The Sunday Girl

by Pip Drysdale

  I shut the cupboard door quietly, moved towards the beeping fridge, closed it, and reached my hand into the little terracotta bowl above it where he kept the spare keys. My fingers, desensitised by the rubber of the gloves, fumbled around, searching for what I needed. Large. Hard. Metal. And lying loose. There, among the rogue elastic bands, a set of three smaller keys on a metal loop, a promotional bottle opener and a couple of broken pens: the key.

  I slipped it into the front pocket of my handbag and looked around the room.

  Socks.

  His lucky socks.

  I could get inside his head.

  His bedroom was dark, aside from the orange digits that flashed back at me from the alarm clock beside the bed: 7.13. My clothes were no longer hanging in his closet, but nothing else had shifted. It still smelled like him – the spice of his cologne, fabric softener on the towels – and the bed still wore the same gown-like grey metallic bedspread it had the first night we ‘made love’. His words, not mine. He’d turned to me afterwards, wrapped his arms around me and whispered: ‘Where do I sign?’

  I’d never felt so safe.

  But then behind it hung the ugly painting – all dirty-greens and greys – that he loved and I hated. He said it was Rothko-esque. Whatever. That was the same wall he’d held me against the first time he grabbed me by the throat.

  And there, facing the bed, stood a big chest of drawers. Mahogany. Brass handles. We’d picked it out together – our first piece of furniture purchased as a couple. I opened the top left drawer and reached inside.

  For, while I’ve learned that there are many things that can be hidden in a relationship, there are others that simply cannot. Things like: Does he snore? How does he take his coffee? And which are his lucky socks? The socks he pulls out only for important meetings or golf with his father. The socks, which if they were not clean when he needed them, would elicit a slap across the face.

  They were nothing special to the untrained eye – just a brown-and-black pinstripe – and I could barely identify them in the low light. But I didn’t need to. They lived in a very specific place: on the left side of his sock drawer, always rolled into a pair, right at the back and separated from the rest by a small silver cigarette tin.

  I took the socks out, used the light on my phone to double check it was the right pair, and placed them in my bag. Even then, without him in the room, I was careful with them.

  I reached my hand back into his open drawer and felt for that hard, silver cigarette tin. Because that tin was not just a marker for his lucky socks: it was also where he kept his emergency cocaine – his main supply being duct-taped to the underside of the sofa. I opened it, picked up that little white bag and wandered through to the living room.

  Turning the rusty key that lived in the lock to the balcony door, I moved outside towards the railing. And as I stood there looking out over London’s jagged horizon, I thought of all the evenings I’d spent out on that balcony with Angus as he sipped his post-work Scotch. 8pm. Every night. All those wasted hours. All that wasted love. And so I took that little bag of white powder and dropped it over the edge.

  I meant to simply waste it, for it to fall to the pavement below, but my aim was unintentionally impeccable. Olympics-worthy even.

  It landed on the balcony of the flat downstairs. Mrs Clifton’s balcony.

  And I think that was when the plan formed. The leak. The bag of coke that she’d find waiting for her on her balcony floor.

  I’d get him into trouble with the tenants’ board.

  Still small. Still petty. But those dominos were falling with gathering speed.

  I checked my phone: 7.17pm. I had thirteen minutes left and I could see his study door ajar so I quickly moved towards it.

  His aged leather chair stared back at me with accusation as I entered. We’d made love in that chair. I looked around me: the chair, the bookcase, the desk, a pad of post-it notes and a small ceramic coffee mug containing two highlighters – pink and yellow. Beside the mug lay a small pile of papers.

  And on his desk, emitting what appeared within that darkened room to be a religious glow, sat his computer. I went straight to his search history out of habit: Agent Provocateur, Ocado, Hotmail, Amazon. And then it occurred to me: maybe he was still logged into RedTube. Maybe his password was saved in the keychain. Maybe I could delete the tape for myself. I typed RedTube into the address bar. Went to the log-in screen. Entered his email address. Then slowly, taking care not to hit the wrong key, I typed in the one password I knew of his: S-u-p-e-r-c-o-c-k-8-8.

