by Zoe Caldwell
Julian’s eyes immediately wander south, like a moth to a flame and in two beats, two emotions pass over his face: desire and determination. Misty eyes, tense jaw. Then he glances towards my wine. My drugged fucking wine. I reach for the crisps instead, tearing the bag open.
‘So, been on many Tinder dates then?’ I ask as I pop a crisp into my mouth.
Like so many guys, Julian insists he hardly dates. Says he goes on the apps a lot, but he doesn’t often meet up with matches because he’s ‘busy with work’ and ‘doesn’t usually click with that many people’ as though he and I have some sort of profound connection. I smile, before biting into another crisp. I wonder if any of this is true. Julian doesn’t look like someone who’s avoiding female attention. He works out, a lot. In fact, his first picture on Tinder was a gym selfie. I didn’t even recognise him to begin with, and I was into it. I know I should know better, but what can I say? I like muscular guys. I was genuinely disappointed when I realised who he was. Looks-wise, he’s definitely my type, with his ripped, imposing physique and his strong-boned, attractive features. He’s hot. And he was charming to chat to as well, disturbingly so, given what I knew about him. He seemed sweet, unsure of himself almost. He seemed to be really trying to impress me. He claimed that, like me, he was into fashion and reading, although when I dug a little deeper, his love of fashion didn’t amount to much more than being a regular customer at Topman and the last book he seemed to have read was Of Mice and Men at school.
I glance at his beer. He’s two thirds down. He’ll be feeling fuzzy soon. I reach for another crisp.
‘So, what makes me the lucky girl then?’ I ask, playing along with his I-never-date story. I bite into salt and vinegar.
Julian makes a comment about how I ‘just seemed special’. I resist the urge to smirk. Puh-lease. It’s because I’m pretty, I live alone, and he thought I’d be rapeable. This sentiment is confirmed by the way that even in his increasingly wasted state, he keeps glancing eagerly at my wine, as though urging me to drink it. I’m a bit worried he might start noticing that it’s barely gone down in volume soon. I need to get him more fucked up before he senses something’s up. Not that he seems particularly on it.
I suggest another round of shots. Julian nods.
I head to the bar and order another round of tequilas. Lawrence seems smashed, his hand unsteady as he pours the shots. I feel almost sorry for him. The son of some loaded hedge fund manager, he’s had everything given to him on a plate and yet something’s missing. There’s a sadness about him. His dad funded his bar, but Lawrence hasn’t been able to make it work. He slipped into drink and drugs, lost the plot.
I pay for the shots and carry them back to Julian.
He smiles, grabbing one and tossing it down his neck, not bothering with salt or lime. He starts telling me about some night out he had recently, going on about some club. Some DJ.
‘Cool!’ I act interested as I tip a small amount of salt onto my hand and lick it off.
Julian watches my tongue. I knock my shot back.
He’s talking about the set. I’m not really listening. Instead, I take in his saucer-like pupils, black where his irises should be. His complexion looks paler. He’s talking shit. Laughing at nothing. His mouth is slack. He doesn’t look attractive like this at all. That would have been me.
I keep listening, making the odd comment here and there, eating crisps, watching him. He’s looking more and more out of it. I need to get him out of here before Lawrence notices.
‘Julian,’ I interrupt, slipping my foot back between his ankles, stroking with my toes. ‘Let’s go back to mine.’ I reach across the table and take his hand.
He smiles, eyes black, keen.
‘Yeah, yeah let’s do that,’ he slurs. He blinks, his eyes roll.
He’s beginning to lose it, but he seems comforted that we’re going back to mine, as though his plan is coming together after all.
Julian attempts to stand up, but he staggers and clutches the table for support so heavily that his near-empty pint glass rattles against the shot glasses.
‘Come on.’ I head over to his side of the table and place my arm around his back, offering him some support. He slings his strong, heavy arm around my shoulders, gratefully. ‘Let’s go,’ I say before moving towards the door. We walk slowly, our bodies locked together, moving like an arthritic beetle.
I pull the door open. I glance over my shoulder at Lawrence. He’s still perched by the bar, but he doesn’t look up from his phone. Julian and I scuttle onto the street.
‘Where y’place?’ Julian slurs.
