I hear the front door quietly close an hour later as I’m lying in the bath watching the sun move from the far wall across the floor. I’m not expecting Carmel, or Tia – they are going straight from the wine merchants to the hotel near the venue to get ready. Perhaps they have forgotten something? I sit up slowly in the cool water.
‘Carmel?’ I wait. ‘Tia? Hello?’
There is no answer. My skin ripples with gooseflesh as I strain to hear. There is a soft creak as someone starts to climb the stairs. I can just make out the rustle of clothes, the soft tread on the floorboards. I can’t remember whether I locked the bathroom door and from here it’s impossible to tell. My mind instantly recalls the cyclists from upstairs telling us about the burglaries this summer.
I call out again, my voice shaking. There is no response, but this time a floorboard creaks just outside in the hallway. From where I’m sitting I can see the frosted glass of the bathroom door, and there is someone moving out there. Tall, broad. All the saliva in my mouth dries up. My skin prickles with cold. Now I’m thinking about those phone calls I’ve been receiving, the silent ones. Long exhalations of breath in the darkness. Joey Fraser asking me where my muzzle is and someone else, Lesley Patterson maybe, who’d played Lucy in the show, saying, ‘They call female dogs bitches, isn’t that right, Joey?’
But she is dead now, isn’t she? Carbon monoxide poisoning. Suicide. But Joey Fraser isn’t. He’s got a film coming out. He’s come back to England.
I look around me frantically for something I can use as a weapon. I’m naked and vulnerable, still with the bruising on the inside of my elbow where the nurse had taken my blood. She’d asked me what I wanted to do a silly thing like kill myself for, and I hadn’t answered. Outside the door the shadow moves, growing taller. I watch the handle slowly turn, my heart hammering in my throat. Carefully, so carefully, I pull the shower curtain closed around the bath so that I am hidden from view. I hear someone come into the room, and the curtain ripples gently in the draught.
Now they are crossing the floor with a slow careful tread which makes me want to scream. The nearest thing to hand is a shampoo bottle which I have wrapped my fingers around, weighing it carefully. I can swing it, I figure, maybe enough to hit them on the temple, stun them perhaps. Despite the cold I am sweating. Whoever it is has stopped in front of the bath. I can see the shape of them through the filmy curtain, and as I watch, horrified, I see them raise a hand and stroke their fingers down the plastic, making a shrill squeaking sound. I want to shout but before I can, before I can spring forward with the urgency I feel coiled in my muscles, I hear a voice say, ‘Stella?’
‘Marco?’ It’s Marco. I am flooded with relief. He draws the curtain back.
‘Are you hiding?’ He sees the bottle in my hand and a look of concern creases his face. ‘Stella? Were you going to attack me?’
‘I didn’t know it was you. Why didn’t you say something?’
‘I thought you were asleep.’
‘Didn’t you hear me calling you? God, you had me out of my mind.’
‘Out of your mind is right. You look awful.’
‘Great, thanks a lot. Pass me that towel.’
He helps me out of the bath because my legs are shaking. When he folds me into a warm towel, I lean against him, smoothing out my ragged breathing. He lifts my face to look at me, cradling my chin with his hand.
‘I mean it, darling, you don’t look well. Have you slept?’
‘I’ve done nothing but sleep for the last twenty-four hours. How did you get into the house?’
‘I had a key cut. After what happened I thought – I thought it would be prudent.’
‘You spoke to my aunt.’
‘Yes. Are you mad at me?’
‘I am, a bit.’ I start drying myself. He watches me wrap a towel about my head, turban style. The weight of my new extensions presses down on me. ‘You’ve worried her. You didn’t need to do that.’
‘I’m sorry. I was trying to help. Come on, get dressed. I’ve got something for you.’
It’s food. The grease-spotted bag is sitting on the table and inside, silver foil cartons, a rich smell of spices, hot fluffy naan bread. I hadn’t realised how hungry I am.
‘I’m trying to be healthy,’ I tell him, not meaning a word of it.
‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’ He’s brought us cold bottles of beer and now he cracks one open, handing it to me and kissing me full on the mouth. When we sit down, he takes my hand. When we speak, our voices overlap.
‘I think—’
‘Stella, I—’
‘You first,’ I say.
‘Okay.’ He draws a deep breath, rubs his palm along the length of his thigh. It occurs to me then that he’s nervous. I immediately brace myself.
‘I did call Jackie. You’re right. But not quite for the reason you think. Or not just for that, anyway. Uh—’
He’s reaching into his inside pocket, sweat prickling his brow. For a moment, one crazy moment, I think he is going to pull out a gun on me. But then I see the little box in his hand.
‘In the absence of your father I need to ask someone for permission so I thought it should be her.’
He opens the box. Inside, a ring. Glittering emeralds in a plain silver band. I put my hand over my mouth.
‘Stella, I – God, I knew I’d make a mess of this. Stella, will you marry me?’
I am silent. The time expands like foam, a balloon slowly inflated. It is thick and almost tangible. In it everything seems frozen, a perfect clarity.
His voice is prickling with nerves. ‘Do you want me to go down on one knee? I’ll do it, if you want.’
‘No, Marco, no. This is – it’s beautiful. It’s just right.’
‘Is that a yes?’
‘Yes, of course it’s a yes!’
His smile widens, teeth gleam. He takes the ring from the box and slides it carefully onto my ring finger, telling me – almost babbling – that the ring had belonged to his grandmother and how she’d bought it in Penang (‘That’s in Malaysia, Stella’) and how he’d kept it a secret these past few weeks – and all I can think is, How could you have thought he was pulling a gun on you?
After sex, because of course there is always that – lust like a hot scalding liquid – after that we lie in my bed looking up at the ceiling. I have my head against his chest and he is tangling his hands in my hair. He loves it long, he tells me. Much better. Prettier. After filming the very last episode as Katie Marigold I’d cut it all off; that beautiful, waist-length, honey-coloured hair. I was sick of it. I’ve never grown it past my shoulders again. I lift my hand to look at my ring and hear myself say, ‘When I came out of hospital there was a piece about me in the papers.’
‘I know.’
‘I just – I mean, I’ve been thinking about it, and—’
‘You think I sold them the overdose story on you?’
I shrug miserably. ‘Did you?’
‘Of course not,’ he says softly. ‘If you want my opinion, whoever did that was pretty desperate. I mean, no disrespect to you, Stella, you know I loved that show, but – it’s hardly news, is it? You haven’t been on television for a long time. Financially speaking, it would hardly be worth it.’