Zoe heard herself make a kind of groaning noise, and realized she was standing at the foot of her bed. She had no idea why she was there. She saw that it was dark outside; she was confused and panicked, and then all at once she understood. She sat at the end of the bed, shaking. It was the third time this had happened.
She had almost got used to waking up paralysed. It was particularly horrible if it came with a vision: sometimes she saw the girl she dreamt about sitting in the corner of the room and would want to cry out or wave her arms to ward her off, but find herself unable to move. But often there was another part of her that knew what was happening and that she was dreaming, and she could tell herself not to panic, that it would be over soon. The sleepwalking was new and potentially more dangerous.
It was another reason she liked staying with Adam. She knew – she wasn’t sure how – that it wouldn’t happen when she was with him. It wasn’t just about having another person there, though she acknowledged that it made things safer, an irritating truth she didn’t like to think too much about. She never even slept particularly well in the warehouse: the bed was uncomfortable, there wasn’t room for both of them and she was usually wired on drink and lust. It was that the conditions weren’t right. It only happened in Litchfield Road.
She looked at her phone: it was 2 a.m. The screen was still covered with reproachful red dots from earlier in the evening. She hadn’t picked up her mum’s calls for weeks and now Peter had started trying, both of them leaving a procession of kind, neutral voicemails. She tried to fob them off with brief text messages, carefully constructed to give the impression she was very busy. She knew if she spoke to them they would ask about how it was going in the house or with her job, and she couldn’t bear to answer.
She went into the living room and poured herself some warm white wine in a mug. She opened up her laptop and scrolled through Facebook. It was soothing to remember that the world was full of people doing ordinary things like eating brunch and attending hen parties, and comforting that people were communicating with her at two in the morning, even in the most abstract way. The wine and lack of sleep made her feel hazy and her heartbeat was starting to slow. Then, it appeared on her screen like a punch in the face: a photo of Adam with someone tagged as ‘Kathryn Slater’.
She’d known that he was going to the wedding, and something about it had made her uncomfortable – maybe just the association of them and matrimony. But it was the first time she’d seen a photo of Kathryn. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t try to find her online and she’d stuck to it: not because she was particularly self-disciplined but because she was afraid of how it might make her feel. Zoe realized she’d unconsciously built up an image of her, as thin, brittle, with straight dark hair. She was serious, an artist; not beautiful but striking. Sometimes she thought she saw her, or an image of her, in the girls who cycled in front of her through Shacklewell on continental bicycles, wearing complicated trousers.
In fact, Kathryn was not striking, but she was pretty. She had a round face, dirty blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and a huge, open smile. She looked charming and accommodating, not ruthless or single-minded as Adam had said. Zoe immediately felt viscerally jealous and then furious with Adam for putting her through this, and furious with herself because she had no right to feel that way. He had only ever been honest with her, after all.
She clicked on the name ‘Kathryn Slater’, both disappointed and relieved to find she had privacy settings. The pictures that were visible were unrewarding: a photograph of her feet, her face in silhouette, smoking a cigarette. Still, she examined them closely, mining them for clues.
Zoe was itching to do something – send her a message, write something cryptic yet incriminating on Adam’s wall. Lately, she’d found herself thinking, a bit too often: this is what I’d do if I were completely mad. She wanted to keep things exactly as they were and she hated confrontation, but another part of her wanted to make the whole thing explode spectacularly.
She had thought about going to his private view on Thursday, just to see what he would do. She liked the idea of unsettling him, getting some kind of revenge for the way he’d disrupted her life. She’d thought more seriously about walking past, in case she could see him there with Kathryn. But he might catch her, and it would be humiliating.
She clicked on the ‘About’ section of Kathryn’s Facebook page and scanned the list of things she liked. They were mainly arts organizations, and a reflexology clinic and then she saw the words ‘Triangle Dance Centre’. Zoe remembered something Adam had said last week: ‘So she said she was coming for the exhibition, but then of course I find out there’s actually some dance class she wants to go to.’
‘She’s a dancer?’
‘It’s just something she’s got into. She’s started to do a lot more performance stuff, and use her body in her work, and I think she wants to add some kind of dance element. It’s not really my kind of thing, and actually I don’t even think the performance side of her work is the stuff she should be concentrating on right now. Her tutors are really pushing it, but – well, anyway, like she’s ever going to listen to what I think. But if she’s doing that, maybe we could see each other on Wednesday?’
‘Adam, I can’t see you while she’s staying with you – that’s mad.’
‘I just feel bad – it’s going to end up being, like, five days or something. Will you be OK?’
‘Yes! Don’t be stupid. I’ll do other things.’
‘Like what?’
I don’t know, she thought. ‘Stuff – see friends, go out.’
She clicked on the name of the dance school and found herself on its website. There was a timetable promising classes with the word ‘flow’ and ‘untamed’ in them. She clicked on the name of the class on Wednesday. The studio was a bike ride away from Litchfield Road and the class started after she’d finished work. It was a ‘Level 1’ class and it promised to ‘free your body’ and ‘unlock your movement’. It said, ‘Beginners welcome’.