I’d lost her. I’d lost my Greta.
SEVEN
PRESENT DAY
I came to rather unexpectedly with a jolt. My poor stomach churned brutally, and my forlorn head throbbed even more so. Unsurprisingly, given last night’s margarita consumption, I felt as though I’d been bundled up and shoved into a 1,400 RPM spin cycle. I raised my hands to my head and yanked on a few thick clumps of hair in a vain, stupid attempt to alleviate some of the intense pounding in my forehead to no real effect.
It was only as my blurred, glazed vision began to clear that I realised I wasn’t in my bed in the shed, rather I was on the nice plush white sofa in Bill and Ben’s living room. Oh dear. I was in very dangerous territory right now. Six margaritas + white sofa = very, very high risk.
The soft clank of a coffee mug hitting the coaster reverberated in my skull, echoing through the centuries to my early caveman ancestors. I let out a small yelp, grabbed the thick velvet cushion my head had been resting on, and slapped it over my face to try and block any further auditory or visual stimuli. Why did I always do this to myself? What was wrong with me?
‘You were a real pain in my arsehole last night,’ I heard Ben say, muffled through the fabric. ‘Far worse than the analfissure of 2022.’
I remembered the anal fissure. It was a dark time for both of us. We don’t suggest taking up yoga anymore.
‘I’m sorry,’ I muttered through the cushion. I raised it a little bit to reveal my mouth. ‘I really am sorry. Did I not make it to the shed?’
‘You don’t remember how dazzlingly paralytic you were, do you?’ Ben replied. ‘You know we had to put a bucket down there just in case, right?’
I glanced downwards. Sure enough, there was, in fact, a bright red gardening bucket, neatly placed on a piece of kitchen paper to try and protect Bill’s expensive wood floor.
‘Was I talking about Greta?’ I asked, not really wanting to know the answer to that question, but asking nevertheless.
Ben sighed.
‘You were going on and on about the argument you had with her in Hammersmith on the night she…’
‘I see.’ That was all I could about manage to say as a response. My inebriated episodes always seemed to end with me talking about Greta, like the guy in the pub who has a sip of an IPA and tells you about the girl who broke his heart and the family Labrador who died when he was sixteen. I never even came close to finding out what she was trying to talk to me about that night, as much I tried to revisit it. What had been so important? Would things be completely different now if I had just listened?
I knew the answer to that. If I had paid attention, she wouldn’t have stormed out and she wouldn’t be dead.
I knew Ben was silently a little cross, but he still pitied me too much to say anything. The real issue was his boyfriend upstairs. I winced at the thought of what Bill might say whenhecame down. He had worked again last night, as he always seemed to do on Thursday nights, at his mysterious second job that no one ever talked about. I tried to imagine once what it was. Maybe he was in fact a stripper; I mean, he had the body for it. Maybe his alter ego was Bendy Bill, down at the Magic Mike experience near Leicester Square.
‘Oh, and you might want to drink your coffee,’ Ben added. ‘Detective Carlota is coming over in fifteen.’
‘In fifteen?’ I said, lifting my head from the sofa too quickly; the room tilted, and my stomach threatened to empty the last of its contents on their stunning wood flooring. I gently lay back down on the sofa to settle my body like I was carefully handling a fragile nuclear bomb. Why the hell was Detective Carlota coming here? Unless the investigation had progressed because of my misdeeds? Or, worse, she was coming to arrest me? This was the third time she was seeing me in less than a week, surely that didn’t bode well.
‘Yep!’ Ben answered with a forced enthusiasm. ‘She kept ringing and ringing your phone at midnight when I was bringing you back, so I picked up and told her to come by at eight.’
From the stairs, I could almost hear the distinctly passive-aggressive rhythm of Bill’s footsteps as he descended, followed by the very distinct scent of antiseptic ointment and Tiger Balm. Do strippers use Tiger Balm?
‘I tried to let you sleep as long as I could, but I figured you’d need some time to clean yourself up before she gets here,’ Ben added in a viciously calm monotone, a trait that had landed us in trouble in the early days of our relationship when I didn’t really understand communication was all in thewaypeople spoke, less about the actual words they said.
Bill materialised at the bottom of the stairs, glaring at Ben with a look as if to say,Are you done now?He placed a hand on Ben’s back. That was about the full extent of their physical affection when I was around, and I’ll give Bill credit for that. He wasn’t one of those hyper-jealous maniacs terrified about Ben and I still having any kind romantic feelings, so felt the need to form a limb prison around their significant other. But I also think he just wasn’t a big fan of public displays of affection in general.
Ben reached for the navy padded jacket I’d bought him for Covid Christmas in 2020, the first year we were married. Meanwhile, I ever so carefully tried to shift my body upright, moving at a gentle pace to avoid ruining any more of Bill’s pristine house, butthis time with the added risk of the walls being painted a new colour called Salt-Rimmed Lime.
‘Where are you off to today?’ I asked, suddenly aware that I needed to be at work myself in an hour and both of them would have normally left by now.
‘Nowhere important,’ Bill answered promptly before Ben could respond. Ben gave a weak smile as Bill rather hurriedly ushered him out the door, his hand still firmly glued to Ben’s back, almost obsessively rubbing as if he were trying to coax a genie from his spine.
Something was up between the two of them, something I couldn’t quite place. Ever since last Saturday, possibly longer, Ben was a shade more subdued and Bill was even more irritable than usual, which I didn’t think was even possible.
The thought of Carlota’s fast-approaching visit left me experiencing a strange curling and winding in the depths of my gut.
I didn’t feel strong enough to trudge the ten or so paces to the shed, so I barely had enough time to down the lukewarm cup of coffee, tie my greasy hair into a ponytail, and splash water on my face before I heard a firm but gentle knock at the front door of the house. It was 7.58. Detective Carlota was punctual as ever.
I opened the door to find her visibly relaxing at the sight of me. Today, she wore a stunning lime-green cowl-neck jumper that suited her olive skin tone and stocky build beautifully, paired with navy slim-leg trousers. As always, phenomenal.
