I haven’t seen another living person in sixteen days, and I think I’m going crazy. Jack should’ve been here three nights ago, but he hasn’t turned up and I can’t contact him. There’s a phone in the house but I can’t risk calling in case the police are monitoring people’s devices and it might look just a little suspicious if Jack mysteriously gets a call from a supposedly empty cottage in Cornwall.
I’m running really low on food and it’s not like I can simply pop to the shops. After I ran out of the fresh stuff Jack had stocked the fridge with before my arrival, I started eating like a student again: frozen pizza, pasta, beans.
Tomorrow is my birthday. Jack promised he’d be here for it. Although he doesn’t like to travel for work, he often has to. Knowing he’d need a reason to keep popping to and from Cornwall, Jack got in touch with a few potential clients in the area and now he’s designing an annex for a retired banker in St Ives. I keep wandering over to the window hoping to see him outside, leaning against his car, ankles crossed, with a bottle of something heady and an easy smile; but disappointment drops like a stone in my gut because he isn’t here.
I look for something to wear and wish I had choices outside of Jack’s clothes. When you’re trapped in your Monday to Friday desk job in restrictive office attire, the idea of spending every day in pyjamas is a selfish, luxurious fantasy. In reality, you start to feel institutionalised. I pluck a baby blue shirt from the pile Jack left me. It smells of him: sandalwood and leather. I slip it on, and it falls mid-thigh. I wonder how many of Jack’s bed buddies have wandered around in his shirts the morning after.
I get a flash of Jack and the petite blonde. The memory of them together is like stepping into a hot bath; at first it’s uncomfortable, jarring, then the sting of pain melts into pleasure and I sink into it, remembering the way Jack’s hips moved as he thrust in and out of her, the golden tan of his naked back, hard muscle sliding beneath skin, the smell of sex so thick in the air I could taste it.
My vagina throbs. Just once.
It’s been so long since I’ve been touched.
I want to have sex. I want to have sex like Jack was having with that girl. Hard and angry and carnal. Hands pinned to the bed above your head. Fingers around your throat. The kind of sex that makes you question if you’re a good feminist.
I lie down on the bed and touch myself.
I think about his body on top of mine. I imagine us on the floor of his bedroom, the hard wood scraping against my back as he moves inside me. The feel of him between my thighs, stretching me. His mouth on my breasts.
My nipples harden, stabbing against Jack’s shirt. My legs fall apart, and I rub harder, breathe harder, imagine harder.
Hot breath on my neck. Teeth grazing my shoulder. Slamming into me again and again.
And then … and then …
A sharp intake of breath.
Not mine.
My eyes snap open.
I see Jack.
Jack standing in the doorway.
Jack staring at my hand between my spread legs.
Oh fuck.
Chapter Twenty
17 Days Missing
Elodie Fray
You don’t know true mortification until your best friend walks in on you masturbating. You just don’t. I stand on the landing and listen to the sounds of Jack putting away food: the squeak of opening cupboard doors, the rustle of plastic bags, the clink of tins and the crackle of packets, the dull thud of the cupboard doors closing again. I tell myself that exploring my sexuality is natural. Men do it all the time.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve mustered the courage to go downstairs. I’m dressed in Jack’s baggiest joggers and his biggest shirt, sleeves rolled down and buttoned all the way to the top. I am as covered as I can be without taking a sheet and throwing it over myself like a child’s homemade ghost costume.
I step into the kitchen. He glances up as he puts milk in the fridge. ‘Hey.’
There’s an awkwardness between us. We watch each other a moment. Unsure. I want to hide upstairs until he leaves. Then he reaches back into the fridge and pulls out two beers. I don’t actually like beer, but I take what he offers, our fingers brushing.
‘Hope you washed your hands, Fray.’ He grins.
‘Oh my god.’ I dump the beer on the counter and spin on my heel.
Laughing, Jack catches my wrist and pulls me around to face him. I tip my head towards the floor, letting my hair fall over my face so he can’t see the beetroot of my cheeks. His arms wrap around me, and I rest my forehead against his chest. His body vibrates with laughter, and I groan.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.
‘Don’t worry about it.’
But I am worrying about it.
‘Look at me,’ he says, but I can’t. ‘Look at me.’ He steps back and lifts my chin. He’s so sincere, I feel myself start to uncoil. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Really? It’s like walking in on your sister …’ I’m not sure why, but I don’t blink in case I miss his reaction.
He glances down, just briefly. ‘Well, yeah.’
There are instant pinpricks of disappointment that he agrees.
Releasing my chin, he goes back to unpacking another bag.
‘Want any help?’
He shakes his head.
I drink the beer and with each sip, my humiliation eases. Just a little. But I can’t stop thinking about those pinpricks. Of course he sees me like a sister. It’s no different from how I see him as a brother. Then, when I look up again, I catch Jack staring heatedly at my lips wrapped around the bottle. He flushes and turns away quickly. I smile. Just like that, the pinpricks of disappointment disperse like stardust.
Jack cooks for us. Vegetables and chicken in a creamy sauce. I have never been so grateful to see broccoli. I crunch the tender stem, devouring it with as much enthusiasm as chocolate.
Jack laughs. ‘Enjoying that?’
‘You are god.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
I roll my eyes. ‘There’s a thin line between confidence and arrogance.’
‘And I walk it so well.’
I snort and reach for the elderflower. ‘So, are you going to tell me where you’ve been? You were supposed to be here days ago.’
‘The banker in St Ives rearranged. I had to push the visit back. It would have seemed strange to come to Cornwall alone, days before the meeting.’
‘When’s the meeting?’
‘Already done.’
‘Really?’
He smiles. ‘I can hang out here for a while.’
‘Great.’
Then his face is all serious and it makes the little hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. ‘What is it?’
‘I think we need more time. Your parents are refusing to hold a conference. We should at least wait until then. It will drum up the media attention we need to make this all worth it.’
‘But …’
‘All those other girls are missing for years before they escape.’
‘Years?’ I am appalled. ‘No way. No.’
‘I’m not asking for years. Just another couple of weeks. What’s the point in any of this if we don’t do it right?’
This isn’t the first time Jack’s extended my stay here. I want to go home. But he has a point. ‘Can you convince them to do a conference? Seriously, Jack. I want to go back to Crosshaven soon.’
He nods.
We’re quiet for a moment, and then, even though I’m not sure I want the answer, I ask the question because it’s the only one that really matters. ‘How’re my parents?’
‘Fine.’
I frown. ‘Fine?’