Berkshire I think.
What’s the hotel called?
Not sure. Ashleigh something; something like that. Why?
Might be important.
I have to go, I’m at work.
Customers have come into the shop, and I sell a Napoleon Bonaparte book to an older man who looks a little like Daphne’s Douglas, and a book on crochet and mindfulness to a young mother with two babies in a buggy. Then I write up my findings about diamorphine. And I note that I’ve told Scarlet about Felix’s conference trip.
28
Tilda’s been back from her honeymoon for two months and I haven’t seen her. She phones and keeps me updated on how happy she is and how perfect Felix is, but makes excuses not to see me in person, so that I can verify the authenticity of her gushy claims. Then, at last, I’m invited to Curzon Street for a movie night. She calls while I’m at home, online, gorging on Controlling Men; and because I’m alert and in the mood to register every little inflection in her voice, every slight hint of fragility, I do notice. An element of woundedness, definitely, but something else also—maybe hope, or optimism.
“Single White Female,” she says. “It’s a film from the 1990s about two young women, Hedy and Allie. Hedy’s obsessed with Allie, insanely jealous of her, and it all gets deliciously creepy. You’ll love it.”
I hold the phone too hard against my ear, stuck for words. I suppose she’s making a point about my obsession with her. I’m about to protest that I’m not jealous—that’s not it at all, then:
“Callie? Are you still there?”
“Yes . . . I’ll come. I’ll bring brownies.”
“It’s a special film,” she says. “And I’m excited about you seeing it. I’ll tell you why when I see you.”
“Tell me now.”
“No! You have to see it first.”
So I arrive at Curzon Street, clutching my bag of brownies (homemade!) and my Strongbow, and I’m reminded of that day in the spring when I met Felix for the first time. Now, as then, Tilda answers the door, and Felix is in the kitchen space, arranging things in cupboards.
I make my entrance as positively as I can manage, with a cheerful “Welcome home, Mr. and Mrs. Nordberg!”
Felix takes my cider and pours our drinks, while I notice the subtle glow he gained from the Greek sun—just enough to emphasize sharp cheekbones, and the limpid paleness of his eyes. He hands me my glass, and as our hands touch I start, and realize how on edge I am. I mumble “Sorry,” and Felix mops up spilled cider. I try to start an uncontroversial conversation.
“Was your family home like this?” I say. “I mean, shades of white, and spotless?”
“God, no. Growing up, my parents’ place was all burnished oak paneling, dark furniture, rugs the color of port wine. Pieces of impressive art—ceramics and paintings. Kinda like a gentleman’s club.”
“Sounds formal.”
“I guess it was. More suited to decorous cocktail parties than to two small boys running around and jumping on the furniture.”
Although I fear Felix, and think he’s deranged, it’s hard to totally hate him. Maybe I even feel a little sorry for him—I’m imagining that he was screwed up by his boyhood, spent in a world designed and constructed by Alana with the primary purpose of making Erik feel important, a big beast. I imagine, too, that Erik might like to be called “sir” by his children and that, even when the boys were young, he was endlessly pontificating on interest rates and productivity statistics, spouting his views on the global economy.
We move to the sofa, and I want to ask Felix what it was like to be the son of a renowned “thinker.” But Tilda says I must see the honeymoon photos, and then we’ll watch the film. She opens her laptop, and I admire pictures of her in neon-colored cotton kaftans, lounging about at their villa. Eventually there are a couple of photos of her in a bikini, but she’s turning to one side, looking flirtatiously over her shoulder at the camera. It’s useless. I can’t tell anything.
“It’s hard to be back in London,” Felix says. “Work and everything.”
“Did you manage to switch off while you were away?” I’m still trying to do normal, not wanting to be thrown out of the flat.
Tilda laughs. “Of course he didn’t. Zillions of calls to the office, and constant checking online.”
“Hey! I wasn’t so bad. What I mean is, I’m back to long hours away from you, and I have this wretched conference on Friday.”
“How long will you be away?” Tilda asks.
“Two days.”
“I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too, babe.”
The babe makes me get up from the sofa, unable to stomach being close to him, and I sit by myself. Tilda presses the remote.
She’s right. The movie’s atmospheric and brilliant. Jennifer Jason Leigh as Hedy is a dark-haired, quiet observer (like me), and Bridget Fonda is fair-haired and successful (like Tilda). You might think that is just coincidence, but there’s another element that gives me the creeps—it turns out that Hedy is a twin, her sister having died years ago. So at first it seems like she’s tormented, looking for a lost soul. Everything gets darker and darker, because it’s that sort of film, and by the end I feel winded—and still suspect that Tilda’s making a point about me.
“It was amazing,” I say. “The character of Hedy is so intense, she was riveting.”
Tilda and Felix are lying together on the sofa, she cradled in his arm. She eases herself away, sits up straight, mushing up her hair. “Well, guess what, Callie? Guess fucking what?”
“Yeah?”
“They’re making a new film—same themes as Single White Female—a close study of two young women, one of them slightly unhinged, always observing the other. One of them envious, the other glamorous and successful.”
A stab of pain in my chest.
“Sort of like Rebecca too, then?”
“Absolutely. The working title is Envy. Two main characters, Evie and Helen. And—amazing fact—it looks like I’m going to be cast as Helen!”
I’m looking nervously back and forth, at Felix and Tilda. “The glamorous one?”
She gulps her wine. “Yes, the glamorous one. I auditioned the week before the wedding—and I’ve got the job!”
Felix is sitting there looking stunned. Wooden. And I snap, becoming high-pitched and shrill: “Don’t you dare stop her! I know you hate her being successful—but if you do anything to harm her—anything—I’m going to the police!”
Felix gets up from the sofa, and says angrily, “This is too much. I’m going out. I need wine.”
“We have wine,” says Tilda nervously.
But he’s gathering up his keys and his jacket and leaves, slamming the door.