The Sunday Girl

by Pip Drysdale

  I frantically removed the contents of my bag and placed each item on the shiny, blue-tiled floor – wrinkled receipts, maxed-out credit cards, coffee loyalty cards, a couple of long-lost tampons with the plastic broken, and three lipsticks I hadn’t worn in months. Then I upended my handbag over the loo in an attempt to empty it of the remaining leaves.

  And out flew the little bag of coke.

  Fuuuck.

  I reached into the loo, fished it out with my fingers, and then put that into the tampon disposal unit too.

  Then once again I flushed.

  My cheeks were hot and my underarms damp. I reached for more loo roll and wiped out the inside of my bag, attempting to clear the odour, all the while listening for the sounds of anyone else entering. I piled paper into the loo, and as I pressed the button again, I had what I can only describe as a flash of utter clarity amid the fog:

  I need to leave. Before this goes any further. Before something irreversible happens.

  And that was it: the moment I could have changed everything. The moment I could have changed my destiny. The weak spot in Fate’s carefully set up game of dominos. The only moment in which, had I chosen well, I could have stopped those pieces falling altogether. Stopped them in their tracks.

  Because, in that moment, I could have chosen to leave; to never go back to Angus’s building, to stay instead with my mother and forfeit the belongings I had left in his apartment. And if my computer hadn’t been there – work documents and access to my email – I may well have chosen that path. I should have chosen that path. And maybe if I had, everything would have turned out differently.

  But I didn’t.

  Instead, as I stood in that toilet cubicle waiting for the tank to refill, I concocted a plan: I would feign illness, leave work a little early, grab my stuff from his place and then leave. Forever. Before he got home.

  And so the click-click-clicking of falling dominos resumed at full pace. Almost like they’d never paused at all.

  The water settled and I stared into the bowl. The leaves were all gone, so I repacked my handbag, zipped it up and unlocked the cubicle door. Then I walked out and closed it gently behind me. The bathroom was empty again. It was just me and my harrowed reflection in the mirror.

  I steadied my thoughts, slung my bag over my shoulder and went back to my desk.

  ‘Are you ready?’ asked Val as I sat down.

  ‘Huh, do we have a meeting?’ It was almost 4pm on my first day back. And as a rule she never scheduled anything after 2pm.

  ‘No, that pee-test thing,’ she replied, putting on her jacket.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Random drug testing, they emailed about it this morning. You need to read your emails.’ Her voice was firm.

  The room swirled. ‘But I just peed,’ was all I could manage.

  I knew that there would be traces of weed in my urine – I’d smoked with Charlotte just five days before – and in my bag if they checked. I’d already received a verbal warning that week.

  ‘Is it mandatory?’ I asked. Heart fast.

  Angus did this.

  She looked at me with a shrug. ‘Not sure. But it’s a bit hard to say no without looking suspicious … come on, it’ll be over soon.’

  ‘It’s just that I’m really not well,’ I said as I held my abdomen. I could see Jenny from HR chatting to someone, hovering in the doorway. A young girl with dyed red hair was following her, a cardboard tray full of plastic cups with bright yellow lids in her arms.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, her voice softening as her eyes shifted to Jenny. ‘Okay, look it’s your first day back, just go home. But go that way,’ she said, nodding towards the back stairs, ‘so she doesn’t see you. I’ll tell her you did a half-day.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, picking up my bag.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ she said.

  And twenty minutes later I was sitting in traffic, making my way to Angus’s place in a cab and texting Charlotte: Can I come and stay with you for a couple of days? xx

  The flat was quiet. Eerily so. Even Ed was still. My heart beat quickly and the zippers on my boots echoed loudly as I removed them by the door. My palms were damp and my breath was shallow as I ran softly through to the bedroom. It was just before 5pm, so only just starting to get dark, the shadows from neighbouring buildings reflecting on the walls. The bed was bathed in a gentle light coming in through the window.

  And I could smell his cologne.

  It made me feel sick. Spice. Leather. Wood.