  My pulse sped up.

  The screen went white.

  I held my breath.

  But no.

  Invalid username/password!

  My face grew hot, my stomach twisted and I wanted to cry. All I could think of was my naked body – all pale skin and shy smile – and Holly with her sticky lip gloss and long dark hair that hung to the middle of her back. The awkward movements. The knocking of teeth. The noises. That video. And Angus holding the camera.

  Fuck him.

  I went back to his browser history and clicked on Agent Provocateur.

  What I needed was something expensive, something that showed thoughtful consideration, something that showed intent – something like the outfits worn by the models on the welcome page. Red, lacy and destined for Felicia, the beautiful – but engaged – woman who lived next door to Angus in Flat 81. I chose the 34C bra, small panties and a garter belt, and moved swiftly to the checkout stage. I ticked the box for gift-wrapping and added a personalised note: ‘I hope to see you in these soon. Love, A xx’

  Then I entered his PayPal information. And just like that it was done.

  Downstairs neighbour: tick. Next-door neighbour: tick.

  Adrenaline sparkled in my veins as I sat alone in the silence, staring at the semi-clad women smiling back at me from the screen. I thought of Felicia receiving her gift, then of of Angus’s birthday in just three days’ time – the one he’d spend with Kim instead of me – and his birthday jumper sitting wrapped in my closet. Then I thought of the slap, the drugs, the apologies, the promises that he loved me and how easily he’d forgotten me. A heat pulsed through me: I wanted to hurt him. I wanted everyone else to see who he really was. And that’s when it happened.

  That’s when I had the idea that would change the course of my life forever.

  I pulled up a private browser. Went to Hotmail. And slowly entered: S-u-p-e-r-c-o-c-k-8-8.

  This time it worked: I was in.

  My pulse beat hard against my inner wrists as I opened a new message and began to type. I kept it short. Specific. A booking. This Friday coming. 8pm sharp. Please send Christy and Madeleine. Or Heather if need be It’s my birthday, I typed, pausing for a moment to think, so please have them come dressed in just boots, a coat and a yellow silk bow wrapped around their waists. Have them only say three words to me all night no matter what I ask for: ‘Happy Birthday, sir’. Feel free to charge the all-night rate.

  Send.

  I included his work credit card details: he’d given me that card to use months before – for a flight booking when Candice, his team secretary, was taking too long. And there was no way I could have remembered the details after all these months if I hadn’t stored them in my phone. So he’d never suspect it was me.

  And then I sat there, staring at the screen, a little stunned by what I had done. Waiting for the obligatory reply to arrive, confirming his card had gone through and giving me the total. Imagining the scene when they arrived in their yellow bows. Would Kim be there to meet them?

  Four minutes passed, then five, and the email still hadn’t come in. I caught sight of the time in the upper right corner of the screen. Six minutes left. I would struggle to get out in time. I almost lost my nerve. Almost wrote back to them to say it was a mistake, to cancel. But then at minute eight, there it was: the confirmation email.

  It was organised. It was paid for. And the total would definitely be flagged for
investigation – anything above £1000 always was and the all-night rate was quoted as £3580. I added the escort service’s email address to his black list, ensuring nothing further would find its way to his inbox. Deleted the confirmation email. Deleted it again out of the deleted folder. And followed the same process with the original email I’d sent. Then I cleared the browser history, stood up and headed for the door.

  Slipping on my shoes, I opened the front door and shut it gently behind me. Then I walked calmly to the stairwell and, as I moved inside, checked the time on my phone. It was 7.39pm. I was nine minutes late. I couldn’t risk the CCTV that operated on the stairwell between the ground and second floors after 7.30pm. I’d have to go to Plan B. I walked quickly down the three flights of concrete stairs to level two, took the lift to the basement, moved past the post boxes – his was empty – skirted the camera, and let myself out the way I’d come in.

