The Sunday Girl

by Pip Drysdale

  Because I always said no.

  ‘I’m in,’ said Harry. ‘How about you, darling?’ He was addressing Emma. She was a pretty young Anglo-Indian girl: perfect dark skin, tiny waist, unpainted nails and wearing a crimson lace dress. She was very unlike his usual type and I wanted to warn her about Harry. He had blond hair and a cherub-like face, but a big black hole where his heart should be. Birds of a feather, I guess.

  ‘Sure,’ she said, scanning the table for reassurance.

  ‘Yay,’ said Alison, clapping her hands and looking to her husband.

  ‘Of course,’ Jeremy said, pulling a leather cigar case from his inner coat pocket like he’d been expecting it all along.

  Angus raised his eyebrows at me and smiled. ‘Sweetheart?’

  This was my chance. So I lifted my eyes to his, and with a shy smile I said, ‘Okay.’

  Act coy. Smile. Play the part. Make him feel like he had total control. Make him believe I was guileless. Make him lower his guard far enough that I could navigate my way out of this mess.

  Angus grinned, turned on his heel and continued on his way to the bathroom to snort his coke. I could hear him roughly opening the bathroom cabinet, the chinking of jars and toiletries as he looked for a small mirror, then the sound of glass smashing.

  ‘Shit,’ came Angus’s voice. Then: ‘Darling!’

  A moment later he returned from the bathroom and sat at the table, his hands drumming a rhythm on the wood that jarred against the classical record he had playing softly in the background.

  ‘Baby, I broke something in the bathroom,’ he said, addressing me. ‘Also, go get a pen and paper to keep score.’ Even in the first flushes of love I’d hated him when he was on coke.

  ‘And you, pussy.’ He pointed an outstretched finger at Harry. ‘Matchsticks or money?’

  ‘Fuck off,’ Harry replied. ‘Money.’

  Emma watched on silently while Jeremy bit off the end of his cigar.

  ‘This is going to be so super fun!’ Alison said, leaning forward to smile at Ed, whose cage had been moved to beside the table. His little feet were dancing back and forth in celebration. ‘He’s such a beautiful bird.’

  ‘Of course he is,’ Angus said.

  ‘And clever. Watch this,’ said Harry. ‘’Ello Ed!’ he said.

  ‘’Ello Ed!’ Ed replied.

  I left them to it and went to find a pen. ‘Honey, where are the pens?’ I yelled back to Angus from his office.

  ‘Fuck, I don’t know, somewhere!’ he called back.

  I eyed the two highlighters in the mug by his computer. I decided on the pink one and took some paper from one of the printer trays.

  ‘Cards?’ I yelled again.

  ‘Bottom drawer,’ he yelled back, annoyance in his voice.

  I opened the drawer and found them. But I didn’t return to the table straightaway, I went through to the bedroom and put on a string of pearls and three bangles. I’d been wearing just five things: my navy blue dress, a pair of knickers, tights and two black kitten-heeled shoes. And, unlike Alison, I didn’t plan on getting naked.

  ‘Did you clean up the mess in the bathroom?’ Angus asked as I placed the highlighter, paper and cards on the table.

  ‘I’ll do that now,’ I replied. I went through to the kitchen to grab a rag.

  He’d smashed a bottle of my eye serum. La Prairie. Expensive. And small glittery pieces of glass covered the bath mat and floor. But I cleaned it up without complaint: The Sunday Girl never complains.

  I returned to the table just in time to hear Angus announce that we would play Texas Hold’em.

  ‘Okay,’ I replied with a shrug, ‘but I don’t know how to play.’

  That wasn’t true: I’d gone to boarding school and had no pocket money. Poker was how I’d kept myself in diet pills, cough syrup and mascara.

  Beside me sat the highlighter, a piece of paper and an untouched glass of wine.

  ‘Oh darling, I’ll walk you through it,’ said Angus. ‘Hang on, did you just put on jewellery?’ he asked with a smile.

  ‘Yes, I did; you guys need a handicap,’ I said. ‘Emma, do you want something?’

  ‘I’m okay, thanks,’ she replied, smiling. Her hands were under the table, presumably holding Harry’s.

