The Perfect Girlfriend

by Karen Hamilton

  And with knowledge comes power.

  A fortnight later, Amy and I are back at training school. She is completing an aircraft conversion, because she is transferring to short-haul and domestic routes only. I suspect it has something to do with being on the same fleet as Rupert.

  When our break times coincide, we meet in the canteen and chat, but Amy is stilted. She is holding back. I can tell by the way she hesitates before she replies to any of my questions.

  On day three, my morning session finishes early. I go to the canteen, even though I’m not hungry. But I’m trapped; the training centre is in the middle of nowhere, adjacent to a dual carriageway. I spot Amy, but she is not alone. Beside her is Rupert. He has his hand on her knee.

  I watch them from a distance as I pay for my coffee, then walk towards them.

  Amy jumps as I approach. ‘Hi! Juliette!’ She reddens.

  ‘Hi,’ says Rupert. ‘I understand it’s Juliette now, not Lily?’

  I sit down opposite them. ‘I fancied a change. Loads of crew use different names.’

  ‘Yeah, but usually because they’re called something unpronounceable and get sick of being called the wrong name,’ says Amy.

  I ignore her and smile at Rupert. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Simulator,’ he says. Routine pilot training. Rupert looks at his phone. ‘Well, must head back to the grindstone. Nice to see you again . . . Juliette.’

  ‘You too,’ I smile.

  I don’t look away as Rupert kisses Amy on the cheek. She watches as he walks out and when she turns back to me, she finds it hard to meet my eyes. Bitch. She’s told him too much about me. I don’t know why I ever wanted her to be my friend. Her eyes are slightly too wide apart and there is a hint of a sneer to her smile. I wonder how it can be that I misjudged her so badly; that I chose another Bella to befriend.

  ‘What time do you finish tonight?’ I ask.

  ‘Five. But we’ve only got door drills left today, so hopefully we’ll finish early.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame, I don’t finish until six. We could’ve gone for a drink.’

  ‘Yeah. That is a shame,’ she lies, not even bothering to feign regret.

  She looks at her watch. I open my bag to take out my phone. It’s stuck, wedged into the inner zip where I keep my keys, painkillers and passport. I pull and, as I do so, something falls out and clatters on to the table. A flash of yellow. Homer Simpson yellow. Shit. I slam my hand over them, but Amy is staring at me.

  ‘Are those mine?’ she says.

  ‘These?’ I say, revealing them, palm outstretched. ‘I don’t think so. Although I don’t recognize them either.’

  ‘They are mine. Our spare ones went missing. Hannah thought it was me, and vice versa.’

  ‘Well, you can take them and check, if you think so? If not, give them back to me, as I guess they’re for something I’ve forgotten about.’

  ‘They are mine.’

  ‘OK. If you say so.’

  ‘What were they doing in your bag?’

  I look her in the eye. ‘No idea.’

  ‘It was you,’ she says under her breath. ‘You’ve been in our flat. When I’m not there.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous,’ I say. ‘It’s just a set of keys!’

  ‘Yes, you like taking keys, don’t you? Going into other people’s houses without permission.’

  ‘I don’t like your tone.’

  ‘I could go to the police.’

  I don’t understand why people always think they can ‘go to the police’ for any situation to be magically and swiftly resolved in their favour.

  ‘And say what? That I had keys to my husband’s house and that a set of yours – allegedly – were in my bag. We’re friends, Amy. Friends.’

  ‘Husband?’

  ‘Yes. Nate is legally my husband. You’ve been too busy thinking about yourself and Rupert – so much so – that you’ve neglected your friends. So, run along to the police.’ I stand up. ‘Make yourself look stupid. Nate asked me to marry him a few months ago, so I did. Now, I’m trying to sort out the mess I made. Marry in haste, repent at great leisure. Like I’ve said before, Nate’s a complicated man. You don’t know the half of it.’

  I don’t know who she thinks she is.

  I seethe all the way back home. It is an effort to drive safely, because I want to put my foot down and take off. I am hooted at twice and I have to brake suddenly when I forget to slow down whilst approaching a roundabout.

