The Wrong Move

by Jennifer Savin

  ‘I think I’d be nervous around someone like that. Besides, it looks like he already has a lot of female attention.’

  They both stared at B Rock, who was now having his face caressed by multiple women in bikini tops. Another, a waitress, bent forward with a tray of drinks and gave him a wink.

  ‘He wishes! I was sooo wasted.’

  It was important to Lauren that she sounded aloof when regaling this sort of anecdote.

  ‘But yeah, those kinda guys aren’t my scene any more.’

  Positioning herself on the arm of the sofa, Jessie continued to watch the music video with curiosity. She enjoyed hearing Lauren’s stories like this; they were so far away from her own world. It gave her a good feeling that she was friends with someone who’d lived such a colourful life – it almost made her own more so by proxy.

  ‘Yeah, no more proper bad boys for me now. Too much hassle, too much … heartbreak. Time to look for someone nice, who has all their own teeth and oh, I don’t know, a job that’s legal.’

  It was nice having someone besides Priya to have this sort of conversation with. For years, Jessie had harboured a private daydream of having a flatmate that she could slob about on the sofa with, cracking in-jokes, like she’d seen countless times on the idyllic sitcoms she’d inhaled as a teenager. When she first moved away for university, she used to watch them on her small portable TV all the time. They’d be constantly chattering away in the background as she fell asleep or studied at her desk, helping to ease the anxiety and loneliness of being away from home. Away from her parents and Matthew. Voices to fill the void.

  ‘Me too. Someone on Tinder just asked me if I’m up for a drink later, actually, and I quite like the look of him.’

  Lauren’s eyes lit up.

  ‘Oh yeah? Go on. Tell me everything.’

  Having little to share, Jessie recounted Rob’s profile, their minimal messages and the way she’d boldly stepped out of her comfort zone to speak with him. She finished by saying that this was the first time she’d ever done anything like that.

  ‘Ever? Like, literally ever?’

  Jessie gave an affirmative headshake.

  ‘Pretty much. I was in a relationship for nearly seven years before I moved in here, with someone I met when I was at sixth form. I had a couple of boyfriends at school before that, but only the sort where it’s over before their name that you inked on your pencil case had dried.’

  Lauren gave a loud exhale and combed her fingers through her bleached blonde hair.

  ‘Seven years, that’s heavy. Do you want to talk about it?’

  The emails, the degrading names, the lines of bruises on her upper arms that she used to watch fade from purple to yellow all jumped to mind, and Jessie quickly knew that she didn’t want Lauren to associate her with any of it. Or to know how stupid she had been. It was a life she was determined to leave behind her. Talking about that relationship now would be like unpicking a slowly healing scab and scratching at the wound underneath with a jagged fingernail, pointless and pain-inducing. She involuntarily winced.

  ‘It’s okay. But thank you, seriously,’ Jessie said, hoping she sounded breezy and assured.

  ‘I get it,’ Lauren smiled. ‘We all have things better left in the past, no need to torment ourselves with them unnecessarily.’

  While Lauren wanted to know more about her housemate’s relationship, she didn’t want to begin excavating her own nightmares in exchange either.

  ‘You know what, though? I once read that every cell in your body regenerates after seven years, or something like that. So technically, you’re now an entirely new person to who you were when you first met him, whoever he is.’

  That was a comforting thought, one that Jessie wanted to keep safe and store away for the future, for the next time she saw a man in a parka jacket walking down the street and her heart began punching at her ribs. Each day she was physically, as well as mentally, turning into someone Matthew had never met.

  ‘How about a film, before we get stuck into those filthy rich housewives?’ Lauren pulled up the movie channels.

  They settled on one about two sisters swapping lives for a week. One, a stressed mother of three, the other a carefree socialite. Easy enough viewing on a hangover.

  ‘Excuse me for a second.’

  As the credits rolled, Jessie quickly darted upstairs to check for a response from Rob. 8 o’clock at The Mesmerist? It’s not far from Pavilion Gardens and the Old Steine bus station.

