The Perfect Girlfriend

by Karen Hamilton

  ‘In fairness, the only mistake you’ve ever made was in thinking that I’d give up.’

  He opens the bar trolley and reaches for another miniature. I resist the strong urge to slam the door shut, trapping his hand.

  I continue. ‘Acceptance is the key to this situation. I’m not going away. Accept that and everything will be OK. Keep fighting me and you’ll end up paying. Love hurts. Get used to it. I’ve had to.’

  ‘I thought if I played fair that you’d eventually see reason. I don’t have anything else to add.’

  ‘Fine. I will go to the police. I’ll say that you forced me. The whole under-age thing will be more of an issue then, too.’

  ‘What a ridiculous notion! Why would you marry me if I’d assaulted you?’

  ‘Because you said you were sorry and you wanted to make it up to me. Because, despite your faults – and, believe me, there are many – I love you.’

  ‘I give up, Juliette,’ he says. ‘You’re stooping even lower. Plain and simple requests don’t work. Threats don’t work. Reasoning doesn’t work.’

  The mere fact that he is calling me Juliette alerts me to the fact that he is trying to lull me into a false sense of security.

  I remain patient, however. ‘And nothing ever will,’ I say calmly.

  He suddenly seems to break. Like he’s given up. He sighs loudly and turns to walk away. And there is something about him turning his back towards me, something about the whole finality of our marriage hurtling towards a brutal and cold end unless I stop it, and stop it now, that makes something in me ignite. I look around, release a fire extinguisher from its brackets, ready to whack him with it. He must sense something, because he swings round and grabs it from me. He yanks it from me so violently, I fall down. The pain to my right arm is momentarily shocking. Cold air blasts me from the chillers and I focus on the debris below the trolleys – a teaspoon, an olive and a cork – before I look up and see Tara’s horrified expression looking down.

  There is also another passenger; an elderly man, who looks utterly confused. Nate tries to help me up but I ignore his offer and stand up myself, rubbing my arm.

  ‘Are you all right?’ the man asks.

  I nod. ‘I think so.’

  ‘I’ll go and get one of your colleagues,’ he says.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘But thanks, I’ll speak to someone if I think it’s necessary.’

  Despite looking unsure, the passenger heads for the magazine rack and takes his time browsing the selection, making a deliberate show of glancing back at us every few moments.

  I look at Tara. ‘We need some privacy, please.’

  She looks torn, but Nate gives her a slight nod. She gives us both a look of bewilderment before she walks slowly back to the sanctuary of her seat.

  ‘Finish with her,’ I say as I re-stow the extinguisher. ‘I’m putting my foot down, which is something I should’ve done a long time ago. If there’s one thing I regret it’s that I didn’t fight hard enough for you. I caved in too quickly to the pressure you and James put me under. Well, no more. Tell her it’s over. Tell her to get the next flight back to London. Tell your family I’m joining you in Whistler on some kind of getting-to-know-the-family type of honeymoon mini-break.’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Fine.’ I list my weapons, one per finger. ‘Under-age sex, forced or not – your own sister will be able to bear witness – plus adultery, assault, just witnessed by your own girlfriend and another independent person. And don’t forget that I can show everyone recent photos of us happily getting married. I can make such a good story out of this, trust me.’ I pull a sad face and put on a pathetic voice. ‘I forgave him for the past, because he was so remorseful. But I shouldn’t have allowed him to talk me into a quickie marriage, because it meant he thought he could continue his game-playing with my feelings. I never knew where I stood. It’s been dreadful.’ I switch back to my normal voice. ‘Who do you think they’re going to believe?’

  ‘I don’t love you.’

  ‘Well, try harder.’

  I’m actually getting quite sick of begging and pleading and being so bloody pathetically patient. He has no choice. I just want all this resolved so that we can get on with our lives.

  ‘Go and talk to her,’ I say calmly. ‘You’re running out of time.’

  ‘It’s not fair to throw this on her mid-air. I’ll talk to her when we’re alone and explain the situation properly. It’s also not fair on my family.’

