White Lies by Lucy Dawson
For Sarah
Part 1
The Accusations
(Statements supplied 18 September 2017)
1
Dr Alexandra Inglis
Blinking awake, I tried to twist on the pillow away from the bright sunlight steaming between the flimsy curtains. It was only a tiny movement but a white-hot flash of pain stabbed into my skull from behind my eyes. I moaned slightly, lifted up one hand – trying to hold my head together – my sticky tongue unpeeling from the dry roof of my mouth. I needed water.
Propping myself up on an elbow, I squinted at the bedside table and shakily reached for the pathetically small hotel glass which wasn’t even a third full. I drank it anyway, but some bits of surface dust clung to the inside of my mouth as I gulped it down, and nausea swirled in my gut as the liquid hit my stomach. I had to crash back onto the pillow quickly to stop myself from being sick. The room was uncomfortably stuffy, and I shoved a bare leg out from under the twisted sheet to try and cool down.
Someone sighed and moved next to me. I froze and very slowly turned to look over my left shoulder, to see the back of a head; tousled sandy-brown hair tapering softly down a tanned neck that swept out into a broad, naked male back.
My heart stopped, and I lurched back into the airless, packed club of eight hours earlier; a light sheen of sweat on my skin, clutching my slopping drink as I pushed through the crush of hot bodies. The base thudding through my muscles from the inside out while I looked around the club drunkenly for the girls… my eyes alighting on a face looking back at mine through a break in the throng. His eyes and skin alternated electric blue and hot pink as relentless, beat-blinding strobes of white light bounced off our bodies, and a neon cage of flashing triangles descended over the heads and waving hands of the dancing crowd. He straightened up, and I realised he was tall. I drank in a tight T-shirt, gym-honed arms, beautiful eyes – and didn’t stop staring. He looked confused at my brazenness, but then came a shy smile.
I saw how it was going to go immediately.
He looked down, rubbed his chin and neck awkwardly, as if trying to make a decision, then walked towards me…
I turned away from him, keeping my head on the pillow, and urgently scanned the hotel room. My shoes were next to a tangle of jeans and his T-shirt, my dress was crumpled by the chair – a large trainer lying on top of it – my bra over by the door to the bathroom.
I slid a hand under the cover. I wasn’t wearing anything at all. Shit, shit, shit.
I held my breath and, moving in triple slow motion so as not to wake him, reached for my mobile phone, lying next to the empty glass, and picked it up. There were ten text messages, all from Rachel, starting with
Where are you? I can’t find you?
through to the last,
YOU DON’T WANT TO DO THIS!! Trust me, stop NOW!!!!
With a jolt, I suddenly remembered the sound of hammering on the hotel door; staggering over to throw open the lock and putting my head round to find Rachel standing there. She must have got a taxi all the way back to check on me. She would have seen our clothes on the floor.
I closed my eyes in shame.
The ping of another message arriving made me jump, but it wasn’t mine. The body alongside me shifted again, and I lay motionless while the bed groaned as he leant out, presumably to pick his phone off the floor.
I realised I was going to have to turn over. I couldn’t just pretend he wasn’t there.
Cautiously, making sure I exposed nothing, I twisted to see that he was lying on his back. Thank God, the sheet was covering him; he’d tucked it in under his arms. My eyes moved over the top of a hairless chest, before briefly catching the edge of blue-black tattoo, some sort of Celtic lettering skimming a well-defined tricep and deltoid, then up again to an embarrassed smile and light-brown eyes looking right back at me. My heart crashed with horror as I realised he was young. About twenty-five? I swallowed and croaked ‘Hi’, before clearing my throat.
‘Hey,’ he replied, and gave me an awkward little wave. His hair was sweetly all over the place, and it occurred to me that he was exactly the kind of boy I would have killed to wake up next to when I was at university – a couple of decades ago.
Before I had the chance to say anything else, there was a knock on the door and a firm shout. ‘Ally? Are you in there?’
‘Just a second!’ I lifted my head up and it almost exploded. Looking around desperately and finding nothing in reach, I was forced to drop the sheet and dart naked into the en suite, grabbing a towel to wrap around my body.
He was sitting up in bed – having already put on his T-shirt – when I returned, and watched quietly as I hurriedly kicked the rest of our clothes and his shoes out of the line of sight from the door. I took a deep breath and threw open the lock, before carefully leaning my upper body round to peer into the corridor. Mercifully, it was just Rachel, freshly showered and dressed – and alone. Unable to see the bed, as it was hidden behind the door and me, she looked down the length of sanitised room visible from the door. ‘You got rid of him then?’
I closed my eyes briefly and shook my head, pointing over my shoulder.
She looked horrified and covered her mouth with her hand, before simply turning on the spot and walking hurriedly back to her room.
There was no way he wouldn’t have heard what she said.
I closed the door and returned to him. He’d drawn his knees up and had let his head drop awkwardly. What I could see of his face was burning bright red with humiliation.
I felt dreadful. ‘I’m so sorry. My friend, she…’ I trailed off. There was nothing I could say to make it any better. I hadn’t wanted to be unkind. He didn’t need to hear that. Throwaway comments can hurt for such a long time.
He hesitated, did his best to smile and said manfully ‘It’s OK’, before slipping from the bed. I averted my eyes, but thankfully he had boxers on. He reached under the valance and pulled out his belongings, dressing quickly, as I sat down on the chair by the window and focused studiously on the luridly patterned carpet. He pushed his feet into his trainers, slid his mobile into his back pocket and brushed past me on his way out. I opened my mouth to apologise again, but the door was already swinging open, then clicking shut quietly behind him. Before I could find the words, he was gone.
I exhaled and leant sideways so that I was resting my head on the side of the chair and could hug my knees up to my chest. I stayed like that for a moment, feeling numb and hollow, then reached to wipe away a few tears with the heel of my hand. With my thumb, I began to twist my wedding and engagement rings on my finger. I needed to dress and go downstairs to join the others for breakfast. Staying shut away would only make things look worse. I glanced at the crumpled, empty bed and shuddered at what I’d done there with him in the night – things that I let happen. That I made happen. I put my hands up to my thudding head, threaded my fingers into my hair and closed my eyes.
Things that I will now never be able to undo.