The Perfect Girlfriend

by Karen Hamilton

  I search through Tara’s bag until I find something of use: a receipt for pre-booked ski lessons. That’s useful information, because I’m going to find her and tell her why she needs to leave. She needs to know why it can never work between them. I can’t resist having a quick rummage through Nate’s belongings too, before I leave. I’ve so missed having access to his world. It’s intoxicating, like being reintroduced to a drug.

  Downstairs, I exit through the back door, leaving it unlocked. I retrieve my bag from its hiding place and slide my ski-wear on over my clothes. There are plenty of spare skis and poles, which will save me having to hire any. I select a pair that look like they’ll do and push my feet into my ski boots, adjusting the tightness.

  I retrace my steps in the direction of Whistler village, and join a long queue.

  ‘Where are the ski schools based?’ I ask the woman behind the booth as I hand over cash for a one-day lift pass. ‘Are there learner slopes?’

  She hands over a map and points to the Olympic station on Whistler Mountain.

  I wait in a different queue, in the singles line – story of my life – before joining a group in one of the gondolas, alighting at the first station. It is hectic. Bright ski colours crowd the area. It is tricky finding Tara. But I intend to persevere, because that is my plan, and I need to approach her alone. I scan the different groups, but the sun reflecting off the snowy whiteness means that everyone is wearing goggles, as well as hats and helmets.

  At midday, I give up. My cheeks sting and my lips are dry. At the top of the slope, I have a moment’s hesitation before I push away with my ski poles. I’d forgotten the initial fear, the jolt of nervous anticipation before I let myself go. However, exhilaration takes over and I fall into the rhythm. I watch my shadow, dark against the white, almost unaware of other skiers.

  It feels surreal, that I am here, now. Yet tonight, I will be flying back to London.

  And Tara will be disillusioned and heartbroken.

  After a sandwich and a coffee, I retrace my steps to the house.

  Several more pairs of skis are leaning against a wall at the back, so it doesn’t feel wise to climb up the slope and look in; it feels too exposing. Slowly, quietly, I try the back door. It opens. I ease it open wide enough for me to step in. There is an array of boots on shoe racks and a messy pile of gloves, helmets and goggles. My heart thuds as I stand at the bottom of the stairs, listening. They’re all up there, including Tara. Snippets of conversation drift among the sounds of clinking cutlery and china.

  ‘Splendid morning.’

  ‘Anyone up for the other mountain this afternoon?’

  ‘Couldn’t ask for better weather.’

  I silently pray that Tara will announce that she’s tired, that she’s going to stay behind and take a nap, but no such luck. When they make noises about leaving, I slip out and conceal myself in the woods, behind a large tree trunk, slightly to the left of the property. I’ve worked out that they will ski off in the other direction. Bella and Miles leave first, followed by her parents. Nate and Tara remain inside. As I struggle to contain my rage and jealousy, I force myself to go to the safe place in my mind, because I can feel myself slipping out of control. I know that if I don’t get a grip, I will storm in there. And if I see them together, I will crack.

  It takes half an hour before they emerge. And every painful minute strengthens my hatred of Tara.

  I follow them, which is easy, because they walk close together. She is wearing an orange jacket and a matching hat. Nate, being all gentlemanly, is carrying her skis as well as his own. They queue up for the gondola. I follow, one behind, and alight at the same place as before. Nate accompanies his soon-to-be-ex to her lesson. She is late. As soon as she’s joined in with the mismatched group of old and young, male and female, Nate pulls down his goggles, adjusts his skis and, after giving her a wave by raising a ski pole, he leaves.

  I watch her. An instructor demonstrates positions. I see her trying so pathetically hard to fit in with Nate and his family. Trying so hard to please. I want to ski over and tell her not to bother; to point out that she is wasting her time. Ten hard-working years it’s taken me. A few days on the nursery slopes will do bugger-all for her. And she’s rubbish: too full of fear. Too cautious.

  I approach a skier dressed in the same blue ski clothes as Tara’s instructor. ‘Excuse me. Do you know what time the lessons finish?’ I point out Tara’s group.