  ‘All that I’ve asked of you is non-negotiable. End of. Don’t push me any more than you already have.’

  ‘I need time to think.’ He pauses, before adding, ‘Please,’ as an obvious afterthought. ‘Look, I get it. I understand. But you’re not coming to Whistler with us. I want time to talk to my family. Alone. At least give me that.’ He pauses again. ‘Your night-stop is only – what? – thirty hours or so at most, anyway. So it’s not like it would be that great for you.’

  On second thoughts, perhaps it is best right now if Nate doesn’t know of my immediate plans. I’ll reveal things on a need-to-know basis. Because, come to think of it, there’s no glamour in being formally introduced to his parents beside a baggage carousel or in an overcrowded arrivals hall. From now on, things are going to be done properly and in style. I intend to make a grand entrance in Whistler and turn it into a truly memorable occasion.

  ‘Just get rid of Tara,’ I say. ‘And I’ll keep you up to date with our future plans.’

  Nate walks slowly over to Tara’s seat, looks back at me, sees me watching him and sits in the guest seat opposite her. He leans forward. I return to the galley but watch from the other side. Nate looks as though he is trying very hard to placate her.

  Things are looking good.

  Martin and Nicky return from their break, but there’s no way I’m going on mine. There’s too much to keep an eye on. I pretend to read a paper, every now and then checking the cabin. There is much exchanging of seats, like musical chairs, and seemingly intense chat between them all.

  I ask Nicky to deliver Miles a folded-up note discreetly, ‘. . . because he’s asked for some advice on a gift for his wife.’ Really, it’s more of a See Me note.

  Moments after she’s delivered it, Miles meets me in the business-class galley.

  ‘Can you keep a secret?’ I say. ‘Well, yes, as we both know, of course you can. Silly me.’

  ‘I haven’t got much time,’ he says. ‘Bella will come looking.’

  ‘I’m joining all of you in Whistler. But I don’t want anyone else to know in advance. All you have to do is make an effort to help me blend in. Be a friendly face. The harder you try to fight my corner, the less likely I am to drop you in it.’

  ‘Please, don’t . . .’ he starts to say.

  ‘I took photos. Inside your house. And of you, asleep in Tokyo. So, I’m going to assume we have a deal?’

  ‘I can’t. Please. I appreciate that things were tough for you in the past, but Bella’s sorry. She doesn’t deserve this.’

  God, he’s spineless. I shrug and walk back up the aisle towards the front.

  ‘Wait!’ he calls out.

  Several passengers look over at us.

  ‘OK,’ he says. ‘I don’t like the sound of it, but OK.’

  The smell of fresh coffee hits as I approach the galley. Martin and Nicky are already busy with the service. Everyone orders hot food and there are last-minute duty-free requests.

  I peek into the cabin several times, but all six are now glued to their screens – as if, by concentrating on another world, they can ignore their current one.

  When, as I know only too well, reality always finds a way to seep back in.

  At the top of descent Bella seeks me out.

  ‘Can I have a word?’

  ‘You should have your seat belt on.’ I point upwards to the illuminated sign.

  ‘So,’ she says, ignoring my command. ‘Things all seem a little complicated. And it appears that I’ve
inadvertently played my part. I’m sorry about school . . . you know, with regards to Nathan. I think we can all agree that we were young and immature.’

  I don’t reply.

  She seems emboldened by my lack of reaction, so she takes a deep breath and continues. ‘The thing is, Tara is a nice person. She and I are very good friends. Why don’t you leave them to get on with their lives? You can’t want Nathan after his behaviour, surely? You deserve better.’

  ‘That’s not what you said at school.’

  ‘Well, like I’ve just said, I’m sorry. It all got a bit silly.’

  Martin interrupts us. ‘Madam, you need to go and strap yourself in.’

  Bella gives me a look – as though ‘we’re all sorted now’ – and obeys him.

