“Why did you leave France?”
“Because Britain is part of my heritage and I wanted to experience living here, for a year, at least. But then I found the job at Exclusives magazine and I enjoy it so much I can’t see myself ever going back to France.” She waved a hand in the air dramatically. “London has seduced me!”
I laughed. “And are you an accountant, like Lina?”
Justine and Lina looked at each other, then burst out laughing.
“Sorry,” Justine said, smiling. “We’re not laughing at the question, it’s just that I am terrible at math. Lina and I lived together last year, and I couldn’t even work out splitting the bills! I’m the features editor, which means I get to interview famous people. Part of the fun is persuading them to actually agree to an interview.”
“It must be interesting.”
“It is, I love it.”
“It’s definitely interesting working for Ned Hawthorpe, that’s for sure,” Lina said.
We were interrupted by Carolyn coming into the room carrying plates and cutlery.
“Let me do that,” I said, jumping up. “It’s my job.”
“No, sit down. Tonight, I’m serving you.”
We moved to the table and Carolyn insisted on going back to the kitchen to get the food I’d prepared.
“Hey, Carolyn,” Justine said, when she came back. “I have suggested to Amelie that we meet once a week, she and I, to speak French. We thought every Thursday, when I finish work.”
“Would that be alright?” I asked.
“Of course!” Carolyn pushed her dark hair from her face. “That’s a great idea.”
And as Justine leaned over and hugged me, I thought that my life couldn’t be any more perfect.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
PRESENT
I open my eyes, blink rapidly a few times, still unused to there being no difference in my vision whether my eyes are open or closed. Then I hear it, the turn of the key in the lock.
A man comes in and I turn my head toward the sound. Behind him is a shift of darkness; black but not quite, more a thick gray. My eyes search for any light, but there is nothing.
From the way he moves into the room, and the smell of him—almost like grass but something else, citrus maybe—I think it’s the same man as yesterday. I hear him place a tray on the floor next to me and raise myself onto my elbows.
“Could I have a blanket, please?”
He doesn’t reply. All I hear is a scrape as he picks up the tray from my last meal.
“Please,” I say. “I’m cold.”
But there’s no other sound until the door closes, and the lock clicks shut.
I slam my head back down. He’s not going to understand why I asked for a blanket because it isn’t cold in this room. But I’m cold inside; I crave the comfort of something warm to wrap around me. Why doesn’t he speak, why do they keep me in total silence and darkness? My frustration builds, I want to scream and shout.
“Stay calm,” I whisper.
I stretch my left arm out, reach around for the tray. I find the bowl, dip my fingers in, bring them to my mouth. Porridge. Day three has begun. Monday, the nineteenth of August.
There’s noise from below. I push the tray out of the way, move the mattress from the wall, and put my head in the corner to listen. Ned is shouting, something about a toilet. There’s an angry retort, followed by a cry from Ned. Maybe he doesn’t have a bathroom like me, only a bucket.
He starts mumbling, I don’t want to hear it, I push my mattress back into the corner to block out the sounds. I start eating, automatically spooning the porridge into my mouth, then remember the packet of sugar I found yesterday. My fingers move around the tray, I find it, add it to the porridge. There’s also a banana.
I go back to my porridge, thinking of Ned’s parents. How must it be for them, knowing he is missing, that he has been kidnapped? Will his disappearance be headline news; will his handsome, arrogant face be plastered on television screens around the world? Or has Jethro Hawthorpe kept the police out of it, for the moment, at least?
I finish eating, move to the bathroom. There’s always a tiny panicky moment between pushing the bolt into place and the light coming on, that subconscious fear that it won’t come on and the door won’t open, and I’ll be stuck in the small dark space. But the light flickers, then stays, and I feel myself relax.
I use the toilet, then strip off my pajamas, wash, get dressed. As I squeeze toothpaste onto the toothbrush, I’m struck by a thought—what will come first, the end of the tube or the end of my life?