Chapter 14
By the time I walk out of London Bridge station and into the brisk night air, it has stopped raining and I am numb. I walk quickly over the bridge, the Thames on one side, traffic beeping on the other, my eyes trained on the cracks in the pavement.
Soon I’m walking under the railway bridge near Pret A Manger.
A train rumbles overhead, all around me people stare down at their phones, and a red London bus slowly approaches.
On its side, a family is pictured sitting around a Christmas tree.
The slogan beneath the image reads: Priceless.
And now something pierces through the numbness and hits me deep in my core.
As the bus passes, I want to throw myself in front of it.
To force the world to see me. To acknowledge my pain.
I imagine the commotion, the confusion. The bags of blood tipping out of my handbag. People pulled away from their phone screens for just one moment.
But instead, I let the bus splash past me, then I rush through the cold night air until I’m heading past the bins and the pub, pulling open the flimsy black metal gate and hurrying downstairs to my door.
Cat is there in her usual spot, waiting for me. I push the key into the lock and she follows me inside with a small ‘meow’.
I rush to the freezer, put a bag of blood in my spinach box and then put the other one in the Fortnum five tiny circular faces staring back at me.
No. No. No. No.
YES.
The bottom one is her. I’m sure of it.
I tap on it, quickly, like it might disappear if I’m not fast enough, the rest of the world blurring as I wait the quarter second for it to load.
Cat meows, probably in disapproval, but I ignore her and scroll through Olivia’s grid. She’s always in either athletic wear or business suits. Judging by the bars she frequents, she lives in Richmond.
I glance at her bio and my gaze catches on just one phrase: Former Forbes 30 under 30 Europe. And oh joy—she’s successful, and smart too. Pretty, successful, smart, and the worst part is she looks like a really nice person. Like the kind of woman I might be friends with.
Pull it together, Aubrey. You can’t like her, can’t side with her, or you’ll never get him back. And look, she doesn’t have any pets in her pictures so she can’t be that great. Right?
I scroll down a little further, drinking in the images, like maybe if I know her well enough I can make her disappear and then, out of nowhere: Tap, tap, tap.
I turn to look at the door.
Freeze.
Because nobody knows where I live. Not Jonathan. Not Daphne. Not Es. Not even Brendon who sells me weed gummies upstairs.
Nobody.
But then it comes again: Tap, tap, tap.
I hold my breath, get up and tiptoe towards the door.
I stand there, listening, not wanting to look through the peephole in case whoever is out there sees movement. But my lights are off, they can’t know I’m here. Not for sure. Maybe it’s some drunk guy from the pub upstairs?
Then, in a low, posh voice, I hear: ‘I know you’re in there.’
FUCK.
I creep forward and look through the peephole and—what?
The dark curls. The broad shoulders. The strong face.
It’s the guy from the club.
The one with the champagne and the table and the red ropes and the girls . . . The one who was looking at me.
I was right, he somehow knows what I am.
AND WHERE I LIVE.
Then he looks right at me, like the door isn’t even there, smiles and says, ‘Open the door, Aubrey. It’s Oscar.’
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
How does he know my name? And why is he acting like I should recognise his?
I swallow hard.
‘Open the door, or I will force it open.’
I’m not a fool, really I’m not, I know what I need to do right now, I need to call the police and tell them to come over and save me from this lunatic. They’ll never believe anything he says anyway . . . I’ve practised what I’d do, what I’d say in this kind of situation.
But . . . despite myself, no matter how hard I resist, I find myself reaching for the door handle. No. I fight the urge, try to pull back, but it’s like he’s forcing me somehow. I fight harder. No, no, no.
And then: Click.
I watch with horror as the lock clicks open, the handle turns and the door swings open.
He’s standing there holding a credit card, a grin on his face. ‘You were taking too long.’
My ears pulse. I should run. Scream. Something. But clearly something is wrong with me. Because I don’t.
I just step aside and he moves past me, closing the door behind him like he owns the place.
I watch silently as he flicks on the light, walks into the middle of the living room and looks around.
His eyes dart from the sofa to the bookcase, to the packet of cigarettes on the floor, to Cat, to the kitchen.
Cat scurries away and hides under the sofa.
And then he looks back at me and asks, ‘Do you have anything to drink?’