Chapter 5 #2
She drove to Keswick to get her nails done and spotted Mia from her car, walking briskly towards one of the lesser-known hotels at the edge of the town.
Parking her car around the corner, she followed her inconspicuously.
And she watched her throw her arms around the middle-aged man waiting for her, kissing him with fervour.
Roxana would show me the photos she took of them later that day, after an extraordinarily delicious dinner of lamb chops that she had made for me after months of spaghetti and beans on toast.
“Stuart Woodrow,” she said, leaning close with the mobile in her hands, adorned by her new, scary-looking nails. “Who would’ve thought that he was her older lover?”
She raised her slanted eyes to look at me pointedly from underneath her eyebrows like raven wings.
“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “Real shame what happened to her. She was such a bright student.”
Roxana nodded slightly, clearing her throat too, but with a guttural, predatory sound. Completely remorseless.
“Perhaps,” she said, getting up from her chair with her sight still fixed on me. “Still, how bright can someone be who’d only protect photos like that with nothing but a ‘password123’?”
My chest constricted with horror back then, and I struggled to breathe. But not as much as I’m struggling now, every muscle in my body aching with each step. My pace is sluggish despite my efforts to the contrary.
What point even is there to play squash when I’m in such a state?
Just as I’m deciding whether it wouldn’t be for the best to cancel on Stuart altogether, a small hand squeezes my tender upper arm, and I wince.
“Well, hello there, Professor Moore.”
“Poppy. Hello.”
My eyes land on her smile, her big blue eyes boring into my own. Her hair is a little damp, and so a shade darker than her usual beach blonde.
“Where are you headed?” she asks, toying with the cross pendant on the delicate chain around her equally delicate neck, exposed despite the harsh weather.
A potent burst of annoyance flashes through me.
“Ermh ... I ...” I glance around, making sure we’re not being observed.
“Maybe we can share a walk?” she suggests without waiting for me to reply, smiling at me even wider, dimples appearing in her cheeks.
My annoyance intensifies, morphing into anger I can neither comprehend nor justify. I’m usually nothing but happy to see Poppy, but right now, she repulses me with terrifying intensity. I want to yell at her to go away, yell at her loudly, aggressively, advancing upon her to scare her away.
I imagine the peach-soft, smooth skin of her face crumpling, tears pooling from those doe eyes. And the desire to do that to her, to make her cry and frighten her off, is so powerful that I know I must get away before I act upon it.
What is wrong with me?
“Not today, Poppy,” I tell her hastily. “I must dash. Already much too late.”
And in spite of every tendon in my body screaming at me not to, I break into a trot and run all the way to the sports centre.
Stuart is in the shower enclosure next to me. Over the drumming water, I can hear his grunts and the wet slaps of his hands against his flesh as he lathers it with soap.
Is he always so off-putting, or am I just noticing it more because I’m out of sorts?
Disgustedly, I turn my shower off and step outside, wrapping a towel around my hips. There’s a line of sinks and mirrors running perpendicularly to the row of shower stalls, but the mirrors are all foggy. I wipe one off with my palm and take my reflection in.
My eyes are a little bloodshot, but other than that, I look better than I feel, truth be told. Certainly better than Mrs Stubbs made it sound. There’s a youthful sheen to my skin, and my body seems bulkier, my muscles bulging on my arms and chest, veins popping darkly.
A little too darkly. Is it the lighting in here that’s causing them to look like that? But if it is just the light, then why have I not noticed it before? Have they changed the bulbs?
I take a step closer to the mirror to better inspect the oddity just as Stuart lets out a small, liquid fart, ill-concealed by the rattle of falling water.
While matching the way I feel, the repulsion etched onto my reflection’s expression is a lot more obvious than I thought it would be.
Do I really do such a poor job of hiding my emotions?
I freeze and stare, the steam swirling around my form, reminiscent of the persistent fog outside.
Unidentifiable dread crawls over me like a myriad of thin-legged spiders.
There is no reason why assessing my reflection like this should cause my stomach to drop and my lungs to constrict.
None, except for a vague recollection that something dreadful—something utterly unspeakable—happened the last time I had done so.
But it is like trying to remember a nightmare upon waking up, still feeling intensely terrified, but no longer recalling what it was that was so terrifying.
I leave swiftly, and before bidding Stuart goodbye.