The Perfect Girlfriend

by Karen Hamilton

  Once I’ve finished cleaning the shoebox and gone through the inventory with the agency, I hand over my keys with a genuine grin. We load up both our cars and I don’t look back as I pull away from the place that I never wanted to live in anyway.

  Nate follows me back to mine. It is less than a minute’s walk from his flat, diagonally left. Leaving my car directly outside, I put on my hazard lights as Nate unloads my belongings from the small boot and back seat. Even though there are two flights of stairs up to attic-floor level, he works without complaint and is generally all-round helpful.

  The job is done in under two hours. Maybe I don’t hate him quite as much as I thought.

  Despite the small size of the property, I need to buy some furniture. A bed – I currently have a blow-up mattress – a table, some chairs and a sofa. I also need various kitchen utensils. However, the flat is already carpeted in a tasteful, thick cream colour and the kitchen is well equipped, with a washing machine and dishwasher.

  We order in sushi and sit on the floor, eating from the cartons with chopsticks. It feels like nothing bad has ever happened between us. It’s so natural, just hanging out together, and I feel the most optimistic I have for a very long time. And yet, there is one issue I feel I need to address. I want to get my version in first.

  ‘Your friend Rupert is seeing someone I trained with. Apparently, she came over to yours with him recently.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Amy.’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘She’s a bit unstable. She acted really strangely when I mentioned you. Said she’d found it odd that I hadn’t mentioned you before – even though we weren’t together, so why would I have?’

  He shrugs. ‘She seemed all right to me.’

  ‘Well, she would. Who admits to being a bit of a fantasist? No one I know. Anyway, I hope Rupert finds out what she’s like.’

  ‘I’m sure Rupert is capable of looking after himself.’

  I add a small amount of wasabi into the soy sauce and mix, before dipping a piece of salmon and rice into it.

  Silence falls between us.

  Nate seems a little more tense than I initially noticed, as if he’s just going through the motions.

  I test him. ‘Have you told your family you’re married?’

  He looks at me like I’m mad. ‘No. It would upset my mum.’

  ‘What about if she met me?’

  ‘No.’

  I let it drop.

  When Nate makes noises about leaving, I don’t complain or make any future demands. Instead, I thank him, bid him a cheery goodbye and let him go. I know he’s biding his time until he can relay his ‘I’m so sorry, Lily, I gave it my best shot’ speech, so I’m going to try a fresh approach.

  I know that Nate’s father took early retirement from some high-up banking position and has a keen interest in golf, but his mother is a social butterfly, into tennis and swimming, and indulges in multiple hobbies. She is also a board member for an art and culture charity. I google it. They provide photographers who offer their services for free. I dig some more. Nate and Bella’s mother – Margaret – appears to dabble in photography herself. She has a small studio near the house they moved to ten years ago in Canford Cliffs, an exclusive part of Poole. She opens it on Monday and Thursday mornings.

  I google-earth their house. It is magnificent and clearly has breathtaking views of the bay. I zoom in and see a patio area with a large garden table. I imagine that many family gatherings are held in that space. I can picture Nate sitting there, enjoying the view, whilst sharing stories of his latest travels.

  I text Miles.

  Can’t wait to see you again. X

  He gets back in five minutes.

  Next Thurs? Same place?

  As I’ll be in the general area, I may as well multitask, so I’ll go and admire Margaret’s work too. Seeing as I’m in a particularly organized mood, I order furniture: a bed, a small sofa and several throws and cushions.

  I’m going to settle in properly here; put down real roots for the first time ever.

  I arise early the next morning and put on my uniform, taking extra care. Today is my first day in my new part-time role. I will be photographed for the in-house magazine and I need to be looking my best. Hopefully, it will be the photo that will remind Nate of my permanent existence, every time he reports for work.

  I arrive punctually and seek out the manager in charge of the promotions team, who is an earnest man – also cabin crew – but obviously power hungry. He has listed all his ridiculously high expectations in order of importance and exudes desperation to give up flying by working his way into seemingly bigger and better ground-based roles.