  At home, I take out my lists. It’s a shame I didn’t bulk-buy voodoo dolls when I had the chance, but I could probably order some more online.

  I update my plans for all three of my enemies and it keeps me going until the early hours.

  I force myself back to the training centre in the morning, because I have one more day of my course left. Amy has two. I vow to avoid her all morning, but my rage resurfaces when she pretends not to see me in the canteen.

  I really, really hate being ignored. Does she think I’m going to pull her ponytail? It’s pathetic.

  I check out the course list in reception. Amy finishes an hour after me today. I head towards the practical training area, praying that the code I watched Brian and Dawn key in endless times still works.

  It does! I look around.

  I walk in, as though I have every right to be here, passing the short-haul aircraft on my way. I can hear shouts as Amy’s group complete their emergency evacuations.

  I peek through the access door at the back of a Boeing 777. It is wedged open. The economy seats are deserted apart from scattered belongings. Everyone will be huddled by the main doors. I step in, holding my breath. An emergency evacuation alarm screeches, before being silenced, and I hear the rumble of a main door being pulled open and crew shouting instructions.

  I search for Amy’s bag; hers is the fifth one I come across. I remove her phone and switch it off.

  I walk back through the access door, then hide by an equipment training station among the infant cots, oxygen bottles, life jackets and emergency packs.

  I wait.

  Twenty minutes later, Amy’s group emerge from the mock-up, led by two trainers. Amy is near the back. She opens her bag, rummages and stops. I bet she’s dying to see how many times wonderful Rupert has messaged her today. She walks back towards the mock-up.

  I count to thirty, then walk up to the access door. I look around. I remove the wedge, push it shut and walk away once I hear the lock click. Out of sight of any cameras, I drop Amy’s phone on the path between the canteen and reception. I swipe out at security and cross the road to the car park.

  Whilst driving, I think about Amy alone in the darkness, if all the aircraft exits have been locked. Whatever time Security find her – when it’s noted that she hasn’t swiped out – it won’t be late enough, as far as I’m concerned. But, hopefully, whilst she’s sitting in the ghostly graveyard of economy, trapped inside the shell of a plane with only passenger safety cards to pass the time, she’ll also have time to think about the error of her ways.

  I manage to get a parking space right outside the shoebox.

  I have two missed calls. One from the estate agent, the other from my solicitor.

  It’s good news; I’m going to be Nate’s neighbour by Halloween.

  21

  On the day of one of Bella’s many pre-wedding gatherings with her clique – today being the deluxe spa experience – I drive to Bournemouth. I park, re-apply my perfume – a musky, strong one I bought in duty free – and walk down a hill towards the centre, until I reach the right address. I give my name to the receptionist, then sink down into a soft chair in the waiting area. The cream walls are decorated with pictures of yachts, mansions and exotic beaches. The carpets smell new.

  ‘Miss Price?’ says a man who appears through a door on my left.

  I stand up, smile and we shake hands. I hold his hand a fraction longer than necessary. He is easily recognizable from the photos I’ve seen of him: normal-e
nough looking, shorter than Nate, with brown hair. Although, give it a few years and his hair will slip to the side and his stomach will swell. Miles must be a good ten years older than Bella and myself. He has kind eyes, which crease at the sides when he smiles. His fingernails are well manicured.

  ‘Please, come in and take a seat,’ he says. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ I say. ‘I can totally imagine that you’re in demand.’

  I flash my left hand as I reach into my bag for a file to ensure he can see my engagement ring. It is a single diamond set in gold – bought in Abu Dhabi, duty free.

  I’ve contacted Miles a few times for ‘advice’ and then – slowly, carefully – reeled him in. I know Bella. I know her attitude towards the male sex: not-so-hidden-below-the-surface disdain. An ice maiden who has cultivated all the essential qualities to make good wife material for certain types of men. Miles does not seem the sort of man to take risks, though. If he thinks I am single, he will be harder to snare. He won’t take the chance that he could end up in a bunny-boiling situation.

