When I got home last night, I’d spent several hours in front of my laptop, using specialist software to modify my original design. I was now confident that the trap door’s sprung leaves could be re-calibrated so that they retracted more fully, thus allowing actress and headdress to pass through unhindered. I figured that another half an hour’s work ought to do it and then the modifications would be ready to present to Bryan and the set builders at the emergency meeting we’d scheduled for ten that morning.
As I descended the stairs, still in my PJs, my legs felt strangely leaden, and when I entered the kitchen the bright sunlight flooding the room made me blink like a cave dweller. I put the kettle on and fired up my laptop, which I’d left recharging on the kitchen table. A couple of minutes later, I was sitting in front of it, coffee mug in hand, as I scanned the contents of the folder titled ‘Neurosis’ that sat on my desktop. I couldn’t immediately see what I was looking for, so I rearranged the files in date order. The document I needed – the one that contained all my calculations and the drawings I had painstakingly prepared – should have been at the top of the list, but for some reason it wasn’t. I stared at the screen, chewing my thumbnail; I must have saved the document in a different folder by mistake. I searched for it by name. It didn’t exist; perhaps I’d called it something else.
I tried a keyword search for ‘vampire trap’. A couple of files popped up, but they were old ones, relating to the original spec. Could I have dragged the file into the trash by mistake? A moment later the glimmer of hope faded . . . I could see from the icon on my taskbar that the trashcan was empty, which struck me as odd because I hadn’t touched the trash for several weeks. But then I remembered that Jess had been using my laptop at work the previous day; she must have emptied it.
I felt a lurching, sick-to-the-stomach sense of helplessness. All the work I’d done last night had disappeared. I was certain I’d saved it before I went to bed, so how could this be? I closed my eyes and brought my hand to my chest, trying to press my heart back to its normal rhythm. My emotions were a terrible mix of impotent anger, disbelief and fear . . . fear that some hideous metamorphosis was taking place inside me, the kind that made me forget stuff and imagine things that weren’t there. Feeling a sob rise up in my throat, I drew in a couple of deep breaths in an attempt to calm myself.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. There was no way I could recreate my modified design before ten a.m., so I was forced to ad-lib my way through the meeting. It was clear from his body language that Bryan was appalled by my apparent lack of preparation and my mortification was complete when, halfway through proceedings, Richard Westlake joined us unexpectedly. As I spoke, I could feel the weight of his gaze on me, and everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, as if I were underwater.
It took me the rest of the day to reproduce the work I had done in just three hours the night before. Stress had made me woolly-headed and a little disoriented, and from lunchtime onwards I was counting the hours until I could pop another one of Megan’s magic pills and slip into blissful unconsciousness. I managed to leave work more or less on time for once, and on the way home I treated myself to a gin and tonic from the trolley service on board the train. As I plodded up the gentle hill to Bellevue Rise, I thought that I would probably have another before dinner, but when I got to the front door and reached into my coat pocket, my keys were gone. Frantically, I checked all my other pockets, and then my handbag, upending it on to the front lawn, but the keys were nowhere to be found. I jammed my fists into my temples. This could not be happening, not today of all days when so much else had already gone wrong. I always kept the door keys in my coat pocket and I remembered putting them back there after letting myself in the previous night.
Sighing, I pushed the doorbell. I knew Megan was on a late shift, but Sammi should be home; she rarely went out in the evening, unless it was to some work-related event. When she didn’t come to the door straight away, I rang the bell again, listening as the chimes rang out in the hall. A few minutes went by and then I pushed open the flap of the letterbox and shouted Sammi’s name: still no response. I looked up at the house; all the windows were closed. I went round to the side and rattled the gate that led to the back garden, but it was firmly padlocked on the other side.
Tears started in my eyes. I brushed them away angrily and told myself not to be such a baby. What was wrong with me? I was locked out of the house, that was all, but I could feel a kind of panic blooming in me, as if I were about to faint or start screaming my head off. I walked back round to the front of the house and retrieved my phone, which was still lying on the grass with the other spilled contents of my handbag. I called Sammi, releasing a breath of irritation as it went straight to voicemail, and left a curt message, urging her to call me as soon as she got home. Then I stuffed my things back into my handbag and started walking to the nearest pub, where I ordered a second G and T, this one a double.
