Floz’s hand was trembling and the paper was fluttering.
‘Nick never existed?’ she whispered.
‘No, love.’
‘I fell in love with a man who never existed.’
‘You fell in love with the creation of a sick mind.’
‘I spoke to him. He sent me pictures of himself.’
‘You spoke to Chas Hanson. I don’t know what he looks like, we can’t find a picture of him anywhere, but this is a photo of Cody, the son of Chas Hanson who died. Guy found it
on Facebook. There’s an RIP site set up for him.’ Juliet handed over a picture of a smiling man at the side of a red car.
‘That can’t be.’ Floz’s heart-rate was thudding and she felt light-headed with shock. ‘The pictures Nick sent me of himself look like this man, but older. He said
he was forty.’
‘He must be considerably older than that, Floz. His son was thirty when he died last year. We also found these pictures on the memorial site.’
Juliet handed over two pictures of Cody as a boy. One of him riding a toy horse, the other of him looking uncomfortable in a frilly shirt and suit.
Floz gasped. ‘Nick said these pictures were of
him
as a young boy!’
‘He lied. They’re ones of Chas’s son. I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, Floz. He’s a conman.’
‘But why would he lie? He never asked me for any money, he was never less than a gentleman . . .’
‘That’s one thing, I suppose. But he did leech off your emotions, Floz. Big time. The bastard.’
Floz’s fists rolled and she began punching her thighs. The tears coursed down her cheeks.
‘I can’t believe I have been so stupid,’ she wept. ‘I trusted him. I told him everything about myself – even more than I told my ex-husband. I loved him. I loved a
man who didn’t exist.’ And then she laughed, and it was a hollow, heartbroken sound that wounded Juliet to hear it.
‘Oh, Floz, it’s not that you’re stupid, it’s that they’re clever. Very, very clever and manipulative.’
‘How could anyone . . .’
‘I don’t know. All I do know is that you should walk away from this. Don’t get embroiled in the sick mess of his games and his pain.’
‘I was on the brink of going to Canada to walk in the footsteps of a man who never was. A man I grieved for. I was going to go to the place where I thought his ashes were
scattered.’
‘I know, love.’
And Steve and Coco and Gideon and Guy know what an idiot I am. Why does it embarrass me most that Guy Miller knows?
Then Floz suddenly leaped up and wiped her eyes. ‘You know, you’re right. I need to just walk away and forget this whole thing.’
‘You have to, Floz,’ said Juliet, her voice brimming with concern.
‘Let’s put
Jeremy Kyle
on and have lots of tea and toast,’ said Floz, clapping her hands. ‘Let me concentrate on someone else being told a load of lies. Sit right
there, I’ll put the kettle on.’
She disappeared into the kitchen. And Juliet believed the bright and breezy mask that Floz pinned on.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ said Juliet later, tugging her overnight bag to the door. Steve was on his way up the stairs to collect it.
‘Yes,’ Floz replied with a relaxed smile. ‘Of course I’m okay. It’s over, it’s finished – so thank you for babysitting me today, but go and have a fab
time tonight with your fiancé.’
‘I’ll worry about you.’
‘Don’t you dare,’ said Floz, who had done her best all day to convince Juliet that she was fine. She just wanted Juliet to leave so she could drop the facade because it was
exhausting. She wanted to crumble into a ball and shut out the world. She wanted total oblivion. She didn’t want to wake up until the gnawing ache had gone. Tiny babies and young boys in
photographs were swirling round in her head. Graves and funerals of people who had never lived . . .
She waved Juliet and Steve off, then reached for the whisky bottle on the cabinet behind the dining-table. It was vile and seared her throat. But she wanted to hurt herself, because she needed
to hit out at something and the only target available was herself.
Floz was so blasted by nine o’clock that she would barely remember the phone ringing and breezily telling Guy that yes, she was perfectly fine. Of course she was.
After he put down the phone Guy attempted to start planning menus for the opening night of his new restaurant for the fourth time and failed. He couldn’t concentrate. His thoughts were
back in his sister’s flat. He had this feeling that he couldn’t quite shake off. Something about the way Floz had said she was ‘fine’ bothered him. She was laughing, and
that ‘fine’ was too bright.
Juliet had slyly rung him earlier and told him that Floz was now up to speed with the whole story and that she had taken the news incredibly well. But would he mind just ringing her later, on
some pretext, to make extra sure?
I’m fine. Honestly, I am fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine?