  ‘So, Miss Price—’

  ‘Please, call me Juliette.’

  ‘Of course. And you must call me Miles.’ He hesitates and smiles.

  I smile back. ‘Miles.’

  He clears his throat and turns the screen on his desk around, ready to refresh my memory of our discussions by phone and mail.

  I lean forward and listen attentively. ‘Thank you for explaining everything so well.’

  ‘As I’ve said before, some people make out that managing money is complicated, when it isn’t. I like to dissolve the mystery for my clients.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  My phone rings. My prearranged fake call. I smile apologetically as I decline it, but then listen to a non-existent voice message.

  ‘I’m going to have to cut our meeting short,’ I say. ‘But having now met you, I know you’re the perfect man for the job. However, I’d like some time to read through everything you’ve provided, please.’

  ‘Of course.’

  I pretend to think. ‘I’m around this time next week. I don’t suppose you’d be free again to go through any queries?’

  He checks his diary.

  ‘Not a problem, Miss Pr—’ He stops and smiles. ‘Juliette.’

  I smile.

  I shake his hand again before I depart, hopefully leaving behind the scent of my new perfume for him to remember me by.

  I make a start on packing up the shoebox. Two hours later, my place is filled with a mini city of cardboard boxes.

  My phone rings. Nate. I press ignore, as is customary for me right now. I’m sick of his supercilious voice as he tries to ‘reasonably discuss our predicament’. He’ll want me to sign something, or agree to something that isn’t in my favour.

  I need a distraction, so I check Facebook. Amy has been signed off for stress. Stress! The very word irritates me. She has posted endless boring rants about her ‘ordeal’ of being trapped in the training centre. She was ‘shocked’ and ‘distressed’. Shocked and distressed indeed. People who escape war zones have stories of shock and distress. I have stories of shock and distress. Amy does not. Rupert has taken her away on holiday to Mauritius, so she is lucky. She has a safety net in the form of Rupert, friends and family, ready to help her when she’s in trouble. She should try being me for a day, then she’d know the meaning of stress.

  Nate rings again. I snatch up my phone.

  ‘What do you want now?’ I snap.

  It’s true that there is a fine line between love and hate, and I have crossed it. I will tether Nate to me out of revenge, not love.

  ‘I need to discuss something important, please.’

  ‘Now there’s a thing. Sadly, I’m busy.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ says Nate. ‘Because I get the feeling you’re stalling, and it’s not going to work.’

  The mere tone of his voice makes me feel so angry that I don’t trust myself to speak. I grip my phone, resisting the desire to throw it against the wall. He’s like the proverbial dog with a bone: gnaw, gnaw, gnaw.

  ‘Lily? Are you there?’

  ‘I tell you what, Nate. I’ll come over to yours when I’m back from my next trip. I’ve got evidence that will make you see things in a different light.’

  He audibly sighs. ‘Can’t you do it now?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve got to get ready for an early Jeddah tomorrow.’

  There is silence.

  I imagine him summoning up all his patience.

  ‘Lily. We meant something to each other once. It doesn’t have to be like this between us. I’m sorry that I can’t agree to everything you’d like me to, but please, try to put yourself in my shoes.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ I lie. ‘And it would be great if you could do the same for me.’

  His voice is quiet. ‘I have. And like I’ve said – many, many times – I’m sorry.’

  I say goodbye and carry on packing.

  The flight to Jeddah is quiet. It’s only half full, and there are no bars loaded, so there is no Customs paperwork to complete either. As we approach the airport, I see the vast, white, sweeping tent-like roof of the nearby Hajj Terminal.

  Upon landing, the ground staff meet the aircraft and offer female crew the option of borrowing abayas – black, cloak-like garments – to cover ourselves, if we choose. Luckily, I’m more prepared than I was on my first Saudi trip to Riyadh, last month, so I’ve bought my own and packed my own new headscarf, even though the dress code here is more liberal than in Riyadh. I can feel the stares of the crowds outside Arrivals as we are escorted to a minibus. September heat blasts. The outside temperature is 33º, even though it’s nearly midnight.

