I know what he’s thinking – that Lauren and I can make amends, be the solid friends he wants us to be. I am thinking very differently. And my God, these two are making it so easy for me. Far easier than I expected. I had all kinds of subterfuge planned and here they are, offering me opportunities on a gold platter. At times like this, life really can be so rewarding.
‘Let’s have a glass of wine first,’ I say as he takes my jacket and places it on the back of the chair.
He nods and pours us both a glass of Chablis. We raise a toast. ‘To us,’ he says as he leans forward and kisses me on the lips.
‘To us,’ I reply and take a long, welcome swig, hoping to wash away the taste of him.
I place my goblet on the table, my hands steady and willing. ‘Tell you what, if you give me Lauren’s food now, I’ll take it up and we can have a little chat before you and I eat together down here.’
Peter has gone to a lot of effort. He always does. Already, I know that much about him, that he doesn’t hold back when it comes to cooking and trying to impress me. I scoop up Lauren’s plate and leave him in the kitchen as he prepares the dessert. He’s immersed in his cooking, too busy to notice what I am doing.
I stop in the dining room and adjust my hair, my clothing. Not too glossy, hopefully demure enough for her to trust me. I open my bag, take out the bottle of peanut oil, open it up and add a few drops to the food before heading upstairs and knocking on Lauren’s door.
‘Hi, Lauren. Just thought I’d pass this to you, see if I can make amends for our little misunderstanding last week.’ I push at the door with hip and let myself in before she can answer. Before she can stop me.
Her hatred towards me is evident. Anger seeps out of her in bucket loads as I place the plate of food down on the end of the bed.
‘Cooked for you by your dad. Don’t worry,’ I say holding up my hand as a peace offering, ‘I’m not stopping. I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am for snapping at you and that what I said when we were alone together on the moors was unforgiveable.’ I manage a meek and tender smile and back out of the room, closing the door with a muffled hush before creeping back downstairs.
Time is a hefty, tangible thing as I wait, my senses heightened, my ears attuned to every little sound. Peter and I have another drink together before sitting down to eat. The music is playing softly in the background. The lighting has been dimmed. Everything is perfect. And then I hear it – banging coming from upstairs, the rumpus of somebody staggering across the room, closely followed by the thud of footsteps as Lauren races downstairs and opens the door to where we are sitting. I see the look in her eyes. I see the incredulity and terror in her face. I smile because I know.
And that’s when everything changes.
41LAUREN
She knocks at my door and is inside within seconds. I want to push her away, to tell her go to hell and leave Dad and me alone, but she is so quick, so fucking adept at manipulating the situation that I simply don’t have time to protest. She makes her false apology and is out of the room before I can say anything in return and I am left sitting here on my bed like a mute delinquent, unable to respond or do anything at all.
The plate of food beside me smells divine even though my stomach is tied up in knots and I feel mildly sick. I wish to God I could work out what is going on here, what her little game is, but my mind seems to be stuck in a rut. I’m going round in circles, covering old ground and getting nowhere fast.
A pain travels up the back of my head, lodging itself behind my eyes. I take a drink of water from the bottle I brought up here earlier and stare down at the chicken casserole beside me. It is betrayal of my own principles and instincts to eat any, however my body is telling me otherwise. I reach down and take a forkful of food and then another before opening my laptop and scanning the internet for inspiration.
My stomach ache increases and leaves me worn out. I eat some more and drink plenty of water until both the plate and the bottle are empty then continue scanning, unsure of what it is I am actually looking for.
I don’t have to look far. The article finds me, knocking all the oxygen out of me, the story bold and unmissable at the top of the webpage.
The floor tilts and sways, my bedroom taking on different dimensions as I push everything away off the bed and try to stand. It’s her face, there on the screen, staring out at me. This is it. This is what I’ve been looking for. I knew it. I just knew there was something terribly wrong and now I’ve found it. Alice’s face on the news. It’s her.
A searing pain claws its way up my throat from my stomach, a thick wave of discomfort, hot and prickly, forcing me to double over. My hands reach up to my neck. My eyes blur, a mist clouding my vision as I stagger across the room.
Dad. I need to speak to Dad. I have to let him know. We need to call somebody. Anybody.
The air in the room thins. My guts clench and become constricted. I can’t seem to breathe properly. Why can’t I breathe?
I stare down at the empty plate, at the remnants of the chicken and go faint.
No, please not that. Not again. Anything but that.
My legs are leaden as I stagger downstairs, too short of breath, too deprived of oxygen to cry out for help. A familiar tingle takes hold in my mouth, my lips suddenly hot and fat, my eyes itchy as they swell and close.
They’re both sitting there at the table as I lunge forwards, my mouth agape, my throat becoming smaller and smaller, almost a pinprick. I look to Dad for help. His mouth drops open. I lurch over to him, my legs buckling, my breath coming out in short, screeching gasps.
‘Dad!’ I watch him rise from his seat, the world rotating in slow motion around me, his movements clumsy and laboured. ‘999. Call 999.’
‘Lauren! Where’s your EpiPen? Your adrenaline. Where is it?’
I shake my head and point to the sideboard, to the cupboard where it sits week after week, month after month doing nothing, and try again to alert him. ‘In there. 999. Now.’
My hands are clasped at my windpipe, my nails digging into the soft flesh there as if it will help to get more oxygen into my bloodstream, as if it will stop my throat from closing up completely. An attempt to stop myself from dying.
He opens the door to the shelf where I store it and turns to look at me, shaking his head, his skin loose with shock. ‘Where, Lauren? It’s not there! Where is it?’ His eyes bore into me. I can’t speak, can’t help him. I can’t breathe. Everything drifting away from me. My vision attenuating. My world gradually coming to a stop.
‘Is this what you’re after?’ Her voice is nauseatingly soft and sweet, her timbre slow and mocking.
Alice sits rigidly, the EpiPen clasped between her hands, her bony fingers gripping it tightly. She is smiling. Fucking smiling! And I am here struggling to breathe, my body slowly shutting down as it becomes deprived of oxygen, my throat swelling and closing until it snaps shut and I am unable to get any air in there at all.
‘Alice?’ I can hear Dad’s voice. An echo in my head. A disembodied sound coming from somewhere in the room. ‘The EpiPen. Can I have it, please?’
My knees hit the floor with a crack, my legs giving way under me.
My stomach roils, my guts churn and swirl. I feel it coming, travelling up my throat, thick, viscous fluid trying to escape, my body trying to purge itself of the toxins in there.
I listen to the silence, am still aware enough to detect Dad’s shock, to sense his deteriorating mood and growing horror as it dawns on him what is happening here, what is happening to me. Does he know what Alice is doing? What she has already done?
‘The food? Oh my God, the food!’ His voice swirls around me, the air in the room shifting as he panics and thrashes about. ‘What the fuck have I done? What the hell was in that food?’
I try to listen, to hear his words. I want to tell him who she is, that we need to call the police but nothing comes out. I can say the words in my head but my tongue is a thick carpet in my mouth, glued and set in place. I want to feel Dad’s arms around me, to hear him say that everything is going to be all right but feel only my fear, my growing terror that tells me that this is it, the final moment of my life, that I am going to die. I’m frightened. Terrified, actually. But then something happens. A coldness sets in. I am in a tunnel, distanced from everything and everybody. Suddenly, I feel nothing, hear nothing, a silence settling far inside my head as my vision mists and fades and the darkness begins its cold descent.
