The Perfect Girlfriend

by Karen Hamilton

  Nate stops the film. ‘Shit, Lily. Why didn’t you say? This is insane.’

  I don’t answer. He has all the answers in front of him and I have put hours and hours of effort into taking us back there, to my feelings and thoughts in that moment. I point to the screen. He stares back down and starts it again. The screen shines brightly in the gloom. I stretch my legs out in front of me. My back is beginning to ache, and even though these are my words – even though I’ve edited and edited this piece – it’s uncomfortable. The mix of emotions is unsettling because, on the one hand, I remember the naive hope I’d felt and, on the other, there is the exact opposite. And the next bit coming up is painful.

  The girl gave her heart to the boy, there and then. It was a done deal. Their fate was sealed. He was a part of her, and vice versa. He didn’t have any more cigarettes. He asked her if she had one. She didn’t, but she desperately wished that she had. She still does – because if she had, then he’d have stayed longer. They’d have talked and everything would’ve been different. They’d have kept in touch and then he’d have realized that he loved her too. But that is not what happened, is it, Nate?

  I have factored in a deliberate pause for ‘discussion time’.

  ‘Well?’ I prompt.

  ‘Lily. This is serious shit. OK. I get it. Your shock tactics have worked. You want a proper apology and you’ll get one. I am sorry. Really, truly sorry. Un-cuff me and I promise – you have my word, I swear – that we can talk and you can tell me anything or share anything that you’d like to.’ He sounds close to tears.

  ‘You still don’t get it. It’s not just a mere apology. I want you to understand. I need you to get what you did.’

  ‘I do understand. I do get it. We were young. I thought . . . well, in truth I don’t know what I thought, but I clearly wasn’t thinking too far into the future.’ He pauses. ‘I didn’t plan it. You know yourself that it just happened. You were clearly attractive and—’

  ‘Was I, though? How do you know? It was dark.’

  ‘I didn’t know who you were.’

  ‘And that makes everything all right?’

  ‘Well, no, but for God’s sake, you’re reading too much into something and turning it into something bigger than it is.’

  ‘Bigger than it is?’ I’m surprised at how icy calm my voice sounds, because inside I am ready to explode. I grip the edge of the bath tighter. ‘Bigger than it is?’

  My voice makes us both jump.

  Like I’ve said, that’s not what happened, is it? You ran away. You left me there, alone, in the dark. I came to find you but you were way, way too busy to even acknowledge me. You left me there and you didn’t give a shit. And it stung. It still stings. Because you don’t care. You think that you can use people and discard them when it suits. Like I was nothing. Like I meant nothing. Like we meant nothing. And you’re still doing it today. Even after we got married, you thought that you could just run to your friend James to dispose of me. Again.

  Nate jabs ‘stop’ and drops the tablet to the floor.

  ‘I can’t listen to this any more. Why didn’t you say anything when we were together last year?’

  I don’t want to admit that I’d realized that he hadn’t put two and two together. ‘I thought that the subject was, well, not taboo as such, just awkward. I assumed that your silence meant that you were ashamed of your behaviour and that you would make it up to me by being the best boyfriend, then husband, that you could possibly be.’

  ‘Look, Lily, I get it.’

  ‘No, Nate, you don’t. You really, seriously don’t. Not everything is about you, but it is time you’re taught a lesson. When you walked into the hotel where I was working last year, when we got back together, it was like it was meant to be. Fate. I – no, we – said so at the time. Don’t you remember?’

  He shakes his head.

  I had told Nate that fate had brought us together, but I kept quiet about the fact that I’d given fate a great, big shove in the right direction.

  There was no point in organizing our ‘chance meeting’ whilst Nate was busy and distracted, pursuing his dream career by studying for his pilot’s licence. I left him alone. He had time to date unsuitable women. I knew he wouldn’t settle down until he was in his late twenties at the very earliest. Men like Nate don’t. They like to play the field.

  He should have been more cautious with his social media posts. Whilst he was happily bragging – sharing snapshots of his sickening, perfect life – he was feeding me all sorts of vital information.

  When flight crew only have a short period of time in London, they are put up in an airport hotel. All I had to do was apply for the job, wait and volunteer for every shift going. The working conditions were crap but it was totally worth it, because although it took eight months, it paid off.

  Our worlds collided and we fell in love. Which is why it is so bloody annoying, when I’d got that far, that it all went pear-shaped. It’s like going down a long snake moments before reaching home in Snakes and Ladders.

  I intended to make him adore me.

  When he realized who I was, then I knew he’d regret his actions. He’d undo the wrong. Explain that it was all a mistake, that some unavoidable event had prevented him from contacting me. That’s why I told the truth about where I went to school, despite the risk of Bella.

  ‘Now, darling,’ I say to Nate with a smile. ‘All you have to do, it’s very simple, is watch the recording at least three times.’

  He needs to fully understand and appreciate the aftermath. And hear how I sent him an email to which he never responded. The morning-after pill. The worry of sexually transmitted diseases when I plucked up the courage to visit a clinic in the summer holidays. On my own. And how much he hurt me.