  As I closed the heavy garage door behind me and moved onto the dark street, I heard the sound of traffic in the distance, buzzing from King’s Road, and I moved quickly in that direction. The night air was cold against my cheeks and it was drizzling. I pulled a small black umbrella from my handbag, opened it and used it to obscure my face. And as I got to the corner of the road, I saw the empty bus stop ahead and walked towards it.

  It was Angus who’d taught me about the placement of the two CCTV cameras. Most of the residents didn’t want CCTV throughout the entire building; they liked their privacy. And so in order to keep surveillance to a minimum and security to a maximum, the camera locations had been decided like this: robbers don’t take the lift. In order for them to get higher than the ground floor they’d need to take the stairs between ground and second. Clearly, therefore, that was the only place that required a camera. This logic was reasonably sound, provided the perpetrator didn’t know about it. And so camera one had been strategically placed in the corner of the first-floor stairwell platform and took in most of both staircases – ground to first and first to second, give or take a step. That one operated after 7.30pm every evening. Camera two had been placed in the basement facing the cars – the most likely object of theft – and was on permanently. I’d avoided the camera on the stairs simply by taking the lift two floors, and the one in the basement by using the coded side exit – the one I now had a key to – that was in the camera’s blind spot.

  This in-depth understanding of the building’s CCTV had been imparted to me quite early on in our relationship. We’d just got home from his parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary dinner – he wanted to have sex in the stairwell but I didn’t want to end up on YouTube. Irony at its most acidic. Eventually, after much discussion about security-camera placement, I had complied around floor seven.

  I remember hearing the sound of wedding bells chiming in my naïve imagination as he thrust himself into me that night. But as my knees knocked against those concrete stairs, not once did it occur to me how important that knowledge would prove to be.

  And I can only presume that not once did it occur to him either.

  wednesday

  Master Sun said: ‘Know the enemy, know yourself, and victory is never in doubt.’

  8 FEBRUARY

  ‘Where the hell is he?’ whispered one solemn girl to another. ‘I have a ten o’clock.’ They were sitting on the other side of the table. Serious types: born in corporate attire and could never be coaxed into a threesome. The type I wished I was right then. But instead, I was the break-and-enter-order-prostitutes type.

  And they were my direct competition.

  We’d piled into the boardroom, all seven of us: the two solemn ones, Val, me, Nigel – the head of research – and two people I couldn’t account for. But the reason we were sitting there, under bad corporate lighting amid flaky, day-old pastries, hadn’t arrived yet.

  He was late. Twenty-eight minutes late. We had nothing to do but wait, chat and consider whether the indoor plants that sat by the window were real or plastic.

  Not that it bothered me: I was too tired to care, and I had Felicia from Flat 81 to occupy what was left of my lucid mind. The lingerie was a good first step, but I needed to up the ante, let her know that it was not just a one-off event. Get her fiancé properly cross. Show them that there was ample reason to be concerned.

  I was staring at my phone, scrolling through my junk emails in the hope that I’d missed one from RedTube, when the door opened and he walked into the room.

  So, this is David Turner?

  He wasn’t anything like I’d expected. There were no glasses, no beard, no £400 ripped jeans – no awkward attempt at cool. Instead, he wore a suit. And a big silver diving watch on a strong, solid wrist. He was a bit too pretty for my taste – thick brown hair that struck gold in the light, strong jaw, straight teeth, wide shoulders and blue–green eyes – but he walked with the self-assurance of a man who would turn up on your front lawn with a boom box if you’d had a fight.

  And that made me like him immediately. Until he spoke.

  ‘Let me be frank,’ he began, before sitting on the edge of the table, ‘I expected more.’

  There were three spare chairs at that table.

  Cock.

  There we sat, in the sort of anxious silence usually reserved for the morning after a one-night stand; a silence so potent you can hear your neighbour swallow. We were part of a relatively new division of the company, set up to research and isolate untapped property investment opportunities. David Turner was the biggest client we’d ever had the chance to work with. None of us wanted to lose him, but he clearly wasn’t happy.

