My need to know where I am and who he is outweighs my desire to lie down and concentrate on the pain behind my eyeballs. I need to get a proper look at this guy before he wakes up. He could be planning to tie me up in his basement and feed me nothing but dog food for the next six months. A cold chill tingles across my skin – I shouldn’t have watched so much true crime, it’s much more harrowing than my usual Agatha Christie. Zoya tried to reassure me that statistically I am probably more likely to marry a member of One Direction than end up in a dog food/kidnap situation, but I’m not sure she gets her statistics from peer-reviewed publications.
Creeping from under the duvet as quietly as I can, I glance down at my legs. What am I wearing? These aren’t my pyjamas. I don’t even own pyjamas, I usually just sleep in a baggy old T-shirt. These are soft cream silk with cute tiny zebras. Did this guy lend me his flatmate’s pyjamas? Maybe he’s got a thing for nice pyjamas and dresses all his victims in high-quality nightwear before killing them? They’ll make a Netflix series about him called The Pyjama Killer or My Nightwear Nightmare.
As I tiptoe around the bed, trying to ignore the pulsing pain in my temples and the racing in my chest, I notice again how tastefully furnished this bedroom is; there’s a grey linen-covered ottoman at the end of the bed, a lime-washed oak chest of drawers, and – oooh, is that a walk-in wardrobe? This bedroom is nice, too nice. It feels like the bedroom of a grown-up, someone with enough money to buy furniture that doesn’t come flat-packed.
This guy must live with his parents. Is this his parents’ bed? I creep around to his side. Now that I can see his face, my new theory goes out of the window because the man looks to be in his forties.
On the plus side, if we’re looking for plus sides, this man is hot. Not just attractive, I mean Bradley Cooper in his heyday beautiful. He has a defined jaw, a little stubble, impossibly dark eyelashes and shaggy, chestnut-coloured hair. My headache, disorientation, and fears about dog food lift just long enough to congratulate myself on going home with a man this gorgeous. Even if he is older than I’d usually go for, I can see why me of last night thought this was a good idea. Unless this was a drink spike situation, in which case I need to stop thinking about this man’s beautiful eyelashes and call the police. Maybe I should do a urine sample now in case I need it for evidence later. Would it be weird to pee into a pot and hold on to it, just in case?
As I look around the room for something appropriate to pee into, I see the man’s hand on the pillow and notice he’s wearing a gold band: a wedding ring. He’s married. His attractiveness rating just fell through the floor. There’s a door leading to an en suite next to his side of the bed, so I dart in and lock it behind me. I need to wash my face, get my head straight, try to remember anything about how I got here. But as I turn and see my reflection in the mirror, I slap a hand across my mouth to stop myself from screaming, because looking back at me with terrified eyes is . . . me, but not me. Me, but different. My skin looks sallow and blotchy, my face is puffy but narrow – I can’t compute what I’m seeing. Is this the worst bathroom mirror ever invented? It looks like someone removed my skin, washed it on the wrong wash cycle, then tried to stretch it back over my skull. The shadows beneath my eyes are like a thousand hangovers rolled into one. The first signs of crow’s feet fan out from their corners, and there are crease lines on my forehead that don’t spring back when I stop frowning. I can’t stop frowning.
I look . . .
I look old.
Stepping closer to the mirror, I see the reflection definitely is me, but not the me of yesterday. It’s not just my skin that’s changed, my hair is different, too. My hair is . . . better? It looks like I’ve had highlights done, several shades of honey and gold, and I’ve got a proper haircut with layers around the front. I’ve got fucking Jennifer Aniston hair. How was I able to afford this kind of haircut? And where the hell did I get highlights done south of the river in the middle of the night?
Sitting down on the toilet seat, I rub my face with my palms, reluctant to look at my alarming reflection any longer. This must be some messed-up prank show – a new reality TV idea where they knock you out and make you over to look ten years older. There could be cameras behind that mirror, recording my reaction. But who would watch this? It feels mean-spirited and not at all good television. I tug at my skin to check, but it hurts, so it can’t be a prosthetic.
Pulling down the silk pyjamas, I go to the loo before realising that with all the shock of the mirror, I forgot to find a pot to pee in to keep as evidence for the police. Damn. Will it work if I take a sample from the loo? As I’m mulling pee dilution, I notice my stomach. What has happened to my stomach? It’s fleshy and baggy and – ahhhh! There’s a weird scar across the top of my pubic hair! Did someone cut me? Oh God, I’m a drug mule. It’s like that Scarlett Johansson film where she wakes up and finds she’s had loads of mind-altering drugs sewn into her stomach. Though I don’t understand why that would make my stomach bigger.
Standing up, I pull off my pyjama top to inspect my body in the mirror. What have they done to me? My boobs are bigger too, but lower and there are little white lines all over them, as though they’ve been blown up and deflated. I’m probably the same size I was before, but my skin is less taut, like the middle-aged women I see in the changing rooms at the public pool. Then I lift my arms and notice a small, firm ridge of definition along the top. I have biceps. Where did they come from?
‘Lucy?’ calls a voice from the other side of the door. The man’s awake, and he knows my name. Quickly, I throw the pyjamas back on, my head scrambling with pain and growing bewilderment. If this really is some messed-up reality show, I intend to sue the production company for intense emotional distress.
The knob jiggles, then, ‘Why have you locked the door?’ the man asks.
‘Just a sec!’ I call back. I’m going to have to talk to this guy. He’s the only one who can tell me what’s going on. My hand shakes as I unlock the door, and when I open it, I find the man standing there in his boxer shorts, his hair is bed tousled and his eyes are the most piercing cobalt blue I’ve ever seen.
‘What’s going on? Where am I? Who are you?’ I ask him, my voice panicked and unfamiliar.
‘Big night, was it?’ he says with a smile, then gives me a brief kiss on the cheek as he walks past me and picks up a slim electric toothbrush from a wireless charging pod by the sink. I didn’t even know you could get wireless charging pods.
‘What am I doing here? Why do I look so old?’
He laughs, as though I’ve made a joke. ‘You don’t look old, darling, you look gorgeous.’
Darling? ‘Did someone put drugs in me?’ I ask him, holding my stomach across the small white scar.
‘I doubt it, Luce. You were at a Thursday night work party. Why? Did it all get a bit messy?’
Messy? Work party? ‘I don’t know who you are.’ My voice is serious, but my lip trembles.
‘I know, I know, I don’t recognise myself either,’ he says, turning back to the mirror. ‘Too old to imagine getting drunk midweek.’ He frowns at me in the mirror as he takes in my expression. Then he turns and puts a hand on each of my shoulders, his toothbrush resting between his teeth. ‘Don’t worry, there’s always coffee.’