Half an hour went by and Sammi still hadn’t returned my call, so I sent Megan a text, outlining my dilemma. She replied almost immediately, saying she wouldn’t be home for another couple of hours. I would’ve cut my losses and gone to Tom’s, but he was still up north, so my best option was to stay in the pub and wait for Sammi to call me. I drank my gin, then I bought some nuts and a Diet Coke and played around on my phone for a bit. I kept trying Sammi’s number, but she didn’t pick up. Finally, I texted Megan again and asked her to collect me from the pub on her way home from the station. She was full of apologies when she eventually arrived, even though none of this was her fault.
‘Sorry, Chloe, I got here as fast as I could,’ she said. ‘Did you just forget to take your keys out with you this morning?’
I shook my head. ‘No, I definitely had them with me. I think they must have fallen out of my coat pocket. I’ll check the studio when I get into work tomorrow and if I can’t find them I’ll just have to get another set cut.’
‘I wonder why Sammi isn’t answering her phone,’ Megan muttered. ‘Where the hell is she anyway? It’s not like she’s got any friends to go out with.’
I shrugged weakly as I followed her out of the pub. ‘I don’t know and I don’t care. All I want to do now is go to bed; I feel absolutely shattered.’
Megan looked over her shoulder at me. ‘Did you take one of the tablets last night? I asked Sammi to leave them outside your bedroom door.’
‘Yeah, thanks for that, Meg, I feel like I slept a lot better, although I did wake up feeling a bit groggy.’
She gave me an understanding smile. ‘It’s one of the side effects, unfortunately, although you should notice it less and less as your body gets used to the drug. Have you made an appointment to see your GP yet?’
I shook my head.
‘Well, make sure you do,’ she said gently. ‘Because I won’t be able to get you any more tablets; you need a proper prescription.’
‘I know, I know, I’ll do it in the morning, I swear,’ I said, knowing it was a promise I wouldn’t keep.
When I stepped into the dark house and flicked the light switch in the hall, the first thing I saw were my keys. They were lying on top of the spindly console table; I knew they were mine because they were attached to the silver key ring Tom had bought me at Camden Market on our very first date. I gave a quick shake of my head, unable to believe my own eyes. Not for the first time that day, I had the disconcerting sense that I was losing my mind.
‘I don’t understand . . .’ I said, looking at Megan. ‘I didn’t leave my keys on the table; I know I didn’t. They were in my coat pocket, just like they always are.’
Megan batted her hand in front of her face as she walked down the hall to the kitchen. ‘Don’t sweat it, Chloe. You’ve found them now, that’s all that matters.’
‘I suppose so,’ I said gruffly as I turned towards the stairs. ‘I’m going straight to bed, see you tomorrow.’
All I could think of was sleep, but when I reached the landing, I froze. I could hear a strang
e noise, or rather a collection of strange noises; an unearthly collection of moans and cries that seemed to reach deep inside me. I bashed my right ear with the heel of my hand, thinking I was hearing things. I wasn’t. The noises were definitely there and they were emanating from Sammi’s room. I walked up to her closed door and said her name. When there was no reply, I checked my watch. It was just coming up to nine-thirty. Surely she couldn’t be in bed already, and if she was at home, why hadn’t she returned any of my calls?
Slowly, I turned the doorknob and pushed open the door. The noises were louder now and sounded even more unearthly. As I looked around the room, something rippled in the narrow bed. The unexpected movement made me jump. ‘Who’s there?’ I said in a quavering voice.
The shape in the bed shifted again. ‘It’s me, Chloe,’ came Sammi’s voice out of the darkness. ‘Who else would it be?’
I squinted, trying to find her face in the gloom. ‘I heard some horrible noises; I thought I’d better investigate.’ I jabbed my finger in the air as a particularly piercing note rang out. ‘Those noises.’
Sammi laughed softly. ‘That’s just my iPod, silly. They’re whale sounds, they help me relax. I’ve had it on repeat for hours.’