  She sprinted back downstairs, waving her phone like a trophy. Lauren was back on the music channels, mouthing along to a grime track now. Her feet dangled off the edge of the sofa, the burgundy nail polish on her toes several shades darker than the pillar box red on her fingers.

  ‘It’s on for 8 o’clock tonight!’

  There was a nagging feeling that she’d already made other plans, though. Jessie thought hard. Dinner with Lauren! Well, they’d spent most of the afternoon together now, so it wasn’t as though she would really be ditching her to go on the date. Besides, they could still eat together before she left. Best not to go out on an empty stomach anyway.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit quick to be meeting up with him, if you only started speaking yesterday? You don’t want to seem too eager,’ Lauren asked airily.

  That thought hadn’t occurred; instead Jessie had been entirely focused on how handsome Rob looked in his photos and fantasising over how brilliantly their date could go. His profile said he had a Irish accent, which appealed to her too. Maybe he could be The One – how great a story would that be, if she ended up marrying her first and only Tinder date?

  ‘It is fast, you’re right,’ said Jessie. ‘But probably better not to have time to talk myself out of it. Plus we’re meeting in a really public place, so I’m sure it will be fine.’

  ‘Fair enough. Call me if he’s ugly in real life and I’ll come save you. Want me to make us a stir fry before you go?’

  It was almost as if Lauren could read her mind.

  ‘Actually, no debate, I’m making it. You can’t go out hungry or you’ll be trashed after the first glass of wine, très un-chic.’

  She popped her eyebrows up in mock horror. Thinking back to the lasagne that Lauren had made her as a welcome meal, Jessie felt guilty that she hadn’t properly repaid her flatmate’s kindness yet. Putting a bagel in the toaster or making an instant coffee hardly required the same level of effort. She’d been so busy catching up with old friends and nesting.

  ‘Do you mind? I’ll cook for us another time soon, I promise. I’ve only got an hour to get ready now, today has just flown.’

  The clock on the wall said it was close to half past six.

  ‘How was your chat with Marcus last night, by the way?’ Jessie asked, hovering by the door.

  ‘All fine. He said he was sorry and look …’ Lauren nodded her head towards the sink. ‘He even did the washing-up earlier and, if you turn your attentions to the fridge, you’ll see that I’ve devised a cunning bin-shaming system.’

  Jessie looked at the piece of paper held up with a magnet. It was a table to record when each bin in the flat had last been emptied and by whom, entitled ‘Have you bin good or bad?’.

  ‘Love it, very inventive.’

  Lauren winked, then shooed her away and began to pull an assortment of vegetables out of the fridge, lining them up with military precision on a chopping board. She grabbed a wok and placed it on the stove, letting the gas whoosh into action beneath it then pouring in a slug of sesame oil, waiting to hear it spit back.

  No sooner had Jessie sent a picture to Priya of the two dresses she was debating, than a bone-shattering scream shot through the flat. She stopped still for a moment then ran to the source of the noise. The magnolia wall above the stove tiles had a spray of crimson decorating it in a perfect diagonal line. A kitchen knife lay in the middle of the checked floor, discarded diced onions and whole peppers on the counter. Lauren’s face had turned pale and although she’d
wrapped the bottom of her thin white vest top around her left hand, blood was pooling through it at a quick rate. The pan on the hob continued to crackle.

  ‘Oh God, Lauren! What happened? Is it bad?’

  Jessie felt woozy looking at the growing stain on Lauren’s top. The wound needed compression, fast. She searched around in the cupboard under the sink for a clean tea towel, pulling out an old Greek holiday souvenir one.

  ‘It feels pretty deep, but I can’t look. It’s freaking me out,’ her flatmate said weakly. ‘I shouldn’t have tried to get all Gordon Ramsay on it by doing fancy chopping.’

  As tenderly as she could manage, Jessie helped Lauren wrap the towel around her wound and apply pressure to it, while making soothing sounds and stroking her back. Lauren winced and closed her eyes, the minutes feeling endless. Jessie returned to the cupboard under the sink, took out a floor wipe and began to clean up the splatters.

