CHAPTER 2 #2
My smile tightens but I turn to him, my eyes landing squarely on his bright blues.
I can see why Immi could be infatuated by this man.
On paper, he’s straight out of a teen-angst romance novel.
His dark hair is swept off his face, perfecting out the Ken-doll shape of his chiselled features, sharp eyes, strong jaw and thick hands that he frequently runs through his locks.
His smile is infectious, speckled with a schoolboy playfulness.
He speaks three languages: his native Taiwanese tongue, English and self-taught French.
He is a lawyer who loves water sports, adventures and vintage films. Perfect, but only on paper.
“I am, I can’t wait to finally become Mrs Rufus Kingley,” I say pointedly.
“It’s so exciting, I love a good wedding,” Immi giggles, rocking on her heels and beaming towards Benji.
“Hmmm,” Benji replies into his drink.
“Darling, are you having fun? I want you to have the best time.” Immi turns her attention to me.
“I am, oh, I am,” I say in a voice that moves like mine but isn’t quite right.
“Have you seen what Lianna from number seven brought? It looks like a dove made of fruit. Who even thinks of this sort of stuff?” Immi says, her voice bouncing. It’s hard to read if she’s being serious or mocking, so I stay quiet. Benji lets out a stiff laugh.
“Let me get you a refill.” Immi breaks through the silence that followed her comment.
I smile up at her, aware that my glass is already empty.
I’m only meant to have two drinks tonight.
I have to keep myself on top form. But one more won’t hurt, and if I can shift Benji then us girls can finally relax.
Immi floats away as Benji speaks, reading my mind. “Where’s Rufus at?”
“Oh, he’s in the garden. He invited a lot of people from the firm, so he and Marcus are in full networking mode,” I say.
“Interesting. I should duck out early rather than be caught up with a rival firm’s networking event.” Benji scans the room.
“Yes, best you duck out early,” Jude says, her voice flat as she slides her hand into mine, squeezing it just enough.
Benji’s eyes land on mine. I keep my face emotionless. If he expected me to demand he keep us company then he is mistaken. He shifts his weight before smiling.
“I’ll find the guys.” Benji turns and leaves as Immi returns.
“Here you go, ladies, a bubbly for you both,” Immi says.
I replace my empty glass with the flute Immi offers and Jude takes hers, now standing with two glasses in her hands.
“Let me take that off your hands,” I say, a look passing between us. A heat spreads across my neck.
“You can handle two at once, catch up before we bring out the strong stuff,” Immi says, her shoulders wiggling as she takes a generous sip.
“Let me leave it here for now.” Jude places it on the bar.
“Good idea.” My body won’t stop moving, my fingers itch to squeeze her arm but instead I run my finger over the flute. I try to catch her eye, but Jude keeps her head turned so she doesn’t have to look at me.
“God, how very boring. You’re just like Martha when she got pregnant and became no fun,” Immi says.
The heat spreads, my finger catching on the glass and nearly knocking the whole thing out of my hand.
Jude’s jaw tightens, but her eyes scan around the room, not once landing on Immi. “That’s the plan, God willing.”
The words are low, but they slice through us. Immi’s eyes widen, her mouth remaining open, waiting for the drink she holds inches from her lips.
I step forward, talking fast. “I have that fizzy herbal drink we had at the Mungo’s launch, if you want that?”
Despite my effort, there’s a desperate pitying tone to my words that none of us want.
I know I am trying to counteract Immi’s insensitivity, and the fact she’s spent the past few months confused by the idea that Marcus and Jude were trying to have a baby, as though Jude is the first person to choose to become pregnant.
“God, I’m sorry. Look at me being horribly insensitive. Let me get you something fruity and fizzy.” Immi turns on her heels, takes a few steps and twirls around.
“But alcohol-free,” she adds, her smile beaming.
A silence hangs between us that I can’t fill.
Instead, I bump Jude’s shoulder with mine, and a moment later, she does the same.
We stand there in silence until a telltale vibration in the hidden pocket of the dress breaks the comfort.
I know it can’t be, but somehow, I expect to see Dad’s number pop up.
“Sorry.” I grab Jude’s arm. “I need to take this. Are you–”
“Go, I’m fine,” she says, and I know she will be. I’m the glue that holds those two women to each other; without me they’ll drift apart to save any more awkwardness.
I grab my phone, blinking at the withheld number.
“Hello?” I answer, keeping my voice light.
The phone is silent. I step towards the bifold doors, hoping the open air will clear the line. They can’t hear me. Impatience flickers. I glance down at the screen to find the call still connected. I listen again.
“Are you OK?” Jude’s voice carries from behind me. I nod, leaning down into my phone.
Silence.
“Hello?” I repeat, an edge to my voice. Something dips, a ripple of anxiety as the line offers nothing but silence.
No, not silence. I catch it as the music lulls, a small hum, a pulse that repeats if I listen hard enough. My fingers tense around the phone, my mind racing through all the angry men and women my short stint in criminal psychology has offered me. All the people I talk about in the podcast.
Someone is on the other end. I can hear it clearer now. The regularity of their breath makes my pulse quicken and I step further out of the room. I’m back there again, lying face down in the dirt with only my shaking breath as a companion while I wait to either die or survive.
“Hello?” I say, louder now. Angry.
Nothing.
Silence.
Breathing.
“Hello, Ella,” the voice says, and a shiver runs down my spine. It’s metallic, robotic and false.
“Who is this?” My voice struggles to remain steady, emotion thick in the back of my throat. Stumbling, I turn towards the hallway, but the voice on the line stops me short of the door.
“Isn’t it time your friends learnt how much of a liar you are?” The metallic voice is sharp in my ear.
My stomach flips and the phone drops from my fingers. There is no telling who is on the other end of the line, their voice is distorted, but there’s something familiar to it. Panic rises and my throat tightens. A clammy hand reaches for the doorway.
How much of a liar you are.
Desperation tightens my chest, and I drop to my knees, searching for the phone in the low light until my fingers clamber over it.
When I speak into the phone again, there is no mistaking the fear laced around my words: “Who is this?”
No response.
I scan the room, cold dredging through me. The faces of my friends and neighbours suffocate me.
The line goes dead.
Is he back?