The coins clunk into the slot, and the old machine lights up a ring of warm orange bulbs. A tune starts to play, something like ‘Camptown Races’ with several notes missing. The ten pence disappears into the bowels of the machine, but the penny rolls along a narrow wire track, round and round towards a central metal plate. At the back of the box, neon yellow words illuminate – Make Your Wish – and even though I know it’s just a toy, I find myself holding the sides of the machine and channelling all my frustrations into it.
I wish . . . I wish I could skip to the good part, where my life is sorted. I’m so tired of being broke and single and stuck. I wish I could fast forward to when I know what I’m doing, when I have some semblance of a career, when I’ve met my person and I don’t need to go on any more soul-crushing dates. I just want to live somewhere nice, with a sturdy ceiling and a shower with no bones in it. If the love of my life is out there, I want to get to the part that he’s in. I just want to get to the good part of my life.
It’s as though the machine knows when I’m done, because the moment I finish my thought, there’s a grinding of gears and a second plate comes down to press the penny. Then it falls into a separate slot, below my left hand. It has been crushed flat with new writing layered on top: ‘YOUR WISH IS GRANTED’ inscribed in small, swirling capitals. Turning the pressed penny over in my palm, I do feel marginally better – maybe it’s therapeutic to vent to a machine, cheaper than a therapist anyway.
‘Be careful what you wish for,’ the old woman says, and I look up to see her watching me from her seat behind the till. ‘Life is never quite sorted, whatever stage you’re at.’
It’s only when I’m halfway home, wearing plastic bags over my feet, that I pause, confused, because I don’t remember saying any of that out loud.
Chapter 5
I wake up with a headache. Not a normal headache; this feels like someone took out my brain, sautéed it, flambéed it, rolled it in barbed wire and then slopped the whole mess back into my skull. Holding my head with one hand, I try to open my eyes to look for water, or paracetamol. That’s when I notice the curtains, the navy-blue, beautifully textured, heavy linen curtains. Those aren’t my curtains. Then I look down at the cream-coloured, brushed cotton duvet. This isn’t my duvet. Above me, there is no sign of the damp, yellow stain on the ceiling, only a large, rattan lightshade. This is not my bedroom.
The searing pain in my head makes me wince as I turn and find a man in the bed beside me. The shock of seeing another person makes me freeze, and I pull my lips closed to stop myself from squealing in alarm.
Why is someone in bed with me? Did I sleep with Dale? I know I didn’t sleep with Dale . . . Unless I did. How much did I drink last night? Three glasses of wine in the pub and then two gin and tonics with the face sucker, so drunk, but not so drunk I wouldn’t remember going home with someone. Looking at the body beside me, I quickly conclude it does not belong to Dale. This man’s shoulders are broader, his hair is darker. Could I have picked someone up between Dale’s house and mine? What if I had my drink spiked? Maybe this guy spiked my drink and then kidnapped me to his perfectly furnished house.
Cautiously, I lean over to get a better view of my potential abductor. He’s lying on his front, his face away from me, with one arm draped over the pillow obscuring my view. He has a nice back. Even in the disorientating fog of a killer hangover, I know a nice back when I see one. His skin is smooth and tanned, his muscles clearly defined, and he can’t be flexing because he’s asleep. Unless he’s fake sleeping while flexing, but that feels like a lot of effort to impress someone you’ve kidnapped.
My need to know where I am and who he is outweighs my desire to lie down and concentrate on the pain behind my eyeballs. I need to get a proper look at this guy before he wakes up. He could be planning to tie me up in his basement and feed me nothing but dog food for the next six months. A cold chill tingles across my skin – I shouldn’t have watched so much true crime, it’s much more harrowing than my usual Agatha Christie. Zoya tried to reassure me that statistically I am probably more likely to marry a member of One Direction than end up in a dog food/kidnap situation, but I’m not sure she gets her statistics from peer-reviewed publications.
Creeping from under the duvet as quietly as I can, I glance down at my legs. What am I wearing? These aren’t my pyjamas. I don’t even own pyjamas, I usually just sleep in a baggy old T-shirt. These are soft cream silk with cute tiny zebras. Did this guy lend me his flatmate’s pyjamas? Maybe he’s got a thing for nice pyjamas and dresses all his victims in high-quality nightwear before killing them? They’ll make a Netflix series about him called The Pyjama Killer or My Nightwear Nightmare.
As I tiptoe around the bed, trying to ignore the pulsing pain in my temples and the racing in my chest, I notice again how tastefully furnished this bedroom is; there’s a grey linen-covered ottoman at the end of the bed, a lime-washed oak chest of drawers, and – oooh, is that a walk-in wardrobe? This bedroom is nice, too nice. It feels like the bedroom of a grown-up, someone with enough money to buy furniture that doesn’t come flat-packed.
This guy must live with his parents. Is this his parents’ bed? I creep around to his side. Now that I can see his face, my new theory goes out of the window because the man looks to be in his forties.
On the plus side, if we’re looking for plus sides, this man is hot. Not just attractive, I mean Bradley Cooper in his heyday beautiful. He has a defined jaw, a little stubble, impossibly dark eyelashes and shaggy, chestnut-coloured hair. My headache, disorientation, and fears about dog food lift just long enough to congratulate myself on going home with a man this gorgeous. Even if he is older than I’d usually go for, I can see why me of last night thought this was a good idea. Unless this was a drink spike situation, in which case I need to stop thinking about this man’s beautiful eyelashes and call the police. Maybe I should do a urine sample now in case I need it for evidence later. Would it be weird to pee into a pot and hold on to it, just in case?
As I look around the room for something appropriate to pee into, I see the man’s hand on the pillow and notice he’s wearing a gold band: a wedding ring. He’s married. His attractiveness rating just fell through the floor. There’s a door leading to an en suite next to his side of the bed, so I dart in and lock it behind me. I need to wash my face, get my head straight, try to remember anything about how I got here. But as I turn and see my reflection in the mirror, I slap a hand across my mouth to stop myself from screaming, because looking back at me with terrified eyes is . . . me, but not me. Me, but different. My skin looks sallow and blotchy, my face is puffy but narrow – I can’t compute what I’m seeing. Is this the worst bathroom mirror ever invented? It looks like someone removed my skin, washed it on the wrong wash cycle, then tried to stretch it back over my skull. The shadows beneath my eyes are like a thousand hangovers rolled into one. The first signs of crow’s feet fan out from their corners, and there are crease lines on my forehead that don’t spring back when I stop frowning. I can’t stop frowning.
I look . . .