Читать книгу White Bodies: A gripping psychological thriller for fans of Clare Mackintosh and Lisa Jewell - Jane Robins, Jane Robins - Страница 11

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Tilda’s embedding me in the heart of her relationship – join us here, join us there, come bowling, come to the theatre. It’s weird because I used to see my sister only once every three or four weeks and then only for movie nights. The latest development is an invitation to meet her and Felix at Borough Market to help look for a French cheese called Cancoyotte, which has to be served with champagne and walnuts, apparently. Also, she wants Lithuanian rye bread and sea salt caramel, and a micro-greenhouse that sits on your window-ledge and sprouts rocket and chard. Tilda explains her shopping list on the phone in a voice that suggests that her niche ingredients are incredible earth-shattering news, but I infer that the real agenda is for me to spend yet more time with Felix. I say yes straight away.

The anticipation of seeing him brings back that sense of an enhanced world, and as I make my way to the market, negotiating the London streets, everything seems to have a splendid clarity – magnolia trees, red buses, people walking labradoodle dogs (they’re everywhere, those labradoodles!). When I arrive at the market, I’m still in that elevated state, my skin tingling, buffed by the sharp air – and I don’t have to wait long, because Tilda and Felix appear on the pavement, walking towards me. Felix’s eyes are smiling, as usual, and he does his hug-thing, squeezing me tight, and then the three of us set off into the crowds, shuffling up to market stalls, attempting to see around the heads to the actual produce for sale.

Tilda and Felix have their arms round each other’s waists; they’re behaving like lovebirds and, after an hour or so in the market, I find that I’m trailing behind them, struggling to be part of their conversation; and something happens – instead of being energised, my excitement is draining away so that I start to feel leaden and dull, and it dawns on me that I have somehow fallen into the role of stupid sheep, following them dumbly from stall to stall while they taste little morsels of chorizo and salami and bread dipped into rare olive oils. Felix asks questions about the production processes and the flavours in a distant voice, and I notice for the first time that his habit of talking softly means that people have to lean in to hear him.

At one point he makes a special effort with me, saying, ‘Try this one, Callie; doesn’t it have intriguing overtones, salty and sour at the same time?’ and he pops a crumb of goats cheese into my obliging mouth. Tilda now has her arm hanging prettily through his, and she’s looking at me, waiting for a reaction. ‘It’s bitter,’ I say, ‘not like cheddar.’ Then we move on to a stall selling freshly-pressed apple juice, where a bald guy is pouring juice into miniature paper cups.

‘Hey beautiful,’ he says to Tilda, ‘give this a try.’ And then the inevitable, ‘I know you, don’t I?’

Everywhere she goes, Tilda is recognised as the actress from Rebecca. Even when she’s wearing big sunglasses. She tastes the drink, but doesn’t say anything and, as she returns the paper cup, Felix ushers her away. The bald guy leans towards me. ‘What’s he? Her minder?’

We take a cab to Curzon Street, and Tilda and Felix go to the kitchen space to make a lunch out of their purchases at the market, while I sit on the sofa and flip the pages of the Vogue magazine on the coffee table, sniffing the free perfume and rubbing it on to my wrists and neck. I look up and notice that Felix is gazing at Tilda lovingly as she sets things out on plates; he’s watching her when she goes to the bedroom. When she comes out again he says, ‘Shirt looks good.’ She’s put on a floppy salmon-coloured blouse, bordering on see-through, and I’m sure that it’s been bought by him, as a present. Even to my untrained eye, it looks expensive.

‘Nice,’ I add.

She sashays across the room likes she’s Cara Delevingne on the runway, saying, ‘Givenchy!’

‘If you say so.’

I watch her put her arms around Felix, and give him a thankyou kiss, delicately, before she stands next to him, so close that their arms are touching, while they attend to the food.

I gaze at Vogue, but don’t read. Instead I listen to their conversation, which is mainly Tilda asking Felix questions – ‘What about Julio?’ ‘How far did you run this morning?’ ‘Do you like my nails?’ ‘Do you like these shoes?’ His opinion of mundane things is evidently a powerful bonding force between them, and the atmosphere in the kitchen is intimate and exclusive. Then, out of the blue, Felix says, ‘Oh, fuck it. I didn’t buy sparkling water…’

His aggressive tone and furious face seem to turn the entire room from warm to cold with the sort of shock you get when a shower turns suddenly freezing. And they are totally out of proportion with the problem. I say, ‘I’m fine with tap water,’ and Tilda says, ‘Me too.’ But he’s already halfway to the door, which he slams behind him, and we hear another ‘Fuck!’ before he descends the stairs.

‘What was that about?’ I’m up off the sofa, joining her in the kitchen area, where she’s leaning back against the fridge, like his words have forced her there.

‘God knows… Felix feels strongly about fizzy water I guess.’

I can tell Tilda’s trying not to cry, which also seems an overreaction.

‘Come on, tell me… It’s not about the water, is it?’

She’s shaking her head and tugging at her sleeves, pulling them down over her wrists.