There had been a manufactured trill in her voice. Just like ten years ago when he had rung up Lacey and asked if she was
okay. And he had believed her.
He shot out of his seat and grabbed his car keys in an almost seamless move, hurried on his coat and locked the flat door. On the way over, he was aware that his driving was too fast.
There was no reply on the entryphone when he rang upstairs, so he let himself in with his key.
The lights were on in the flat and the television was blaring out. On the sofa sat Floz, collapsed against the cushions. On the coffee-table there was a very depleted bottle of whisky and an
empty bottle of Shiraz. There were two glasses on the table. One had fallen over and was dripping red wine on the table; the other was full of the Harveys Bristol Cream that Juliet had in the
cupboard for when her mother called in. Guy was getting a headache even thinking about the state Floz would be in, the next morning. He did a quick check around and in the bin for evidence of empty
blister-packs, but thankfully found nothing. It was the thought of her taking pills that had in fact weighted his foot down on the accelerator.
He pulled her up to a sitting position and gently tapped her face.
‘Floz, can you hear me? Floz – wake up.’
‘Guy,’ said Floz, suddenly aware of a presence and squinting to focus on him. She gave him a big grin. ‘Oh look, it’s Guy who hates me.’ Then she slid eel-like off
the sofa and he dived to catch her with a ‘Whoa’.
Is that what she thought? That he hated her?
Floz laughed with her mouth but her eyes were red and there were lots of black rivulets down her cheek. She’d been crying hard.
‘It’s all right, I’m fine,’ she said aggressively whilst attempting to brush him away.
Seconds later her whole body rhythmically started to convulse. Like Stripies did when he was about to part with a hairball.
‘Oh bollocks,’ said Guy, scooping her up under his arm and hurtling towards the toilet in the bathroom, but he got her in position too late and the first mouthful of projectile vomit
tumbled colourfully down her shirt. The second hit the water in the loo. Floz groaned as her body tried violently to rid itself of the poisons she had put in it. Guy swept back her long flame of
hair and held it with one hand; the other rubbed absently at her back whilst he said things like, ‘Come on, get it up.’ A lot of brightly coloured liquid came up, but no food. A whimper
eventually indicated that she was spent and, with surprising daintiness, she wiped at her mouth with the pedestal mat.
Guy grabbed a cloth from the sink and dampened it dextrously with one hand, working the tap and squeezing the excess water out whilst holding onto her draped over his other arm. He wiped her
face, took off the black lines down her cheeks. She responded to the coolness of the cloth with a sexily delicious, ‘Aahhh,’ that made him momentarily think about her making that sound
in other scenarios. Ones that involved him hooking her legs over his shoulders. Her eyelashes were long and black, he’d never been level with her face before, never seen the little scar that
crossed both her lips, the little dark beauty spot on her cheekbone.
Guy looked around for help. Her shirt was sodden and smelly, with vomit clinging to it. It needed to come off. He hoisted her to her feet, and when her legs buckled, he pulled her up again and
then led her like a small child into her bedroom, pushing her gently down onto the bed whilst he looked in her wardrobe for a replacement top. When he turned around she was supine and snoring
lightly.
‘Oh no you don’t, lady,’ he said. ‘You sleep now and you are going to have one hell of a head in the morning.’
He pulled her up into a sitting position; she was as floppy as a rag doll. She looked spent and exhausted. Guy wished that twisted Canadian was in the room. He would have forced him to look at
the state Floz was in because of him.
See what you’ve done to her? See the damage you’ve caused? She could have choked on her own vomit and died because of you, you bastard.
His fingers reached for the top button on Floz’s shirt then snatched back as if she’d just slapped him. God, he couldn’t do this. He felt like a perve.
What if she woke up
and thought he was . . . ?
In saying that, there was absolutely no way she was going to awaken suddenly and catch him undressing her. He looked around for assistance, as if he expected to find Juliet miraculously there,
but she wasn’t and wouldn’t be until tomorrow, and there was no getting away from it. He couldn’t leave her covered in her own sick. He rubbed his hands together as if to warm
them up and then tackled the top button. It popped out of the buttonhole. Fine, so far so good. Second one – no worries. The third one was in between her breasts and he averted his eyes as
the button slipped through the hole, and felt down for the next three. He’d undressed a few women in his time but this was different. They’d all been conscious, for a start, and
reciprocating with his buttons. He’d fantasized about this moment lots, peeling the clothes off this woman with him now. Well – ripping, if the truth be told, with her making thrilled
little squeaks in her throat and biting his earlobe. Enough of that. Here he was in the role of trusted knight in shining armour; it wasn’t right thinking unvaliant stuff like that.
