Then I would forget all of my beauty woes over a glass of Chardonnay or three, because who cares about such shallow stuff anyway, which further exacerbated the weight problem and dull, lifeless skin.
I gaze at my face in the mirror. I am ready, but I still have an hour to kill. I apply another slick of gloss to my already-perfect pout, wondering what to do with myself.
But this is a rhetorical question because I know exactly what I am going to do with myself.
CHAPTER TWO
Stalking Tanya on social media is akin to picking at a scab – initially gratifying, then dissatisfying, and ultimately painful. I am fully aware of how unhealthy it is, constantly opening up this old, festering wound, but I can do no more to stop myself than I can prevent the sun from rising tomorrow. She has, unbeknown to her, become the centre of my Universe – someone whom I orbit around.
The point of my existence is to ruin hers.
I perch there on the edge of the three-seater, plain grey sofa with the soft-to-the-touch cushions in this tiny living-room come kitchen. I suppose that the place looks nice enough – it’s not like I’m poverty stricken or anything, and I can afford nice things – and if there were more rooms like this one, then my pad would be positively luxurious. But there aren’t more rooms. There is only my small bedroom with the ‘en-suite’ bathroom that is joined to this room by the broom-cupboard of a hallway.
With trembling hands, I open up her Facebook page. I wonder if she even knows that she’s open for all and sundry to spy on. Facebook is constantly changing its privacy settings, catching people like Tanya out. Or perhaps she knows and doesn’t care. She should care. There are a lot of weirdos out there, which is precisely why I don’t use social media. Okay, so I’m on it now, but this is a fake account on privacy lockdown with no friends or personal details. I have called myself Claire Brinkley, a completely random, made-up name. I only use it to look at her. Her husband is far more sensible, for he doesn’t use social media at all.
I stare at her name – Tanya Crawford – next to her beautiful profile picture. ‘Crawford’ is her married name, she was ‘Everett’ back when she was a husband-thieving, life-wrecking slut. Not that she has ever stopped being those things, because a leopard doesn’t change its spots. And she must pay for the things she has done.
I realise that I am holding my breath, and I shakily exhale. I force myself to look at her softly-smiling headshot – a selfie – and feel the hatred bubbling and boiling in my guts.
Look at her, a little voice taunts in my mind. Just look at that expression. Like butter wouldn’t melt…
She makes me feel sick. As well as her beauty, which is of the delicate variety, she positively radiates innocence, warmth and kindness. I hate her for that. Her face is a complete lie. She may look like an angel, but she is a whore. She is far more wholesome looking than me, and I will never be as beautiful, no matter what I do.
I hate, hate, hate her. Seething, I flick through her collection of profile pictures – something that I have done a thousand times before. In some, she is with Luke, and the rest are just of her. She is never pictured with anyone other than Luke, nor does her baby ever feature in her profile pictures. There are thirty photos in total in this album, each one more sickening than the last.
She looks so much like Nicole Kidman – a young, plastic-free version with loose, rather than spiral curls – it makes me want to reach into the computer screen and claw out her baby-blue eyes. And what makes it worse is that Luke bears more than a passing resemblance to Tom Cruise. I wonder if she married him for that reason. No, I doubt it. His vast wealth surely played a part.
Now I have finished with that torture, I head on over to her timeline, which is also open. This is where I find all her happy-family pictures, mainly consisting of photos of her little girl, Bella. She doesn’t post much, perhaps once a month, but they are all of Bella and occasionally Bella and Luke. She never gets political, or posts stupid memes, or goes off on a rant about anything. Instead, she paints a picture of glorious, domestic bliss.
I think I want to kill her.
When I can stand it no more, I slam down the lid. Scratching my Tanya-scab is no longer pleasurable, but has slipped over into the realms of pain.
There are still forty-five minutes before I have to leave. I place the laptop next to me on the sofa, and stare dead ahead at a blank spot on the white wall.
And I wait.
CHAPTER THREE
I have arranged to meet Crystal in The King’s Head at four forty-five, figuring that would give me plenty of time to debrief her.
But now, as I sit here opposite her, I am beginning to think that I may have overestimated the length of time that our debriefing was going to take. It will probably be at least half past five by the time Luke makes his appearance – it’s now five o’clock, and I’ve already gone over everything twice.
I’m irritated that I have to make conversation with this silly girl – she of the disastrous life choices – and I really don’t want to be here, talking to her. She serves as a stark reminder that I’m not so far removed her, when it all boils down to it. That, if everything goes to plan, I’m not much better than a prostitute myself.
“Is Crystal your real name?” I ask, doing my best to ignore her empty glass, as gin and tonic isn’t exactly the cheapest drink in this establishment. Besides, her hourly rate that the agency quoted me is already high enough – I hadn’t even factored in the cost of keeping her in drinks on top of that.
“No, but it could be, right? Some of the girls at my agency have really stupid names, like Candy Kane, or Kitty Von Teese. I think it’s really dumb. You gotta keep things real.”
I do my best to keep my expression neutral. “Yeah.”