‘Oh,’ I said, taken aback. ‘Have you been here for a while?’
‘I haven’t left the house all day.’
‘Right,’ I said tightly. ‘Only I came home from work and realised I didn’t have my keys. I’ve been calling your mobile for the past two hours.’
‘Oh my God, Chloe, I’m so sorry. Where have you been all this time?’
‘In the pub, waiting for Megan to get back from work. I left you loads of messages.’
‘I put my phone on silent,’ Sammi explained. ‘I had a migraine; I’ve been in bed since six-thirty.’
I felt my fingers clench. ‘Didn’t you hear me ringing the doorbell?’
‘No, sorry. I guess I must’ve dozed off.’
I had to get out of there as the whales were driving me mad. ‘OK . . . well, sorry for disturbing you. I’m going to bed myself now.’
‘Shall I turn my iPod off in case it keeps you awake?’
‘No, don’t worry. I doubt I’ll even be able to hear it from my room.’
As I closed Sammi’s door, I couldn’t help thinking how perky she sounded for someone who’d been suffering from a migraine all evening.
I knew I wasn’t supposed to take the tablets with alcohol, but I’d only had a couple of drinks, so I figured it would be all right. As I plummeted into unconsciousness, for a moment I thought I could hear a woman’s voice, very close, whispering in my ear.
34
No one’s supposed to be in the classroom during morning break, but I went up to one of the teachers in the playground and said I had to use the toilet. I didn’t, though – instead I came here to the classroom and went straight to the cupboard in the corner, where we all store our lunchboxes until break time.
Hunger is clawing at my stomach like an angry bear. There was no milk for my cereal again and I haven’t eaten since last night (and even that was only half a tin of tomato soup). I’m so hungry I could eat a hippopotamus, never mind a horse! I’ve got my usual cheese and pickle sandwiches, but if I eat them now I’ll have nothing left for lunch.
I slide open the cupboard door. The brightly coloured lunchboxes look so pretty all lined up. Seeing them makes me feel ashamed of my old paper bag that’s tatty and grease-stained from being used so many times. I reach towards the pink My Little Pony lunchbox that’s nearest to me and unhook the catch. When the lid flips open I see two sandwiches, neatly cut into triangles (ham, by the look of them), a packet of pickled onion Monster Munch and a fat piece of Swiss roll. It’s a difficult choice, but I grab the Swiss roll and cram it in my mouth with both hands. It’s sweet and soft and spongy and my head goes all woozy from the sugar. Before I’ve even finished eating it, I’m opening the next lunchbox. This one’s red and it’s got racing cars all over it. The sandwiches inside are a bit stinky (that’s egg for you!), but the mini pork pie looks yummy. As I bite into it, I think that it’s possibly the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted; the pastry is buttery and the meat is so meaty. I know I should stop at that, but I can’t; I’m like an addict, hooked on food. One more lunchbox, I tell myself, just one more. The next one belongs to Liam. I know that because his name is written in magic marker on the lid. I haven’t even had a chance to see what’s inside when I hear a loud, cross voice that sounds just like Mum.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
I whip round and there’s Miss Pickering standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips. I see in her face that’s usually so smooth and sunny, a big scribble of disappointment.
‘Nothing,’ I say, wondering if I’ve got any pork pie crumbs around my mouth.
‘It doesn’t look like nothing to me.’ Miss Pickering points to the cupboard, where Liam’s lunchbox is lying open. ‘It looks very much to me as if you were just about to help yourself to something from that lunchbox.’
‘Oh that,’ I say. ‘Liam was hungry and he asked me to get him a snack.’
‘Really?’ Miss Pickering says. Her voice sounds jagged and angry.
‘Yes,’ I say, staring her right in the eyes. ‘His plaster cast makes it hard for him to do stuff and, seeing as it’s my fault he had to have the cast in the first place, I thought it was only fair I help him out.’
Miss Pickering’s hand goes up to her chin. ‘So you and Liam are friends again, are you?’
‘That’s right.’
