by Lucy Dawson
‘Gretchen and I are just zipping out for a drink, post-shoot.’
‘She’s here?’ he said instantly. ‘Oh right, I’ll come down and say hello.’
‘No! It’s fine, we’re just –’ I began, but he was already halfway down and practically out of the door. Panicking, I followed him.
Gretchen had unwound the window and Tom extended his hand through the gap. ‘Hello, Gretchen, I’m Tom,’ he said easily.
She took in his work outfit and said, ‘Oh hi! Alice has told me lots about you.’
Tom laughed and said what everyone says to that: ‘All good, I hope?’
I held my breath. She knew something had been – might still be – going on between Tom and me, but she also knew I had an inappropriate crush on her brother. Yet she said immediately, ‘Of course – so good it was almost hard to believe.’ She held his gaze steadily. ‘Just finished for the day then?’
‘Yeah, I work for a consultancy in the city.’
‘Oh, which one?’ she asked politely.
‘Holland and Grange,’ he replied, hands in pockets. I guiltily ran round the other side of the taxi and jerked the door open, desperate to be gone.
‘I’ll see you later, Tom,’ I said. ‘Sorry to dash – meter and all that.’ Checking that Gretchen wasn’t looking, I blew him a quick kiss.
‘Have fun,’ he said. ‘Nice to meet you, Gretchen.’
‘You too,’ she said.
We pulled away and she turned to look at him curiously over her shoulder, watching him walk back into the flat. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘he wasn’t what I expected at all.’
Chapter Fourteen
‘Honestly, Al, I didn’t mean anything by it, it was just one of those throwaway remarks people make.’
‘OK, so what were you expecting him to be like?’ I pressed insistently. It was really niggling me that she’d obviously had some preconceived idea of Tom, but wouldn’t tell me what that was. I’d certainly never described him to her – we’d barely discussed him at all! She’d clearly imagined my ‘flatmate’ to be far less . . . conventional.
‘Oh, let it go,’ she said without malice. ‘Let me just zip to the loo, then I’ll get us a drink. Bottle of white?’
I waited at our table for what felt like ages before she returned. She plonked two glasses and the wine down and said, ‘You so owe me.’
I immediately reached for my purse. ‘You’re absolutely right, sorry. How much was it?’
‘What?’ She looked puzzled, then it dawned on her. ‘Not the drink – I’ve just called Bailey and told him about your little crush.’
I stared at her, flabbergasted. She’d done what?
‘Turns out the girl from Ipanema was more of a fling than a serious thing,’ she said slyly, pouring me a very full glass and passing it over.
Despite my shock and panic that events had taken such an alarming leap forward without my knowledge, I was unable to help myself. ‘What did he say?’ I whispered.
‘He was very flattered,’ she said.
I felt my insides curl up and wither like burning paper. I wanted to die – how incredibly embarrassing. He was flattered? That was tantamount to a carefully phrased fan mail response: ‘Mr Clooney was very flattered that you sent him a picture of your breasts and some of your underwear, but will in fact be filming until the end of 2008 and will be unable to accept your kind offer to marry him at any point this year.’
She must have noticed the look on my face because she said, ‘That’s not a bad thing, Al. Just watch this space. That’s all I’m saying.’
Watch this space? There was no space – it already had Tom in it. ‘But Gretchen—’ I began urgently.
‘Hush up, Al, I’ve got it all under control,’ she said smugly.
‘But—’
‘Oh brilliant!’ she exclaimed, as she noticed something over my shoulder. ‘Look, they’re setting up karaoke!’
I glanced over to a small stage at the front of the bar where a man was fiddling with a microphone. ‘You’ll do a song with me, won’t you?’ she said eagerly.
For a moment I saw myself singing a mournful rendition of ‘I Will Survive’ under a lonely spotlight – Tom, betrayed and hurt in the audience, staring angrily at me; and Bailey, arm slung round a model type, smiling pityingly before blowing me a kiss and sauntering off. Urgh. Oh why the fuck had she told Bailey I fancied him?
‘No, thanks,’ I said faintly.
But Gretchen wasn’t taking no for an answer. An hour later she was still saying ‘Oh pleeeease?’