  ‘I’ve already got the gist of it. But, if I agree to your demands, you’ll let me go?’

  ‘Maybe. If you comply totally. But, if you make a huge fuss, or persist in making too much noise, then the whole process will take longer. It’s your choice.’

  ‘I don’t want a maybe. Look, please let’s just sort this out. I . . . It’s the middle of the night.’

  I ignore him, just like he has me so many times. ‘I’d also appreciate it if you could go through the photos again and take the time to study each one carefully, to remember how happy we were. I will ask you questions to check your thoroughness.’

  ‘I’ve said I’m willing to sort this out.’

  I smile. ‘How does it feel, darling, to be ignored?’

  He goes quiet.

  ‘Not very nice, is it?’ I say.

  He doesn’t answer.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘No, it’s not nice,’ he is forced to agree. ‘I’ll watch it, I’ll watch it all, so you can un-cuff me, please.’

  I pick up my bag and remove my final item – a framed wedding picture of us – and I place it on the window sill. Hoisting my rucksack over my shoulder, I turn to leave. As I stand at the door, I take out the handcuff keys.

  ‘Remember, Nate. The choice is yours. You can leave here sooner, or later.’

  I chuck the keys over to him and shut the door behind me, wiping my prints off the handle with an anti-bacterial wipe.

  Two minutes later, he is banging on the door. It is thunderingly loud. I hold my breath. He kicks it several times before it goes quiet.

  ‘Nate, if you continue to try kicking down this door, the consequences will be a lot worse. From now on, for every attempt you make, I will add a full hour on to the time that you will spend in there. And, once you’re finished with the film, there’s a page I’ve bookmarked for you to read. It’s about the serious consequences of sleeping with a girl under the age of consent. Especially when the other person involved is over eighteen. There’s no way you’d pass your next criminal record check if I report this to the police. So, unless you’ve already got ideas for an alternative career, particularly one where they don’t mind people who are on the Sex Offenders Register, I suggest you keep qu
iet and get on with the very simple thing I’ve asked of you.’

  Silence. That shut him up.

  Hopefully, after his initial lacklustre approach, he’s going to knuckle down and take things a bit more seriously. I settle down on the sofa with a cushion for a pillow and prepare for a doze. Although I drift in and out, my dreams are disturbing and keep jolting me into full consciousness. When light seeps into the room, I get up as my back has started to ache. I make myself a coffee. I nurse it, allowing the warmth to seep through my fingers and the rising steam to brush my face. I yawn. I go and listen outside Nate’s door.

  Blessed silence.

  I’m due to fly to Rome and back today as an extra crew member, checking to see whether recent safety standards are being adhered to in the galley areas. I was going to call in sick but, thinking about it, I may as well go. I’ll be back late this afternoon and it will allow plenty of time for Nate to think. It’s quite dull being a jailer, there really isn’t that much to it.

  I knock on the door. ‘How’s it going?’ I call out.

  ‘Almost done,’ he yells back.

  ‘Liar! The film is nearly two hours long. Remember, you have to watch it three times. Otherwise it’s your time you’re wasting, because you won’t pass the test.’

  He mutters something indecipherable.

  I decide against mentioning my outing; there’s no point in worrying him. I wipe the handle clean from my fingerprints one more time, as an extra precaution, and I leave his phone – switched off – on the coffee table in the living room.

  I walk back home, feeling surprisingly awake. The snowfall wasn’t very heavy; only slight, scattered patches of white remain. I put on my uniform, ripping the first pair of tights I slide on, so I have to take out another pair from the wrapping. I must spend a fortune on hosiery. I clip my ID on to my jacket beneath my name badge and pack my flat shoes into my wheelie bag.

  Before I drive off, I look up at Nate’s. There is no outward sign that there is anything untoward occurring inside.

  27

  At work, in the safety ambassador’s office, I pretend to prepare everything necessary for me to get through the day whilst I surreptitiously check on Amy’s roster, out of curiosity. She has been grounded due to pregnancy! I double-check, but there is no mistake. She has been allocated a position in staff travel. I check out her Facebook page. Nothing. She must be in the early stages.

  I have twenty minutes remaining before I need to go airside, so I take the lift to staff travel. Amy is behind a counter, tapping at a screen. As I walk over, she looks up, a ready smile on her face, which quickly drops as I come into her line of vision.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Long time no see. What are you doing here?’

  On her left hand she is wearing a slim gold engagement ring with a single diamond. She sees me looking.

  ‘Congratulations. Rupert, I take it?’

  She reddens. ‘Yes.’

  ‘When is the happy day?’

  ‘Oh, there’s no date yet.’

  ‘I meant your due date. I assume that’s why you’re not flying?’

  She shifts uncomfortably in her chair. ‘It’s early days. We haven’t told many people yet. How are you?’

  ‘Fine. I’m off to Rome and back in my role as a safety ambassador.’

