the exit.

  As the train pulls away, I notice my suspected honey-trap woman’s puzzled expression as she clocks me, rooted to the platform, staring. I remain standing for several more moments, feeling adrift, until I accept the fact that the best course of action for now is to return to my lonely hotel room and sleep.

  The following morning, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. My phone rings.

  ‘Juliette? Juliette Price?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘It’s Stacy. From the agency.’

  I sit up. ‘Hi?’

  ‘You said you’d like a verbal report as well as an email?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘I’m afraid I have some difficult news. Do you have a friend or someone with a listening ear you can turn to for support?’

  A prickle of hope and excitement.

  ‘It’s fine. Just tell me. Please.’

  ‘Well, as you know, our staff do not deliberately entice anyone or—’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes, I know. Just tell me. What did Nate do?’

  ‘He asked for her details. Her phone number specifically. She didn’t offer it. He asked for it.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And in your experience this means?’

  ‘That you need to keep a close eye.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Miranda.’

  ‘Is she blonde?’

  ‘Yes, but I wouldn’t recommend that you dwell on that as relevant information. Our full report will follow shortly.’

  ‘OK. Thank you.’

  I get out of bed with a fresh sense of purpose.

  Leaving the hotel, I drive to a nearby village and sit in a café, working on how best to feed the information back to Katie.

  Late afternoon, I slide my dress over my head and apply thick make-up and a wig. I recently bought some blue contact lenses in the States, but they are a bugger to put in. I squint and poke my eyes as I persevere; glasses would look like an obvious disguise. I reapply my mascara.

  I’m now blue-eyed, with long, wavy, dark-brown hair. I smile to myself in the mirror.

  I am ready.

  I wait until an hour after the party would have started before walking gracefully down the stairs, head high, and into the ballroom, as though I have every right to be there.

  Which I do.

  I accept a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and slip through the crowds. My eyes scan. There’s no one I recognize yet, but I feel exposed. I find a corner, where I sip my drink. Framed pictures of Bella and Miles’ love affair adorn the walls – skiing in Whistler, on board a yacht in Monaco, a gondola in Venice. I take a canapé from a passing waitress because it gives me something to do. I bite into a salmon blini but i
t’s too rich. I feel sick.

  My nausea intensifies the moment I spot Bella. She is at the far side of the room. My prediction was right: Honey Ryder from Dr No in a white bikini. She looks like she’s stepped off a film set. Bella is, literally, show-stopping.

  I turn to an older woman beside me. She is staring at Bella.

  ‘Are you a friend of Bella or Miles?’ I ask.

  ‘Neither,’ she says. ‘My husband works with Miles and . . .’

  I smile and nod, but my legs feel shaky. A flash of red hair. Katie. She is heading for the bar, alone. I can’t see Nate. But he must be here.

  I excuse myself and make my way down the side of the room, away from Bella. A man steps on my toes. I ignore the pain and continue. A band takes up position and, within moments, the dance floor is filled. After two songs, silence falls and the lights dim further. Bella takes centre stage as a light focuses on her from above. I watch. She beckons to someone. Voodoo Man, from Live and Let Die joins her. I recognize him: Miles.

  My stomach knots as I spot Nate leaning against a wall, clutching a glass of red wine, looking lost in thought. Katie joins him. They don’t look happy, but then again, they don’t look unhappy either. Katie takes his drink from him and places it on a table. She pulls him on to the dance floor. I watch as they bop away whilst I remain rooted to my spot.

  I edge my way on to the dance floor and join a group. Mirrors, lights, darkness. As an upbeat version of ‘The Man with the Golden Gun’ blares, people rush for the safety of the sidelines – apart from Bella, who writhes and twists in a clearly choreographed display. I want to scream as everyone claps and cheers at the end. Why can’t they see through her? If this was my event, it would be tasteful and understated. I wouldn’t put on a show. I feel faint as Bella points in my direction, and I have a horrible vision of her pulling me on to the dance floor and exposing me. A woman from the crowd in front of me joins her. They squeal, hug and air kiss.

  I don’t even realize I’ve been holding my breath until I exhale.

  The evening does not feel like a success. Bella is having a ball. Ditto Nate and Katie. What a waste of time. I leave, but not before removing my present from my bag and adding it to the mountain on a corner table. My unlabelled gift is a book on how to work on an ailing relationship.

  I’m sick of happy couples.

  13

  I wait forty-eight hours before I send an anonymous but detailed letter outlining my ‘suspicions’ to Katie from a ‘well-wisher’. I heard those words used in a TV programme once, and they seemed to irritate the recipient.

  Feeling a bit euphoric from my meddling, I turn the radio up loud as I make a prawn stir-fry. But, as is so often the case, I cook too much and the sight of enough food for two brings me down again. I miss cooking for Nate, he was always so appreciative of a home-cooked meal after all the plane and hotel food. I turn the music down as I nibble half-heartedly in front of my laptop, scrolling, searching, posting.

  In the future, if Nate’s family research my background, I want them to see what an upstanding citizen I am. People see what they want to see. In me, they will see the perfect wife for their beloved son and a kind, thoughtful daughter-in-law. I’m far from a one-trick pony. My invented rich and varied CV makes me the perfect candidate for the position. I bake, I sew, I create. I will host every Christmas, New Year, Easter – the whole fucking lot. I want Bella to dread every festive season – like she made me dread each new term – because I will subtly undermine her from behind the scenes and alienate her from her family.