  ‘Usually an hour before the slopes shut.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, checking my watch.

  She has an hour and a half left. The bus to Vancouver leaves in under three hours. If I don’t make it, I will miss the flight, which wouldn’t be good.

  To keep warm, I ski down the nearest slope twice whilst I mentally prepare what I’m going to say to her. When the group breaks up, I board a gondola ahead of her, so that I am ready for her at the bottom.

  She disembarks, removes her skis from the side holder, and carries them awkwardly. I follow. I’ll speak to her when it’s less crowded. She walks slowly, as though she’s in pain, towards the outskirts of the village. She stands in the bus queue, which throws me for a moment. I hesitate, before deciding to walk, so I can catch her by surprise as she approaches the house.

  Less than a couple of minutes after I set off, I see the bus drive past. Damn. I speed up as much as I can, ignoring the rubbing of my boots against my ankles. But there is no sign of her on the road to the chalet. I approach the house from the back. I feel a sense of rising dread, because she needs to be there and I am running out of time to speak to her. Nate and the others will be back soon after the slopes close, if not before.

  As I remove my skis, I see a blob of snow run down another ski and plop on to the ground. One pair. They have to be Tara’s. I change my boots and take off my ski gloves, swapping them for thinner ones. I climb the slope to double-check that it’s her and that she’s definitely alone. I peer over. The living area is empty, but then . . . elation! She is alone. On the balcony. I watch her. She shrugs off a robe and climbs into the hot tub. I see her lie back. Fearful of losing my chance, I almost break into a run back down.

  The back door is locked; clearly, she’s the cautious type. So I’m forced to enter through the front again.

  Inside, it’s quiet. I make my way upstairs and open the door to Nate’s room. I can see the back of her head through the glass. On the side rests a glass of white wine, her phone and two small speakers. I slide back the glass door. The sound of a local radio station blares above the noise of the water bubbling in the hot tub. I move closer. She looks completely chilled, her eyes are closed. I could push her head down and hold it there, but I won’t. I stand still. Her cerise swimsuit shimmers with white bubbles. I pick up her phone. When I switch off the music, her eyes fly open and she twists her head round. I sit on the edge of the pale blue tub, out of her reach.

  ‘Hello, Tara.’

  She stares at me. ‘What are you doing here?’

  I give her a friendly wave. ‘How’s it going? I don’t blame you for being in there, I bet you’re aching all over. I remember what it was like when I learned to ski. But it’s all a waste, you know. All this hard work and effort.’

  She looks for her phone.

  I hold it up. ‘How about I look after this?’

  She clambers out and reaches for a nearby towel. ‘Give it back!’

  ‘Not just yet. We need to talk about Nate. He doesn’t have the guts to tell you himself, so it’s down to me. We’re still together. You’re just the other woman.’

  She rubs herself semi-dry. ‘That’s not what he says.’

  ‘I’m his wife. You know that. And you also know another thing, you saw him attack me on board. He was furious, because he wants me to keep quiet about us, to keep you in the dark. Nate, you see, as always, wants everything his own way, on his own terms. That’s what the real Nate is like. And you’re letting him get away with it.’

  Tara fumbles with the sleeves as she
tries to slide on a white robe. Once it’s on, she appears more confident. ‘You’re lying. And the reason I know is because he’s going to take out a restraining order.’

  I don’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction, even though it’s hurtful news. Still clutching her phone, I shrug off my rucksack and take out a Vegas picture. I hold it up so that she can see how relaxed and normal he looked.

  She gives it a quick glance before looking me in the eye. ‘That doesn’t mean anything. He says that you twist everything. Why can’t you go on a spa weekend or join a dating site like a normal person? Now, give me back my phone. Everyone will be back here any minute. So if I were you, I’d leave.’

  Shoving the picture away, I hold her phone above the water.

  ‘No! My photos aren’t backed up.’

  She comes towards me, so I stand up and take a step back towards the railing.

  ‘Look, Juliette . . .’ She pauses. ‘This isn’t achieving anything.’