  We drive through a flat, well-lit, modern area. I can almost sense that the desert is not far away, rather than actually see any tangible signs of it. Most buildings, if not white, are shell pink or sand-coloured. The green street signs are written in English beneath the Arabic, so I am able to follow them to the city centre. The traffic is dense for this time of night, and there are seemingly endless white taxis queuing up along the palm-lined streets. Multiple evidence of building work is in sight: scaffolding, bright lights and cranes.

  We pull up outside a standard hotel chain, with its name written in gold. As I alight, I can almost feel the coolness of a nearby small fountain as it gently trickles. It adds an exotic holiday feel. Our bags are swiftly unloaded as we are bustled into reception by waiting doormen.

  Already, there is more freedom here than I’d been led to believe by Galley FM – as crew gossip is referred to – because a receptionist gathers us round a small sitting area to run through a list of sightseeing options. Whilst we listen, we are offered fresh mango and orange juice.

  The following morning, several of us congregate at the end of a long jetty at a private Red Sea beach club, awaiting flipper and snorkel allocation. I stretch, enjoying the heat on my skin, even though it is only ten in the morning.

  Once I’ve been handed my equipment by an instructor and have adjusted the straps, I climb awkwardly down a ladder with my webbed feet and lower myself into the bath-warm turquoise sea. Opening my eyes beneath the surface, it is impossible not to feel blown away at the explosion of colour. Rainbow would be lost in here. Zebrafish weave in and out of coral whilst larger, bright-yellow fish with blue eyes watch me. Transparent, purple neon jellyfish with balloon-shaped bodies float gently in the distance. Smaller, metallic fish travel in regimented schools.

  Over a lunch of lamb biryani and fresh lime sodas in the club’s restaurant – a cool respite from the midday heat – I miss Nate, despite my anger towards him. Nostalgia seeps into my mind and highlights the loneliness of being in stunning surroundings with no one to share it with. I’d love to send him some pictures I took on the beach this morning.

  Late afternoon, back in the welcome coolness of my hotel room, I compose an email to Miles. I ask him if we can meet for lunc
h next week, instead of meeting in his office. He emails back in minutes, with enthusiastic agreement. I have told Miles that I work for a travel company, despite my inherited wealth, because ‘I love it’. I was vague about the specific details of my job, other than the fact that I need to travel quite extensively.

  On the quiet six-and-a-half-hour flight home, I work on some scripts during my break: one for my upcoming visit to Nate, the other for my meeting with Miles.

  We land in pouring rain at Heathrow. I love going to bed in the morning when the weather is foul, thinking of ‘normal’ people who are only just heading off to work.

  In a recently renovated gastropub, I choose a table in a corner with a sofa. I settle in and smooth down my new dress.

  Miles is punctual.

  I stand and smile. ‘Miles! You’re a sweetheart for coming out to meet me. I hope you don’t mind . . .’ I point to the bottle of prosecco I’ve ordered.

  ‘Why not? Thank you.’

  I make space for him on the sofa beside me. He hesitates for a mere second, before sinking down next to me. I ask him a question about pensions and he launches into a far-too-detailed response. I don’t have as much money left as I’ve led him to believe but, at a later stage, I will apologetically inform him that my controlling fiancé has insisted I use a wealth-management friend of his instead.

  He orders a steak sandwich and I do the same. It is tough, and difficult to eat elegantly, but I cut the meat up into small chunks and persevere.

  ‘Now, that’s business out of the way,’ I say, once we’re finished. ‘I’d like to know a bit more about the man I’ve trusted with my future. My fiancé, Nick, doesn’t have a head for business. We’re a good match in a lot of ways and we know that a marriage between us will work well for our families, who have been friends for generations. We’re both doing our duty in a sensible, good-natured way. However, I’ve made it clear that I will be responsible for the finances.’

  ‘Very wise,’ he says. ‘What does Nick do?’

  ‘He’s also in the travel industry, but he specializes more in the business sector, rather than the leisure industry. Cheers,’ I say. ‘Here’s to the beginning of our relationship.’