‘This way,’ I reply, steering him down onto the side street, scanning the path, taking in a couple of twenty-somethings smoking outside another bar.
Wrapped up in conversation, sucking on their fags, they barely notice us. The park I wanted to deposit Julian in is in their direction, but I can’t risk hobbling past them with him while he’s drugged up. I look down the side street towards my flat. I figure we can go back to mine for a bit. I need to keep Julian out of sight and by the time we come back, the smokers should be gone. It’s not like Julian’s going to remember where I live in the morning. I bought the roofies that guarantee complete amnesia.
We hobble towards my flat. Julian leans into me. He must be thirteen stone, maybe fourteen, built like a brick shithouse, and it’s hard to walk, yet despite him nearly crushing me I know I’m the one in control right now. If I let go, he’ll collapse to the ground like Bambi on ice. I did this to him. Julian is putty in my hands. The feeling is strange: I feel powerful, knowing he’s at my mercy. And as we shuffle along like drunks, I wonder: is this why men use date rape drugs? I’d always thought it was about getting a guaranteed fuck, but now I’m beginning to see it’s probably about having a sense of complete control. It’s about being godlike. Perpetrators wanting to reduce women to toys. Playthings. Real-life blow-up dolls. It could be the fucked-up reason why good-looking men like Julian, who wouldn’t have any trouble getting women into bed, would bother.
We arrive outside my building. There’s some guy, obscured by shadows, lurking in the distance in a dark hoodie, pulled up, a white stripe emblazoned across his back. He walks away, disappearing into the shadows. I glance across the foyer. I’m relieved to see that the concierge isn’t at the front desk, it saves me having to sneak Julian in around the back. I think the concierge is having an affair with one of the residents – an older blonde woman. I’ve seen them sneaking around together.
Julian and I cross reception and get in the lift. Six floors up, we emerge. The hallway smells fresh: jasmine with a hint of rose. I’ve lived here for five years now and I still don’t know where that smell comes from, there’s no air freshener plugged into a socket, no potpourri, but it always hits me when I step out of the lift: home. I reach into my handbag for my key. Julian starts pawing at my waist, groping, his breath heavy on my neck as I unlock my front door, shiver out of his grasp and step into my flat.
Julian follows me in. Even in his drugged state, he pauses for a moment – stupefied, impressed. It’s hard not to be by a massive Mayfair penthouse – pristine clean, decorated with the highest end, most luxurious furnishings around. I can’t help feeling smug. Seeing people gawping over my beautiful flat never gets old.
I head to the open-plan kitchen to pour us glasses of wine. I’ll put half a roofie into Julian’s to send him over the edge. I open the kitchen cupboard and retrieve two wine glasses. Baccarat Crystal for me. A cheap glass I never use for Julian. I’m not having him dropping my crystal. I glance over my shoulder at him. He’s leaning against an armchair for support, blinking at the paintings on the wall: some contemporary pieces I picked up from an independent gallery down the road. I reach for a bottle of Tignanello Antinori Toscana. A great wine. Too good for Julian but I only have good wine. I uncork it and pour a small glass for him, just enough to take away the taste of the roofie I crumble in, before pouring a bigger glass for myself.
I pi
ck it up and take a sip. Notes of plum, cherry and liquorice burst over my tongue. Delicious. I place my glass back down, stuff the cork into the bottle and turn to put it back on the counter, when Julian’s voice distracts me.
‘What’s this?’ he says.
I look round to see him staggering towards my British Fashion Awards trophy: a glass orb on the mantlepiece, engraved with the words, ‘Camilla Black, Editor of the Year, Couture Magazine’ with the British Fashion Awards logo. Julian grabs it, peering at the engraving.
‘Don’t touch that,’ I hiss, swooping over and snatching it out of his hands, cradling it like a baby. If he’d dropped it, I would have killed him right here. Right fucking here.
‘Camilla?’ Julian reads out, raising an eyebrow.
