‘Another movie? I’ve got Top Gun, the original 1986 version, not the remake. Fancy it? We can watch it here if you like, if you can’t be bothered to move to the cinema room?’
Jack pokes me in the thigh with his bare toes, and I blink and pick up my phone to check the time. It’s nearly 3am on Saturday, and we’re sitting one at each end of the sofa in the living room. I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open, but Jack, who decided again to ‘take the day off’, is fully alert and wanting to play. When I arrived at his place after work last night, he was just getting up, and told me he was in the mood for ‘a pyjama day’.
‘It’s been a long week. What do you think?’ he said enthusiastically, pulling me close and running his hands from my waist up to my shoulders, beginning to massage them with practised fingers. ‘We can crash in the cinema room and get Rhona to sort out some proper movie snacks. Nachos, chicken wings, ice cream?’
‘You’ve just got up and you want ice cream for breakfast?’ I asked with a grin, although inside I was screaming, No! I don’t want to stay up all bloody night with you, you freak. I have work tomorrow!
‘Sure, why not? Life’s all about balance, after all,’ he replied, and kissed my forehead. ‘I’ll make sure I get you to bed early tomorrow night. You’ll be fine. We’re doing it, no arguments.’
And so, by eight o’clock we were watching the most recent Spider-Man film and tucking into nachos piled high with refried beans, guacamole, and sour cream, with spicy chicken wings and blue cheese dressing on the side. That was fine; I was tired and hungry, and whatever I might think about Rhona, she’s a blooming good cook. After that, Jack wanted a second movie. He rifled through his vast film collection and pulled out Toy Story 3 with a triumphant whoop; I rolled my eyes and asked him how old he was. He laughed and waved the DVD at me, and my stomach twisted as I thought about his other DVD collection in the attic.
As we reached the end of the second film, we’d drunk a bottle of champagne and he was growing amorous, nuzzling my neck and running his fingers along my collarbone. Normally, that would make me shiver with desire, but tonight when he whispered in my ear, ‘Bedroom. Now,’ all I wanted to do was punch him in the stomach and tell him to piss right off and never touch me again. Instead, I gritted my teeth and followed him upstairs, grateful at least that he wasn’t trying to make me shag him in front of a camera this time.
Now, as we lounge on the sofa, both only half-dressed despite the fact that Rhona’s lurking around somewhere with her vacuum cleaner, I feel the usual hollow ache of shame.
What’s wrong with me, still sleeping with a man like this? Yes, I need to keep him happy so I can finish this job, but, Christ. It’s disgusting.
‘So, Top Gun?’ he says again.
‘I’m shattered actually,’ I say.
I am. Waves of drowsiness keep washing over me. My head is muzzy, and not just from the alcohol, my limbs like lead weights as I sink into the plump cushions of the sofa. Even speaking is an effort, but I force myself to focus. Jack hates it when I sound tired. When he’s wide awake, everyone else has to be too.
‘Can you not just watch it yourself?’ I continue. Once again, I tap the screen of my phone, which is lying on the cushion next to me. ‘It’s three in the morning. Look. And I have to be at work in about six hours. I need some sleep, Jack.’
He frowns and shakes his head, and my heart sinks. I knew it was pointless to argue. He’s in one of those moods, and is insistent on me staying up. I know what he’s going to say now: it’ll be something to try to make me feel guilty, to let me know how hurt he’ll be if I leave him down here and go to bed. He really is like a child sometimes – needy and petulant. But it’s control he’s really after. He wants to bend me to his will, to manipulate me. It’s what he does.
‘Oh, OK, then. Let’s do it. I can catch up on sleep tomorrow,’ I say quickly, before he has a chance to say anything. ‘Let’s watch it in here, though. I’m just going to the loo first. Give me two minutes.’
He smiles.
‘Go on then. I’ll get it set up.’
With what feels like superhuman effort, I haul myself off the sofa and head for the bathroom. It’s only when I walk back into the living room that I realise what I’ve done, and I freeze in the doorway, aghast.
Oh. My. God.
I’ve made a terrible mistake. Jack is standing up with a phone in his hand, and I instantly know it’s mine – the one I left lying on the sofa cushion. But it’s not my real phone, the one Jack knows about, the one he put a tracker on. This is my burner, my back-up. I came straight from work so I had both with me, and I shoved them deep into my bag when we went upstairs to have sex earlier. I must have pulled out the wrong one when Jack went to use the bathroom afterwards.
This is my secret phone. The one without a tracker. The one I use to message Nathan and Felicity. The one I take with me when I don’t want Jack to know what I’m up to, or where I’m going.
What am I going to do?
The panic is instant. It rises in my chest, making me feel dizzy. Will Jack realise it’s a different phone? Oh, shit. Shit. I’ve copied over some apps, but not all of them. Will he notice? And could he have seen anything incriminating? I unlocked the screen to check the time just before I left the room. He could have opened my emails, my WhatsApp, my texts… Have I deleted all the latest messages from Nathan and Felicity? I’m so tired, I don’t know, I don’t know…
‘I nearly sat on it,’ he says, smiling at me. ‘You should probably keep it in your pocket or something. I’m a bit clumsy after a few drinks.’
He tosses the phone to me. I gasp and grab it, my brain trying to unscramble my frantic thoughts. I attempt to reconcile them with his relaxed demeanour. Is it possible that he hasn’t even noticed it’s a different phone? He has had a few drinks – several more than me… He is a bit drunk, I realise, watching him stagger slightly as he bends to pick up the television remote then sinks back down into his seat.
‘Come on, it’s starting,’ he says, and I can hear the slur in his voice.
I sit down slowly, pushing the phone into the pocket of the hoodie I’m wearing over a pair of knickers. If he realised, if he’s read any of the messages that might still be on this phone, he’d have said something. If he’s noticed it wasn’t the one he put the tracker on, he’d have asked me why I have two phones. He would. I know Jack. So maybe I’ve got away with it? But what a stupid, idiotic mistake. It could have ruined everything. And it could have been dangerous, really dangerous. I can’t look now, but if I didn’t delete all my messages, the most recent was from Felicity. As far as I can remember though, it was just confirming the arrangements for tomorrow night. So, even if he did read it, no big deal, right? I’m just having a drink with a friend. That’s allowed…
‘Come here. Snuggle up,’ he says.
Jack doesn’t take his eyes from the screen as he reaches for me, slipping his arm around my shoulders, his face glowing as the familiar soundtrack begins. I feel my heart rate slowing as I let him pull me close.
It’s OK. It’s fine. I got away with it.
But that was close. Too close.
However tired I am, that can’t happen again.
His eyes still glued to the TV, Jack reaches for the whisky glass that’s now sitting on the low table in front of us. I think about the weekend ahead, the adrenaline of the past minute or so banishing my weariness. Work tomorrow – well, later today, now – and then Jack wants me to come back tonight because he’s booked a table at a new gourmet Indian restaurant in Chelsea.
Then, on Sunday morning, when he goes to bed, I will do one final search.
I need to find that jewellery.
And then I can get out of here, for good.