  As well as myself – the safety ambassador – there are three other people who have been awarded various accolades that encompass welfare, health and team-bonding.

  The day is not fun; it is worse than being at training school. Wearing a hi-vis jacket and safety goggles, the photographer and I are sent airside and bused out to a hanger. I have to navigate wobbly, metal engineering steps to board the plane, and it’s a constant effort to keep out of the engineers’ way. I am instructed to pose by various potential hazards inside the plane: carpets with peeling-up edges, a no-glass sign by the trash compactor. And I have to grip the handrail of the stairs leading to the upper deck correctly.

  Back in the Report Centre, we have a team photo taken; side by side, we grin. As far as I can make out, the main benefit of the role is that we have an office space – albeit shared – for our own use. This means a gateway to potentially confidential information about others, because my new password offers greater access to the company systems. As well as regular meetings, it is our responsibility to provide regular, positive updates for the magazine, encouraging our colleagues to be more safety conscious, more self-aware health-wise, and to show greater care and concern for each other.

  We are informed, by the keen-bean manager, that the team photo will be on the cover and the worst one – of me – will be used on the third page. It is hideous. I am standing in the cockpit, to the side of the centre pedestal, holding an empty mug, with a concerned expression on my face. I will be alongside a warning issued about taking care when serving drinks to the flight crew. The article will include engineering statistics – something dull about defects and new components, or suchlike.

  It is such a relief to return to my new home. I kick off my heels, switch on the radio, select a channel that plays non-stop chart hits and temporarily remove my pinboards from their hiding place to hang them inside a kitchen cupboard. It won’t do for them to be on show whilst Nate is an occasional visitor. Even though he’s not as regular as I’d like him to be, he at least shows willing, I’ll give him that.

  I also have one other box which will need to remain out of sight; the one which contains my most private possessions. I’ll share some of them with Nate when I decide he’s in the right frame of mind.

  My phone vibrates. Miles.

  Can we take a rain check? Work. :( Have to visit a client in Tokyo, will be gone for a week.

  That’s frustrating. He’s not bad company, and I enjoyed my time with him. Even though Bella doesn’t yet know, it is still satisfying. I’m due to operate to Singapore in three days’ time. I check the swap lists. There are two Tokyos available in my work grade, but one person specifically wants to swap with a Stateside trip only. I mail the other one.

  Whilst waiting for a reply, I text Miles back.

  No way! What a coincidence! I was told today that I might need to go to Tokyo too! There’s a new hotel to check out. I’ll contact you if it comes off :) It must be fate.

  An email comes through agreeing to the trip swap at the same time as I receive a keen reply from Miles. Like I said to him – it’s fate. I’m looking forward to spending a longer period of time with him; innocently, gently probing to find out Bella’s vulnerabilities and fears.

  Everything comes to she who waits.

 
; 23

  On the twenty-eighth floor of a skyscraper hotel, renowned for its view of the city’s Rainbow Bridge, I wait for Miles. The bar is dimly lit. Little candles flicker on the slate-grey tables, intermingling with the city lights outside the giant floor-to-ceiling windowpanes. Red, white and blue illuminate the bridge below, reflections bobbing in the water. The tinkling of a piano provides a discreet backdrop to the various conversations held by the local, designer-clad clientele, separated by scattered clusters of Westerners.

  I am bored.

  The rest of my crew went off to a fun-sounding karaoke bar, and there was one woman who seems like a good laugh. If I had the time, I would like to have hung out with her. I need a replacement friend after my falling-out with Amy.

  ‘So, so sorry,’ Miles says, appearing at my side. ‘My meeting overran.’

  There is an awkward moment as he seems unsure about how to greet me. Even though we’re far away from home, Miles appears uncharacteristically hyper-aware that we’re in public. We kiss once on each cheek, then he sits down next to me.