  We were arranged boy – girl – boy – girl – boy – girl.

  ‘Okay, whatever makes you happy, darling,’ Angus said with a smile as he leaned over and gently squeezed my nose with two fingers.

  I winced at the ease with which he could pretend he loved me.

  ‘Seriously, I haven’t played in years, and all I remember from back then is that I was totally crap,’ I lied.

  ‘Well, practice makes perfect, and the only reason you’re crap at games like poker is that you are such a good person,’ he said with a wink.

  I smiled.

  ‘But that’s why I love you,’ he added.

  ‘Why do you love me?’ I’d asked one night. We were in his bedroom, the light low, and we’d just made love.

  ‘Because you’re such a good person,’ he’d said. ‘You are the sort of person I need to marry.’

  ‘Do you want to get married?’ I’d asked, turning my head to gaze at him.

  He rolled over to face me, our eyes met and the world went fuzzy. I would have given anything to be his wife back then. To call him mine.

  ‘Of course. I need to get married,’ he’d said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said. ‘Why do you need to get married?’ It had seemed like a strange choice of words.

  ‘For work. You get over a certain age and you need to be married. People respond to you better. It makes it easier for them to relate to you.’

  ‘But don’t you want to get married for love?’

  ‘You don’t choose a wife because of love unless you are an idiot.’

  ‘What?’ I asked, and my insides ached.

  ‘You choose somebody suitable. People judge you on your wife.’

  ‘So, you don’t love me?’ An earthquake brewed in my chest.

  ‘I love you as much as I can,’ he’d said.

  I should have left right then and there.

  I handed the cards to Angus. He’d elected himself dealer and was sitting beside me, his thigh tight against mine.

  ‘Let’s ditch the small blind. Too few of us,’ Angus said to the table as he took the cards and began to shuffle.

  Alison, who had arrived in only a woollen dress, boots and a single bangle – and, with any luck, underwear – smiled eagerly. She arched her back, fiddled on her phone and then handed it to me.

  ‘Here you go, this is a list of hands. The ones at the top are the best,’ she said with a smile. I took her phone and pretended to study the screen.

  ‘So, darling, essentially everyone gets two cards. Then we go around the table and bet on those cards. Then we put some more cards in the middle – that’s called the flop – then bet again, put another in, bet again and then another. You’re trying to form the best hand you can from a combination of the cards in your hand and those on the table … a bit like life. You’ll get the hang of it.’ He winked at me.

  I smiled.

  Jeremy lit his cigar and Alison shuffled around on her seat, probably wishing she still possessed some sort of pubic-hair cushioning. Harry whispered into Emma’s ear, making her giggle. Angus dealt and I watched.

  I had the Queen of Hearts and the Two of Spades. Alison was the first to bet: three fifty-pence pieces. Then Jeremy: he matched her. Emma and Harry followed suit. As did I. Then Angus.

  Down came the flop: King of Hearts, Two of Diamonds, Ace of Hearts and Jack of Spades.

  I looked at my hand and feigned confusion. Angus peered at me over his cards. ‘That good, darling?’ he asked, his foot touching mine.

  I needed to flirt back.

  ‘Maybe,’ I smiled. Intimacy is disturbingly easy to fake.

  ‘Really?’ he laughed.

  ‘Yes, amazing!’ I fake laughed back, rolling my eyes.r />
  ‘Oh my God, yes, yes, yes!’ Alison said to her cards, never one to be outshone. She let out some sort of squeal and started bopping up and down.

  Emma looked on, confused. Harry laughed. Jeremy sucked on his cigar. Angus frowned.

  And then: ‘Happy birthday, sir,’ screeched Ed.

  My ears rang.

  My breath caught in my throat.

  My demeanour was calm but my senses were straddling an electric fence.

  I looked at Angus.

  He was already looking at me.

  ‘Is it your birthday?’ asked Alison, her forehead crinkled and her voice high.

  Jeremy exhaled a cloud of smoke, his eyes on Angus, and I wondered if he knew about the prostitutes. Then my eyes moved to Harry: did he know? My cheeks grew hot and my hands damp.

  Angus laughed. ‘No, it’s not,’ he said, then: ‘It’s a funny story, really … Darling, why don’t you tell it?’