  I reached under the bed for my suitcase. It still had the pink ribbon tied around the handle in wait of our ill-fated ski holiday. I laid it on the bed and did a quick sweep of the room. My make-up was lying on the top of the dresser, and I picked it up in rough handfuls, dropping the bottles and brushes into the case. Then my underwear. My dresses. And my turtlenecks.

  My computer.

  I rushed through to his study to grab it – I’d left it charging, plugged into the wall just behind Angus’s chair.

  The light in his study was on when I got there, a deep orange glow – he must have forgotten to turn it off – and the door was just ajar.

  So I pushed it open, and the floorboards creaked as I stepped over the threshold.

  Then as I lifted my eyes and they acclimatised to the light, I saw him, sitting in his aged leather chair, ankle over knee, the way men do. My purple notebook lying open on his lap.

  I wanted to run. To scream. But I couldn’t. And all I kept thinking as I looked into his smiling face was: Sophie Reed probably felt like this. She probably sensed danger too.

  ‘La magie dans la lumiere,’ came his voice. Thick. Dark. Low. He was reading from the notebook. ‘I love that phrase,’ he said. ‘Do you remember when we wrote it down, darling?’

  Paris. Lace curtains. Dusk. Wrinkled sheets.

  I swallowed hard. ‘What are you doing with my notebook?’ My voice came out shaky and high. I could see my computer charging behind him but I couldn’t reach it.

  ‘I’m reading it,’ he said as his index finger tapped hard on the page. Tap, tap, tap. ‘I think it’s time for us to have a little chat.’

  ‘Okay, sure,’ I said, ‘but I’m supposed to be going to see Charlotte, she’s expecting me, but later?’ Then I smiled, nodded and turned to leave.

  ‘No, Taylor. We’re going to talk now,’ he said. The calmness in his voice was menacing.

  I turned back around. He was staring at me.

  ‘What would you like to talk about?’ I asked.

  ‘This,’ he said, his voice calm, lifting up my notebook.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ I asked.

  ‘I found it,’ he said. ‘On Sunday while you were showering.’

  ‘Well, nothing in that book means anything,’ I said. I was trying to laugh it off but my smile was fake and tight. ‘And you shouldn’t be reading through my private things anyway. It’s too easy to misinterpret them.’

  ‘Is it?’ he asked. His fingers flipped through a couple of pages, his eyes skimming them as he went. Then he started to read: ‘I keep thinking about last year,’ he was imitating my voice, ‘wondering where we went so wrong, and about the prostitutes turning up, wondering if I did the right thing.’ His voice was loud now, booming against the wall and his eyes cut through me like a sheet of ice.

  I couldn’t breathe: I knew that look. I stepped backwards and turned to run.

  ‘Don’t you fucking dare!’ he yelled and my bones shook.

  My mouth was open. Dry. But I turned back around to face him. ‘I’d just seen the tape, Angus,’ I said. ‘I was so hurt.’ My hands were shaking. My vision was splotchy.

  ‘I was so hurt.’ He was mimicking me again. ‘Listen to yourself. Like you’re the victim. You ordered prostitutes on my work credit card, you crazy bitch!’ He took a deep breath, calming himself. ‘Taylor, when did you become this person?’

  ‘You went on our ski holiday with another woman, Angus,’ I said. ‘You uploaded a sex t
ape of me to the internet.’ The less he thought I knew, the better.

  He smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I suppose I did.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘But are you really going to stand there and pretend that you didn’t sleep with anybody else while we were apart? Hmm?’

  My mind moved to Jamie. To David. But he was guessing: sure, David had called me during dinner, but we worked together. And how could Angus possibly know anything more?

  And then the horrible answer came hurtling into focus: Therapy? xx

  His hand patted the arm of his chair and he let out a sharp exhale. ‘Come here, darling. Come sit with me.’

  But I was paralysed. I couldn’t move towards him and I couldn’t move away. My throat was closed and the soles of my feet ached.

  ‘I can’t, honey,’ I said. ‘I’m already late.’ Then I turned and walked through to the bedroom. ‘I’m going to see Charlotte,’ I called over my shoulder.

  ‘Like fuck you are,’ he said in a low rumble. I heard his heavy footsteps on the floorboards behind me, but I didn’t look back.

