'Abbie?' Robin looked concerned.
I fumbled for something to say. 'Was that the last you saw of me?'
'We had lunch and we arranged to meet for a drink. I think it was on the Thursday evening. But the day before you rang and cancelled.'
'Why?'
'You said something had come up. You were very apologetic'
'Was it something good? Did I sound upset?'
'You sounded .. . well, a bit hyper, maybe. It was very brief.'
'And that was it?'
'Yes.' Robin looked at me now, as I finished the last of my sandwich. 'This couldn't all have been some sort of misunderstanding?'
'You mean being captured and held prisoner by someone who said he was going to kill me and that he had already killed other women? You mean that bit?'
'I don't know.'
'Robin,' I said slowly. 'You're one of my oldest friends and I want you to be honest with me. Do you believe me?'
At that, Robin took my head between her slim fingers, kissed me on both cheeks, and then pushed me back and looked at me. 'The thing is,' she said, 'if it's true, and I'm sure it is, I just can't bear the idea of it.'
'You should try it from where I'm sitting.'
My meeting with Carla consisted of hugs and tears and assurances of friendship but it basically boiled down to the fact that she had been away for those days and all she could say was that I had left a message on her answering-machine asking her to call and when she got back she had left a message on Terry's answering-machine and that was that.
Sam is another of my oldest friends and I can't believe that the boy I remember with a joint in his hand upstairs at various parties in south London is now a solicitor who wears a suit and a tie and has to impersonate a grown-up between nine and five on weekdays. And yet, at the same time, I had started to see what this rather good-looking, trendy twenty-six-year-old was going to look like when he was forty.
'Yes, we met,' he said. 'We had a drink on Sunday evening.' He smiled. 'I feel a bit pissed off that you don't remember it. You were staying with Sheila and Guy. You talked a bit about Terry. But not that much. I thought that we were meeting so you could sound off about that ungrateful bastard. I mean, ungrateful for living with you. But you seemed excited more than anything else.'
Oh, yes. I remembered. I didn't remember our meeting but I sort of knew what must have happened. Sam and I had always been friends, never been out together. I sometimes wondered if he had regretted that and maybe he might have seen my break-up with Terry as an opportunity. It was something that had crossed my mind too. But clearly the Abbie who had had a drink with him had decided against him. He was better as a friend.
I took a sip of about the fourth coffee I'd had that afternoon. I was buzzing with caffeine and strangeness. I hadn't learnt much, but maybe that was what was interesting. I now knew that I had chosen not to spend those last days before it happened with my closest friends. So who had I spent them with? What had I done? Who had I been?
'What are you going to do?' Sam asked, in his forensic style.
'What do you mean?'
'Because if what you say ... I mean, from what you say, he must be out there, and he knows that you're out there, so what are you going to do?'
I took another sip of coffee. This was the question that my brain had been screaming at me and that I had been trying to ignore.
'I don't know,' I said. 'Hide. What else can I do?'
Five
I hadn't made an appointment, and they told me that I would have to wait for at least fifty minutes before they could do it, but I didn't mind that. I didn't have anywhere else to be, and it was warm in here. And safe. I sat in an easy chair near the door and leafed through last year's glossy magazines. Penny, the woman who was going to cut my hair, told me to pick out styles that I thought I might like, so I examined film stars and musicians and grinning celebrities and tried to imagine my face under their hair. The trouble was, I'd still look like me.
It was just beginning to get dark. Outside the window, people trudged by, wrapped in coats and scarves, wincing in the cold. Cars and lorries thundered past, throwing up muddy slush. Inside, it was bright and still and quiet, just the sound of scissors snipping through hair, the swoosh of the broom on the floor, gathering locks up into soft piles, an occasional murmur of conversation. There were six people already having their hair cut, all women. They sat up straight in their chairs, black robes draped around them, or lay back against the sink, having shampoo and conditioner massaged into their scalps. I could smell coconut, apple, camomile. I closed my eyes. I could sit here all day.
'Have you decided?'
'Short,' I said, snapping open my eyes. She led me to a seat in front of a large mirror and stood behind me, running her hands through my hair, her head to one side speculatively.
'You're sure about that, are you?'
'Yes. Really short. Not a bob or anything. You know, cropped. Short, but not too brutal.'
'Choppy, perhaps, mussed up. A bit soft round here, maybe?'
'Yes. That sounds fine. I'm having a different colour put in first, as well.'
'That'll take a good hour more.'
'That's all right. What colour do you think I should have?'
'You've got pretty hair as it is.'
'I want a change. I was thinking about red. Bright red.'
'Red?' She lifted my long pale hair and let it fall through her fingers. 'Do you think red would suit your colouring? What about something softer a kind of dark caramel colour maybe, with interesting with highlights?'
'Would it look very different?'
'Oh, definitely.'
I've never had really short hair. When I was a girl I refused to have it cut at all. I wanted to be like my friend Chen, who could sit on her blue-black hair. She used to wear it in a single plait, fastened at the bottom with a velvet bow. It snaked down her back, thick and gleaming, as if it were alive. I put up a hand and stroked the top of my head, took a last look.
'OK, then,' I said. 'Let's go, before I change my mind.'
'I'll be back after the colour's in.'
Another woman dyed my hair. First, she applied a thick, brownish paste that smelt unpleasantly chemical. I sat under a lamp and baked. Then she put some lighter dollops on to slabs of hair and wrapped them with bits of tin-foil. I looked as if I was about to be trussed and put into the oven. I closed my eyes once more. I didn't want to see.
Fingers combed through my hair, warm water ran over my scalp. Now I smelt of fruit, of humid tropical forests. A towel was wrapped round my head like a turban. Someone put a cup of coffee down in front of me. Outside, more snow started to fall.
I closed my eyes when Penny began cutting. I heard the scissors crunch and a piece of hair slid down my cheek. The back of my neck felt strangely exposed, my ear-lobes too. Penny sprayed more water on to my head; she cut steadily, not talking except to tell me to sit this way or that; she leant forward and blew away prickles of hair. I opened my eyes and saw in front of me a small, pale, naked face. My nose and mouth looked too big, my neck looked too thin. I closed my eyes again and tried to think about other things. Food,
for instance. After this I'd go and buy a pastry from the deli I'd spotted down the road, something sweet and spicy. Cinnamon and pear, maybe. Or a slice of carrot cake. Perhaps an apple, big and green and tart.
'What do you think?'
I forced myself to look. There were smudges under my eyes and my lips were pale and dry. I put up a hand and touched the soft bristle on top of my head. 'Fine,' I said. 'Great.'
Penny angled the mirror behind me. From the back, I looked like a young boy.
