Not long after we’d first got together I’d gone out alone one night and ended up drinking in a basement bar in Camberwell before finding myself at a party in Vauxhall in the early hours. Some woman had pressed a pill on to my tongue and I’d swallowed it without thinking, washing it down with warm cider and a kiss that smeared my lipstick. ‘I don’t normally take MDMA,’ I’d told her, and she’d smiled and said, ‘It isn’t MDMA, sweetie.’
For the next three hours my body had turned to liquid, something hot and molten beneath the strobing lights. Shadows swam at me, and I kept finding myself in the same spot where I’d begun, sitting on gritty concrete behind a speaker which rattled my poor prone body with each beat. I don’t remember doing it, but somehow I’d called William and he’d driven to collect me with only the vaguest of directions, searching the Vauxhall arches for me with his sweater on over a pair of cotton pyjamas as people around him ground their teeth to powder, eyes rolling, sweat sour and ripe. He’d taken me back to his house even though I’d vomited down my front and my legs wouldn’t work, and he’d had to put an arm around my waist to guide me. He’d put me to bed in his spare room, crisp cotton sheets with the creases still in from the packaging and a bowl beside the bed. I’d slept for nine hours straight, only waking up once to see him putting a cup of tea next to me, brushing stray hairs from my face.
My man. Even his name, William, meant ‘resolute protector’. That was how he was. But still, as I sat in front of the television that night, waiting to hear his key in the lock, my heartbeat fluttering wings against my ribcage, I kept thinking. Over and over, until the wine washed the thoughts away.
I’m not proud of what I did next, but I was getting desperate and needed to get on to his computer, just for peace of mind. God, ‘peace of mind’, what a lovely phrase. My mind was in perpetual motion, even in sleep, like a snake eating its own tail.
Because many of Three Squares’ clients were in other time zones, William spent a proportion of his time making phone calls in the middle of the night from the box room. Some nights when I couldn’t sleep, I would lie awake and listen to the soothing rhythm of Will’s voice asking, ‘How’s the weather out there in Kyoto?’, ‘How’s Seattle treating you today?’ and ‘Ni hao, Mr Ling, I hear you need our help.’ It was a balm, his voice, in the dark.
About three days after I’d called Porters of Mayfair, I sat awake, back pressed against the wooden headboard of the bed. I’d been trying to read a book, but the words had slid about on the page like grease in a pan. In the end I just gave up and sat there, hands folded on my lap, listening to the metronomic tick-tock of William’s muffled voice. The clock read three-oh-seven as I slid out from under the covers and padded to the box room. The door was ajar and William was leaning back in his chair, talking on the phone. When I silently pushed the door open he looked over at me, his eyes widening as he covered the mouthpiece with his hand.
‘You’re naked!’ he whispered, smiling, trying not to laugh. ‘What are you even doing awake?’
‘I’m horny,’ I said. ‘Come back to bed.’
He laughed, but I could see how dark his eyes had turned. That was the thing with Will. I always turned him on. Still, I remember how he shook his head, saying uh-huh, sure, sure into the mouthpiece while frantically waving me away. I didn’t go. I walked on tiptoe into the room and bent over his desk so my nipples brushed against the keyboard. I hissed between my teeth as they immediately hardened into small, pink peaks. I let my free hand slide down my stomach, in between my legs, shifting my position a little so he could see. He’d stopped shaking his head now. Poor William was frozen to the spot. I pulled my hand away after only a moment so he could see my fingers glistening, before sliding them between my lips and closing my eyes, tasting myself. I heard his voice, strangled-sounding, telling his client he would check in with him tomorrow and not even waiting for a reply. He put his hands in my hair and pulled me towards him so that when our lips met they were crushed against my teeth.
His breath tasted of coffee and the antacids he chewed. I felt it against my cheek as I led him into the bedroom, shedding his clothes with a speed I rarely saw in Will, pressing his erection against me and tangling his hands in my hair. When he came he arched his back and his hands were claws on the curves of my shoulders, digging into the flesh to the point of pain, a sharpness that thrilled me. However much he loved me I could never get him to agree to hurt me, even consensually. This would have to do.
Another thing I know of Will is that he always, always, sleeps after sex. It’s a perverse narcolepsy, a form of sexual concussion. I lay still, waited for his breathing to soften and lengthen, watching the rise of his belly in the darkness. I looked back at the clock. Three thirty.
William’s computer has a timeout setting of thirty minutes before you need to re-enter the password to gain access again, and even though only twenty-three minutes had elapsed since I’d left the bedroom I had no idea how long he’d left his computer idle before I’d gone in there in my birthday suit, smiling wickedly. Perhaps I was already too late, I thought as I sat in his chair. I pulled the keyboard towards me, alert to any movement from the bedroom, the rustle of the bedcovers, a hand scratching at his chest. I should have closed the bedroom door, I thought; at least then I’d hear him coming. Too late now. The screen lit up. It was unlocked.
Carefully, I minimised every tab he had open until I reached the desktop. I didn’t really know what I was looking for. I opened his emails and scrolled quickly through, looking for anything unfamiliar, a name I didn’t recognise. One thing I’ve learned about myself from leaving home aged just sixteen is that I know instinctively when something is amiss, and trust me, living like that, it’s fucking exhausting.
Nothing jumped out at me. In fact, his most recent emails had been to me, sending me a link to a new gym that was opening near our home and suggesting jobs I could apply for. His search history was a combination of media sites and clients, with a handful looking at Airbnbs in southern Thailand and flights to Indonesia (third choice on our list). Nothing for Porters of Mayfair, and his last visit to a poker site had been nearly three months ago. I even discovered a news alert set up for the small town he grew up in. In fact, I was so caught up that I barely noticed when the sky started to lighten outside. I stretched, hearing the muscles of my spine click noisily. I wanted a shower, to get warm somehow. The rain hushed against the glass as I closed down the browser windows and stood up, careful to leave his desktop as he’d left it. He couldn’t know I’d been snooping.
That’s when I found it.
A memory stick, taped behind the screen of his computer. I reached down for it carefully, using my fingers like tweezers. My hands shook as I pushed it into the port, and just for a moment I had that same sour taste rising in the back of my mouth, fear tasting like spoiled apple juice.
My stomach clenched as I opened up the folder and peered at the single file there. The name of it was numeric: 16032015. Secret bank account, I thought as I clicked on the folder. He’s hiding money from you. You knew it all along, you felt it in your gut and he—
I caught my breath. Snatched it, holding it hot and shivering in my throat.