  I swallowed hard and tried to read his face. But it was useless.

  And my memory was failing me: I couldn’t remember the exact details of Angus’s prostitute disclosure. Did he tell me about the prostitutes saying: ‘Happy birthday, sir’? I only remembered him talking about the yellow ribbons. But then, why would he suggest that I tell the story? Everyone was looking at me. And I was struggling to breathe, grasping for an excuse, a reason, something. But nothing came. So eventually I just said: ‘Huh?’ Then I pretended to focus on my cards and added: ‘I don’t know, Ed hates me.’

  Angus’s eyes were still on me, I could feel their heat, and a thin film of sweat was forming at my hairline.

  ‘Oh, never mind,’ Angus said, his leg still pressed hot against mine.

  The betting continued around me and the game went on. But my mind was elsewhere. I tried to steady my shaking hands. I took a sip of water and willed my vision to unblur …

  ‘Darling, it’s your turn,’ he said.

  ‘Shit. Do I have to put in money?’ I asked and he laughed.

  ‘Yes, sweetheart.’ His eyes darted to Harry and back again. ‘You do. You have to match what everyone else bet, unless you fold.’

  I looked at my cards: my hand was too strong.

  ‘Okay, I fold,’ I said.

  ‘Are you sure? You can’t unfold,’ he warned.

  ‘But I don’t want to lose any money, so, I fold.’

  He sat watching me, considering. ‘Are your cards really that shit?’

  ‘I don’t know, sort of.’

  ‘Why don’t you go one more round.’ It was posed as a question but sounded like an order. But if I went one more round I might win. And that was contrary to strategy.

  ‘No, I fold.’

  ‘Okay, do it your way,’ he replied, ‘but can I see your cards so I can help you?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, turning them to face him.

  He looked at me, annoyed. ‘Those were great cards.’

  ‘They were?’ I said.

  ‘Sweetheart, you can’t just fold every time there’s some risk, you know. The risk is where the fun is … it’s like that song says: you gotta know when to bluff and when to run away.’

  Even with the lyrics all scrambled and ruined, I couldn’t help being struck by how succinctly a country song had essentially summed up The Art of War.

  ‘Anyway, the cards you are dealt are just dumb luck. The key to this game is being able to read people,’ he added.

  ‘Any other tips?’ I asked in my best rookie voice as I glanced around the table.

  Emma shrugged.

  ‘Never overplay your hand,’ offered Jeremy.

  ‘Never bet more than you can afford to lose,’ said Harry.

  ‘If in doubt, bluff,’ said Alison.

  ‘But most importantly,’ said Angus, pausing for dramatic effect: ‘Always choose a worthy opponent.’

  Wink.

  ‘It’s more fun that way.’

  Two hours later Angus was shirtless, Alison was happily naked (nothing most of us hadn’t seen before), I’d spent a lot of time folding so had only relinquished my necklace, Emma and Harry had gone home after much whispering and giggling, and Jeremy, still smoking his cigars, was fully clothed, with little piles of money either side of him.

  The room was thick with smoke and Angus had just returned from the kitchen with another bottle of wine.

  ‘None for me,’ I said, placing my hand over the top as he moved around to refill glasses.

  ‘What? Nonsense,’ he said. ‘You love your wine.’

  ‘I just don’t feel great,’ I said.

  ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’ asked Alison, all wide-eyed: first the fiancé comment, now this.

  ‘No,’ I laughed, aware that Angus was watching me. I needed to keep a clear head, couldn’t let booze soften the edges.

  ‘Darling, I’m going to fill it up anyway,’ Angus said, ‘just in case.’

  I smiled.

  ‘Unless … does darling want to do an itty-bitty line?’

  ‘No sweetie, I’m fine,’ I said, trying to soften the expression in my eyes.

  ‘Nice hand,’ he winked, having seen my cards. And there was nothing in that wink to warn me.

  If I hadn’t found that green thumb drive in his drawer the day before, there would be nothing in his eyes to betray who he really was. What he was capable of. Was there anything in mine to warn him?