  I ignore her. ‘I need you to pack your things now and come with me.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘It’s the only way. You can write Nate a Dear John note, and then we’ll leave together. I’ll return your phone once we’re on board the flight home. You don’t belong here.’

  She looks behind her, towards the room, then turns back and glances below, as though she is desperately willing Nate to appear like her shining knight.

  It reminds me that I’m losing precious time.

  I give it a final shot. ‘You can’t be with Nate, because he’s not yours. It’s that simple.’

  ‘Give me my phone. We’ll call Nate and then we can sit down, the three of us, and have a proper talk.’

  I smile. ‘No.’

  Neither of us speaks for a moment, until I’m forced to break the silence.

  ‘No one will ever love him the way that I do.’

  She stares. I think she realizes that I mean business, that I’m not going anywhere. And realization dawns for me too, because I know now that Tara will never see reason. She’ll tell Nate that I was here.

  As she approaches me, drops of water drip down her face from her soaking hair. She tries to grab my right wrist to get her phone, but I am taller than her, so I can hold it up high. I lean back over the wooden railing. She reaches for it. And . . .

  I do it. I do the only thing left that I can. I lean across and push her.

  I think, somehow, I’ve known all along that it would come to something like this.

  She’s momentarily stunned; her eyes widen. She grabs my arm but I prise her off. She screams as she kicks me and tries to grab me again. But two great, big shoves and she’s gone. There’s an almighty thud, like ice cracking.

  I look down, taking deep, heavy breaths.

  She is still. Serene. Snow White.

  Her wet hair is semi-fanned over the white frozen ground, her left leg is bent back awkwardly. Her head is twisted towards me, her nose looks bloodied. Her eyes I can’t quite make out; they seem half-open. I lean over – not as far as possible, but as far as I think she could – and take several photos of the snowy view beyond her. Layers of snow cap the trees and branches, it is peaceful and calm. I drop the phone. It lands near her.

  Maybe now, when Nate realizes that he’s destined to be unlucky in love, he will appreciate what he is always so quick to throw away. I’m reliable and consistent. I’ll always be there, unlike all the others.

  My eyes dart around. I leave everything as it is and run down to the back door.

  I move fast. I pick up my bag and walk further up the track, so that I can look down and see her. Dusk is imminent, I wonder how soon they will spot her.

  I look at my watch; the return bus to Vancouver isn’t for another forty-two minutes. Darkness falls and, soon after, I see flashes of head-torches gleam as the others return and gather en masse around the back, faffing around with skis and boots, oblivious to Tara, mere metres away. I watch.

  Inside, lights come on. After several minutes, they are all seated around the breakfast-bar area drinking wine. Nate picks up his phone. I hear Tara’s come to life and see it shining in the darkness, until it dims again. I remain, transfixed, watching Nate and his family like a reality show. There is a spare seat. I stare and imagine it’s saved especially for me.

  I yearn to be able to join in. I want so desperately to alter the scene in front of me so that I merge in and it ends with: And they all lived happily ever after.

  Instead, I leave and join the main road, hood up, scarf wrapped tight.

  Waiting for the bus, I feel as though I’ve been away ages. It starts to snow.

  After twenty minutes, just as I start feeling a bit panicky, I see the bus headlights. I don’t have time for any delays.

  Safely on board, I close my eyes and think of Tara’s lifeless form and remind myself that she had it coming. Another thought takes hold: Nate. He’s solely mine again. He will be upset, of course he will, but he’ll get over it. She was hardly the love of his life. And maybe it will make him think. Because if he had dumped Tara – like he agreed to – she’d still be alive. Had she got on a flight straight back to London then she wouldn’t have met her end in a freak photo-taking accident.

  It’s his fault, not mine.

  The bus pulls into Vancouver leaving me with less than an hour to spare.

  I catch a cab and keep the conversation to a minimum. I get the driver to drop me off a block away. I dump my boots into two separate bins and walk back into the hotel lobby.

  I make my way to my suite, praying that I don’t bump into anyone. I retrieve my belongings from the safe, shower, pack and reply to a text message from Babs asking about my trip.