He slid the blouse off her shoulders, trying not to look at the rather lovely creamy lace bra cupping two rather lovely creamy breasts. There were three tiny tattooed hearts just visible on the
top curve of her breast, two pink and one blue. God she was gorgeous, even here with a vomity shirt and big red eyes and hair roughed up like the bastard son of Don King and the Wildman from
Borneo. Then he noticed the crucifix of an old scar across her stomach, the arms of it long and ragged. That must have been one hell of an operation she’d had. He got back to the job in hand
and quickly threaded her resistant arms through the sleeves of another shirt and hurried the buttons onto all the wrong holes, breathing a sigh of relief when he’d finished.
‘Come on, miss, water time.’ He hoisted her up, despite the string of uncharacteristic abuse she gave him, and supporting her under the arms, led her over to the kitchen sink. With
one arm keeping her from slithering to the floor, he filled a pint glass with water. He backed onto the sofa and sat her on his knee, forcing her to sip it like a nurse with a dehydrated baby
whilst she grumpily protested and tried to bat it away. He pinned back both her hands with one of his and she wriggled in his lap. He gulped. His imagination was smoking with overactivity. He was
in real danger of spontaneously combusting.
Concentrate, concentrate, man!
He encouraged her to drink the water, gently and slowly so that it wouldn’t come back up again. He needed to hydrate her properly. Then and only then did he cave in to her sobby request to
let her sleep. She slumped gratefully against his chest and he let himself savour her body in his arms for a few minutes, his nose catching that strawberry scent on her skin. She felt so small and
vulnerable and he hurt for her. Then he picked her up, carried her into her bedroom and slid her under the quilt, on her side. He left her fully dressed – he wasn’t sure if his heart
could stand unbuttoning anything again. He was already at the stage of needing beta blockers. ‘BP 980 over 456,’ they would have announced on
Casualty
. He slid off her shoes
before he tucked the quilt neatly around her shape, and thought how dainty her toes were.
‘Pull yourself together for fuck’s sake, Guy,’ said something angelic, yet foul-mouthed, on his shoulder. He gave himself a mental belt across the chops and plonked himself on
the tub chair in the room. She was sleeping peacefully now, making snuffly noises like a contented baby. He’d just stay a bit to make sure she wasn’t sick again before moving onto the
sofa in the lounge. Just a little while.
Floz’s eyes flickered open and her brain spun into a frenetic attempt to assess the situation. She remembered opening up the bottle of whisky and the memory of the smell
made her retch. She drank wine too. And she spoke to Guy on the phone, she recalled. And someone held her hair back whilst she was vomiting in the toilet.
No, please tell me it wasn’t
him
. Then she froze. Someone was in her room, she could hear them breathing. Slowly she pulled back the quilt and turned her head to the source of the sound. She blinked hard, hoping the figure
crammed into the chair in the corner was an illusion, but it wasn’t. Guy Miller really was asleep in her bedroom, his arms folded, his neck at a very crooked angle.
What the f
. . .
The involuntary groan that came from deep in her throat jerked Guy awake. They both sat bolt upright in their respective sleeping quarters.
‘Hi,’ he said sleepily. ‘How are you feeling?’ His neck ached like a beast.
Floz suddenly became aware that she was fully dressed. Oh no, he’d put her to bed. She looked down. She never wore this shirt. When had she put it on?
Had
she put it on? Or had he
done it for her?
Oh please no
.
‘Oh God,’ she vocalized her horror. Her head was being bombarded with snapshots. It was like the worst photo album in the world:
Floz throwing up, Floz trying to act sober
and
her personal favourite,
Floz weeing all over the carpet and Guy washing her down
. Which bits were real, which bits weren’t? Nooo! But she did distinctly remember a cloth. She gulped.
Hang on, he wiped her face, she remembered now. Closing her eyes and rubbing at them did nothing to blot out what she remembered. If anything, their colours were brighter against the darkness. Why
didn’t she have a headache? She wanted one. She wanted to be in Headache Land, where it was too painful to think about other things. Things that she wanted so badly to blot out. In fact, she
wanted to blot out her whole life. Not die, just in case she woke up to suffer eternity feeling exactly the same as she did now. She wanted not to exist.