  ‘Sorry,’ Alison yawned, covering her open mouth with her hands while happily exposing her naked chest. Her eyes were getting heavy and Jeremy’s were red, it was just past 2am and we were almost at the end of another hand. I knew they’d leave soon and then I’d be left alone with Angus. And every time I imagined him touching me the little hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I didn’t want them to go.

  And that’s when I had an idea.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I’ll be right back,’ I said. ‘Carry on without me if you want.’ Then I got up and went quickly through to the bathroom. I reached into the cabinet below the sink and pulled out a tampon. I left the wrapper in full view in the bin and the box on the edge of the sink. And then I flushed the unused tampon down the loo.

  Angus wouldn’t touch me if he thought I had my period. He was squeamish about that. It wasn’t due for a week, but unless Angus had been counting my little white pills, he wouldn’t know that.

  I got back just in time to find them standing up from the table, Angus fetching their coats.

  ‘Thanks so much for coming,’ I said; manners are manners. Then we air-kissed our goodbyes and they left.

  We brushed our teeth in silence, my pulse thumping in my neck as I let him go into the bathroom first. Gave him time to notice the wrapper. The box. Then, just to drive it home, I called to him for two paracetamol.

  I remained safe from Angus’s touch that night. But even so, I couldn’t sleep. And as he lay there, a heavy stranger snoring on the mattress beside me, I was still but violently awake, staring at him as I struggled to make sense of it all, and stuck on the same unanswerable question:

  Why?

  Then finally, at around 4am I drifted into sleep, my last thoughts on David and his phone call and the possibility that the following day I would finally have some time alone to search the flat for something I could use.

  And then, back to David.

  sunday

  Master Sun said: ‘On the day they are ordered into battle, they sit up and weep, wetting their clothes with their tears; they lie down and weep, wetting their cheeks.’

  19 FEBRUARY

  Angus was already up. His weight was no longer behind me and the bed felt empty. Big. Cold. Colder than the air beyond it. My eyelids were heavy and the room was dark. But my mind, frantic the night before, was logical. The way it always is in the mornings. And it was working overtime. All I wanted was to find another explanation: another reason for why Angus might have had those files. But every time I tried to join the dots another way I’d remember that text document and the comments in the margin.

  Everything in
the Guardian article was right there on that thumb drive, just a little less eloquently phrased.

  And that was where all alternate readings came unstuck.

  I let out a small moan and my eyes flicked open: a glare was edging its way in from the sitting room, piercing the black. My phone was charging on the table by the bed and I reached for it: another missed call from my mother. I put it back down, exhaled loudly and stood up. The air was like ice and it prickled my skin, so I wrapped myself in a thick bathrobe then wandered through to the kitchen.

  Flicking on the kettle, I spooned coffee into the cafetière and looked over at Ed. He was watching me from his new favourite spot near the balcony window and let out a wolf whistle.

  Angus’s running shoes were missing from the front door but I didn’t know when he’d be back. I couldn’t risk being caught rifling through drawers with no alibi, so I needed to wait.

  My mind spiralled back to the night before – Happy birthday, sir – and my heart picked up speed.

  How much danger was I really in?

  The kettle boiled, I poured the steaming water and the smell of coffee overtook the kitchen. As I pushed down the plunger, my mind traced back over the events of the night before, of the week before: a finger trying to learn Braille, but failing.

  The information was all there but nothing made sense.

  Because there was such darkness, such smugness, in his eyes last night when he’d said: ‘Darling, why don’t you tell it?’ How could he possibly know it was me?

  I opened the fridge and pulled out the milk. Charlotte’s little packet of weed was still sitting there on the top shelf. I poured the coffee, added milk and took a sip. It was bitter.

  Maybe it was a test. He suspects me and wanted to see how I’d react.

  My mind flew back to that little bag of coke, a pink elastic band tying it shut, and all the booze he’d downed the night before.

  What happened to NA? The meetings?

  I hadn’t witnessed him going to many meetings in the time we’d been back together, but I knew he’d gone to at least one on Valentine’s Day. And he had a sponsor. People don’t get a sponsor lightly. But then again, he’d taken that little bag of coke from Harry like it was nothing – it was as if he’d never given up in the first place. But that makes no sense. I know he has a sponsor. I’ve heard him calling; I’ve heard the phone ring.