by Pip Drysdale
‘Hi.’ Oliver smiled at me, kissing me on the mouth.
‘Okay, enough of that, you two,’ Justin said as we all sat down. There was a small bowl of mixed olives in the middle of the table. The bowl itself was small, black glazed ceramic. It looked hard. I could hit someone over the head with that. Knock them out. Get away. The easiest way out would be the front door through which I had entered, but I was pretty sure there would be an emergency exit out by the loos and kitchen too. Maybe a window in the loos themselves, though that might have bars …
I reached for an olive as Oliver and Justin picked up whatever conversation they were having when I walked in. It was loud in there, the combined sounds of music and chatter and glasses clinking.
Oliver put his hand on my leg. ‘Justin and I are just talking about a Brazilian company,’ he said, dumbing it down for me nicely. He always did that when Justin was there, as though by talking down to me he could prove his own masculinity. Dominance. That side of Oliver had come as a surprise; he’d seemed so very confident when we first met. But there was another side to him. A side that needed approval. And so I let it slide because I loved him and I knew he didn’t mean anything by it. He just idolised Justin and his smooth, privileged, gelled-hair ways. Justin was everything Oliver aspired to be. Because everything Oliver had achieved was a result of clenched jaw determination. He’d paid his own way through university, found his own job as a junior at an investment firm, worked while he did his MBA and secured his present job, with no help from family money or connections pulling strings. Which, frankly, was more admirable in my eyes.
But not to Oliver. He worshipped the idea of old money. Of ease. Of belonging to that certain set of people. And so whenever Justin was around it was pure bravado.
But in private he told me at least a little bit more. ‘Told’ might be a bit strong, actually – it was more that he shared his fears via osmosis. I knew, for instance, from the way he’d wake up breathless in the night, that some of the individuals Oliver and Justin worked with were dangerous. He’d never said as much but I got the sense that Machado was one of them, that if this were a film, he’d be one of ‘the bad guys’. But then, in real life we’re all bad guys sometimes. Still, these bad guys were the reason I’d spent much of the lead up to Christmas liaising with our lawyer, sorting out Oliver’s life insurance policy and our wills. Oliver had insisted after the break-in. He said he needed to know I’d be okay if the worst thing happened. And he did seem calmer after it was sorted.
I smiled back at Oliver, putting my hand onto one of his legs and squeezing it under the table.
A few moments later their conversation stopped and the topic moved to me. ‘So, Charlie, what’s new with you?’ Justin asked, leaning towards me with a grin.
That was one of Justin’s classic arsehole lines. Because it sounded like he actually gave a toss on the surface, but he always asked those sorts of things with narrowed eyes and always followed up my answers with some sort of backhanded compliment or slight.
‘Not much,’ I said, reaching for another olive, my fingers slick with oil. ‘I have an audition tomorrow, so that’s exciting.’ That’s when I glanced across at Oliver, looking for moral support. But he wasn’t listening any more, he was staring at the waitress: pretty, young, dark hair. It’s not like I’d never seen him look at another woman before – women loved Oliver and he was only human – but now it felt different. Now it meant something.
He felt me watching him and turned to me with a smile, ‘Let’s get you a drink’. Then he motioned to the pretty brunette.
‘Oh, you’re still acting?’ Justin said. I turned back to him.
Here we go.
You see, by ‘still’ Justin was referring to the fact that I was over thirty. And I’m not just being hypersensitive (as my mother might have suggested). I knew that for a fact because he’d pulled me aside one evening and solemnly told me that if I hadn’t made it by now I probably never would and it would be so much better for my psyche not to keep, and I quote, ‘flogging a dead horse’. When I told Oliver, he said I’d probably misunderstood. But I hadn’t. And I never forgot it. Fucker.
‘Yes, Justin, I am,’ I said with a tight smile. But I couldn’t help it, my tone said: Fuck you.