I roll my eyes. Why the fuck has he not passed out yet?! He knows me as Rachel. Rachel off Tinder. As if I’d ever give him my real name. If he googled me, he’d realise within seconds that I’m not your average Tinder girl. The thing is, I’m kind of famous. Not stop-you-in-the-street-and-ask-for-a-selfie famous, or paparazzi famous. I’m a fashion magazine editor, not Taylor Swift, but people do know me. My face appears from time to time in the Evening Standard. I’m always at Fashion Week: London, Paris, New York, Milan. I have a big social media presence. And the magazine has a decent following. I’m the sort of person who can walk into a restaurant in Mayfair and get a table – the best table – without having to give my name, because the staff instantly know who I am. Shop assistants will lavish me with glasses of champagne while I try on expensive shoes and comment on the latest issue. My new dermatologist asked about our recent feature on probiotic skin care before I’d even given him my details. That kind of thing.
‘Camilla’s my flatmate,’ I lie. As if I’d have a flatmate. ‘You shouldn’t just grab other people’s stuff.’
‘Chill out,’ Julian says. Or at least attempts to say. It comes out more like ‘shallot’.
Ignoring him, I go to stash the award in my bedroom where it will be safe. I love that award. When I found Couture magazine, I found a home. A luxury style guide with a modest, but affluent readership, we feature nothing but the highest end labels, the most exclusive of designers. I adore my job there. Ever since I came into money, fashion has been my thing. Getting good clothes was life-changing, and if you think that sounds stupid, then you’ve probably never experienced the magic that comes with a designer wardrobe. Sprinkle the fairy dust of Gucci, Prada, Valentino, Givenchy or Lanvin over yourself and watch as people change the way they behave around you. Watch as they treat you differently. Do favours for you. Respect you. They don’t even realise they’re doing it. Fashion elevates you from the shadows. Good clothes change the shape and tone of your day. They can make an invisible girl an empress. Transform a monster into a queen. I wrap my award in an Hermès scarf and stash it inside my walk-in wardrobe.
When I come back, Julian is lying on my brand-new Amode Minerale corner sofa. Handmade in Italy. Feather and foam cushions. Reverse stitching. The softest calf leather money can buy. I can’t blame him, really. I’d probably want to collapse onto a huge sumptuous sofa after consuming a roofie, two tequilas and a few beers too, but I still feel a prickle of irritation. He’d better not leave a big man-shaped dent on it.
I walk over to the kitchen counter to get the wine. I take a sip as I head back to Julian, handing him a glass, before sitting down in my favourite armchair. I kick off my heels and throw my legs over the arm rest. My armchair is older than my Amode sofa and nowhere near as expensive. I’ll probably be replacing it soon, so I let myself get comfortable. I take another sip of wine and eye Julian over the rim of my glass. He looks totally relaxed, as though melting into the leather.
He blinks slowly, eyes drifting over my flat.
‘You don’t have much stuff,’ he says, slurring.
‘Yes, I do,’ I insist, huffily.
What’s he talking about? I have a ton of stuff: an Artemide Demetra floor lamp in anthracite grey, a Verona oak wood coffee table with a polished marble top, an Elie Saab brushstrokes rug crafted from silk and Tibetan wool, a Cattelan Italia Taxedo Magnum mirror, a genuine 1920s art deco marble sculpture by Enrique Molins-Balleste, a vintage opalescent Ceylan vase by René Lalique. And that’s just in this part of the flat. I mean, what more does he want? I even have framed photos of friends on the walls. And pictures of my family. Or at least, the strangers I call my family.
The Bryces are a random family with lax privacy settings that I found on Facebook. I liked the look of them in all their wide-smiled, rosy-cheeked, wholesome glory, so I saved a few of their pictures and had them printed. They live in Ohio, but you can’t tell that from their photos. I’ve invented a whole backstory for them. Hilary Bryce, who I tell my friends is my mum Anne Black, teaches English at a private school. She’s into gardening, baking, and country walks with the dog (a golden retriever I made up called Sadie). She loves reading, mostly romances, and she’s a bit of a homebody. Prone to anxiety in the city, actually, which is why she never comes to London to visit. It’s a bit much for her. My fictional dad (real name John Bryce, who I’ve renamed Robert) is a mortgage advisor. A quiet, understated man, but diligent and kind. A loving father. I’m an only child and I was brought up in the quaint village of Somerleyton in Suffolk. I attended a private school locally and had an idyllic childhood – fishing for newts in the nearby lake, long dusky walks with Sadie on Sunday afternoons, playing with dolls in my bedroom in the evenings. All my colleagues and friends buy it. I don’t think they care enough to question it, but I still go to Suffolk a few times a year to keep up appearances. I take larky pictures of myself on bike rides, me having picnics, me reading on the porch, which I post to my social media with captions like, ‘Countryside air and strolls! The ultimate medicine for the soul’, or simply, ‘Home sweet home’ with a string of heart emojis. The people viewing these pictures don’t realise I’m alone in all of them, that I use a tripod with a camera on timer, taking fifty shots until I get one that looks sufficiently natural. They don’t know that the gorgeous five-bedroom country house in all the pictures is one I rent every year from Airbnb. Costs a fortune. The owner must think I’m nuts staying there all alone.