  I read an email from my manager. My place on the airline’s promotions team will be definite by September, which means that I need to reunite with Nate sooner rather than later. My one major advantage is the element of surprise, and I must not jeopardize that.

  I check my spy app. There is silence as regards Katie, so far. Nate has been rostered a Vegas in three weeks. This could be the perfect opportunity to engineer myself on to his flight, because Las Vegas is an unpopular trip: crammed flights and overexcited, heavy-drinking stags and hens. I check the swap notices. Damn. No one has requested to exchange that particular destination. I will keep checking over the coming week before adding a request of my own. Ideally, I’d like to leave no online trace that it is anything other than chance scheduling that we operate the same flight.

  I have run out of things to do, so I switch on the TV and watch a Wimbledon tennis match. It will give me something to chat to Barbara about as I imagine she’s in front of the telly now, Pimm’s in one hand, a bowl of strawberries and cream within close reach. It’s an annual ritual of hers. But it’s difficult to concentrate, as I keep checking for messages from Katie to Nate or vice versa, until the spy app freezes and I can’t get it to work. It’s annoying, like having my psychic powers turned off. I need to be more cautious as I’ve read that it can drain Nate’s battery, and if that occurs too frequently, he could either try to get it fixed or push for an upgrade.

  It works again after a few hours, probably after Nate has rebooted his phone. I force myself to check only once every couple of hours. I discover that he has employed a cleaner to come in twice a week. This, I suspect, is good news; in the event I ever make an error, then the cleaner will be blamed.

  The other good thing is that, by the time I leave for my next trip to Delhi a couple of days later, there has been very little contact between Katie and Nate.

  As the crew bus bumps along, badly hung window curtains brush my face each time we hit a pothole. I try to tie back the flimsy material with a hairband so I can see outside. This is my first time in Delhi and it’s beguiling. Rickshaws, bicycles and cows all fight for personal space on the road, oblivious to the hooting and loud engines of the garishly decorated trucks and buses as they play chicken. Heat, due to the poor air conditioning, intermingles with the pungent smell of fruit and drains, which clashes with the strong scent of the white plastic air fresheners attached to the dashboard.

  I’m excited. I’ve found out from a passenger that there is a locally respected fortune teller who works in our hotel and, seeing as it’s my birthday, it will make a good present to myself. Especially as I keep checking for messages from Nate, even though I know it’s futile – he would never remember without a prompt – but like so many things, I just can’t help myself.

  I ask a receptionist about making an appointment whilst we are checking in.

  ‘I will see what I can do, madam,’ she promises.

  Less than an hour later, my room phone rings.

  ‘Madam. This is Reyansh. You would like to see me, I understand?’

  I am momentarily thrown. I expected a female.

  I find my voice. ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘You’re very lucky today. I have a spare hour if you can come downstairs now.’

  The cynic in me suspects that I’ve not been particularly lucky, but nonetheless, I am curious and feel drawn to do this, so I agree. In the basement area, among the carpet and jewellery shops with displays of yellow gold, sapphires and emeralds, I politely decline various shopkeepers’ offers of tea – chai – as I’m beckoned by a short, old man towards a curtained-off area at the end of the wide corridor. Behind the curtain, I’m offered a seat, which I accept as Reyansh sits opposite, on the other side of a large wooden desk.

  ‘Please. Can you let me borrow a piece of jewellery or something that means a lot to you?’

  I hand over an eternity ring. It is worthless, but I like it because it is a replica of the kind of ring I’d like Nate to give me one day. Reyansh spends time studying it in his palm, then speaks with such great speed that it is hard to keep up with everything.

  However, by the time I leave – an hour later – the gist of what he has relayed slowly sinks in. I’ve been waiting for someone for a long time and the man in question does love me. A part of me doesn’t care if it’s what he genuinely ‘saw’ or ‘felt’ or not, it gives me a strong sense of renewed hope and optimism. Everyone needs a boost now and then, and I�
��m no different, so I don’t begrudge the 5,000 rupees I paid Reyansh.

  Later, I meet up with the rest of my crew in a local vegetarian restaurant and try out a roast cauliflower curry. After the meal, we’re invited back to the captain’s room for drinks, seeing as the restaurant was dry.

  Several beers later, an argument breaks out between two stewards who realize they are dating the same person after sharing photos of their boyfriends. Both huddle in the corner of the suite and make angry calls to the man in question – Sebastian – who is in Dubai with his phone switched off. I imagine he’s going to keep it that way for some time once he picks up his venomous voicemails.

  The woman sitting next to me makes a face. ‘Everyone thinks that their Sebastian, Tim, Dave, Jane, whoever, is different,’ she says.

  The sick feeling that almost permanently inhabits my stomach, like a ball of mixed poisons, kneads my insides. I always knew that Nate faced temptation every time that he went to work, but I tried never to let my mind go there.

  ‘There must be some decent ones, though?’ I say. ‘Aren’t lots of flight crew married with children?’

  She looks at me as though she can’t quite make me out. ‘Don’t tell me you joined the airline to marry a pilot!’ she says.

  I shake my head, implying the very notion had never entered my mind.

  ‘Of course there are success stories. But it’s hard, though. Take my advice and make sure you go out with someone with a ground-based job. Mind you, that comes with a different set of problems because they aren’t always understanding when you’ve got to work a third Christmas in a row.’