Natasha had never learnt to swim or even worn a bikini. She didn’t want people commenting on the pump. But she had a picture ready, one of the fakes she’d used on Tinder. He replied immediately.
Hot
U? she typed.
I already sent one.
Take off the towel?
I’m not sending U a naked pic. U could be a bot.
I’m not a bot she typed.
Prove it.
Ask me a question. Any question.
No reply. Was he thinking? Or had he just given up?
He reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t recall who. She was struggling to find a name, a place, when she realised her lips were tingling, she was starting to sweat, and the familiar black spots were floating across her vision. She swiped the reader in her arm. The new kit was a massive improvement but even a Flash Monitoring System wasn’t proof against a hypo. The reading was too low, and she needed to act fast. The spots were swelling into blobs, some of them merging to form snakes. She minimised the page, picked up her reader and went to the kitchen for a Coke.
She drank half the can, hating the way it repeated on her, rushing up her throat and nose, but she was out of glucose tablets and she knew this worked. The symptoms were subsiding but now she was feeling nauseous, so she sat on a stool and waited. One thing type 1 had taught her was patience. She looked about her. The work surfaces were wiped down and the plain white breakfast plates had been washed, dried and returned to the cupboard. She appreciated that. Often, she had to leave earlier than Luke to get to suburban courts and his fastidiousness made it easier to come home to their small flat. But however clean and neat, however modern the lines and freshly painted the walls, the flat was still pokey. Natasha had already decided that when she got the CPS job they would look for somewhere better. One of those Edwardian semis on the edge of Dulwich would be ideal, close to where she was meeting Mel on Sunday.
She knew the Picture Gallery well, though she had pretended she didn’t, unable to resist the minor deception of feeding into the other woman’s prejudices. If Mel was too stupid to realise that someone who went to the wrong university might like beautiful things, why bother to explain?
Once again, she swiped the sensor. Her blood glucose was up but she was still feeling sick, so she sat on a bit, waiting for her body to settle. Yes, Dulwich would be perfect. A step up from Brixton. She imagined the house they would buy. They would get builders in to gut the place, make a decent kitchen extension, French windows onto the garden, silent gliding doors, wooden floors, new rugs. They’d go shopping, real shopping, buy glass and china with money she earned. They would have dinner parties like the people she worked with. She hadn’t said anything to Luke yet. He didn’t like change and novelty.
The nausea was still there. It was unusual for her. She’d felt sick once before when her sugar levels were sky-high but unless there was something wrong with her monitor this was not the case now. She was probably just dehydrated. It was a hot day. She had opened all the windows on arriving home but there was no breeze and the air was heavy in the sun-baked galley kitchen.
Moving was not an unrealisable dream, though she’d need the CPS job. The money from her adoptive father, Ed, would help towards a deposit. But it was nowhere near enough. Still, it was lucky she’d visited him after all before it had been too late. He might have cut her out completely.
She looked at the wall clock. Six twenty. Luke would be in the pub with his workmates for at least another hour. He rarely went out without her and she was usually too busy with work, but this was a Friday ritual: two or three rounds and a visit to the Thai to bring back a curry supper.
Back in the sitting room, she went straight to Jacob’s profile page. Just as she hoped, there was another message.
OK. When we meeting?
Next week? she typed.
Cool.
U old enough to get a drink? She knew he wasn’t, but it would be interesting to see if he lied.
I’m sixteen. Pub’s fine.
His honesty was so sweet. She typed Waxy O’Connor’s? It’s in Soho.
Where in Soho?
She typed the address. She hadn’t been there since Ricky. It was her favourite meeting place, big enough for her to see Jacob without him seeing her. She carried on typing You look FANTASTIC in that photo.
Tease.
Take off the towel. I’d like to see a bit more of you.
How about we Facetime?
I’d rather meet first. I don’t like talking to a screen.
You’re a bot.
Come to Waxy’s. See for yourself. A public place. If we like each other – fine. If not, you walk away. Nothing to lose.
There was a pause. He would be typing.
Take your top off.
Not online she typed.
His reply came immediately. What time at Waxy’s?
Two p.m. Thursday next week?
U not working?
Freelance. Main bar at Waxy’s
C U then she read.
How wrong he was. She might pop in to get a look at him if she was out of court in the afternoon. But there was no way he would see her.
She took down Lola’s Facebook page, logged onto Rightmove and browsed half a dozen two- and three-bedroom properties in Dulwich. They were ridiculously expensive but she wasn’t going to live in a housing association flat forever.
A cloud cut across the afternoon sun, the light dimmed and the air through the open window felt suddenly chilly. The windows were double-glazed metal sashes. To open them you needed to unclip the latch and slide the inner and outer panes a few inches to the left. They acted as efficient insulation, blocking the sound of the trains and traffic, keeping out the cold in winter. They were safe, Luke explained. Children couldn’t fall out; adults couldn’t jump. He didn’t mention fire risk. Natasha thought about Grenfell Tower. But you didn’t need to be in a tower block to die in a fire. You just needed to be trapped.
When she was seven years old, her foster mother had locked her in a cupboard. Natasha couldn’t now remember what minor misdemeanour had led to this imprisonment, but she knew she was at an age when she hadn’t yet learnt to be devious, when childish frustration emerged as burning fury. She remembered kicking the other foster children, biting them till she drew blood, pulling their hair. Her earliest memories were memories of anger, her own and that of the red-faced adults who sought to control her.
Looking back, she had no idea how long she had been held in that cupboard. An hour, two hours, more? She had never forgotten the stench. Was it filthy water lingering at the bottom of a bucket? Maybe a dead rat under floorboards? It had been so dark that she had to identify her surroundings by touch, the only light a crack around the edge of the door. When her foster mother unlocked it and pulled her into the electric dazzle of the hall, she knew it must never happen again. She would do everything in her power to be good. And if she couldn’t be good, she would do everything in her power not to be caught. And if she was caught, she would apologise. Being good was not within her power and she was caught on numerous occasions. She was never confined again, but confinement remained her greatest fear.
Was it the memory of that vile smell that was making her feel queasy now? She closed down Rightmove and brought up Jacob’s Facebook page. There was a new message.
Out and about now. Send you another pic soon.
Out and about? What did that mean for a sixteen-year-old boy? She remembered herself at sixteen and hoped he would take care. There were dangerous people out there. She was about to reply with a friendly warning, but she was still feeling strange and as she looked down to the keyboard, the room seemed to be swirling around her. She dropped her head into her hands and waited for the dizziness to pass. But it was getting worse. And now her stomach was heaving. She needed to get to the bathroom. Fast.