My legs are not co-operating with my brain but I make it to the kitchen. I grab a cup from the tree mug and switch on the cold tap so hard that the water bounces back up from the sink and sprays across the work surface; I somehow manage to fill the cup. I fling open the cupboard doors until I find the one with the food in. My one good hand fumbles with the tins and packets, knocking them over. A tin of beans hits the worktop. Finally, I find what I’m looking for. Grabbing the salt pot, I flick the lid and pour it straight into the glass of water. I need to make myself sick. Whatever I’ve ingested needs to come out – and quick.
I raise the cup to my mouth, but it’s taken from me. ‘You don’t need that,’ says Tom, tipping the contents down the sink. ‘It doesn’t have to be like this, you know.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I hold onto the worktop to steady myself.
‘We could make a good team together,’ he says. ‘You must know how I feel about you.’
I frown. ‘We’re friends, Tom. Old friends. Friends since we were at school together.’
‘We’ve been more than friends, though, and we can again.’
I shake my head. ‘That was at university. It was nothing serious. We both know that. We’ve always said so.’
Tom slams the cup down so hard on the work surface that the handle comes off in his hand. He chucks it into the sink. ‘You said so. I didn’t.’
‘But, Tom, we went on and fell in love with different people. You married Isabella and I married Luke. We, me and you, we just had a student fling.’ I rub my face with my hand. Everything is totally fucked up.
‘Every time I saw you two together, you looked more and more in love. And it just reminded me how much not in love I was with Isabella.’
‘What are you hoping to achieve by all this?’
‘Do you have any idea how much maintenance I have to pay Isabella? I have to pay for that bloody great big house she lives in. Can’t be a modest two-up two-down, can it? No, it has to be a big fuck-off house in the most expensive part of Brighton. And then there’s all the things she needs for Lottie: the private riding lessons, the one-to-one swimming lessons, stage school on a Saturday, French lessons with a private tutor. I could go on and on. And on top of that, I have to live myself, pay for this place, my car, my own lifestyle.’
‘I don’t understand. What has any of this got to do with me?’
‘Luke’s cheated on you with Martha. I showed you the evidence. Leave him and we can be together.’
I laugh. ‘It doesn’t work like that. It’s not quite that simple. What about Martha? And Alice?’
‘What about them?’
I look into Tom’s eyes and all I see is a blank space. He’s totally removed from his actions. He has no sense of empathy for what’s happened to me.
And that is the thing that frightens me the most. I need to get out of here. I don’t trust Tom and what he’s capable of. My eyes give me away as I glance at the door. Tom doesn’t miss this and blocks my exit route. I don’t wait to find out what he’s going to do next. I grab a tin of beans that had fallen out of the cupboard earlier and with all the strength I can muster, I smash it into the side of his head.
He looks at me. Unmoving. A trickle of blood comes out of his nose. He raises his fingers to his lip, dabbing at the blood, before inspecting his red-stained fingers. I’m trapped against the worktop. I’m not sure if Tom is swaying or if I am. And then he falls to the floor. I let out a cry and then there’s a silence in the room.
Dear God, I think I’ve killed him.
The need to get as far away from him as possible is almost overwhelming but I know my body is beginning to shut down. Whatever Tom put in my drink is taking its toll. I grab the broken cup and once again fill it with water and salt. I force myself to drink it. To gulp it down. It’s disgusting and my throat wants to close, to spit it back out, but I refuse to give in. And then, my stomach convulses and I’m throwing up. It looks like blood as the red-wine vomit splatters the sink. I repeat the process with some more water and salt and my stomach burns as I throw up for a second time.
I remember being told when the girls were little that if they were ever to ingest any bleach or something like that, to give them milk to line their stomach and stop it being absorbed into the bloodstream. I have no idea if this is right or not, but I snatch open the fridge and grab a plastic bottle of green-top milk from the door. I gulp down as much of the milk as I can, not wanting to cause myself to throw up any more.
I step over Tom and, as I do so, he groans and puts out his hand. I scream as his fingertips touch my ankle and I stumble out into the hallway. I look back through the doorway and Tom is pulling himself up onto all fours. He lifts his head and our eyes lock. For a moment, I’m static. Unable to think. Unable to move.
He shakes his head, like a dog who has got hold of a toy in its jaws, and putting one hand up on the breakfast-bar stool, hauls himself to his feet. He rubs the side of his head. ‘That wasn’t a very nice thing to do,’ he says.
The sound of his voice snaps me out of the trance I’m in. My survival instinct kicks in and I’m racing down the hallway, through the living room and out onto the landing before I can even think straight. I hammer at the button to call the lift, but looking up at the numbers I can see that the lift is on the ground floor.
‘Clare! Wait!’ Tom is out on the landing, his hand to his head, his other holding onto the doorframe. ‘Don’t go. We need to talk. We can sort this out.’
‘No, Tom, it’s too late.’ I’m too scared to cry but I know my heart is breaking inside. I turn and push open the door to the emergency exit. Momentum carries me through and I’m on a small metal fire escape on the outside of the building. My body crashes into the rail, tipping me forwards. I scream. I think I’m going to fall, but I manage to hold on tight to the rail with my one good hand. I push myself back to safety.
Rain is lashing at my face, made stronger by the fierce wind of the storm. My hand skims across the water that is sitting on the handrails as I thunder down the steps, the fresh air bringing a new sense of awareness to me. My feet work fast as I try to put as much distance as I can between myself and Tom. I’m on the second floor when I hear the crash of the fire-escape door above me. I hear Tom call my name, but the words are whipped away by the wind and then I feel the vibration of his feet on the rungs and the dull thud of his steps as he too belts down the staircase.
I reach the path below and for a moment I’m not sure which way to go. I’m in an alleyway at the rear of the property. I’ve lost my sense of direction. To my left is blackness, to my right the glow of the street lighting calls me. I’m running down the alleyway, trying to keep my plastered arm as close to my body as possible to avoid jolting it so much. The pain is shooting up my forearm and through my shoulder, but I ignore it. All I can think about is getting away.
As I reach the end of the alleyway and burst out onto the street, I don’t wait to look behind me. The street is empty, the storm keeping everyone inside where it’s dry and safe. I don’t think I’m going to be able to outrun Tom. He’s a fitness fanatic and running is his thing. I need to hide from him. I run to the end of the street, pausing for only a second to look behind me. The dark, shadowy figure of Tom looms after me.