The Perfect Girlfriend

by Karen Hamilton

  ‘My fiancé and I split up.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, I see. I’m sorry to hear that.’

  I stand in front of him, arms at my sides, and say nothing. Realization that I’m not going to be disposed of that easily seems to register in his expression. He looks afraid of me, and it reaffirms my strong sense of the upper hand. I’m going to use my power to my full advantage. I’m just not quite sure how, yet. I walk past him and stand at a window, looking into the garden. It is the type that estate agents would describe as a mature, well-established garden with ashes and beeches lining the far boundary and neat, well-planned flower beds. In a few years, I bet Bella imagines filling it with swings, a slide and a climbing frame.

  ‘You have a lovely home,’ I say.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Although there is silence, I can almost hear his thoughts: he is willing me to leave, to not mess things up for him.

  ‘I’ll leave you in peace,’ I say, not looking at him.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says, making no attempt to conceal the relief in his voice.

  ‘But,’ I turn round, ‘if I ever get in touch with you, for whatever reason, please don’t ignore me.’

  ‘I don’t see why we can’t simply be adult about all of this and agree to a civilized farewell with fond memories—’

  I interrupt his speech because, thanks to Nate, I know the script. Next he’ll be wittering on about me being reasonable.

  ‘Goodbye, Miles. For now,’ I add, just to keep him on his toes.

  I turn round, pick up my bag and stride towards the front door.

  I’m too agitated to do anything useful, so I park near the sea front and stride along the promenade.

  The feelings I have buried since last night – the anger, the rage, the humiliation – burn. Not only has Nate decided, yet again, to treat me as he pleases, but now Miles has turned against me.

  The wind bites and the waves roar. The blackness of the sea beckons and I fight the urge to run in and submerge myself beneath the surface, to drown out the pain. But I hate the thought of my body being dumped on the beach with all the other crap. It would be too exposing.

  Instead, I walk faster, silently willing some angry person to try to mug or attack me so that I can fight back and vent the volcanic spew swirling inside.

  I take deep breaths of sea air. I need to channel my anger constructively.

  I phone the hotel where Bella and Miles are to hold their wedding reception and ask about waitressing jobs for large events. They give me the name of a local outside agency, so I locate them and register for work.

  Back in my flat, I look at the photos of Bella’s room and study all her belongings. I take note of the brands of the numerous bottles of perfumes and creams.

  I check on Nate. He is away, visiting an old uni friend in Leeds. Fresh anger hits at the thought of him out and about, enjoying his life with not a care in the world.

  I can’t sit here any more and do nothing.

  I rummage around in the kitchen.

  I run over the Green and let myself in through the communal door. As I stride up the stairs, I remove a can of ant killer from my bag – I’ve read that it’s harmful to fish – and place it on the floor as I slide my key into the lock.

  It is stuck. It doesn’t work.

  Access denied.

  I twist and turn the key left and right and continue trying, long after realization dawns that Nate really is determined to keep me out of all areas of his life.

  29

  Four days before Christmas, I receive a very formally worded letter from the office of James Harrington. Annulment proceedings are underway. Nate and I – now known as ‘the petitioner’ and ‘the respondent’ – are soon to be no more.

  I sit on my bed for hours staring at the legal words, making it all sound so straightforward and simple, as though there is no emotion involved in the process. When I’ve memorized every painful word, I go to the kitchen, take out a lighter and, above the sink, I set the words alight. Burnt crisps flutter, fall and land, black curls against the white ceramic.

  In the distance, I hear carol-singers launch into ‘Silent Night’.

  Babs accompanies me on my Christmas trip to San Francisco on my free family-and-friends ticket. Taking her sightseeing provides a welcome distraction: Alcatraz, the Golden Gate Bridge, a cable-car ride, Fisherman’s Wharf; we embrace the whole tourist package.

  Our Christmas lunch is non-traditional as we gather in a seafood restaurant, along with twenty other strangers – my crew and their fellow ‘cling-ons’. Boyfriends, mothers, friends. I eat mussels in white wine sauce and pick flakes off a crab shell. The restaurant does its best – there are crackers and Christmas music – but all this attempt at cheer, all this fun, is killing me inside.