She is fiddling with her empty glass – a pointed gesture that I know can’t go ignored much longer.
“It’s dangerous for us to use our real names,” she says in an ominously low voice. “Especially our surnames.”
“Right,” I say, all the while musing to myself that her time as a prostitute must have addled her brain. That, and all the drugs she had undoubtedly ingested has made her paranoid.
But then, I’m a fine one to talk, because for the purposes of tonight, I’m not going by my real name of Daisy Montgomery (I kept my married name, not reverting back to my maiden name of Barton) and instead have christened myself Alice Jones.
She picks up her glass, goes to drink it, then places it back on the tabletop with a loud sigh.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Would you like another drink?”
“Oh, yes please.”
“Right.”
Scraping back my high, wooden stool over the dark oak boards, I make my way over to the equally dark bar.
It had been relatively quiet when I had first entered The King’s Head, but now it is beginning to fill up again. Although, no pub in the London borough of Liverpool Street is ever truly quiet. I glance around myself. Most people in here appear to be fresh off the train – the majority of whom are harried-looking couples of varying ages, all trailing little suitcases on wheels behind them. The rest of the cliental consists of men in suits. I assume that they must work in the financial district, like Luke. I wonder if any of them know Luke. Maybe. He’s a high-powered kind of guy whose name carries weight. There are very few women in here, apart from the travellers washed up from the station.
I order the drinks – two more gin and tonics – and look over at my girl, sitting there alone at our high, round table and staring out of the window. Not that she could actually see anything, for the lower portion of the window is frosted, with ‘The King’s Head’ painted on the glass, the lettering backwards from the inside.
As the good-looking young barman, who is dressed in black from head to toe, whips up my drinks, I study the girl.
I had asked her to dress conservatively, to not look too obvious in our email exchange this morning. I had told her to think ‘PR girl in the city’. I’m guessing that t
his is her idea of not too obvious and smart. She is bare-legged, wearing a mid-thigh, fitted, pin-striped grey skirt – a skirt that rides all the way up as she sits there cross-legged on her stool. Her shoes are black stilettos and she is wearing a black halter-neck top. She hasn’t brought a coat with her, despite the unpredictable, mid-March weather. I think, more than anything, it is the lack of coat that makes her look cheap. The biggest giveaway as to who – and what – she is. Also, her choice of clothes is just odd. Maybe odd is too strong a word, it’s just that the end result looks a little off. A little too much like a girl playing dress-up.
Or maybe this is just because I know what she is.
I carry the drinks back over to the girl, feeling distinctly dreamlike and strange, like none of this is real. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if it’s not too late for me. I could just turn around right now, walk out the door and forget about them – about Luke and Tanya Crawford.
But I can’t do that. I’m in too deep. A chain of events was set in motion two and a half years ago and I am powerless to stop it. I have been led irreversibly to this one moment. There is no turning back now.
I’m addicted to you, don’t you know that you’re toxic, Britney Spears chides me, her knowing, sarcastic voice hanging suspended in the air around me, keeping me well and truly topped up with that strong sense of unreality.
The girl – Crystal – half-heartedly smiles at me when I place our drinks on the table, but she doesn’t thank me and proceeds to knock back a third of the glass in one hit.
I watch her closely, thinking how dull her blue eyes appear. The strangest thought pops into my head, that her eyes are dirty because she hasn’t rinsed them properly. Because there’s no better word to describe them than grubby, the blue seemingly smeared with a layer of brown sludge. Or maybe it’s just the hard emptiness of her soul shining out.
I catch myself, realising that I’m being uncharitable, but there’s no escaping it – she is one hard young woman. And yes, she is still young – her profile on the agency’s website cites her age as twenty-four. I believe it, even though she looks much older. It’s not that she’s wrinkled – she isn’t – but her face is hard, devoid of character and empathy. Her features are sharp, her thin lips severe, her blonde hair a shade too pale and a touch too straight. The overall impression she gives off is one of cold emptiness.
Does it matter? I tell myself crossly. I have a propensity towards overanalysing everything and everyone. I don’t think I used to be this way, it was only when I discovered that my husband was cheating on me did it start. Like I was somehow trying to make up for my lack of judgement from back then. I became obsessed with reading people, trying to figure out when they were lying, when their thoughts didn’t match the words coming out of their mouths. I concede, that it’s a bit like closing the stable door after the horse has bolted, but what can I say? I am a damaged woman.
“Can we go over it again?” Crystal asks.
I sigh. Are my communication skills really that dire, or is she really just that dim?
“You are my wingman. Or wingwoman. Your prime objective is to get me talking to him by any means possible. And it’s also just to be here with me so I don’t look like a friendless loser.”
“Okay. But I’m confused. Are we going to have a threesome or not?”
“I don’t know,” I reply honestly. “Maybe.”
The thought of it doesn’t exactly fill me with joy. Neither does it repulse me. A body is just a body. I’m not gay and I don’t think that I’m bisexual. Since Josh died, I have a curious detachment when it comes to sex. It’s similar to the way I feel about my own revamped body, in that, I can objectively appreciate its beauty, but it leaves me indifferent.