Since our earlier arrival, the bar had filled out and become fiercely hot. I was already a little dehydrated from the wine and was starting to feel like I was stuck in a sauna where someone was steadily pouring other people’s sweat on the coals. I desperately wanted some air. In fact, I just wanted to go.
‘I think we should call it a night, Gretch,’ I said.
‘Oh but look!’ She nodded delightedly up at the stage, where four girls were now energetically bouncing around to ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go Go’. ‘They’re having a wicked time. Come on!’
‘Gretch, please! I really don’t want to.’
‘Tell you what,’ she knocked back the last of her drink, ‘I’ll sing with them on my own.’
‘You don’t even know them!’
‘They won’t mind. Wait here for me?’ She handed me her empty glass.
‘All right,’ I said reluctantly. ‘Then I think we ought to get going, OK?’ She was doing amazingly well for someone with himping PMT. I’d have been lying on the sofa crying at RSPCA adverts, eating a whole packet of biscuits and then randomly shouting at Tom for no apparent reason.
She bounded off and I watched as she climbed on to the stage in her heels and red dress, to admiring whistles from the audience – some of whom immediately pulled out their camera phones to sneak a picture. She put an arm round one of the girls, who at first looked a bit surprised but then smiled widely, pulling her new celebrity friend into the group – probably pissed.
Gretchen had obviously decided she was going to sing lead vocals, however, and pushed her way to the mic, which didn’t seem to annoy the girls much, apart from the leader of the pack, who was looking a little irritated as Gretchen bounced away energetically next to her. Luckily the song started to wind down and, as everyone began to clap and cheer, I looked down to check in my bag that I had enough money for a cab. But then I heard Gretchen say through the mic, ‘No, no – play that one again!’
I looked up to see the girls leaving the stage, shooting curious glances at Gretchen. She was ignoring the bloke who had set up earlier and who was now leaning in and trying to talk to her. ‘No!’ she repeated clearly through the mic. ‘Just that one again – go on! Once more!’ And she leant forward and flicked a button on the monitor. The first bars of ‘Wake Me Up’ began again and there were a few catcalls and whistles, but she ignored them and began to sing.
The bloke, irked, reached over and flicked the switch off. The music died. ‘Hey!’ Gretchen said, annoyed. ‘Put it . . . now.’ The mic became muffled as she let it slip. It squealed slightly while they gesticulated a bit and she was waving it around. The bloke tried to grab for it, but Gretchen moved smartly out of his way and shouted, ‘Fine, well I don’t need the music . . . I’m going to sing anyway and you can’t stop me.’
What was she doing? I couldn’t help grinning – nutter. I put my hand over my mouth and tried not to laugh as she launched into an a cappella version of ‘Wake Me Up’. There were a few shouts of ‘Get OFF!’ and ‘Put a sock in it, blondie!’ from the audience.
But she ignored them and began to wave her arms around, kicking her legs from one side to the other as she sang. It was a bit like watching my slightly drunk dad dancing to ‘New York, New York’ at the end of a wedding reception, only with slightly more coordination and much better legs.
She was starting to get a little puffed out. The organiser walked on stage and put his hand out on to her arm. As he touc
hed her, she suddenly stopped moving and shouted ‘DON’T touch me,’ and glared at him furiously. Alarmed, the organiser backed off to the edge of the stage, hands in the air, and gestured to one of the barmen. He nodded and picked up a phone.
Gretchen, meanwhile, had bizarrely gone completely still and was clutching the mic in the middle of the stage, having closed her eyes firmly, still singing. I didn’t understand what she was trying to do – make the point that she’d finish when she was good and ready? It wasn’t that she had a bad voice, it was actually beautiful, surprisingly low and sultry, but I had now realised something was not right. She was clutching the mic as if her life depended on it. People in the audience had fallen quiet and were starting to whisper to each other curiously. Everyone was just looking at her. I saw one woman tap the side of her head and roll her eyes at her friend.