  When Babs is asleep in my room, on one side of my huge king-size bed, I torture myself by reading all of Nate’s cheery messages, back and forth, like tennis balls across the world. He is at home with his wonderful, loving family.

  A woman – Tara – messages him to wish him ‘a wonderful Christmas’. She looks forward to seeing him soon. As does he, in his reply to her.

  Bella, Nate, Miles, I can imagine them all sitting around the table, carving the turkey, sipping mulled wine, opening expensive gifts. Happy, living the lives that they believe they deserve.

  I switch on the TV and pick a film, a romantic comedy, just to make myself feel worse.

  On the return sector I have no patience, none at all. During boarding, a woman in her thirties, who tells me three times that she is the managing director of some large company I’ve never heard of, refuses to put her bag away for take-off.

  ‘Can’t you do it?’

  My jaw clenches. ‘I’m afraid we’re not allowed to lift baggage. And if you don’t move it, I’ll be back in a few minutes to have it placed in the hold.’

  Mid-flight my supervisor tells me that the woman has complained about my attitude. I try to look contrite. I’m too wound up to take a break. Instead, I sit in the galley and listen to a colleague, Natalie, who is full of chatter about her kitchen renovations for the forthcoming month. She is part-time and is not due back at work until February.

  ‘The fitters have said that they’ll keep the chaos to a minimum.’

  Some people will believe anything. Actually, I don’t mind Natalie, and if she lived a bit closer to me – she commutes from Glasgow, which is too far for regular visits – I’d befriend her. I’ve realized that it doesn’t do me any good when I get too lonely.

  After landing, once I’ve finished the passenger PA welcoming everyone to Heathrow, I feel a small twinge of unexpected optimism. A new year is imminent; always a good time for a fresh beginning.

  I open the overhead stowage, above the alleged managing director’s seat, and offer to take her bag out for her. Before she can answer, I pull it out and drop it on to her feet.

  Her face contorts in pain. ‘Ouch! Think what you’re doing.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘Personally, I always find it’s safer to travel light.’ I walk away.

  She can complain all she likes, there’s no proof that it wasn’t an accident.

  Three weeks later, I book myself into a hotel close to where Miles will end up ruining his life by tethering himself to Bella, and request a room overlooking the church.

  Early afternoon, as guests arrive in their finery, it is – of course – a perfectly sunny winter’s day. I look out the window for Nate. When I spot him, standing next to his mother and a woman, no doubt Tara – a petite woman, with dark hair – a huge lump forms in my throat and I am unable to stop the tears.

  He looks like he has stepped out of an advert in his grey tailored suit, with a pink rose in his buttonhole. Nate helps his mother adjust her large, cream hat whilst ‘Tara’ looks on adoringly.

  Bella arrives, ten minutes late, in a horse-drawn carriage and, from my viewpoint, looks fairy-tale stunning – a true princess. The bouquet she holds consists of pink and white roses
. Her long, lacy white dress shimmers. Flashes of gold catch my eye as she takes her father’s arm and walks towards the church entrance. She is experiencing everything I ever wanted, but never properly attained.

  I dry my eyes with a tissue; I’ve got a job to do.

  I study the seating plan before we start, and request to work on the far side of the room, away from the main wedding party. I am wearing a dark-brown wig and my blue contact lenses, plus glasses to feel extra secure. I’ve been instructed to wear my hair up, so it’s in a ponytail, but I allow strands to fall down by the side of my face. I do feel fairly safe, because no one will be looking out for me – not when there is beautiful Bella as the belle of the ball.

  I am among the invisible waiting staff.

  No one will be able to truly remember me if they have to. I’ve heard it said that eye-witness accounts are often unreliable.

  People politely remember their thank yous as I serve them tiny bowls of breadcrumb-coated macaroni cheese and shot glasses of tomato bisque, followed by filet mignon and new potatoes. I top up wine and water glasses, then circle the table with a bread basket, offering extra rolls.