Miss Pickering sighs and shakes her head. ‘Please don’t lie to me.’
‘I’m not lying.’
She takes a couple of steps towards me. ‘Yes, you are, because I’ve just spent the last five minutes watching you through the glass.’ She points to the little window in the top half of the classroom door and my heart dives down into my shoes.
‘You were stealing from your classmates’ lunchboxes. You do know that stealing’s wrong, don’t you?’
My mind flashes back to a cop show Dad and I watched on TV the other night, after Mum went upstairs. It was way past my bedtime, but Dad doesn’t care about that sort of stuff. ‘No comment,’ I say. If I say nothing, it’s up to them to prove it and it will be Miss Pickering’s word against mine.
‘Is that really all you’ve got to say for yourself?’
‘No comment.’
Miss Pickering’s mouth is all twisted, like she’s chewing on something sour. ‘First Liam’s arm and now this. I don’t know what’s happened to you lately. You used to be such a sweet girl.’
No, Miss, I’m not sweet, I’m just very good at pretending. ‘No comment.’
‘If you won’t speak to me, perhaps you’ll speak to Mr Finch.’
As I follow her down the corridor to the headmaster’s office, there is something growing inside me. I can feel it in my stomach, hard and smooth, about the size of a tennis ball. It draws the air out of my lungs and sucks the blood from my veins.
35
Megan
I was sitting on a blue leather banquette, champagne flute in hand, observing Sammi as she worked the room. I had to admit she was good. Very good. There was a light in her eyes I hadn’t seen before as she approached a tall, tanned man of indeterminate middle age dressed all in black. She touched him lightly on the back and he spun round, clearly delighted to see her, and immediately enveloped her in a hug. Throughout their lively conversation – one that involved lots of gesticulating and hair tossing on Sammi’s part – the man stared at her with an expression almost of wonder, as if she were a rare butterfly he’d come across on a fence post.
Just then, a waitress passed by with a tray of canapés. I took the serviette she was offering and helped myself to a filo tartlet. To my surprise, I was having quite a pleasant evening, despite feeling a long way out of my comfort zone. The only launches I’d been to were for pharmaceutical products and they had all been spectacularly dull a
ffairs. This launch party, for a diffusion line of handbags by a designer I’d never heard of, was in a different league altogether. Held in an exclusive private members’ club, it was full of immaculately accessorised people making excited conversation in high, glassy voices, and it was clear that Sammi fitted in to this milieu perfectly.
I had been nothing short of stunned by her invitation, which had come just twenty-four hours earlier, as I relaxed in the sitting room with a low-calorie hot chocolate and a late-night talk show.
‘I’m going to a fashion launch in Soho tomorrow night,’ she said, as she perched on the arm of a chair. ‘There’ll be loads of free booze and food.’
‘That’ll be nice for you,’ I said, irritated by the interruption.
‘I was wondering if you wanted to come with me.’
I almost choked on my hot chocolate. ‘Are you serious?’ I asked.
‘Of course I am, I think it’ll be fun,’ she said in a measured tone. ‘I know the PR really well; I can easily get you on the guest list.’
My first instinct was to decline politely. Why on earth would I want to spend an entire evening with someone I didn’t trust, or even particularly like? But then I thought better of it. After all, what is it they say? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. And what’s more I was intrigued to see Sammi in her natural habitat. Would she be as awkward around her colleagues as she appeared to be with me?
The answer, I knew now, was a resounding no. For the past half an hour I’d watched as she had air-kissed, flirted and generally charmed her way around the room, clearly in her element. It didn’t do any harm that she looked hot as hell in a thigh-skimming purple dress that she’d teamed with stiletto heel ankle boots and an array of colourful beaded jewellery. As she introduced me to a succession of fashion editors, photographers and even a model or two, I felt like her underdressed hillbilly cousin, down in the big city from my home in the sticks. It wasn’t long before I started to feel I was cramping her style; besides which, the shoes I was wearing weren’t doing my bunion any favours. Despite Sammi’s protestations, I assured her that I would be perfectly happy sitting on the sidelines for a while, drinking my fizz and people-watching.
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