PART II
ONE
Did you drop me home? Rose sent the message and gently lifted the weight of her limbs out of bed. Her entire body had a pulse. She held on to the walls for stability as she ventured towards the bathroom. But it wasn’t until she sat on the toilet that she noticed the pain. It was unbearable: a shooting, sharp sensation that plunged through her like a dagger. On instinct, she looked down. ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered to herself.
Rose had bled from sex before. Certainly after the first few times with Ed. But not like this. This blood was bright, look-at-me, red. The kind you get from a paper cut rather than a period. And there was a lot of it, enough to fill a shot glass at the very least. She tried to stand up but quickly sat back down, wincing as the drops dribbled down her thigh, forming a faded crimson patch right around her kneecap. Some made it all the way to the floorboards, staining the wood.
Rose sat on the toilet for several minutes, holding a scrunched-up ball of toilet roll against herself until her hand felt damp. Every time she tried to stand up, the dagger seemed to push itself deeper inside her. Clutching her stomach tightly with her back hunched over, she managed to lift herself up just enough so that she could open the cupboard underneath the sink where they usually kept ibuprofen. There were endless empty packets that Luce had inexplicably chosen not to throw away. Eventually, Rose found two packets that had one tablet left in each of them and swallowed them both, using the little saliva she had to wash them down.
She needed to lie horizontally. The bedroom was too far, so she got into the bath. Her body unfurled and she placed both hands on her stomach, rubbing them in circles like Lola used to do whenever she was sick as a child. She turned both taps on and let the water fill up the tub around her until there was just a centimetre between where the water stopped and the lip of the bath. The glugging sound from the drain told Rose off for filling the bath so much. So she tilted her head back and allowed herself to go fully under where there were no sounds at all. The need for breath came faster than she expected. She let it linger for a moment too long and emerged, gasping madly.
Wrapped tightly in a towel, Rose slowly made her way back into the bedroom. There was a small array of scarlet stains halfway down the bed. On impulse, she ripped the duvet cover and sheets off, stuffed them into a black bin bag and buried them in the wheelie bin outside the front door. It was as far away as she could feasibly get them in her current state. Burning the bin bag was tempting, too. But the last thing she needed was her neighbours thinking she was a pyromaniac.
Back underneath her duvet, Rose checked her phone. It was 7.49 a.m. Fear of being caught out for lying or exaggerating had always stopped her from taking a sick day. Today, there was no other option. Unsure of how many details to offer, Rose drafted potential messages to Minnie in her Notes app.
Hi Minnie, so sorry. I’m not feeling very well today so won’t be coming in. Did that sound too authoritative? Was ‘won’t’ a bit extreme?
Hi Minnie. I’m not feeling very well today. Sorry.
Why was she apologising? It’s not someone’s fault if they’re unwell.
Hi Minnie. I’m not feeling well enough to work today. See you Monday hopefully.
Should she outline some symptoms? People work through illness all the time. What warrants a sick day?
Hi Minnie, I’m not feeling well enough to work today. I have a really bad headache and a fever.
She’ll tell you to take some Lemsip. No, she wouldn’t do that. Although with the stress around StandFirst, she might?
Hi Minnie, I had food poisoning last night. Not well enough to work. Hope that’s okay.
Rose ran out of patience. She copied and pasted the food poisoning message and sent it to Minnie, turned her phone off and closed her eyes. Hours later, she was woken up by the pain returning. It was now 11.30 a.m. – the ibuprofen must have been wearing off. She turned on her phone and, ignoring the reply from Minnie, went onto Deliveroo to order some more from the local Co-op. The delivery was £3 more than the actual ibuprofen. Rose sighed and thumped her phone down on the bed.
Feeling more awake now, she tried to piece together the night. It was hard for her to get her key in the front door; she could vaguely recall Milo eventually taking it from her and opening it himself. Beyond that, though, nothing was clear.
Fragments of memories floated like giant bubbles in and around her head. Milo helping her up the stairs. Milo making a comment about the wallpaper in her bedroom. Milo’s weight next to hers on the bed. They were all there, bouncing within reach, taunting her. But every time she tried to get close to one, the bubble popped. Its shiny surface instantly dissolved, leaving behind nothing but sour, sticky residue.
Her phone rang and she hated that for a split second, she thought it might have been him. It was Lola.
‘Hi, Mum,’ Rose croaked, immediately burrowing herself back under the duvet, which felt scratchy and harsh on her skin.
‘Hi, darling, how are you?’
‘I don’t actually feel that great. Can we talk later?’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
If Rose told her mother anything about Milo, she would tell the receptionist at her gym. And then her hairdresser. And then the woman who waxes her legs and all of her other friends. Rose mumbled something about having stomach cramps. Lola made sympathetic noises and suggested painkillers, before launching into an unsolicited review of Zara’s latest collection. Everything in there was gorgeous at the moment apparently, including a pair of high-waisted culottes that would go really well with a cropped sparkly jumper she wasn’t young enough to get away with but might help her pass for forty-two. Eventually she reached her conclusion and, apparently forgetting that Rose was supposed to be at work, asked if she would like to meet for a walk.
The pain was still there, but she thought it had eased enough for her to get dressed and go out to buy more ibuprofen. Luce wouldn’t be back until next week. It probably wasn’t a good idea for Rose to stay at home all day on her own, anyway. She suggested her favourite spot on the Heath, right behind the men’s swimming pond. Lola agreed and said she’d be there as soon as she’d asked the ‘lovely lady at the till if culottes were still in season’.
Realising she hadn’t worn enough layers, Rose sat on a clean patch of grass across from the pond, pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged her legs tightly. For whatever reason, the pain had subsided, at least enough for her to push it towards a forgotten corner of her mind for now. It was one of those perfect late spring mornings. The kind you always see in adverts for Center Parcs: clear blue skies, fledgling blossom inching its way up trees, and people walking dogs in loafers and trench coats.
Lola was running late and had sent Rose two voice notes on WhatsApp informing her as such. The first: ‘Hi Rose. It’s Lola. It’s two o’clock. Oh bugger, is this recording? I’m not sure if this is recording, hang on.’ And the second: ‘Right, I think it probably is recording. Hi, darling. It’s Lola. It’s a few minutes past two o’clock. I should arrive in about ten minutes. Sorry, darling. See you soon.’
Rose silently observed the scene for a few minutes. She observed the pace of her breathing and realised how tired she was, closed her eyes. And there he was. In his kitchen, smiling at her. In a bed – which one? – his body on top of hers. His mouth smothering her from the inside out. She shivered, shaking her arms and shoulders. ‘Fuck’s sake,’ she muttered under her breath, opening her eyes and reaching for her phone. She opened Instagram; there were no notifications. And her message to Milo still lacked the word ‘Seen’ beneath it.
Rose looked up and saw a woman wearing head-to-toe leopard print walking towards her, waving frantically. When she was just a few feet away, she tripped and fell forward over nothing in particular.
‘Oh, bugger,’ she said, quickly pulling herself upright.
‘Are you okay?’ Rose asked, embracing her mother and helping her up.
‘Yes, yes. Absolutely fine. Just a little tired. You know I fall over when I’m tired. How are you, Bitsy?’
‘I wish you’d stop calling me that.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it sounds ridiculous in public. Like I’m on a posh hockey team or something.’
Ignoring her, Lola continued: ‘You know the phrase, you laid your bed and now you have to lie in it.’
‘I think it’s “made your bed”.’
‘Ah, yes, of course.’
‘Why?’
