that the leisure centre lights flashed and went out. I remember that a second later, the manager came out, locked the main doors and strolled over to the sky-blue Mondeo, whistling. I wondered if he’d seen us, whether the lesser-spotted menopausal woman is more visible in a pair. Apparently not.
‘His lordship will be wondering where I am,’ Anne-Marie said.
I wondered if Mark had even noticed I wasn’t back yet.
She looked over at the car park and pointed her key, and to my surprise, the yellow sports car cheeped and flashed, at which point she returned her eyes to mine and gave me an enormous grin, really cheeky, like a kid’s.
‘Bloody hell,’ I said. ‘I’d never have put you in that! I thought you were on the bus.’
‘That’s my husband’s menopause you’re looking at. Daffodil-yellow Audi TT. Takes me ten minutes to get out of the bucket seat. Do you want a lift?’
‘No, love. I mean, I’d love one, just to get a ride in one of them things, but that’s my rustbucket over the other side. Ta, though. See you next week for some more torture.’
‘Torture, aye. You’re not wrong. Night, then.’
‘Night. Nice to meet you.’
‘You too,’ she called over her shoulder, one arm up in the air by way of a last wave.
I watched her walk over to her car. For some reason, there was a tight sensation under my skin. Mind how you go, I almost called after her but didn’t. I felt weird, really weird. I walked over to my own car and got in. I drove off before she’d even started the engine. I know now why she didn’t, obviously.
Blue Eyes scrutinises me. ‘And that’s all you remember?’
‘Honestly,’ I say, ‘I’m telling the truth. I don’t remember getting into the car. Hers, I mean. I think I’d remember if I’d got into another woman’s car, especially a sporty one like that, but at the same time, I know I could have forgotten. I know I could have said yes to that lift, got into that car and…’ I shudder. ‘I forget things all the time, walk into a room with no idea what I’ve come in for. I know that the mind is capable of anything so if there’s my DNA in her car, I don’t know how it got there but I’ll accept that it did. It’s as if someone else did it, do you know what I mean? Like it’s me, but another me, someone I can see as separate to myself. The woman that used to be Rachel Ryder. Or that other woman, the one who doesn’t know who she is anymore.’
I think therefore I am. I’m pink therefore I’m Spam. I think I must have got into her car. Therefore I did get in it. I did. I got in that car and I… Oh God. God help me.
36
Rachel
Blue Eyes hands me the umpteenth tissue. That’s her job, I suppose, to wring these tearful confessions from criminals. Criminals like me. I will have a profile, I imagine, like any serial killer. Serial killer. How ridiculous it sounds, even in my head. It isn’t something from life, from any life I can identify with, least of all my own. My life is almost defined by how normal it is. And that was all I wanted: to be normal, to be boring, two kids, a house, enough money to afford what I need, some of what I want, friends. Love. If you’ve got love, you’re rich, that’s what I think.
‘So you believe you left Anne-Marie at the door of the leisure centre?’ Amanda asks me again, and once I’ve got myself under control, I tell her yes, and that I can’t remember anything about the drive home, but that when I did get back, the kitchen smelled of stale cigarettes yet again. I could hear the television blaring from the lounge, but as usual no one had shouted hello at the sound of the front door.
‘And how did you feel?’
‘I felt good,’ I say. ‘I felt pretty happy apart from the smell.’
It’s the truth. That’s all that bothered me. I popped my rucksack on the stairs. I went into the kitchen. I wasn’t crying, I wasn’t shaking, I wasn’t upset in any way. At the sink, I drank a tall glass of cold water and it felt good, better than any bar of chocolate, better than wine, as if the taste of it was clearer somehow, like I was alive, or more alive, or