  ‘Maybe try raising your arm up to stop the blood flow?’

  ‘I feel sick.’

  How serious did a cut need to be for stitches? Jessie’s medical knowledge didn’t cover hacked index fingers, so she quickly pulled up the NHS website which said to visit the accident and emergency department as soon as possible if the bleeding didn’t stop after ten minutes of applying pressure.

  She relayed the information to Lauren. They kept count for a further five minutes and all the while Jessie hoped that Sofie or Marcus would return home and either know what to do, or take over so she could continue getting ready to meet Rob. When it became clear that neither was going to happen, Lauren looked up at her with watery eyes.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I’m making you late, Jessie. You need to get going,’ she said half-heartedly. ‘Go on, I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Jessie was torn.

  ‘It’s not right to leave you on your own, Lauren. I think you might need to go to A&E.’

  Lauren shook her head vigorously.

  ‘It’ll be okay in a minute. You need to get ready for your date.’

  Jessie glanced at the time.

  ‘Let me call someone, one of your friends or Sofie?’ Jessie tried again, still dithering.

  ‘No.’ Lauren’s steely eyes met Jessie’s. ‘I’m sure it’s going to stop bleeding in a minute and I’ll be fine.’

  Another drop of blood hit the floor.

  ‘Lauren, you need to go to the hospital. I think you’ll need stitches,’ Jessie said, concerned.

  Lauren grimaced.

  ‘I hate hospitals, they make me so anxious. All that waiting around and doctors not explaining things properly.’

  Jessie knew what she was getting at and switched off the stove.

  ‘Poor thing, it’s okay; don’t worry, I’ll come with you. I’ll order a taxi.’

  She could message Rob on the way. It was more important to be there for Lauren. In the grand scheme of things, she’d only been speaking to Rob for a day, but that didn’t help to soften the pit of disappointment opening in her stomach. Jessie looked back at the blood on the floor and tried not to gag.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  With the majority of the weekend still free before she started work, Jessie vowed to spend it turning the flat into somewhere that felt more like a proper home. Sitting in the emergency waiting room with Lauren, her mind had drifted back to her previous flat in Chesterbury, which she’d shared with Matthew. It really had been a beautiful space, with smooth blonde wooden flooring throughout – consistent and modern, unlike Maver Place – with a big bay window that flooded the lounge with light, no matter the weather. The new place, in contrast, seemed to struggle to allow any natural light in, relying on artificial orange-tinged bulbs instead. She hated that none of the furniture, from the cheap steel bed she slept in (which creaked whenever she rolled over in the night) to the curtains she opened each morning, was really hers, either. It didn’t matter how many times she polished the surfaces, they still felt covered in invisible fingerprints too. More seriously, the sooner the lock was fixed the better, because she still found herself feeling tense whenever Henry was in the flat after their last encounter, hoping he didn’t try and corner her again for a ‘chat’.

  She was also uneasy around Marcus. She’d lived in Maver Place for weeks now and they’d only spoken twice. Or three times, if you were to include the day his eyes had appeared in the mirror behind her. She couldn’t work him out. Lauren seemed not to mind his skulking but it was beginning to bother Jessie. Why was he always bolted up in his bedroom? It was strange that he kept himself so hidden away but then at night bashed about, keeping her awake. If the company of other people made him so uncomfortable, why didn’t he just look for a studio apartment and live alone? If she had to guess, she’d wager that Lauren was the reason he stayed. She’d seen the way he looked at her when he thought nobody else was watching.

  Jessie wandered into the kitchen in search of food, having not eaten since last night’s dinner was abruptly cancelled by Lauren slicing her finger. It had needed three stitches in the end. Her blood was still dashed up the wall, a darker shade now that it had dried. In the light of day Jessie could see it had also hit the side of one of the white wall units. Something they’d missed in all the commotion. She wondered if Marcus or Sofie had walked in and seen it, made their breakfast as usual and walked back out, continuing on with their day, not bothering to clean it. Sofie probably hadn’t even slept here last night and Marcus would most likely have been oblivious to the mess. Nobody had messaged the group chat mentioning it.

