Читать книгу The Assistant - S.K. Tremayne, S. K. Tremayne - Страница 15

I am woken by a frowning and beautiful face with pale blue eyes.

Tabitha.

She is staring at a woman wearing lots of daytime clothes in bed.

Me.

I realize I am sweating, heavily: the sheets are damp and clinging. I guess the heating is on. Winter sunshine streams through my bedroom window, because I forgot to close the curtains; I didn’t care in my blind cold panic.

‘What on earth’s going on?’ says Tabitha. ‘Sorry to barge in and wake you up like this, but, really. What did you do to the flat? What happened to the heating, the lights?’

She is in a suave, maroon winter coat, cashmere jumper, and slender jeans I could never afford. Almost military in her stiffness, yet always chic. For a moment I don’t know what to say. I look at her, as I come to full consciousness. And I wonder, for a second, how jealous I am, of her, my best friend. She’s always been that bit better than me, in every way: richer, from a much smarter home. But she is also a shade taller, and a tiny bit prettier; she was blonde and I was a redhead; throughout our twenties we subtly competed for men and she usually won. Were we competing for Jamie Trewin – was that why I egged her on, so that he would prefer me, so he would maybe come on to me?

Perhaps it is all my fault.

‘Seriously, Jo,’ says Tabs, sitting herself on the end of the bed, still frowning, ‘what the hell is wrong? I came back from Arlo’s an hour ago, and found everything off – and I mean everything. And it was freezing cold. Then I worked out someone had switched the flat off, with the fuse box!’ She shakes her head. ‘Is there a problem – you have to tell me these things.’

I order myself to sit up. In my two T-shirts and jumper. Painfully aware I must look a total state. Bed hair everywhere. Shiny with sweat. What do I say? I still can’t go near the events with Jamie, so long ago, so utterly unmentionable. And what is left? Stalling for time, I pull the jumper over my head, and off, followed by the second T-shirt. Then I come up with some fumbling answer.

‘I got confused by the Assistants. The app. Think I used the app wrong, so the Assistants turned the lights on and off.’

From the end of the bed, she shakes her head, confused:

‘Sorry? The Assistants?’

‘They were saying things. Um. Ah. Ah. And I forgot how, uh, how to, you know, talk to them, get them to do things, because, well. Because they are confusing.’

I drawl to an embarrassing halt. It is impossible to even hint at the truth without leading her straight to the crux of the matter: the Assistants are talking to me, and tormenting me, and the whole flat feels like it is alive, and using the death of Jamie Trewin to make me think that I am mad.

Alternatively, I could tell Tabitha that I am, indeed, very possibly going crazy, as I am exhibiting symptoms of late-onset schizophrenia horribly similar to those my beloved daddy experienced when he thought the TV was ordering him around, a few years before he finally did himself in.

I wonder how my friend and flatmate would react if I said all that. Tabitha already looks like a concerned nurse at my bedside. Momentarily I think she is going to put her four fingers flat to my forehead, checking for fever. Like she is my mum, and I am a kid, seeking a day off school.

Tabitha hesitates, then says, ‘What do you mean, you forgot how to control the Assistants? I’ve told you how to use the apps. Several times.’

Her voice is calm enough, but I can also detect a hint of impatience. Stern, but professional. I think it is that coat; it is so smart. Where does she buy these things?

Tabitha’s body language says: WELL?

‘What I mean is—’ It dawns on me, belatedly, that I shouldn’t say anything about the voices or the song. It makes me sound too mad. Too much like Daddy. I go on, ‘When I got back from our drinks, you know, in Highgate, the lights were flickering, and then I must have done something to the heating, it was so chilly. But I was drunk and tired – and I reckon I did it wrong. I guess I’m not used to the technology yet.’

‘OK,’ my friend says. Thin-lipped. ‘And then?’

‘And then …’ I sit up very straight: preparing my lie. I can lie quite well when called upon. I learned as a kid, when other kids would ask about my dad. Why he was so weird, or acting scary. I refused to admit he was mad. He was my daddy and I loved him and he used to be the funniest, kindest man on earth, my idol, my daddy, who told me riddles and made me giggle. How dare they say horrible things about him. So I came up with some convincing lies. And I shall do the same now. I gaze at Tabitha’s impatient, expectant face.

‘Well, Tabs. After all that I thought, sod it, there must be some bug, or malfunction, and I turned everything off at the fuse box.’

I look in her eyes. Blank. Stubborn. Defending myself. I will not be cowed. I love Tabitha but I won’t be patronized by her. Even if I am in the wrong.

My lie – or my half-truth – seems to have done the job. She stands, wearing a softer mystified frown, then she flicks a glance at her wristwatch.

‘Christ, it’s nearly ten. I have to go, we’re editing at the studios – those bloody frogs.’ Her eyes meet mine. I see sympathy there. And confusion. And something else I don’t comprehend. ‘Look, sweetheart, I don’t blame you or anything like that, it was a shock, that’s all. The flat was so cold! Tell you what …’ She walks from my side, over to my bedroom door, and gives me the first smile of the morning. ‘Shall we have a nice supper tonight, just you and me here? Open a nice bottle of red, then I can explain again how everything works – the lights, the apps, the whole shebang. And we can gossip about Arlo’s stupid Belgian banker pal. Turns out he’s quite remarkably deviant. It’s delicious.’

My friend is being a friend. She’s being nice. Perhaps too nice?

No. What’s wrong with me? Why am I mistrusting my very best friend?

‘Brilliant!’ I say. ‘Great idea, a girls’ night in. I’ll cook! I’ll do that fish thing, cioppino – remember?’

‘Excellent,’ she says. ‘Make a lot, I bet I won’t even have time for lunch – we’ll be stuck in that studio all day – the exec producer clearly misses her time in the Gestapo.’

Pale blue eyes. Pretty smile.

Tabitha opens the door, and the smile is saying goodbye,

‘See you later. Let the Assistants sort the heating and everything, I’ve rebooted them all. They’re fine.’

And with that she sweeps out of my bedroom. Leaving her perfume.

It is the scent of my humiliation. Probably costs £5,000 an ounce. I, by contrast, smell of dried sweat and unwashed T-shirts. I hear the flat door slam. I stare at HomeHelp. The ovoid tormentor. There are no dancing lights. There is nothing. I can still feel the dreamy Xanax in my head. The sleeping pills. How many did I take? I can’t recall. That’s a bad sign. I must Pull Myself Together. I must be like Tabitha. Efficient, brisk, clever, smart, yet still funny and likeable. Why can’t I be like her?

Yes. Enough. GET UP. Don’t think about the past. GET UP.

But it is too late. As I stand up and walk into the living room. and gaze at the moistened frost on the windows, the memories finally breach, like a ferocious Christmas storm, like winter waves swamping little harbours. Jamie Trewin. Poor Jamie Trewin. It all comes back to that.