count our way out of here. She hasn’t replied yet to say she agrees to the plan, but I’m keeping my side of the bargain. Perhaps I pushed too hard. Perhaps she’s distressed – in there, away from me. If only I could see through that wall, know how she was feeling. But I have to plan for success. I have to think positive.
And he blushes. Why would he blush?
‘Sorry … it’s a bit later than usual, I know, but I, well … something came up. Sorry.’ He turns his gaze to the floor.
I can be magnanimous. When it suits me. ‘I forgive you,’ I say.
He looks up quickly, regards me keenly.
‘For the delayed supper,’ I say.
‘Oh.’ His face sags slightly. Perhaps he thought I was forgiving him for something else. Hardly.
Then he seems to remember himself. He lifts his chin again. Tenses his body. The armour, if it had a chink in it, is restored.
‘Eat up,’ he orders me.
I make a show of pulling down the cupcake paper.
‘But, really, I’d like to know. For my sanity. What time is it?’
He looks at his watch. A really nice one – wide brown leather strap, a gold face with lots of little intricate whirring bits in it. The sort I’d choose if I were a man.
‘It’s seven p.m.,’ he reports.
‘Thank you.’
One, two, three … and so continues the constant ticking in my head. Because I must count, so I know exactly when it’s 10.30 a.m., and our plan has to start, before his 11 a.m. meeting.
‘About what you saw,’ he says.
I look up at him.
(Eighteen, nineteen, twenty …)
‘I saw Cara,’ I remind him.
He nods. ‘Right. So. About that.’
(Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine …)
‘Are you releasing her?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘Are you releasing me?’
He shakes his head.
(Forty-three, forty-four, forty-five, forty-six …)
‘There’s a lot to do, Susan. A lot you have to understand.’
I understand already. I understand you’ve locked Cara and me away from each other. I understand you are between me and my daughter and our liberty.
But we also have a plan – I hope, if Cara is on-board. So I’m not going to waste my energy.
(One minute plus two, three, four …)
I clench my fists until my nails dig into my palms. ‘Sure,’ I say.
‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ he tells me.
(One plus eleven, twelve, thirteen …)
I shrug.
I see his jaw tense.
He walks towards me again, until his face is only an in inch away from mine.
‘You should care, Susan. You really should. Because this is the only way we both get what we want without you getting hurt.’
I’d shrug again but I don’t know what he’d do. And I can’t help but heed his words. So I nod, slowly.
He steps back.
‘Goodnight, then,’ he says. ‘Enjoy your cupcake.’
When he’s left the room I fling the cupcake at the door.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Just count.
(One plus twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two …)
I can’t help staring at the cupcake though. It lies in the centre of the floor, where its shop-bought rubberiness sent it bouncing. (One plus thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three …) I can’t figure it out, what it means. I reject him, I spit in his face, and he tells me to enjoy my cake? (One plus thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine …)
Maybe it’s poisoned. (Forty-four, forty-five, forty-six …) Maybe he’s moved on from doping me. Maybe he just wants to kill me, but he’s too conniving, too cruel just to strangle me or beat me to death. (Sixty. Two plus one, two, three …) The sick fuck wants me to die by the very thing I’ve made my profession. (Two plus fourteen, fifteen, sixteen …) Or does it contain a sedative? If I eat it, will he rape me? Is that what he means about getting what he wants without me getting hurt? I’m not taking the chance. The cupcake can go in the pillowcase, along with the letter stash, and he can think I’ve eaten his drugged offering, and then he won’t suspect we’re about to escape. (Two plus twenty-two, twenty-three,
And he blushes. Why would he blush?
‘Sorry … it’s a bit later than usual, I know, but I, well … something came up. Sorry.’ He turns his gaze to the floor.
I can be magnanimous. When it suits me. ‘I forgive you,’ I say.
He looks up quickly, regards me keenly.
‘For the delayed supper,’ I say.
‘Oh.’ His face sags slightly. Perhaps he thought I was forgiving him for something else. Hardly.
Then he seems to remember himself. He lifts his chin again. Tenses his body. The armour, if it had a chink in it, is restored.
‘Eat up,’ he orders me.
I make a show of pulling down the cupcake paper.
‘But, really, I’d like to know. For my sanity. What time is it?’
He looks at his watch. A really nice one – wide brown leather strap, a gold face with lots of little intricate whirring bits in it. The sort I’d choose if I were a man.
‘It’s seven p.m.,’ he reports.
‘Thank you.’
One, two, three … and so continues the constant ticking in my head. Because I must count, so I know exactly when it’s 10.30 a.m., and our plan has to start, before his 11 a.m. meeting.
‘About what you saw,’ he says.
I look up at him.
(Eighteen, nineteen, twenty …)
‘I saw Cara,’ I remind him.
He nods. ‘Right. So. About that.’
(Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine …)
‘Are you releasing her?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘Are you releasing me?’
He shakes his head.
(Forty-three, forty-four, forty-five, forty-six …)
‘There’s a lot to do, Susan. A lot you have to understand.’
I understand already. I understand you’ve locked Cara and me away from each other. I understand you are between me and my daughter and our liberty.
But we also have a plan – I hope, if Cara is on-board. So I’m not going to waste my energy.
(One minute plus two, three, four …)
I clench my fists until my nails dig into my palms. ‘Sure,’ I say.
‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ he tells me.
(One plus eleven, twelve, thirteen …)
I shrug.
I see his jaw tense.
He walks towards me again, until his face is only an in inch away from mine.
‘You should care, Susan. You really should. Because this is the only way we both get what we want without you getting hurt.’
I’d shrug again but I don’t know what he’d do. And I can’t help but heed his words. So I nod, slowly.
He steps back.
‘Goodnight, then,’ he says. ‘Enjoy your cupcake.’
When he’s left the room I fling the cupcake at the door.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Just count.
(One plus twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two …)
I can’t help staring at the cupcake though. It lies in the centre of the floor, where its shop-bought rubberiness sent it bouncing. (One plus thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three …) I can’t figure it out, what it means. I reject him, I spit in his face, and he tells me to enjoy my cake? (One plus thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine …)
Maybe it’s poisoned. (Forty-four, forty-five, forty-six …) Maybe he’s moved on from doping me. Maybe he just wants to kill me, but he’s too conniving, too cruel just to strangle me or beat me to death. (Sixty. Two plus one, two, three …) The sick fuck wants me to die by the very thing I’ve made my profession. (Two plus fourteen, fifteen, sixteen …) Or does it contain a sedative? If I eat it, will he rape me? Is that what he means about getting what he wants without me getting hurt? I’m not taking the chance. The cupcake can go in the pillowcase, along with the letter stash, and he can think I’ve eaten his drugged offering, and then he won’t suspect we’re about to escape. (Two plus twenty-two, twenty-three,
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