‘Charlie,’ Oliver said with a tense smile as he put his arm around my shoulder and squeezed it. That was his secret signal to ‘not be a bitch’. I hated how he always sided with Justin.
‘Good for you,’ Justin said, pure condescension.
And my reaction was the same as the one I’d had when he’d told me Oliver’s ex had been batshit-crazy, ‘not like you’; my cells instinctively contracted.
Because yes, she hadn’t been in top form when I met her. Yes, she clearly needed a shower. But I wasn’t sure I’d have coped any better if the roles were reversed: if I’d run into Josh (happy with someone else) while looking like shit. Breakups are hard at the best of times. I knew what it was to watch someone fall out of love with you a little more each day. For there to be not a damned thing you could do about it. For you to resort to checking their horoscope for clues as to when this shitty ‘phase’ would be done. It’s humiliating, even when they don’t leave you for someone else. And Oliver had left her for me.
So even though I put on a strong act and pushed it down inside, overcompensating with my he-and-I-are-soulmates bravado, deep down I still felt guilty about that – when I let my mind go there. And so whenever Justin-the-knob called her crazy, my first instinct was to stand up for her. A bit like I wished other women had stood up for me … We’ll get there.
Besides, let’s be fair, if Oliver and I hadn’t married, Justin would have happily confided to the next girl that I, too, was ‘bat-shit crazy’. Oh how lovely life might have been without Justin. But no, they came as a package deal so I had to play nice. Still, I didn’t really know where to take the conversation from there and Justin was looking at me like it was my turn to say something. Oliver’s mouth was smiling at me, expectant, but the expression in his eyes was pure: ‘Please don’t make a problem for me’. So I did the only thing I could think of.
I escaped.
‘I’m just going to nip to the loo,’ I said, just before the waitress arrived. I could hear Oliver ordering me a gin and tonic as I moved to the far side of the room.
The restaurant was full now, all the tables taken, and I had to weave through chairs that screeched across the floor – fingernails on a chalkboard – as they moved for me to pass. Eventually I was there, pushing my way through the big door and then locking myself in a cubicle. I didn’t really need to pee. I just needed space. I needed to check my app again. It was becoming a compulsion: Would he be there? Would I be right? Or was I the sneaky one, not him?
I sat down and pulled my phone from my bag, flicking through to the profiles. I’d received a couple of new gold coins by then, but my phone was on silent so I hadn’t heard them come in. I clicked through and looked at their profiles: more mirror shots, highly filtered shots, or those sorts of double chin oops-is-the-camera-on shots that should be immediately deleted. But none of Oliver.
Relief flooded my veins.
Then I remembered my Instagram test. I’d checked it a couple of times since posting that morning, and each time @lover7 hadn’t been there. It was starting to look like she was nothing to worry about after all. But I was in no rush to get back to that table and Justin’s judgmental glance, and so I said a quick prayer that she wasn’t there – I’m not really religious but fuck it – and went to the app.
I tapped on my story and scrolled through the views, holding my breath.
But the prayer hadn’t worked: there she was.
Halfway down.
Again.
@lover7.
THURSDAY, 7 JUNE 2018 (11.15 AM)
It was three days from the moment that would change everything forever, change me forever, and I was still wandering through life oblivious to the danger all around me. My focus was on things like a potentia
l cheating husband who’d left his washing strewn all over the sitting room instead of putting it away. And the fact that I was fifteen minutes late by the time I got to my audition, my hair damp with sweat and the thin green maxi dress I’d finally decided on sticking to the middle of my back.
I’d woken up angry with Oliver that morning even though I obviously couldn’t tell him why – how could I say it was because a strange girl was looking through my Instagram stories and my instinct was screaming at me that it had something to do with him? It sounded paranoid, even to me. And he’d just laugh it off the way he did when I was angry with him for something he’d done in one of my dreams. So instead, when he tried to have sex with me I pushed him away. He’d huffed and puffed a bit, then went to have a shower and left. And I’d been left alone with only a burgeoning panic attack and my imagination to keep me company.