I haven’t always thought this way, but then, I’m not the woman I once was. After losing Josh, and my one true love, my darling little girl, I don’t think that I’ll ever allow myself to be close to anyone ever again.
I don’t think that I’m capable of it.
For a second, my daughter’s beautiful little face flits through my mind, but I push it away. I can’t think about her. It kills me.
“What’s not to get?” I ask, focussing on the matter at hand.
“I just don’t know how you want me to be around this guy. Do you want me to flirt with him or not? Like, do you want me to hit on him?”
“No. I just want you to go with the flow. Be intuitive. Can you be intuitive, Crystal?” She looks at me blankly and I’m guessing not. “Look. I want him to have sex with both of us, that would be the optimum outcome. But he may not want that, and it’s not something I’m even going to hint at, not unless I’m one-hundred percent positive that’s what he wants. This is why I need you to start off by playing it subtle. He may just want me, in which case, I need you to make a swift exit. You know that you’re still getting paid, no matter what the outcome. Although, obviously, you get more if you have to have sex. Your prime objective is to help us get talking to him and his group of work colleagues. And remember, you are a PR girl that works in the city, and you used to date my brother, which is how we met.”
“Do you have a brother?”
“No.” I’m faintly irritated by the inane question. Like it has any bearing on anything. “Look, Crystal. I just want to look like I’m an ordinary girl, out for a drink with her friend, that’s really the main thing.”
“So what do you do for a living, in case this guy asks me, you know, seeing as you’re my best friend, and all.”
It’s a fair point. I don’t actually do anything, not since Josh died. I haven’t needed to. After I sold our three-bedroomed house, reaped the benefit of his life insurance, and emptied out our saving accounts, I was more than comfortably off. Josh was the only child of rich parents, the last of whom – his father – died seven years ago, leaving him his house. We had long since sold that house, pocketing the healthy sum that was left over. I have never known financial hardship.
“It doesn’t matter what I do, but for argument’s sake, let’s say I work in PR. With you.”
But you don’t do that, like, really?”
“No.”
The fact is, I used to be a social worker, but I can’t see how that’s any of her business. Plus, it might annoy a girl like Crystal, who would view such people as prod-nosed, judgemental arseholes, out to set the law on people like her and ruin lives. That wasn’t true – I used to want to help people. To make a difference. The before me used to give a toss about others.
“Why PR? Why not say your real job?”
“Because I’m not comfortable being entirely myself tonight. I’m mostly acting a part, like you are.”
That’s not entirely the truth, but again, I don’t see why I should discuss this with her. The real reason is I happen to think that it sounds like the perfect man-baiting job. Like, it makes me seem intelligent, but not intimidatingly so. It’s not too dour, badly paid, or mundane a job, yet not too glamorous as to be unbelievable or too dazzling. It makes me the girl-next-door with looks and brains. The very requisites for such a career is friendliness, charm, diplomacy and tact – the very things that I want him to see me as possessing… Or maybe I’m just overanalysing things again. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Crystal drains her drink – again. I look down at mine. I’ve barely touched it.
“So, what if this guy fancies me and not you?” she asks.
The thought has occurred to me, and it is, of course, the Worst Possible Outcome. I’m hoping that the chance of this happening is infinitesimally small, given that Crystal is plain and hard beneath the makeup, as well as lacking warmth and wit. I’m seriously hoping that he prefers warm females who are naturally beautiful. Okay, maybe not quite natural, but I’m hardly wearing any makeup, my skin glows, and you would never guess in a million years that I’ve had that bump ironed out of my nose, or that I’ve had some minor tweaks. Plus, my breasts look God-given, even when I’m braless, having opted for a more natural, slightly lower-sitting shap
e.
“You just have to make sure that you don’t give him those vibes, unless I say so. I want you to be smiley, friendly, make small talk with him, or any of his colleagues as necessary. You absolutely do not start flirting with him unless I give you the signal.”
“And this signal, it’s just like, when you invite him back to your place to have a drink with us?”
“Yes, that’s right. And this is my call, not yours. I might ask him discretely – completely privately – and then say to you, casually, in front of him; so I’ve invited Luke back to have a drink with us. Or, maybe you’ll be a part of that conversation, in which case I will say to Luke, in front of you; do you want to come back with me and Crystal for a drink?”
I don’t think I could be much clearer. I hope she is getting it.
“Right,” she says, but I can see that she’s still confused. I mean, for Christ’s sake, this isn’t exactly rocket science here.
“This is a game, Crystal. You are here to make me look good, to back me up and to help me. I need someone with me, I’d look so sad by myself.”
The double doors of The King’s Head swing inwards then, bringing with it a rush of the outside world, of city noises carried inside on a petrol-laden breeze.
He is here.
“Don’t look,” I gasp at Crystal.
“Is it him?” she asks.
“Yes.”
My stomach flips then clenches, my heart racing. There is a light, bubbly feeling in my chest, a tingling that spreads outwards, heating my skin.
Two Doors Down: A twisted psychological thriller Page 26