‘Wo wooo wo wo wo, wooo wo wo wo woooooo . . .’ She’d started to do the guitar solo and then I realised she wasn’t going to stop and this wasn’t funny any more. Suddenly completely sober, I saw a door open at the back of the room and two grimly determined-looking bouncers appear. I grabbed our bags and started to weave through the audience and push my way to the front. The barman was saying something to the bouncers and pointing at Gretchen. They nodded and started to walk towards the stage. I got there first though and reached out to put my hand on her arm. She was still singing.
‘Gretch? Gretchen. You’ve got to stop.’
Everyone was staring at us as a bouncer climbed the steps on the left-hand side of the stage. I protectively grabbed her and pulled her towards me. She dropped the mic and opened her eyes, appearing astonished to find herself there. ‘I just want to sing,’ she said. ‘Let me sing.’
‘Don’t touch her!’ I said warningly as the bouncer advanced on us and I dragged her off the stage. Pulling her through the crowds, her tottering to move faster in heels, I shoved her up the stairs past the cloakroom and she started giggling uncontrollably, as if we were playing a game. I pushed her through the door and the night air hit us as we fell out on to the street. She stumbled and I grabbed her hand to steady her. ‘Gretchen, are you OK?’ I asked worriedly.
She looked up at me and, in the neon lights of the bar sign, I saw that her pupils were huge, like pools. She just giggled again. With a sinking feeling, I realised why she’d been gone so long in the loos. She was high as a kite.
I eventually managed to get us a taxi – Gretchen had begun to sing again under her breath. Having given my address I sank back into the seat, exhausted, and said nothing for the next few minutes. There was so much I wanted to ask I didn’t know where to begin. I thought again about her being near to tears the day before; PMT my arse – there was obviously a lot more to it than that, something she wasn’t telling me. I racked my brains. Was it bloke-related, perhaps? But then the last person she’d actually dated had been that boyband prat, and that had been ages ago.
Gretchen stared out of the window, eyes glittering brightly as if she was waiting for the next party trick. Finally she said pleasantly, ‘Are we going back to yours then?’ as if we were stopping off after a charming night at the theatre.
I looked at her in disbelief. ‘Yes, we are.’ I closed my eyes for a moment. I just wanted the day to stop. I’d had enough.
‘Ohhhh look!’ she suddenly said excitedly as we passed it. ‘There’s a church! Let’s stop and go in!’ She reached for the door handle.
‘Oh!’ she said in disappointment as it clicked redundantly in her hand; it was on auto lock. The driver glanced in his rearview mirror in annoyance. ‘I can’t get out. Make it work, Alice, I want to have a chat with God. I need to tell him some stuff. Let’s go and see God right now.’
‘Gretchen!’ I reached out quickly. ‘The car is moving! Don’t – it’s dangerous!’
But she kept clicking furiously and in the end I had to grab her hand and pull it away. She just laughed and threw herself back in the seat breathlessly, tapping her fingers rapidly on her leg. Then she started humming under her breath.
I looked at her in frightened disbelief. What on earth had she taken in that toilet cubicle? I wasn’t naive enough to think that someone who worked in her industry would be completely squeaky clean, but still – she was practically delusional. She wanted to talk to God?
As the church disappeared from view, however, she settled down. We arrived back at the flat five minutes later and I eventually persuaded her to come in, my voice much calmer than I actually felt. I knew Tom would long since have gone to bed as it was a school night, so the coast was clear – but Paulo was still up watching TV, doing bicep curls with enormous dumb-bells.
He looked up when we came in and then immediately set his weights down appreciatively at the sight of Gretchen. He pushed his damp-with-sweat, dark hair off his face and then offered his hand to her, having wiped it first on the front of his T-shirt. ‘Hola,’ he said disarmingly, and I saw her take in his well-developed shoulders – over-developed in my opinion – and absurdly flat stomach. ‘I am Paulo.’
‘Hello, Paulo. I am staying the night.’ She smiled seductively and then giggled.
Ohhhh no no. That was the last thing anyone needed. ‘Night, Paulo,’ I said firmly and took Gretchen’s hand. I led her into the hall, quickly pulling our bedroom door to, so as not to wake Tom. She just saw the outline of his body in bed as she peered over my shoulder into the dark room. ‘He’s very lovely, Alice,’ she said slowly. ‘Can I have him now you don’t want him?’ She hiccupped gently. ‘I think he’s perfect.’ Tom? Perfect? God, she really was out of it. ‘Or I’ll have the other one. Wassisname – Mario. I don’t care. He’s very pretty. Is he single?’