Who was she?
But I’d told myself I was fine, just fine. I’d done my make-up, narrowed my outfit down to that green dress, and even paid attention to my phone reminder: take a headshot and a pencil. The pencil was for marking down notes they gave me, action points. It looked professional. And I was a fan of scripts, of notes, of things going to plan. Not like in the real world where I had seemingly zero control.
But I couldn’t find a pencil, could I?
And it was my reaction to that – tears, gritted teeth, slamming of drawers – that told me how far from ‘fine’ I really was. Because it was just a pencil. And so, calmly, I took a red pen instead and then dropped an eyeliner, some highlighting powder and a small can of hairspray for touch-ups into my bag.
And then I realised I couldn’t find my keys.
Yes.
My first instinct was to blame Oliver. He must have picked them up by mistake. But when I called him in a huff, he said he hadn’t. And twenty minutes later I still couldn’t find them and I was going to be late, so I had no choice but to leave without them.
I got to the studio just in time, dutifully following the printed A4 signs stuck to the walls to try to find the right room. But I somehow ended up in the wrong place anyway. I knew it was the wrong room as soon as I walked in and saw hordes of 20-year-old tanned brunettes. And now, finally, here I was, rushing into the right room fifteen minutes late. It was filled with twelve (I counted) blondes, but I could tell from the other women in the room there was no way I’d get the role. I could already hear the feedback Clarence would get: ‘She’s too soft, not serious enough.’
I took a seat near the door, crossed my legs then reached into my bag for the printout Clarence had sent me. The script was pretty average really, despite a fun premise – a bored, neglected housewife takes to shoplifting instead of, you know, fucking – but I’d done a little bit of googling on the way over in the cab and the producers and director were going places. This could be good for me. Certainly better than the student films I’d need to start doing again soon if I didn’t get the role, just to keep my hand in. But I couldn’t focus. My mind was too bound up in what was going on in my life. It didn’t matter how many times I told myself that Instagram stalker was probably nothing, I just didn’t believe myself.
Fair really, all things considered.
Still, at least I hadn’t found Oliver on the app yet: that much was good.
I stared back down at the script and tried to focus.
And then they called my name: ‘Charlie Carter’.
Carter. That was my maiden name and I’d kept it for acting purposes; it sounds like an actress name, right? But it didn’t even feel like me anymore. And in that moment it seemed an echo of what life without Oliver might be like. I didn’t want that. I just wanted him and ‘us’ and the life we’d planned.
I looked up. Smiled. And followed the blond man who was waiting for me into the audition room.
* * *
An hour later I was walking into the shop, the door buzzing as it shut behind me. The audition had not gone well. They kept asking me to do things, I’d note them down, and then when I did them, they changed their minds. But, on a positive, at least they didn’t take my spare headshot, which meant I wouldn’t have to go and have more reprinted quickly. And I remember thinking that perhaps Justin (and my mother, but we’ll get to her) was right – perhaps I should just let it go.
‘Thank god you’re here,’ Grace said as she stood up from her desk, the legs of her chair screeching along the floorboards. Grace had been sending me texts – how much longer?? – for the past twenty minutes but I was stuck on a Tube platform waiting for the train that wouldn’t come. ‘How did it go?’
‘Badly,’ I said, moving over to my desk. I dropped my bag on the floor and sat down heavily, going to turn on my computer. But something beneath the screen caught my eye, sparkling in the white light coming in through the window.
My keys.
I picked them up – cool, hard and uneven in my hand – and relief pulsed through me. I wouldn’t need to tell the tenants’ board now, something we were contractually obliged to do. All that fuss for nothing. I dropped them into my bag and glanced over at Grace. She was still standing, picking up her things. It was just after lunch but she looked like she was getting ready to leave for the day.
‘Oh, I’m sorry – Charlie, maybe the next one will be better,’ she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. ‘Anyway, I really need to go, I’m going to be late.’