  On the approach to Vancouver, I feel hot and cold. But I reassure myself, over and over, that Nate’s got it. He finally understands. However, the flaw is that I can never fully trust him, given his propensity for changing his mind. This is his final test; if he fails I will have to resort to strong measures.

  And as for Bella’s pathetic attempt at an apology – she acted as though she was clearing up a mere nothing of a misunderstanding. I feel angrier than ever towards her.

  I look out the window but can’t see anything apart from scattered lights in the darkness. I know from previous daylight trips that we are flying over a vast expanse of water; and beyond, majestic snow-tipped mountains are visible in the distance.

  As the wheels touch down and the aircraft loses speed, I am almost consumed by excitement and longing.

  Not long now. Not long at all.

  I think I’ve finally got Nate right where I want him. My tenacity and ingenuity are about to pay off.

  The aircraft comes to its final stop. I stand at the disembarkation door, a genuine smile on my face.

  Tara strides off first. She doesn’t look back.

  Nate’s parents leave next, followed by Miles and Bella.

  And finally, Nate.

  I grab his arm. ‘So, everything’s sorted, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And I’ll see you back home in a week? No more Tara?’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  He leaves. I watch him disappear round the corner of the air bridge.

  It takes an age until the final person disembarks. I am not far behind.

  Following the signs written in French, English and Chinese, I clear Immigration with the rest of the crew before I approach baggage reclaim, then hesitate because I see Tara reach up and give Nate a kiss on the lips. I hold my breath and watch what happens next. I exhale as she turns away and exits through Customs. I look at the remaining five, huddled around baggage trolleys, as Nate and Miles lift their luggage off, case by case, as it filters around the circular loop.

  Ignoring them, I aim for the neat row of crew suitcases and select mine. I look over. Miles catches my eye. I give him a cheery wave before walking away in the direction of Customs.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ I smile at the official.

  ‘Welcome to Canada. Enjoy your stay.’

  ‘I intend to, thank you very much.’

  I exit, my head held high. The automatic doors close behind me.

  I spot Tara immediately, sitting on a seat, pretending to read a book. She looks up, but quickly glances down again. She could do with some acting lessons. I head for the crew bus, but as the driver loads my luggage, I act as though I’ve dropped something. Ignoring my colleagues’ moans – ‘Don’t be long’, ‘I’m exhausted’ – I cross back over the road towards Arrivals.

  And sure enough, one by one, they are all stepping into a people carrier. The parents first – how nice and respectful – followed by the other four, of course, including Tara.

  They must think that I’m stupid. Which, maybe, I am. Because I dared to hope that, this time, Nate would understand.

  I shake my head. He should know me better by now. I stand and watch their car pull away from the kerb.

  They all think that they’re fine. They should think again, because Nate has just failed his test.

  And enough is enough. It really is.

  31

  Red digits illuminate the pitch-blackness. It is 1.38 a.m.

  I am stuck here, trapped in a small hotel suite in the downtown area of Vancouver, because the first bus to Whistler is not until the early hours. I lie, surrounded by darkness, reliving the past. The way that I now see it is that I’ve spent ten years of my life leading up to this. Say I live to be seventy, it means that I will have wasted about a seventh of my life. And for what? To try to meet an inferior man? Accept a mediocre life? As if.

  Unable to settle, I switch on the side light, load a coffee capsule into the machine and sit cross-legged on my bed, going through all my plans, revisions and photos. I double-check that I have the key to the Whistler holiday home – one of the many items I took or had copied whilst I was at Nate’s, because experience has taught me to prepare for any eventuality. Taking occasional sips of my coffee, I count my stash of local currency before I get up, shower and order a club sandwich from room service.

  I repack and keep busy until it’s finally time to leave. The last thing I do is place my laptop, phone, passport and ID card inside the safe. I need to travel light.

  The door to the room clicks shut behind me. I’m perfectly dressed for the bitter temperature: a woolly hat, gloves and a large neck-warmer. Between my rucksack and duffel bag I have all my ski-wear – ski pants in a discreet grey with thin stripes of navy, a jacket in a matching colour, reflective goggles and ski boots.

  The bus is on time.