  It’s just like being at work, but on firmer ground.

  Before dessert, we hand out glasses of champagne for the speeches.

  I stand at the back, clutching a bottle of champagne, as Miles goes through the endless thank yous and the sickening dedication he has written for Bella. He is a ‘lucky’ man, she is ‘one in a million’.

  I discreetly head to a side room and pour myself a glass of champagne. It’s too hard to listen to all that rubbish and falseness. Across the corridor, I see that the kitchen is quiet. Everyone is using this time to either take a break or finish clearing up. I look around the room I’m in. As well as gifts and an overspill of coats, I spot the cake – surprisingly, a very traditional-looking white one, with a simple bride and groom on top. It’s huge, though, five tiers, and is resting upon a stand on wheels, so it looks as though it’s going to be wheeled in theatrically, making an entrance of its own.

  I don’t think twice about knocking it over. It thuds on to the carpet. I resist the urge to stick a knife into it or ruin it further by grinding it with my shoe. The bride and groom are buried beneath the sinking mess of icing and vanilla sponge.

  Returning to the room, the best man’s speech is in full flow, full of the usual anecdotes about mad university pranks. I should have tried to track him down beforehand – I could have added extra spice to his tales. I spy the wedding planner being led away by a grim-faced catering supervisor.

  Minutes later, Bella is taken to one side by them both and I watch her hand fly to her mouth, her expression full of obvious disappointment. She’s lucky – if it had been easier to get closer to her, it would have been her dress or her face.

  By the time I serve the next course, described on the menu as a ‘three-choice dessert’ – lemon cheesecake, Baileys in choc-chip ice cream, and a mini chocolate sponge – followed by coffee, I’ve had enough. The acidic champagne is reacting to my empty stomach and everything is starting to feel surreal and confusing. I ignore a colleague’s request to join in a staff gathering, a mini investigation into the dropping of the cake.

  ‘It was probably just kids mucking around,’ I say, pretending to be busy with a special request from a guest.

  The moment I’m about to quit my temporary job by feigning illness, a DJ begins to set up at the side of the dance floor. I’ll wait until the first dance, then I’ll make an exit.

  I slip away and sneak down another glass of champagne. I need something to get me through the final part of today, and I’m hardly likely to turn into my mother after two glasses. I can feel the alcohol flowing into my bloodstream and it helps numb my pain and sense of isolation.

  Maybe Amelia wasn’t quite so dumb.

  Back inside, the lights have dimmed as Bella and Miles take to the dance floor for their first dance – David Bowie’s ‘The Wedding Song’. My throat aches as the song ends and Nate, his arm on Tara’s back gently guiding her, joins the crowd filling up the space around Miles and Bella. Mr and Mrs Yorke. It doesn’t suit Bella as well as Goldsmith; she doesn’t look like a Bella Yorke.

  I am finding it hard to breathe, so I pull out a seat from a vacant table and place it by the curtains at the side. Miles’ jacket is hanging off the back of a nearby seat. I discreetly put my hands inside and feel around. His wallet. His phone. I remove the wallet and place it inside my own bag. I continue watching.

  I remember the night of the school party when I fell in love with Nate. I take deep breaths; I don’t want to think about that now. It’s not the right moment. But seeing Bella and Nate so happy – coupled with the whole happy family scene – is choking me.

  The day Will died, I just wanted a few moments’ peace. Yet, since then, I’ve had anything but.

  The splash didn’t fully register.

  It was the gardener who tried to help me save Will. He never told anyone that, because he tried to protect me. He let me pretend to my mother that I’d seen Will fall in and had reacted immediately. That I’d called out for help but that it had just all been too cruelly quick. Any lie becomes the truth after a while. He never said that I was lazy or negligent, or that I probably dozed off.

  Before I even looked down into the pool, I sensed what had happened. I ran, climbed down. The slope down towards the deep end was horribly slippery. A long stick lay by my feet. And his shoes and odd socks, he always took them off before he went near water. It took vital seconds to find him in the murky water. I gripped, but he slipped from my grasp.