‘Where are you going?’ I asked, watching her move towards the door.
‘Dentist. They had a cancellation so they can fit me in.’ She opened the door. Bzzzz. ‘There are a few orders that need to be sorted out asap, and we need to pull some pieces for the Oliver Goldsmith people. They’re coming tomorrow, remember?’
‘Sure,’ I said, the glare coming from behind her making me squint. By ‘we’ she meant ‘me’.
My phone was sitting on the desk beside me on silent. I’d turned the app notifications on again and now that Grace was leaving, I switched the sound back on too. But she saw me do it.
‘Just make sure you get those things done before you leave,’ she said.
‘Will do,’ I said, then the door closed and she was gone.
I glanced through my emails, clicking on each new order and sending it to print. Then, once they were all in the print queue, once the printer beside me was purring like an electronic cat, I pulled up Google.
My first search was: Why is she watching my Instagram stories?
It turned out lots of people had asked Google that very question: Approximately 269,000,000. But usually it was about an ex or a ghoster. The answers ranged from: She still loves you and She is too shy to get back in touch, to She is a narcissist who doesn’t want to let you move on. None of those fitted my situation because I didn’t even know who ‘she’ was. But the one common thread was that it probably wasn’t a mistake.
If someone kept watching your stories, there was a reason.
So what could the reason be with @lover7 if not Oliver?
A big lump settled in my throat.
Because nobody wants to be the girl trying to catfish their husband on a dating app. Nobody wants to be the girl who’s being cheated on. Nobody wants to be the girl who has the courage to ask him outright and then have him lie to her face. And if he was cheating, then that was what he’d done.
That was the girl I’d become.
The printing had finished, so the shop was silent aside from my breathing and the muffled hum of life leaking in from outside. But then came the click of my keyboard: How to know if your husband is cheating.
Up came a helpful box listing the top signs: improved appearance, secretive phone or computer use, periods where your significant other is unreachable, changes in sex drive, an altered schedule, friends seem uncomfortable around you, when you ask your partner if they’re cheating they deflect and avoid.
Oliver did go away a lot for work – he was away as much as he was in London – and when he did, I often went days without being able to reach him. When I’d asked him if he
was cheating, he’d laughed. Was that deflection?
My throat grew tight and my chest ached. I reached to the printer and pulled out the orders, flicking through them. There were five. I did all the parcel post stuff online, so I went to my search history to pull up the right part of Royal Mail’s website. I’d used it only a couple of days before. My eyes scanned through the list: my recent Google searches, a couple of designer information pages, and nestled between them, something else.
Where to buy a taser in London.
Boom.
What the fuck was that?
Was it Grace? She had a thing for security (hence the loud buzzer on the door that sung out every time someone came in) and wouldn’t have wanted something illegal in her own search history. So … maybe.
You see, that’s what’s so tricky about real life. Warnings don’t come in the form of a menacing soundtrack or ominous lighting; they come shrouded in things like a search history.
And often, by the time we know what they mean, it’s too late.
I stood up and went through to the back room. It smelled of dust and contained an old green velvet sofa, a heap of boxes and a series of moveable rails. I grabbed one of the rails and pulled it out front, then went over to the navies and blacks. There was a long, navy lace overlay Biba dress I thought might be perfect for the Oliver Goldsmith shoot. Square neckline. Formed almost a full circle when you swirled. I pulled it out and put it on the rail. It was the only piece I could think of off the top of my head so I wanted it off the rack before someone bought it.
Next, I was onto the orders, looking for a burned velvet dress in orange-red. That was being sent out to Dublin. I moved over to the reds, my forehead frozen in a frown as my mind grappled with that Google search: Why would Grace need a taser?
I found the dress and pulled it out, putting it onto the other side of the rack. It was as I hooked the hanger over the bar that a ping rang out across the shop.
That ping from the app.
The gold coin ping.