‘Where’s Alfonso?’ I ask.
She looks confused. ‘Alfonso?’
‘The concierge.
‘Oh. I never found out his name,’ she says, distracted. ‘Probably they’ve moved the switchboard to his home and he’s working from there. Jesus, Kylie, you have no clue what the world is like now. There’s a pandemic, we’re in lockdown, you know – like in Spain and Italy.’ I nod, remembering the fear growing before I was abducted. ‘Besides, Alfredo’s duties – taking in packages, dry cleaning, that sort of thing – will soon all be on hold. I told you, lockdown.’
‘Alfonso,’ I correct.
‘Right, yeah.’
‘How did you get in?’
Fiona looks sheepish. ‘I had a client here a while back. She gave me the key code.’
I lean on Fiona, weak with gratitude for this coincidence. Once outside, I gulp the air, wildly appreciative of the heat of the evening sun, the breeze, its freshness. Fiona is parked close by, the few snatched minutes in the fresh air aren’t enough; the moment we are in the car I press the button to lower the window and lean, like a dog with my head sticking out, breathing in deeply. Fiona concentrates on weaving through the streets. It is deathly quiet, eerie; shops and restaurants are being closed up, some are already boarded up. It makes my escape more dramatic. If anything could be more dramatic than what I’ve been through.
‘It’s like the apocalypse,’ I mutter.
‘Let’s hope not. The good news is that the lack of delivery lorries, cars and even bikes does at least mean we will make good progress through London.’
She’s right about that, soon we are on the motorway heading for the Jurassic coast in Dorset. Fiona bought her place about six years ago. Not a romantic wreck of a cottage, but a nineties bungalow. Pretty soulless initially, but a brilliant, covetable seafront location. She made a project of gutting it and redecorating it. Unlike just about every beach cottage I know there is not a starfish motif in sight, nor any anchor motifs or sailor stripes come to that. The place is decorated in blush pinks, peaches and vibrant oranges, homage to the sunset she enjoys watching from the comfort of her enormous couch, through the wall of glass that allows the most beautiful views. We’ve often made this journey together – usually with Mark and the boys too – to enjoy long weekends where the sea breeze tangles hair, salt sticks to skin and toes can bury into the warm sand. It’s a place where I’ve always felt peaceful and happy. I long to be there, cosseted. Safe. I realise my body is still taut and primed for an attack, for something else awful. I take a deep breath and let my head fall back against the rest.
I’m so grateful that Fiona had the foresight and kindness to decide to take me there first, rather than straight to the police station. She is right, I do need a chance to recoup, maybe even try to relax. Of course, I must face everything sooner rather than later – what I have done, what has been done to me – but Fiona has shown her best friend credentials by caring most for what I need and giving me that, valuing it above even what is expected of her as a law-abiding citizen.
Fiona keeps glancing my way. Concern oozing out of her, she must be desperate to know exactly what I’ve been through since I saw her last. I get the feeling she is biting back her questions. She doesn’t say much other than urging me to drink and eat. ‘You are so thin,’ she murmurs.
‘What day is it? I ask.
‘Monday.’
I have been locked up for a week. It’s felt like years. I close my eyes and allow myself to drift to sleep, knowing I’m safe. Fiona has my back.
44
Kylie
Fiona gently shakes me awake. ‘We’re here.’ She smiles kindly. ‘You were out for the count.’ Dazed, I stumble out of the car. The cottage is a welcome sight against the dark sky. Fiona gathers up bags from the boot of the car and then opens the back door. Dumbly, I follow her into the kitchen, not quite capable of helping myself, needing her to tell me what to do next. The place has a cool, empty feel to it. It smells a bit musty. Fiona flicks on the lights, smiles at me. ‘I’ll light a fire, but I think the first thing you need is a bath, right?’
How bad must I smell? Fiona draws the bath as I carefully strip off. I wonder whether we should have gone to the hospital, whether my hand is broken but the lure of a hot bath and a night’s sleep in a comfortable bed is too much for me to resist. Fiona has lit candles in the bathroom and poured a generous amount of some lovely scented oil into the bath. It’s a sanctuary. I carefully lower myself into the water. I lay still, the warm, sweet-smelling water gently laps my body. I can hear Fiona move around the kitchen below preparing supper. The idea that I’m going to be clean and fed causes me to weep, quietly.
Fiona knocks on the bathroom door. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course.’ As we shared a flat for so many years, we’ve seen one another’s naked bodies often enough before, but today I feel shyer because of the purple-and-brown bruises blooming on my ribs, wrists, chest and back. I expect her to recoil or look shocked; I’m grateful for her strength when she simply picks up a sponge, dips it in the water and starts to carefully clean my back for me.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ she asks. ‘I mean, only if you feel up to it.’
‘You must have been wondering how did I get myself into this mess?’
‘Well, yes.’ She pauses and then murmurs,