  ‘What would you like to drink?’ he asks.

  I pick up the cocktail menu and read the English names helpfully written alongside the Japanese symbols. I select a Green Destiny: a blend of vodka, cucumber, kiwi and apple juice. Miles decides on a margarita.

  ‘My hotel is quite far away from here,’ I say. ‘So I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve taken the liberty of bringing a small overnight bag with me.’

  He shifts in his seat a little. ‘I guess it makes sense. Will Nick be in touch, do you think?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ I put my hand over his. ‘Don’t worry, if Bella calls, I’ll make myself scarce. I’ll lock myself away in the bathroom and block my ears.’

  He laughs. ‘She probably won’t call.’

  ‘Does she keep busy whilst you’re away?’

  ‘Bella is always busy.’

  I stay silent, waiting for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t bite.

  Miles loosens his tie and relaxes back into his chair.

  After our second drink, he invites me to his room. The moment the door closes behind us, we reach for each other.

  I revel in each and every moment that I am stealing him from Bella.

  Miles has fallen asleep.

  The room smells of stale smoke – which is such an alien smell, as smoking is now banned in so many hotels around the world. I force myself to wait a good twenty minutes before taking a nose around. His tablet and phone are password-protected. I try a few times – Bella’s birthday and then Miles’ date of birth, which I learn by flicking through his passport – but it is of no use. His briefcase is open. I sift through client papers, but they are dull. His wallet contains nothing of great interest apart from a dog-eared photo of her.

  Her smile has always been the same. Every time I see it, I am reminded of a smiling assassin.

  There is also a list in Bella’s unmistakable handwriting and even the sight of it makes me feel ill at ease. She loops and swirls her capital letters in an overly ornate fashion. Written down among Bella’s requests (or demands) – for example, it is Miles’ job to arrange the honeymoon – she has also listed several potential venues for their wedding. Her current favourite is an Italian-style villa in some privately owned gardens near her parents’ home, with several hotels named in order of preference.

  I pick up my phone and take photos of everything I’ve discovered, as a reminder, then I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the wall. I can’t switch off. If Bella were here, she’d probably be asleep – not a care in the world, apart from her stupid wedding plans. I wonder what I can do to mess with her precious arrangements. She doesn’t deserve to live happily ever after. Karma is clearly a myth, if someone as undeserving as Bella gets her happy-ever-after without a struggle, whilst people like me are left to flounder.

  Sometimes I think about what will happen when Bella and I meet again. I go over what she says, what I say. And although the situations vary, it always ends up with me winning. I am the one who finally gets a voice. I’ve learned to ski, to play tennis, to horse ride. I’ve visited the places she goes to, I’ve made sure that I’ve met most of the people she networks with – if not in person, then on social media. I’m totally ready to integrate into her world, so that she wants to be my friend, not the other way round.

  Miles turns over in his sleep. I should leave something in his suitcase for her to find, a little memento to make her concerned when he travels for work. Something to turn her into a neurotic woman, with less self-assurance and a little more humility. Someone Miles won’t respect. It has to be something subtle – so that Miles doesn’t suspect my involvement. I spray my perfume into the lining of his suitcase and shut the lid, hoping it permeates the contents. It would be ideal if Bella unpacks for him, although I doubt that she does.

  I go into the bathroom. I take a peek inside his leather washbag. There is not much: deodorant, a lip balm, hair gel, some nail clippers. I sit on the edge of the bath and study the Japanese toilet control panel, trying to figure out what the pictures on each button mean. After further pondering, I creep back into the room and open the wardrobe. I feel inside his jacket pockets. Empty. I search my own bag, but there is nothing I can leave without Miles knowing it was me. The perfume will have to suffice.

  For now.

  But I do take a photo of Miles. I freeze as the flash goes off, but he doesn’t stir.

  I get into bed and lie near the edge, watching the red illuminated numbers change on the bedside clock.