‘Yes he is, but it’s time to lie down now, Gretch,’ I said quietly. ‘You can sleep in here.’
I opened the door to my old room, now my office, and cleared the junk off the unmade bed.
‘Nice “bedroom”.’ She mimed inverted commas and laughed restlessly, flopping down on to the mattress. Then she yawned so widely I saw the teeth at the back of her mouth. ‘I want to sleep now.’
Perhaps she was just drunk after all. ‘So do you think you’ll be able to get some rest?’ I said and she nodded.
‘What about you? Where are you going to sleep?’ She giggled.
‘I’ll kip on the sofa,’ I lied, and made a mental note to be up early, before her, so she was none the wiser. ‘We’ll talk in the morning then, shall we?’ I said, pulling a duvet over her. It hadn’t got a cover on it but she didn’t seem to care, her eyes were already shut. I closed the door gently behind me.
* * *
The following morning I woke up with a start, having overslept. Tom had already left for work and I quickly got up, my head throbbing, and dragged on my dressing gown. She wouldn’t be up yet, surely? She’d been out for the count. I checked my watch – I had an afternoon shoot, luckily. That would give me plenty of time to get her up and find out what on earth last night had been all about.
I tiptoed over to my office and pushed the door open a crack.
The bed was completely empty . . . She’d vanished.
Chapter Fifteen
She was simply nowhere to be seen. In the sitting room there was no note, no nothing, only her patent shoes . . . sticking out from under the sofa, unsettlingly reminiscent of the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz. Slumped alongside them was her handbag. I actually got on my hands and knees and had a quick double check under the couch but, unsurprisingly, she wasn’t there. Where could she have gone without shoes and her bag?
I walked back into the hall and slap into Paulo, who was dressed in a snug T-shirt, distressingly low-slung tracksuit bottoms and enormous basketball trainers. ‘Hola, Alice,’ he said quickly.
‘You haven’t seen Gretchen—’ I began, but he tapped his watch and said, ‘Very late for the gym, sorry.’ He glanced briefly at his bedroom – the door was pushed to – and then clattered rapidly down the stairs, banging the front door behind him.
What was
he looking so evasive for? It wasn’t as if I’d accused him of abducting Gretchen into his room under the cover of darkness . . .
Oh shhhhiiitt.
No, that was impossible. She couldn’t have. She hadn’t said so much as a sentence to him the previous night! They had barely met.
Even so, I found myself curiously tiptoeing over to his room.
Very, very slowly, holding my breath and clutching my dressing gown together with one hand, I creaked the door open with the other and peered in.
The bed was unmade, but empty. Oh thank God for that. I exhaled heavily.
But then that still didn’t solve where the hell she was. There weren’t enough rooms in our flat to get lost in.
I looked everywhere and, even though I knew it was pointless because this wasn’t some bizarre game of hide and seek where she was going to gleefully stick her head out from under the sink and shout ‘I won!’, I looked again.
She had simply disappeared into thin air. I sank back on to the sofa and tried to think sensibly. I couldn’t, so I rang Tom.
‘Well she definitely wasn’t in your old room when I got up this morning,’ he said. ‘Hang on a minute, Al – yes, I’ll be two seconds,’ he told someone in the background. I could hear phones ringing, the hum and bustle of an office, then he came back to me. ‘Al, I’ve got to go, things are really hectic here this morning. I’ll call you later, love you.’ And he hung up.
I sat there pondering whether I should call the police, but wasn’t sure what I would tell them. ‘My best friend got drunk and possibly high last night, I put her to bed and now she’s gone.’ They’d tell me to bugger off.
I went and picked up her bag, peering into it. It contained her phone, purse, some make-up, a hairband – nothing that gave me any clues. I reached for her phone, it was on.
And then it occurred to me. Bailey. I could phone him. His sister had disappeared and I was worried about her. He ought to know.