Call me Felix. Have you been on here long? Met many guys?
Let’s say long enuff to know how to turn you on, gorgeous. How to satisfy your deepest desires. To give you what you want.
I can tell this isn’t Scarlet. Scarlet’s way of talking is so direct and uncompromising, and she would never call anyone “gorgeous” or write “enuff.” I move on, scrolling through other women . . . not finding anyone who’s more likely to be her. The pictures are wrong—most of the women are too old and too curvaceous. Then something occurs to me, and I go back to Roxanna.
I have something to ask you. Has anyone on here ever wanted you to inject them?
Anything goes on here. Hahahaha!!! Anything. If you want, I can do that.
Has anyone else ever asked you to do that?
Yes. It happens. Heroin or crack. Is that what you want, Felix?
Maybe.
Or something else? Some people just like injections. Vitamins hahahaha.
Who? Who likes them?
Oh, clients . . . We can do that. I won’t charge extra.
What else? What else do you do?
We can discuss when we meet. Can’t wait to see you in person. Tell me what you look like . . .
I don’t answer. . . . I reread our short exchange and as I do so, it dawns on me that I don’t need Illicit Hookups anymore—because, after Lulu and thanks to Roxanna, everything is starting to fall into place. My two short conversations with them have triggered something in me. Lulu saying “She’s not that sort of girl”—I know what she means now, I’m sure of it. And Roxanna’s experiences with vitamin injections make me remember going through Tilda’s bin early in the spring, at the start of all this, and finding that syringe. These revelations are the catalyst for a new clarity of thought. An ability to make sense, at last, of all my work, all my efforts, and it’s like a million unconnected musical notes have lined up and arranged themselves into a recognizable tune. I don’t feel enlightened, though. I feel, instead, that I’m falling in a dark space and that I’ll never stop.
I open up the dossier, scrolling back, looking at all my notes since Tilda met Felix. I have so many of them now, thousands and thousands of words, almost a hundred chapter headings, thirty identified themes, for heaven’s sake. I have recorded so much detail—the sharp tone of Scarlet’s emails, the crucial timings of her first conversations with Belle and me, the sly little looks exchanged between Tilda and Felix, the sincerity in Francesca Moroni’s voice when she said that Felix was never violent, the throwaway comments of Paige Mooney about Tilda’s relationship with the Whisper Sisters and, above all, Liam. I know now that Liam is the key.
I check the time. It’s ten forty-five. I don’t care that it’s late—I grab my coat, dash down the stairs and out of the house, and to the Green Park tube. In my hand is the business card he gave me, with his home address in the corner.
I run down the steps, against the flow of people coming up, and I’m dodging and swerving until I reach the platform; then the train is crowded with drunken boys, singing raucously and swearing, swinging from the overhead handrails. They’re driving me mad, because I’m trying to think about Liam, and the questions I need to ask. The final questions before I go to LA.
He answers the buzzer with a wary voice. “D’you know what the time is, Callie? Can’t you come back tomorrow?”
“Please, Liam. Please. It won’t take long.”
He lets me into the sitting room, a pained look on his face, saying firmly, “Five minutes. That’s all.”
I don’t even sit down. Neither does he, and we stand awkwardly facing each other. He’s wearing an old T-shirt and sweatpants, and is gazing down at his bare feet. I’m willing him to look up at me.
“I have to know,” I say. “About when you and Tilda split up, and she had that breakdown. You’re a psychiatrist, and you understand what happened. I need details, Liam. It’s important.”
“Callie, what I’m about to say, you know already. You’ve always known, deep down. Tilda is a narcissist.” He’s speaking slowly, leaden-voiced.
My eyes tear up. “Please, Liam, tell me.”
“It’s basic. . . . She has an ego so fragile, so damaged, that she has to believe in a fabricated identity—that’s why she’s always insisted on being a star. She has to be this exceptional person, or she’s tormented, she’s ripped apart. Your sister will do anything, manipulate anyone, to keep hold of her invented idea of herself, to save herself from that pain. And if she fails, well—she’d prefer obliteration. Actual death.”
He flops down, now, into his gray comfortable chair, and I sit too, on the sofa opposite. He looks wrecked, like he knows how desperate this is—how it will change forever the nature of the bond between Tilda and me.
“You’re right,” I say. “I do know it . . . perhaps I’ve always known. Your sin was to love the real, ordinary Tilda, not the girl with star quality. She would never have been able to handle that. And to leave her for Mary Strickland—who was so normal, but with a big idea of her normal self. I can see how that made Tilda collapse. And the Whisper Sisters? What about them?”
“Her clique . . . her sycophants. Always reinforcing her fantasy, endlessly under her control.”
“And me?”
“You’re tricky—she’s bound to you like no one else. She wants you as a sycophant, and if you don’t oblige, well, that’s catastrophic for her. She can’t simply reject you—as she can others who fail her.”
“I’ve always obliged.” I feel mournful, heavy with grief.
“It’s best not to think of it like that, Callie. You were trusting and you loved her. You are a good and empathetic person, and sensitive and perceptive. When she was in pain, you felt it too, and you desperately wanted to take her suffering away. It’s these wonderful qualities that make you an exceptional and beautiful young woman. . . . Now, I’m going to bed,” he says.
“You think Tilda’s dangerous, don’t you, Liam? You love her, like I do. But you know the truth.”
“It’s time for you to leave, Callie.” He stands up slowly, like he can’t take any more of this.
I’m so drained, I can hardly walk through the rain to the tube station, so when a black taxi appears in Salusbury Road, I flag it down and slump in the backseat.
“Having a nice evening?” says the driver.
I look out the window. The rain is coming down hard now, shining rain, lit by lampposts, shop windows, headlights. People are running to take shelter, young men putting their arms protectively around their girlfriends, young women on tiptoe to protect their shoes, trying not to be splashed by passing cars. I close my eyes. I have no idea how I’ll sleep tonight—but I know what I have to do as soon as morning comes.
Wilf is waiting for me. He makes hot chocolate, which we drink in bed, side by side.