‘I know you want me to love him,’ I say, touching her fleetingly on her arm, watching her flinch. ‘And I do. I think he’s wonderful… but that was weird. I mean, it was only water, but he was so angry, out of nowhere.’

‘He’s under a lot of pressure at work and it makes him like that sometimes. He snaps.’

‘It was creepy though.’

Tilda shakes her head, indicating that I shouldn’t criticise, and she says in a shaky voice, ‘Wait and see, he’ll be fine when he gets back.’

Acting instinctively, I lean over and pull her silk Givenchy sleeve right up to her elbow, exposing white skin splattered with yellow and blue bruises, little smudged ink-blots.

I grab her arm to inspect it more closely.

‘Stop that!’ she says. ‘For fuck’s sake!’

‘Tilda! What’s going on? Please tell me.’

She pushes me away, hard, making me crash into the kitchen counter, and pulling her sleeve back down. She runs into the bedroom, then the en-suite bathroom, slamming the door, turning the lock.

I’m amazed by what’s just happened. What made me do that? How had I sensed that she had damaged arms? It seems inexplicable. There had been no bruises on her that day on the Thames. Then her body had been milky white, no blemishes other than the mole on her left shoulder.

I sit on her bed, staring at the shut bathroom door, working out what to say next – we’re close, but I’m hopeless at communicating with her, forever driving her away with my crassness, my blunt way of talking. Gently, I call out, ‘Are you all right in there?’ But she doesn’t answer. So I lie down, burying my face in her pillow, breathing in her smell, and waiting. Occasional sounds emerge; splashing water, pacing about, and after a while she calls out, ‘It’s nothing, Callie, I’m fine.’ And she comes out of the bathroom, looking refreshed and happy, but slightly insane, her eyes still rimmed in pink. I’m about to ask her again to confide in me, but I don’t get the chance because at that moment there’s a sound in the other room. It’s Felix returning (he has his own key!). We both leave the bedroom and find that he’s transformed – he’s grinning, has a big bottle of fizzy water in his hand, and he thumps it down on the kitchen counter together with a set of car keys attached to a disc that says Porsche. Tilda reacts like an excited idiot, jumping on the spot, flipping her hair about, a quick look to see that I’m paying attention. ‘You didn’t!’

‘Come and see.’

He throws the car keys for Tilda to catch, and they leave, his arm around her shoulders, me following, comparing the blondeness of their hair, the thinness of their hips, their totally modern beauty. Tilda says sweetly, ‘So you forgot the water on purpose? So sneaky!’

A few streets later, and we’re admiring Felix’s new silver-coloured Porsche sports car. He opens the door, sits in the driver’s seat and presses a button that makes the roof slide backwards. ‘James Bond,’ I say. I want to be massively impressed, but I’m still thinking about Tilda’s arms. I clamber into the back and Tilda slips into the passenger seat, picking up a white envelope that has her name on the front, written in a spiky, tight script. She opens it and reads the card that’s inside.

‘My god! That’s perfect.’ She starts kissing Felix with an uninhibited enthusiasm that makes me look away.

‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Take us for a spin.’

‘Look, Callie.’ Tilda turns around to face me, her face radiant, and hands me the card.

I read: Darling T, come with me to France.

On the other side is a picture of a white-washed villa on a hillside, a turquoise swimming pool at a tasteful distance from a vine-covered terrace.

‘To this actual house?’

‘Yes, that actual house.’ Felix steers the car through the streets with one hand, the other arm stretched out, his fingers under Tilda’s hair, brushing the back of her neck.

‘We’ll drive down to Provence,’ he says proudly. ‘And, while we’re gone, my builders will come into your flat and do some work.’

‘What sort of work?’

‘A surprise.’

‘Nothing too drastic?’

‘No – what can I say – fine-tuning… You’ll like it. It will be my gift.’

‘Lucky me!’

That wouldn’t have been my reaction – and I’m surprised that Tilda’s going along with Felix’s scheme. Wanting to change her home without consulting her about how strikes me as rather extreme. ‘You’re being swept off your feet,’ I say.

‘I am.’ She’s ignoring my disapproving tone, acting like the emotional dash into the bathroom hasn’t happened, like her arms aren’t bruised, and she laughs as Felix puts his foot on the accelerator. We zoom three hundred yards up Regent Street, then hit a traffic jam.

In the dossier I write: I was shocked to see bruises on Tilda’s arms. Was Felix responsible? I don’t know. I can’t work out whether he’s a truly amazing person – organising surprise holidays and improving her flat – or a deeply dangerous one. Either way, Tilda’s infatuated with him and I’m in pain. I don’t know whether I still feel the elation that came from adoring him, or whether I’m now terrified that I’ve been manipulated.

I go online and start Googling. I look up the dangerous elements in passionate romances, and what happens psychologically as relationships become increasingly abusive. Before long I come upon a website called controllingmen.com and I find myself reading for hours the hundreds of posts in forums called the first signs and romance as control and – most interesting of all – what you can do to help a friend who has been targeted by a controlling man. In fact, I’m so sucked in that I join the site, giving myself a username, and entering the forums that are visible only to members. It’s addictive, and I’m up all night, reading, reading, reading.