  ‘Have fun!’ she says, looking over my shoulder at someone behind my back, clearly grateful that she has an excuse to dismiss me.

  As I walk through the terminal, I observe the people around me. Families, holidaymakers, even business people look content as they go about their lives. Neon adverts flash high above, each picture depicting smiley, happy, successful people. My stomach feels knotted and hollow. I really hope the video is tugging at Nate’s heart strings; I can’t bear feeling like an outsider much longer.

  The flight to Rome is delayed by twenty minutes due to high winds. I have a moment’s panic as I think of Nate, abandoned and alone, but as we take off, I close my eyes and imagine him mellowing towards me as he absorbs my words.

  As we level out above the clouds, I unclip my seat belt. I can’t be bothered to watch the crew to ensure that they don’t twist or bend as they carry out the short service. I will make my report up. But nonetheless I stand around with my work tablet, acting officiously whilst attempting to look efficient and important.

  During our turnaround time, I disembark and wander around Fiumicino Airport. I buy gifts for my men: the male versions of my favourite perfume. As I pass a designer men’s store, I can’t resist buying Nate and Miles matching ties in pale green, decorated with silver zigzags. I glance up at the departures monitor. Boarding Gate 10 flashes, alternating between English and Italian. I rush, my bag banging against my thigh as I speed-walk in the direction of the air bridge.

  Passenger boarding has commenced. Several people glance down at my duty-free purchases, frowning disapproval – as though I should be banned from such a perk if I’m going to turn up late. I negotiate my way past the flurry of activity by the door. A father battles with a pushchair as the mother gives instructions, a baby girl wriggling in her arms. A smartly dressed woman on the phone offers last-minute contributions to her working day. Others stand patiently, as though accepting the chaos as part of the travel experience, clutching printouts of their boarding cards or holding their phones at the ready.

  We are delayed pre take-off due to bad weather in London. I try not to look at my watch too often. But by now, Nate has been home alone for seven and a half hours. I force myself to think positive thoughts because, if I allow my mind to wander, dreaded thoughts of what could go wrong start to make me feel nauseous. My mantras are not helping to distract my mind either. They deny me any comfort. The only sentences that form are ‘In sickness and in health’ and ‘Until death do us part.’ These words conjure up images of Nate, alone and frail in his bathroom. Or falling whilst trying to escape down a conveniently located drainpipe, thereby meeting his end in the garden below, making me a very young widow.

  The flight crew make another announcement.

  Ladies and gentlemen, good news. We’ve received confirmation that we should be on our way in a little under fifteen minutes. Once again, we apologize for the delay.

  Thank God. Inhale. Exhale.

  However, it is not their final apology. Two hours into the flight, they have further bad news.

  This is your captain, Rob Jones, speaking again. The high winds were stronger than forecast at Heathrow, which has caused further delays. Aircraft are now landing but there is a backlog and so we will be diverting to Stansted. We apologize for the inconvenience. I am assured that the ground staff are working hard to arrange transportation and rebook onward connections . . .

  His words fade out. Bugger! I hope Nate’s food supply lasts; he’s now been on his own for ten hours. By the time I traipse back from Stansted – assuming there’s some kind of transport for the crew, because public transport will be overstretched – it will be about ten o’clock tonight before I can return.

  ‘Excuse me?’ A woman clutching a baby on her left hip approaches me. ‘We have a flight to Dubai two hours after we land and we have to make it.’

  ‘The ground staff have all the information regarding transfers and will be rebooking you on to the next available flight, so please try not to worry,’ I say. ‘This happens a lot, and they’re very efficient.’ I have no clue if the ground staff are efficient or not, but I’m sure they must be.

  But other passengers aren’t so easy to placate. One man in particular stands in the galley, way too close to me. I can smell beer on his breath as he rambles on about cancelling his loyalty card, never getting anywhere on time, and missing out on his daughter’s birthday meal. I spout out my usual platitudes, but he just won’t go away.

  ‘So?’ he finally stops. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  Good question. What am I going to do?

  ‘Would you like a snack?’ I say. I offer him a basket filled with confectionery.

  He
actually sneers, his face contorting with ugliness. ‘Sorry, love, I stopped getting excited about packets of Smarties when I was six years old.’

  I place the basket back on the side. ‘What about a drink, then?’

  Without replying, he reaches past me and opens the door to the bar, as though he has every right to do so, and starts fiddling around with the contents. It’s a pet hatred of mine, people assuming that they can help themselves to anything they want in the galley. The number of times I’ve left my meal or a sandwich on the side to go and deal with some issue or other, only to come back and find someone grazing away at my food, is extraordinary. The pressure – the stress of the day – suddenly bears down on me, and this man, this dreadful, red-faced, shouty man, is one challenge too many. I reach above him, yank out a metal canister with my full strength and let it fall on his head.

  He cries out and falls back on to the galley floor, clutching the top of his head with his right hand. He stares at me, seemingly too dazed to start another rant. He’s lucky I chose a container with napkins and plastic glasses, I was very tempted to go for the one full of canned drinks.