  My mind raced.

  Val had briefed me a week before, handing me a business card that read: David Turner, The Turner Group, Property Investment and Development. ‘He’s looking for new projects, something unexpected, something fresh that will take his business to the next level,’ she’d said. ‘He thinks we might find something nobody else has. But we don’t know who else he’s gone to with this, so it’s important that we impress him.’ Then, lowering her voice slightly, she’d continued: ‘You know, he grew up with seven brothers and sisters.’ She’d said this as though multiple siblings posed a serious threat to success in life. ‘And now look at him. Such a good man, too – always contributing to charity.’

  So, three of us (me and the two solemn ones) had the same assignment: find him something nobody else had.

  Essentially what I’d interpreted that to mean was that I had to go through London with a fine-toothed comb and find the un-findable. It was an impossible job at the best of times and we’d been given it just as the Angus-shit-storm hit me. So when this man said he’d expected more, from my corner it wasn’t entirely unfounded. I should have done more by then, and under normal circumstances I would have. Professional inertia was completely out of character for me: I’d always been the conscientious and committed one. But I was off my game. And it stung to have that acknowledged out loud.

  ‘Mr Turner, this is just the preliminary stage of our research.’ That was Val, ever the diplomat. ‘We’re sure to uncover more soon.’ She shot me a look that said: say something.

  ‘Yes, you asked to see where we were with it,’ I said. ‘This is in no way a reflection of what we expect the final findings to entail. It’s only been a bit over a week.’ My voice was steady. I sounded sure. But my pulse was fast. Just focus on your breath, darling. It was Angus who taught me to hide my nerves.

  ‘It was quite disappointing,’ David said, rephrasing his earlier sentiment.

  And then his eyes, navy with green in the middle, made their way to mine.

  Bang.

  Fuck. Don’t you dare blush.

  The silence was thick as I swallowed and waited for somebody else to step in and say something. But they didn’t. And he didn’t. He just sat there, watching as my pale skin turned pink. I had no choice but to continue.

  ‘As I’m sure you can appreciate,’ I said, holding eye contact, ‘if the opportunities we are looking for were immediately ap
parent and could be isolated within a week, then everyone would be capitalising on them. By their very nature they’re difficult to find. But we are making progress. It just takes time.’ I waited for him to look away but his eyes didn’t waver.

  ‘Let’s just try to be a bit more … innovative, shall we?’ he said. Then he smiled. That smile.

  ‘Of course,’ I replied, breaking our gaze. I hated the word innovative – it reminded me of team-building days where everyone has to wear a name badge and share a secret with the group.

  ‘Great, glad we’re on the same page,’ he said, still smiling.

  ‘Great.’ I shot back a polite smile of my own.

  Val had clearly decided the meeting wasn’t going at all to plan, so it was she who led the evacuation.

  But as I walked past David Turner, who was now talking to one of the solemn girls by the door, I will never forget the look he gave me. In a Teflon world, it stuck.

  A minute later we were back at our desks – aside from Val; she was at mine, wringing her hands like Lady Macbeth.

  ‘We’re going to need to do something,’ she said, looking at me. ‘This is important.’

  ‘I know,’ I replied.

  Then she went to her side of the carpeted partition and I sat down heavily in my seat.

  I set my browser to private, and then with clumsy fingers I opened 192.com, typed Felicia into the ‘name’ field and SW3 – Angus’s postcode – next to ‘location’. Then I clicked ‘search’.

  Up came a screen asking me to log in.

  Shit.

  I wanted as light an e-trail as possible. Below the log-in screen was an offer to ‘register for free’. My mouse hovered over it. I hesitated.

  Fuck it.

  I filled in the fields:

  Name: Angus

  Surname: Hollingsworth

  Email: MrHollingsworthtoYou@hotmail.com