  Rubbish. Spent the whole time in bed with a terrible cold. Have felt awful. xxx

  Operating on pure adrenalin, I take the lift down and join the rest of the crew in the lobby.

  Moments before we push back, the captain announces a delay whilst we wait for the plane to be de-iced. But after an hour, as we lift into the air, I feel relief – sheer, blessed relief – at having had the guts to take firm action. The future, by its very nature, is intangible. However, when you wrestle back some control, then anything is possible. I’ve just proved this.

  At 35,000 feet, cocooned in the clouds and separated from the real world, the growing distance helps me to stay focused on what I need to do next.

  As the aircraft doors open, I half-expect to see the police waiting for me.

  But nothing happens.

  And by the time I take out my keys and step into my home, I feel certain nothing will.

  I keep busy on my three days off.

  I phone Babs and tell her that I’m back with my one true love. When Nate returns, he’ll be worn out through shock. But we’ll work through it. I fire off an email to James Harrington, explaining that Nate and I are going to make a go of our relationship when he returns from skiing.

  I also think about Will a lot. But somehow, seeing how peaceful Tara was, I also feel a little comforted.

  Covering all bases, I message Nate saying that I look forward to seeing him on Wednesday.

  He doesn’t reply.

  I avoid the internet, so that I can’t give in to temptation and google news of Tara.

  The day before Nate is due home, assuming they’re able to fly back as arranged – I wonder if Tara’s body will be in the hold? – I travel to the Report Centre and check the obituary board.

  Tara’s death is announced as a tragic holiday accident. Which is kind of true. There will be a memorial – anyone who knew her is welcome to attend and celebrate her life.

  I won’t go, but I will send flowers.

  Lilies, of course.

  Nate doesn’t fly home on the Wednesday.

  I call in sick for my next trip and wait in all day. Restless, I wander around, plumping up the cushions. I rearrange apples in the fruit bowl, ditto with the food in the fully stocked fridge and cupboards. The mini chocolate muffins rest neatly on the side. I
brush down every item in the wardrobe, especially my favourite dress. I drink coffee from the mugs Nate bought me and run my fingers along the fridge magnets stuck back to their original home. A huge, framed wedding photo takes pride of place, alongside the ornaments and vases.

  It’s all in the details.

  On Thursday, after watching Rainbow swim along his tank for hours, I hear voices – Nate’s and the caretaker’s – before a key twists in the lock. I stand up, smooth down my dress and have a smile on my face, ready to be his shoulder to cry on. His rock. His lifetime companion.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ I say. ‘Why didn’t you reply to my message? I’ve been worried about you.’

  He drops his bag. His face is white.

  ‘Sorry to hear about Tara. I heard about it at work – but you should’ve told me. You look exhausted. Come in properly. I’ve made a few changes, by the way, moved a few things around, but I’m sure you’ll agree it’s for the best.’

  ‘My keys?’ he says.

  I hold his gaze. ‘I took them from your jacket pocket on the flight. It made sense.’

  He’ll never be able to prove that I took them from Whistler. Because I wasn’t there. He ordered me not to come.

  He stares. He can’t quite put the pieces together. Which is fine, because from now on we’re going to do things the hard way. Or the simple way. His choice. And it’s so much better if he’s uncertain. People are more compliant when they are fearful. Like Miles will be, when I invite him and Bella over for dinner. He’s going to have to persuade her to come, to tolerate me. Maybe she’ll even be nice; compliment my cooking, that type of thing.

  ‘No way. This cannot be happening.’

  ‘This is what we agreed,’ I say, calmly but firmly.

  And it is. Because, like I told Nate in the video diary, the girl gave her heart to the boy and their fate was sealed. Seriously, he should have listened, because no one can fight fate.

  No one.

  Nate became my blueprint from the moment I saw his picture on Bella’s bedside table at school. And the fact that he subconsciously sought me out by the river proves it. He saved me from myself, from some of the darkness and guilt trapped inside. And yet, the shadows from that night still linger; invisible swirls of grey and black continuously cloak me.