Sometimes I find myself wondering what my life might have been like if I had been raised by a family like the Bryces. Maybe I’d feel safe, happy, at peace.
‘You don’t have stuff,’ Julian reiterates, interrupting my thoughts.
I roll my eyes. ‘I have loads of stuff,’ I scoff. ‘What do you call this?’ I gesture towards my life-size Molins-Balleste cold-painted sculpture of a nude woman holding a glass globe.
Julian doesn’t respond.
Why are people so obsessed with stuff? I don’t get it. I hate clutter. Minimalism is my thing. If I could live in an empty room, with just a bed, a few books, and maybe a pot plant, I would. As long as it had a walk-in wardrobe, of course. That’s the only part of my home that I like to be full, that I like to be stuffed. Otherwise, I prefer clean lines and open spaces, the purity of emptiness. Except apparently that’s not socially acceptable. It’s not just Julian who’s piped up about it. One of my friends, Annika, came over for brunch once and asked, with a look of concern in her eyes, if I was ‘struggling to furnish the flat’ as though I didn’t have the money to. That hurt. That’s when I went all out with the furnishings. I may have gone overboard with my choices: my art deco sculpture set me back £16,000 alone, but I was smarting from Annika’s comment when I bought it. I’m still smarting from it now if I’m totally honest.
‘’S’nice flat, babe, come here,’ Julian says, beckoning me towards him.
I raise an eyebrow. Surely, he doesn’t think we’re going to fuck?
‘Give me your phone,’ I say, placing my wine glass on the coffee table. I feel like getting to know Julian a bit better.
‘What? Why?’ he says, although it’s so slurred that it comes out more like ‘wally’. Fitting.
‘I need to make a call. Mine’s
ran out of battery,’ I tell him.
Hmmm. Not my finest lie. I am at home after all, with easy access to both a charger and socket.
‘’kay,’ he says, reaching into his jeans pocket and pulling out his iPhone. He hands it to me.
I smirk. Can you imagine getting a fuckboy to hand over his phone under normal circumstances? As fucking if. That’s the thing about Rohypnol, it makes you completely trusting. Utterly compliant.
‘What’s your PIN?’ I ask.
‘One, three, zero, seven,’ he tells me, without quibbling. His eyes roll into the back of his head. He’s losing it.
Probably his date of birth. I wouldn’t put it past someone like him to be born on the 13th. It was probably a Friday too.
‘Thanks, babe,’ I say, before wandering over to the opposite side of my living room where I have a grand piano. A Yamaha GC2 in polished mahogany. Told you I went all out with the furnishings.
I can’t even read music, although I can play a few bars of ‘Moonlight Sonata’ from having memorised the way one of my more musical friend’s hands moved across the keys at a party once. I sit on the stool and type Julian’s PIN into his phone. The screensaver is of a fluffy white dog – a bichon frise or something. Seriously? The first thing I do is put his phone into airplane mode so it can’t be tracked from here on out. I click into his emails. There are a few from work colleagues – Julian’s a financial controller at a foreign bank – but they’re boring: formal, to-the-point, professional. He placed an order on ASOS recently, which happens to include the shirt he’s wearing tonight. There are dozens of unread finance newsletters. I scroll down. He’s been making a complaint about a protein shake he claims never arrived, the company insists it was signed for. Dull. There are a few other fitness-related things: emails from his gym about new hot yoga classes, spam about energy supplements and activity trackers, blah-blah-blah. An email from [email protected] catches my eye. Could be more interesting. I click into it, but it’s just a message from a friend about booking tickets to see Ed Sheeran at the O2. Fuck me, he’s basic.