  I slowed my breath and forced myself to speak in a calm and rational voice as my feet tripped towards the bedroom. ‘Honey, I’ll fix it,’ I said, ‘but if I don’t go and see Charlotte now she’ll know something’s up –’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ he said as he walked into the bedroom after me. The air was stifling, thick, and as he sat on the bed it creaked with his weight. He held my purple notebook in his left hand, but it was closed now. I could feel the electricity pulsing through him, his breath coming in a deep, controlled rasp. I was standing near my half-packed suitcase and we were only ten inches apart.

  ‘You know, darling,’ he said, ‘your biggest failing is simply that you don’t know your place in the world.’

  I was blinking fast as I watched his eyes, his thoughts. But they were barely moving. It was as though the words that fell from his mouth had been scripted, memorised, rehearsed. ‘I mean, you really believe that you could win against somebody like me. But you can’t. I’ll always be one step ahead of you because I’m smarter than you. And I’ll always win, because I’m stronger than you.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I mean, I could fucking pay to have you killed if I fancied. It’s not even that expensive.’ And there was an edge to his voice – I knew he meant it.

  Sophie Reed’s face flashed before me. And in that moment I knew: running out that door would do nothing to keep me safe. It would just make me more of a liability.

  And so I stood dead still, watching as he tried to control himself. ‘I just don’t understand why you keep making it so fucking hard,’ he said; his voice was high pitched and he was spitting out his words and shaking his head.

  How am I going to get out of this?

  ‘I mean, did you really think I wouldn’t know that it was you?’ he asked, his eyes wide with seething irritation. ‘I knew the moment Candice called me. Long before I found this,’ he said, waving my purple notebook around. ‘I mean, who the fuck else would be dumb enough to do something like that? Maybe Candice, but let’s be fair, she doesn’t have it in her.’

  My thoughts scrambled.

  ‘Honestly, I didn’t think you did either,’ he continued. ‘You surprised me. And you … well, you didn’t have the faintest clue that I knew.’ He smiled. ‘You should have seen your face when I pulled out that yellow ribbon …’ He laughed, like an evil child who’d caught a rabbit in a trap and was taunting it. ‘But that ribbon was just as sexy the second time as the first.’ Wink.

  I could feel my face slacken.

  ‘Although, I am intrigued, how did you know which girls I used the most? And who on earth did you tell them you were? My secretary?’

  He was looking at me now: expectant. His monologue was over and he wanted an answer. And all I kept thinking was: The Way of War is a Way of Deception.

  ‘I told them I was your girlfriend,’ I said in a small voice, looking down at my suitcase. ‘That it was a surprise and I’d be there too.’ I looked back up at him and swallowed. Lying was dangerous, but I couldn’t let him know I had access to his emails.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘you clever little minx.’ Then he stood up and the mattress creaked. He moved towards me: I could smell the spice of his cologne as he reached one hand behind my head and ran his fingers through my hair.

  His eyes were mere inches from mine: deep black pools where the whiskey hue usually lay.

  Then he grabbed my hair and held me very still and seethed: ‘But enough now.’ His grip tightened and I let out a yelp. My breath was uneven and I could hear him swallow as he watched me with narrowed eyes.

  I tried to nod but he was holding too tight and my eyes filled with tears. ‘Okay,’ I cried. ‘I promise.’

  Then he let go and my breath grew deep and raspy.

  ‘Good. Because I wouldn’t want you to do anything silly, darling. You might get hurt.’ He was standing so close to me: I could feel the heat from his body and the hairs from his heritage green jumper – the one I’d bought him – on my bare arms. I looked down to avoid his gaze and shook my head fiercely. The tears that had been welling in my eyes rolled down my cheeks.

  Then he cocked his head to the side and looked at me. ‘How was your first day back at work today, darling?’ he asked, and he gave a little smile.

  ‘It was fine,’ I said. Still looking down.

  ‘Are you sure it was fine?’ he asked. ‘Or are you fibbing again?’ His index finger found its way to underneath my chin and guided my head up to face him. ‘You had a little test today? Didn’t you?’ he said, nodding.

  I stared at him, mute.