  With a shudder, she picked up a bottle of bleach spray and a damp sponge from the washing-up bowl. She cleaned the cabinet first, watching the blood, with the addition of water, dilute and run down in pale red streaks. The wall would be a harder stain to tackle. Jessie looked around the kitchen, at where the black-and-white tiled floor stopped halfway as it met the lounge area’s thin brown carpet, and realised the carpet was covered in stains too. Not blood, though. Dirt that had been trodden in next to the sofas, a faint wine spill that someone had pushed the coffee table over in an effort to conceal. The harder she looked, the more unappealing the flat became; splashes of yellow adorned the ceiling in both sections of the room, possibly indicating some kind of leak. It wasn’t a complete lost cause, but it was crying out for some niceties and attention. She scrubbed at the bloody wall again, leaving a large damp circle, then paused to listen for any stirrings from her other flatmates. Nothing. She washed her hands, threw the cleaning sponge into the washing machine and placed two slices of thick wholemeal into the toaster. Back to business as usual.

  Using her free hand, the one not holding a slice of buttered toast, Jessie wrote one of her favoured to-do lists on the back of an envelope addressed to ‘The Homeowner’. It had been lying abandoned with a pile of leaflets on the dining table since she moved in. First up was to buy new bedding, something to brighten up her bedroom, then curtains, so she could finally take down the dark damask drapes currently occupying the window. They were made of scratchy imitation silk that she hated having to touch and didn’t quite meet in the middle. Maybe a vase of flowers to perk up the kitchen would be a welcome touch too, something to show the others that she wanted to make small improvements and perhaps encourage them to do the same. She could get them for Lauren as a sort of get-well present. As she scribbled plants for bedroom – cactus? her phone buzzed with a notification from Rob, who’d luckily been understanding about her cancelling at such short notice. He was suggesting they try again that evening, same time and place. I’ll be there! she replied, leaning in to the stir of internal butterflies. They indicated a good sort of nervousness, one she wasn’t as used to, the type twinned with excitement not dread. She then checked her inbox, for the first time since Friday.

  At first, Jessie was relieved to see she only had a couple of new messages to deal with, one being from Pamela, until she reread the sender’s name on the other. Matthew Eades. She read it twice. It was him. Trying to make contact using his work email address, one that she
’d forgotten to block. Her vision wobbled, as though her eyes were unable to look directly at those two words. Too afraid. There could be no convincing herself that this was spam. What could he possibly have to say? Her father had made it quite clear she never wanted to speak to him again, when he’d turned up drunk in the middle of the night at her parents’ house, shouting through the letter box. It had been excruciating, listening, crouched at the top of the stairs, as he’d called her all the names under the sun, each insult raining down like a punch in the gut, threatening to kill her and swearing blindly that he’d find her, wherever she went. Her father had phoned the police, but Matthew had fled by the time they’d arrived. The officers had been sympathetic, but told her there was nothing they could do unless there was a serious incident.

  Matthew had deliberately left the subject line empty, allowing her mind to go into overdrive attempting to fill in the blanks. The doorbell blasted, making her jump. It was an especially shrill sound that echoed around the flat like an air-raid siren. She took a deep breath and counted from ten to zero. It rang again: whoever was on the other side of the door was becoming impatient. She put the phone down and crept into the hallway. Her skin prickled as she peered round at the frosted pane of glass and she kept her back close to the wall, seeing a silhouette beyond it. She could just about make out that it belonged to a burly man wearing a coat with a fur hood. A khaki-coloured parka with a fur hood? Around his height too. Her muscles seized. Matthew had found her. Just like he’d promised. No matter where you go, I’ll hunt you down. She’d disobeyed that warning and now she’d have to suffer the consequences. He was mere metres away.

  ‘Fuck,’ she whispered, closing her eyes.

  There was no back door to escape from, the shared garden only accessible by walking out of the building and through a wooden gate down the side of the house. Jessie’s heart hammered as she tried to think of what to do next. The man outside pushed himself close to the glass, a hand cupping either side of his face as he peered in. He’d seen her moving.