  I settle near the back, behind a young Australian couple who don’t show any interest in me. I keep my face as covered as possible, without drawing unnecessary attention, and pretend to doze – which is fine, as other passengers are also taking a nap.

  It is dark and the windows are misted up, so I rub a small section clear to see outside. Beams highlight the snow and ice surrounding Sea to Sky Highway. Intermittently, the driver calls out unseen landmarks: parks, waterfalls, forests.

  By the time we approach the outskirts of the resort, nearly two hours later, early daylight reveals postcard-perfect snowy mountains, dotted with trees and patches of rectangular ski runs.

  I feel a twinge of nervous anticipation as I disembark. I stand still as others crowd around to retrieve their ski gear from the trailer. Taking a few icy breaths before I cross the road and head for a pavement, I walk in the direction of the holiday home which I memorized as best I could from Google Maps. I could get a bus, but it’s only a ten-minute walk. I’m taking a small risk in assuming that everyone will have been up early – given the time difference – ready for the lifts to open. I need time to orientate myself without bumping into anyone.

  To start off with, it’s easy enough. The pavement has been gritted and cleared; dirty snow piles up along the edges. I cross over a bridge, beneath which is a gentle-running river. But the images I studied were taken in summer, so the route isn’t quite as I pictured. After walking up the wrong street, I backtrack until I recognize a bend in the road. When I spot the chalet-style villa, I am certain it’s the right one, and the number confirms it. It is set back from the road, along a short drive, which has been gritted too.

  I walk past the side of the property and round to the back, following a track which leads up a slope and into a wooded area, treading carefully because of the frozen ground. Halfway up, I stop, put my bag down at my feet, lean against a fir tree, take out a bottle of water and sip. The place is even more magnificent than it appeared in the pictures. Wooden walls help the building blend into the surroundings. I can see directly through the high windows into the spacious living and dining area. Icicles hang from the edges of the wooden shutters. High above these rooms, two large balconies face me, one of which houses a hot tub. Below, there is a covered area with benches, a pile of logs and racks supporting ski equipment: a mixture of skis, poles and spare boots. Looking around, ove
r to my left, I can see one of the nearby ski lifts and snow-tipped mountains in the distance. To my right, there are more houses of similar design.

  There is no sign of anyone.

  Despite my thick gloves, my feet and hands feel frozen, yet I wait for a while longer, listening to the gentle rustle of a faint breeze among the trees, before deciding that it’s safe to head back down. As I hide my bag behind the pile of logs, I spot a rear entrance. I dare to hope that Nate’s key will work, but it is completely the wrong type for the lock. I’m going to have to brazen it out and walk round the villa to climb the stairs leading to the front door.

  I knock, prepared to make a run for it, but no one comes.

  I experience a sliver of fear as I push the key into the lock; it’s a bit awkward with my gloves on, but thank God it works. I’m in.

  Silence. Light pours through the large windows.

  I look around, taking in the space: the high-up wooden-beamed ceiling, the gleaming marble and glass surfaces, the cosy sitting room with its rich red-and-orange sofas and large cushions.

  A rush of anger hits, because I can picture myself fitting in nicely here.

  Buoyed with fresh indignation, I risk exploring further by going upstairs, opening and closing each bedroom door until I find Nate’s. I can’t bring myself to think of it as Nate and Tara’s. I feel room-spinningly sick. Even though I thought I was mentally prepared, it’s still a punch in the stomach to see the physical evidence. She hasn’t even bothered to completely unpack; some of her clothes remain in a suitcase, whilst Nate’s hang neatly.

  I have such an overwhelming desire to destroy all her belongings. So, as a distraction, I slide open the door to the balcony and inhale deep breaths of cold air. I navigate past the covered-up hot tub and lean against the wooden railing. Scanning the stunning wooded area, I seek out the exact spot where I recently stood. The area’s still deserted. I glance down. It’s much higher up than it looks from the outside, making it impossible to use as an escape route if they suddenly return. The thought jolts me into action, so I return inside to the warmth.