‘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.
The following evening, I go to Curzon Street without calling ahead. My mind’s full of controllingmen.com, and I’m hoping to see what Felix is like towards Tilda when he’s not hosting a planned event, because I now suspect that’s what our meetings have been – the movie night, the river trip, the arrival of the Porsche – all set-ups for Felix to act the loving, romantic hero. A comment on the website is ringing in my head: In public my husband acts like he’s Prince Charming, so loving and caring. In private he’s cold and he hits me, but never on the face. Only where the bruises won’t show.
Because I’m now playing the role of investigator and maybe rescuer, I’m nervous as I stand on the pavement outside the front door, pressing the buzzer. Twenty silent seconds elapse and as I turn to walk away, I’m actually relieved that I don’t have to go through with this; I can go back home and have my sweet and sour chicken supper. Then, through the crackling intercom, I hear Tilda’s distorted voice – an uninviting ‘Hello?’
‘It’s me. Callie… can I come up?’
‘What? What are you doing here…?’
I’m about to make up an answer when she says, ‘Oh, okay…’ And she buzzes me in.
As I turn the corner at the top of the stairs I see that it’s Felix standing at the open door to the flat, casually dressed in a grey t-shirt and dark jeans but still somehow smart and together – like those clean-cut Americans who give TED talks. He welcomes me with a flash of flawless teeth and a quick hug that I would normally describe as warm and friendly.
‘Come on in… What’s up, Callie? Why this unexpected pleasure?’
‘Oh, I’ve brought a book for Tilda to read.’ I fish in my bag for the novel I’ve put there as my cover. ‘It’s American Psycho,’ I say.
He roars with laughter. Really roars. ‘Crazy choice!’ he says, good-heartedly, while I assess his demeanour. I’d say he’s genuinely relaxed – I’d thought he might react with at least some element of suspicion or negativity.
‘Just kidding… I got this.’ I laugh with him and show him the book, which is a Scandinavian thriller I’m reading – The Artist.
‘Where’s Tilda?’ It strikes me as odd that she answered the buzzer but isn’t here to greet me.
‘She’s taking a shower,’ says Felix, glancing at the shut door. ‘She won’t be long, I’m sure… Would you like something? A glass of wine? I’ll join you.’
‘Okay.’ I watch him open a kitchen cupboard, and see that Tilda’s hotch-potch of mismatched glassware has been replaced by four tasteful, thin-stemmed glasses in a row; tiny ballerinas posing with their feet turned out. But it’s not the neatness that alarms me, it’s the fact that there are only four. Plainly Felix isn’t planning any social gatherings at the flat.
We sit side by side. He’s kind of spread out; one big foot resting on the other knee, one arm along the back of the sofa, and I’m kind of prim; upright in the corner, my wine glass juddering slightly in my hand. The momentary silence signals that my only option, until Tilda comes, is small talk – I don’t want to challenge him when she’s not there.
‘Busy at work?’ I ask.
‘Horrendous…’ He says it like he’s amused rather than troubled. ‘And you?’
‘You know… The bookshop is never busy, as such. My boss spilled her coffee on a customer last week. That’s as stressful as it gets.’
I hear sounds from the bedroom, or maybe the en-suite bathroom beyond, and I look over the back of the sofa to see if Tilda’s coming. But she’s not.
‘What are your builders going to do to the flat?’ My voice comes out a little fake and overly focussed and I realise I’ve changed the tone of the conversation.
‘I guess they’ll update it a little. Introduce a better colour scheme, and some new furniture. It’s not a bad space, good high ceilings, well proportioned.’