—My diary says that Anna decided to ditch me on the evening of 3 June because she wanted to have dinner with a guy named Mark Evans. Have you seen her recently?
I gulped, not knowing what to say at first. I decided to admit that while Anna and I had dined together that night, I’d not seen her recently (the word recently, as I interpreted it, applies to the limits of my short-term memory, namely, to what happened yesterday and the day before). Laura sounded disappointed, but she explained that she was trying to help the police with their investigation. I promised to ring her if I discovered anything relevant about Anna, begging her to do likewise. I placed the receiver down with a trembling hand, hoping that Laura was not aware that Anna and I had slept with each other three times since 3 June.
Then it hit me. My entry for 12 June says that Claire Bushey saw my entire altercation with Anna.
—And I saw everything on Jesus Green. Everything.
That’s when I realized that Claire could be in a position to say something incriminating about me if she’s ever questioned by the police about Anna’s disappearance. I have to find a way to ensure that she will never discover the girl’s identity. And even if she stumbles upon Anna’s name (and the fact that Anna has disappeared in a thick fog of mystery), I have to ensure that Claire is on my side.
At 18:30, I grabbed my wallet and ran through the back gate of Trinity in the direction of Varsity Blues (unfortunately, I had no idea where Claire lived). She shot me a dirty look when I appeared at the door. I pleaded with her for a quick word outside, realizing that a few customers were turning their heads to look at us. She refused, pursing her lips and folding her arms. I proceeded to beg at the top of my voice, causing the proprietor of the restaurant (Jenkins, I think his name is) to give me a severe ticking-off for harassing his staff. I returned to Varsity Blues after Claire finished her evening shift, at around 22:30. She strode past me when she emerged from the restaurant, refusing to acknowledge my existence. Her eyes were stony pits of lavender. I followed from behind, apologizing for the way I’d treated her. But she jumped onto her bicycle and pedaled away with rigid shoulders.
I should return to the restaurant tomorrow. Because I need Claire on my side, not against me.
I sigh, shaking my head. Fact: Claire did indeed forgive me twelve days later. To confirm this, I flip to my entry for 24 June 1995. It reads:
Claire emerged from the restaurant at around 22:45. Her eyes lingered over the enormous bouquet of crimson roses in my hand. But she pursed her lips, flung her shoulders back, and continued striding in the direction of her bicycle. I followed her, spewing apologies in my most humble tone. To my surprise, she emitted a loud sigh before turning back to look at me with narrowed eyes.
—Don’t ever cheat on me again.
—I’m sorry, Claire. Please give me another chance, and I’ll prove you’re the only one who matters.
I thrust the bouquet of roses into the basket of her bicycle. She gave me a curt nod before pedaling away, but I could see that her shoulders were no longer held back in a taut line.
While I suppose that she’s on the verge of forgiving me, I should continue to do my best to get her on my side. I’m going to hover outside Varsity Blues again tomorrow evening, armed with yet another giant bunch of flowers. She did seem partial to those crimson roses; I’m convinced that dogged pleading is the key to her heart.
I stifle a groan as I flip a few pages to my 4 July 1995, entry:
The day brought a double whammy of bombshells. The phone rang at 10:00; it was Laura Patterson on the line.
—I just wanted to tell you that Anna appeared at my doorstep three mornings ago.
—Really? Thank God for that. What happened? Why did she go missing?
—Your guess is as good as mine.
—Huh?
—She didn’t say. Refused to tell me anything.
—I don’t get it.
—She looked ill and scruffy in her ball gown.
—What? Was she still wearing that dress when she showed up at your door?
—She was. Though it had been reduced to shreds. The scratches on her lower arms made me worried. Her hair was tangled and greasy. But I was more bothered by the look in her eyes. She appeared…unhinged. So I called an ambulance.
A feeling of relief swept over me, although I still feared that I could be blamed for Anna’s temporary disappearance. I questioned Laura further. She said that Anna had refused to explain anything to anyone thus far. My relief deepened; if Anna is remaining silent about her experiences, I’m unlikely to be incriminated in any way.
But when I met Claire for lunch at the Olive Tree afterwards, my relief proved short-lived. She had arrived at the bistro with flushed skin and bright eyes. I should have suspected from the start that something was amiss. But I was too preoccupied with the dicey challenge of finishing with her without breaking her heart too badly. It had, after all, dawned on me that Duos and Monos have no long-term prospects together.
When the waiter brought us our crème br?lées, I was on the verge of blurting out that Claire deserved someone much better than the likes of me. It’s funny that I was on the brink of using one of the most tired clichés in the “How to Break Up with the Girl You’ve Been Fucking Recently to Save Your Own Vulnerable Arse” handbook. I suppose that men have a way of resorting to overused phrases in moments of desperation. But before I could open my mouth, Claire placed her spoon down, wiped a shaking hand on her napkin, and blurted out something I would not have wanted to hear in a million years.
—I’m pregnant.
My fork clanged onto the concrete floor. I must have gaped at Claire for several seconds in openmouthed horror.
—Don’t just stare at me like that, Mark. Say something, will you?
I blinked as black spots of disbelief were still dancing before my eyes.
—Are you sure?
My words spilled out in an agonized jumble. Claire nodded vigorously in response. She explained that she had fiddled about with a pregnancy kit the day before, after throwing up in Mrs. Perkins’s bathroom for five consecutive mornings. The resulting blue line on the strip (and the fact that she missed her period two weeks ago) prompted her to see a doctor earlier this morning. He confirmed that she was pregnant. About four weeks along, he said.
All I could think of was: Damn all fertile Mono virgins. But while I was tempted to flee the bistro, a niggling sense of responsibility held me to my seat. It pinned me down. Right at the knife-edge precipice of the yawning chasm of obligation.
—So what are we going to do about the baby?
Abort it at once, I was tempted to say. The Duo-Mono bastard who’s going to ruin my life. If it hasn’t already done so. But I held my tongue. If it ever emerged that I’d aborted my offspring, my reputation would be in tatters. How dare I even think of killing my child?
My prolonged silence nevertheless caused Claire’s eyes to darken with anxiety.
—Aren’t you at least pleased by the news?