  The gardener appeared. He’d seen me rush down, he’d guessed and run too. He managed to pull Will out, not me. I watched him attempt to resuscitate the barefoot bundle of sodden clothes. Water seeped from beneath him and slid down the slope, rejoining the murkiness. I screamed as he tried to save my brother. My responsibility. The noise that echoed was far worse than anything that had ever come out of his innocent little mouth.

  The rest of that day is shattered fragments of memories, apart from the look in my mother’s eyes when she saw me. At first I thought she was going to hug me, but her arms remained at her sides.

  Instead, she fell to the floor and sobbed.

  The thing I’ve discovered about guilt is that some days you can live with it. Other days, it hits – like grief – without warning and it burns, all-consuming and acidic. And the worst of it is that there is nothing you can do.

  You can’t change a mistake. Ever. Instead, it weaves its way inside you, becomes an embedded part, a bad, rotten, suffocating part.

  In all my dreams and nightmares, all I’ve ever wanted was a time machine to take me back to redress the past. When I met Bella, I thought I had a chance to follow a different path – that I could one day heal and have a stab at a normal life, by riding on her coat-tails. I wanted it so much that it hurt.

  When she refused me that chance, fate offered up a second opportunity by handing me Nate. He gave me a focus, the possibility to be something other than what I feared – a scooped-out, hollow version of myself. A robot on the outside.

  Inside me exists a sense of dread which has never, ever truly left me. And without a major change – something wonderful to focus on – I fear it never will.

  Because, without love and acceptance, all that’s left is something dark and hateful.

  I stand up and walk towards the dance floor. I stop. I am so close. So close to the life that could be mine that I could reach out and take Nate in my arms. He is dancing with Bella. I stand on the sidelines, watching. I struggle to breathe.

  Focus.

  I force myself to walk away. I leave them all to their fairy tale.

  Outside, the welcome coolness hits me.

  ‘Are you all right, dear?’ asks an elderly man. He is puffing on a cigarette.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I had an affair with the groom. He told me he loved me, but . . .’ I shrug.

  ‘No?’ he says, wide-ey
ed. ‘Miles? He’s my nephew. No, I’m sure he . . .’

  I shrug again. ‘Sorry. If I’d known . . . it’s just that he hurt me. Greatly.’

  I walk away, leaving behind the life denied to me.

  On the way back to my hotel I pass a homeless woman in the doorway of a shoe shop. I take out all the cash Miles has and give it to her.

  It must be at least two hundred pounds; some small good has come out of something bad. I dump the wallet in a bin.

  At dawn, I gather my belongings and check out of the hotel after a sleepless night.

  Instead of driving home, I head for Dorset. First, I park in Dorchester town centre. After sending Babs a message alerting her to my imminent visit, I push open the door to a florist’s shop. I wait impatiently whilst a young woman makes up four bouquets, tying each stem with twine. She adds a teddy-bear balloon, attached to a stick, and places it within a bunch of white carnations.

  When I ring Babs’ doorbell, she is ready with her coat already zipped up.

  ‘These are for you,’ I say, handing over the most expensive flowers, a mix of peach and yellow roses.

  She insists on arranging them in a vase before we leave for the cemetery.

  We start with William Florian Jasmin. Babs says a prayer but I silently tell him I’m sorry.

  I should’ve watched you. I should’ve been a better big sister.

  Next, we visit my mother. I don’t know what to say or do, so instead I describe the flowers I’ve placed beside her plaque.

  ‘What was her favourite flower?’ I ask Babs, suddenly realizing that I don’t know.

  ‘She loved them all,’ Babs says, shivering.

  ‘Go back to the car,’ I say, handing her my keys. ‘Put the heater on. I won’t be long.’

  She doesn’t argue.

  I watch as she makes her way to the car park. Then I search for the headstone of the gardener who tried to save Will and who protected me. There is nothing by his grave, even the flower holders are empty. I place my final bunch down on the ground.