  I fantasize that Nate will change his attitude, which will, in turn, allow my feelings for him to revert to love. We could begin again, do things properly: date, fall in love, make a total fresh start. My thoughts grow, becoming even more elaborate, until I can feel myself drifting off.

  An alarm call jolts me into awareness. I lean down and check my phone in my bag; it’s 7 a.m. Tokyo time.

  Miles sits up, stretches and then disappears into the bathroom. When I hear the sound of the shower, I go in and join him. He doesn’t object. Nate could learn a thing or two about enthusiasm from him.

  Once we’re both dressed and ready, we make our way along the corridor to the executive lounge for breakfast.

  Miles spends most of the time tapping into his phone.

  ‘What shall we do today?’ I say as I spear a piece of melon with my fork.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I thought maybe the Imperial Palace or . . .’

  ‘I’m working,’ he says. ‘And surely you must be too?’

  ‘Yes, of course I am, but I’m allowed a bit of time off. So, what do you think?’

  He looks at me. ‘I’m not here for sightseeing, and I’ve been there before with—’ He stops.

  ‘It’s OK, you can say her name,’ I say.

  ‘Juliette, I’m sorry but I need to get on in peace. I’ve a lot to get through today.’

  ‘Fine. What about dinner tonight?’

  ‘I can’t, I’m afraid. I’m dining with my client.’

  ‘I could join you? As a business colleague?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be a good idea.’

  ‘But I’m going home the day after.’

  ‘So, we’ll have to get together – back at home – another time. You pick a time and a place and wild horses won’t keep me away.’ He smiles, but it is forced.

  ‘I’ll get going, then.’

  He looks down at his phone.

  I stand up, feeling dismissed.

  ‘Sorry, Juliette. There’s something I need to deal with straight away.’

  ‘Of course. I understand.’

  He stands up and kisses me on the cheek.

  I look back as I leave, but he is not watching me. He has already turned his attention back to his phone.

  On the seemingly never-ending, twelve-hour flight home, I seethe.

  I lie in a bottom bunk, hiding myself away from everyone else.

  By torchlight, I list the ways
in which Nate and Miles are similar.

  As I push open the communal door to my flat, the pile of post, pizza leaflets and charity requests creates a gentle resistance. I bend down to pick them up. My downstairs neighbours must have been away for the night as they usually pile up anything addressed to me neatly on the bottom step. Dragging my belongings upstairs, I can’t rest as I have to wait in for my bed to be delivered.

  It arrives late morning, and the delivery men also help to erect the small double frame. When they leave, I wrestle with a bottle-green duvet cover I recently took from Nate’s – not his favourite set – and pull on two matching pillowcases, giving them a good shake before dropping them on to my new bed.

  Slowly, the place is beginning to look more like mine now. The blank walls need some new pictures, so I sort through my favourite ones of Nate that I intend to get framed.

  The following day is a Thursday, one of the days Nate’s mother opens her studio.

  It is easy to locate. I park on a nearby tree-lined street and make my way to the glass-door entrance.

  She is in there, alone, sitting behind a plain desk. She looks older than her pictures, but she has an elegance and aloofness that I remember from when I caught occasional glimpses of her at school. She sits on a small stool, with her back straight, reading a magazine. Her glasses match her navy top. For a fleeting moment I think that there is not much likeness between her and her daughter – much more so her son – but then she opens her mouth. And even if I had my eyes closed, I would know that they were related.

  My heart rate quickens a little.

  ‘Good morning,’ she says, looking up from her magazine, which I now notice is an art brochure. ‘Feel free to ask any questions.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say with a smile. ‘I’ve driven past here a few times and your window always catches my eye. I’ve been meaning to come in. And today, I thought I’d finally make the time.’

  I browse. I don’t know much about art or photography, but I looked up a few useful tips before I left home. It’s good, apparently, to compliment the photographer on the work that went into the image and simply appreciate the scene itself.