  ‘Oh hurry up, darling, just say yes, it’s not that hard,’ he said, impatient.

  ‘Yes,’ I said quickly. ‘Why did you –’ I started.

  ‘Why did I do that?’ he finished for me. ‘Because, darling, I’m not sure I can trust you anymore. I mean, you just tried to lie to me. And you’re far less dangerous to me if your drug use is on record.’ He smiled sadly. ‘Nobody believes the word of a pothead, do they?’

  I looked at him, my face blank.

  ‘You see? You’re your own worst enemy, darling. You bring it on yourself.’

  My mind whizzed. ‘How did you even –’

  ‘A phone call. A simple phone call saying I’d seen people smoking pot in the car park that morning. Easy-peasy.’

  My lower lip quivered as he released me from his grip and sat back down on the bed. ‘Darling,’ he said, ‘I’m not a bad person. And I don’t want to hurt you. Really. I want to marry you.’ His fingers interlaced with mine, and I forced myself to not jerk my hand away. ‘That would be better. But that doesn’t mean I won’t hurt you. If I have to. So, it’s your choice how this ends.’

  I watched him. I think he actually believed what he was saying. That he was justified. Good, even.

  That was when my phone started to ring: it was lying on the bed and we could both see Charlotte’s name flashing back at us.

  I looked at him and he looked at me. My pulse went wild.

  ‘Let it go to voicemail,’ he said. It was an order, and so we both stood there, watching it ring.

  ‘Now send her a message and tell her that you’ll see her some other night.’

  I picked up my phone and typed in the message: Hi honey, let’s do another night, I’ll call you tomorrow. xx

  ‘Show it to me,’ he said. So I did. And then I pressed send.

  ‘Well done, darling,’ he said, taking the phone from my hands and throwing it back onto the bed.

  ‘Now,’ he said, gripping me by the wrist and leading me through to the sitting room. ‘There are some things that need to happen for us to get back on track. First you need to call Candice and tell her that it was you, not me, who ordered those fucking prostitutes on that card.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, my voice gentle. I needed to appease him.

  He stood by the booze cabinet and poured himself a Scotch.

  ‘Sit,’ he said.


  And I did as I was told.

  I looked around the room: a lamp could be a weapon.

  He picked up his glass and moved slowly towards the chair on the other side of the coffee table. I remained alone on his black leather sofa, my hands clasped in my lap.

  ‘You see, darling,’ he said as he sipped, ‘we are actually sort of perfect for each other. All of this proves it. I mean, if you’re really honest with yourself you’ll see that we’re the same.’ He was nodding. ‘I need a wife, and you need a … a me.’

  I was listening. I was trying to compute. And all the while I just kept looking around the room, wondering where he kept that fucking phone.

  ‘What about Kim? You don’t want to marry her?’ I asked. But my voice was small and desperate. And it made him smile.

  ‘Absolutely not. Kim is too … I need someone more … someone like you. Someone who knows how to dress and can make conversation at business dinners. Besides, darling, you know too much about me now; I can’t afford to have you wandering around out there.’ He said this with a flick of his hand. ‘You’re mine.’

  ‘Oh,’ was all I could manage. My eyes burned, and I clenched my teeth.

  ‘Jesus, woman,’ he laughed. ‘Are you ever happy? I mean, all you’ve wanted since we met was to get married. And I’m so far out of your league it’s ridiculous. You should be thrilled,’ he continued, his tone darkening. ‘But, darling, my patience is running fucking thin, so you think hard before you do anything else stupid. This is the last chat like this we are going to have. Do you understand?’

  His eyes bore into me and I nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, a calm gaze landing on my face. ‘So, yes, we’ll get married. A nice spring wedding. If you want Fiji, we can do Fiji. And then, I suppose, babies,’ he continued.

  ‘Speaking of which, let’s start practising.’ He downed the rest of his drink and put his glass down heavily on the table beside him. Then he grabbed my hand and led me back through to the bedroom.

  He threw me down roughly on the bed and lay on top of me. He was heavy on my ribcage and I struggled to breathe; I let out a small whimper and his hand reached into my underwear.