Marina’s heart was pounding, her arms and legs shaking. She pushed her body up against the kitchen door, felt like she was about to have a heart attack or pass out.
The knock at the door, the ring of the bell.
Phil. This afternoon, he had said. Later. He was the last person she had expected to see. Or wanted to see. Especially after what she had said to Gwilym.
‘I’ve got to go,’ she had said.
‘Why?’ said Gwilym. ‘Worried about what your husband will say?’
‘No,’ said Marina, thinking quickly, ‘worried about what he’ll do to you if he finds me here.’
‘Oh. Well. You can’t,’ Gwilym had replied fearfully. ‘I mean, yes. I want you to go. But you can’t. The front door is the only way out.’ He rubbed his chin. Usually so artfully stubbled, this morning it just looked unkempt.
‘There must be a back way.’
‘There is. But it leads round to the front.’
‘They’d see me.’
‘Yeah,’ said Gwilym, eyes alive with hatred, voice spitting bile, ‘they’d see you. And we wouldn’t want that, would we? Hubby coming round and spoiling wifey’s big moment.’
Marina ignored him. ‘Then I need to hide. Where can I hide?’
There was another knock at the door, another ring of the bell.
Gwilym looked round. ‘There,’ he said, pointing towards the kitchen. ‘Go in there. Close the door.’
‘What if they want to come in? What if you need to get something?’
‘They can’t. I won’t.’
They looked at one another once more. Co-conspirators in a play neither of them wanted to take part in.
‘Quick. In there. Now.’
Marina had pushed Josephina, falling asleep in her buggy, into the kitchen and closed the door behind her. Stood with her back against it, heart pounding.
Everything had gone wrong. Quickly, in the snapping of fingers. Gone from good to bad. She’d had him. Exactly where she wanted him. Admitting he was a rapist. Then this. She’d known Phil was coming to see him but thought she would have had time to get there first. Clearly not.
She looked down at Josephina. The little girl’s eyes had been getting heavy while she talked to Gwilym. The house was warm compared to outside and she was well wrapped up. She had been growing drowsy and now she was off. Good. That was one less thing on her mind.
Marina tried to get her breathing, her pulse under control. She pressed her ear against the door, straining to listen. No good. All she could hear were the voices, not the actual words. The door was old, heavy. Designed not to let sound pass through.
She sighed. She didn’t have a clue what would happen next. Would Gwilym confess before Phil had even asked him anything? Break down and tell all? She doubted it. A thought occurred to her. She should have told him to do that. Thought more quickly and explained that that was why the police were there. To arrest him. And that if he confessed before they said anything, before they even accused him, he would be looked on more favourably. It might have worked. But the best ideas, as she knew, always appeared after the event.
She tried to listen again. No good. She thought of cracking open the door slightly, just a little bit, letting the sound through. Too risky; they might see the handle move, want to know who else was there.
So what? part of her brain said. Would that be so bad? Yes, said the other part. Because everything she had told Gwilym was a lie. And there was no way of knowing if Phil would go for it.
She sighed once more, checked Josephina. Still asleep.
She looked round the kitchen. It continued the theme of the living room – designer, a couple of years old – but didn’t seem to have been used much. The pans hanging over the central island were dusty and untouched, the chopping boards relatively unmarked, the knives hanging on a magnetic strip above the hob had dull blades. A cursory look in the nearest two cupboards showed that Gwilym lived mainly on ready-made sauces and pasta. He might have been able to impress the ladies, but it certainly wasn’t with his cooking.
Something caught her eye. On the draining board at the side of the sink were two glasses, both heavy-bottomed tumblers. One was empty; the other had a small amount of amber liquid left in it. And lipstick marks on the rim.
She crossed to the glasses, picked up the one with the remaining liquid, smelled it. Grimaced immediately. Marina was no whisky drinker, but that was terrible. Even peaty Scottish malts didn’t smell as bad as that. She sniffed at it again. It wasn’t whisky. Or brandy. In fact, she didn’t know what it was. It had elements of both but something more, like a local tipple picked up on a foreign holiday that never got drunk at home and was left at the back of the drinks cupboard. There was something else in there too. A strong chemical aroma. Medicinal.
As soon as she thought that, she knew what it was. Not its actual chemical composition. But what it was meant to do. What Gwilym used it for. It was probably what he had given her at the dinner. Slipped it into her wine, let her drink it. His date-rape drug.
And he had used it on someone else recently.
She picked the other glass up, smelled that one. Whisky. Straight. No date-rape drug chaser.
Her heart was beating fast once more, but no longer in desperation. This time she was energised. Focused. She looked round the kitchen. What she wanted wasn’t there. She started opening drawers, cupboards. As quietly as possible.
In her buggy, Josephina stirred. Marina stopped moving until her daughter went back to sleep.
She kept on opening drawers and cupboards until she found what she needed. Cling film. She carried the roll over to the lipsticked glass, pulled off enough film to give it an airtight seal, wrapped the whole thing up and slipped it into her handbag. She smiled.
‘Gotcha,’ she said.
‘Is that Daddy’s voice? Where’s Daddy?’
She looked round. Josephina had woken up.