for my phone, sitting on the bedside table, and am shocked to see it’s almost ten-thirty in the morning. I’ve slept through an alarm and three messages as well as a call from Rob. How drunk was I?
No. It hits me then, stupidly late, that I wasn’t blackout drunk and I didn’t have food poisoning. I was drugged. It’s the only thing that makes sense because there’s no way that amount of alcohol would make me pass out like that. I can only recall one other time I blacked out, back when I was eighteen, at university when someone gave me a glass of straight gin and I thought it would be a laugh to drink it without adding tonic.
But when could I have been drugged last night? And by who? It must have been the men we were talking to. I remember the one I was talking to gave me a glass of water when we were at the bar. Did he slip something into it? How could I have been so stupid as to accept a drink from a stranger?
Feeling a surge of bile shoot up my throat I drag myself into the bathroom and lean over the sink, breathing deeply, fighting nausea. When I glance up at the mirror I see my face is wan and pale and my mascara has streaked, giving me raccoon eyes.
Did I have sex with him?
It wouldn’t have been sex. It would be rape, wouldn’t it? Shit. Suppressing a mounting panic, I pull off my knickers. They’re dry. I don’t feel any soreness either. Maybe nothing happened. Maybe he just let me sleep. I would know – surely I would know – if something had happened.
I splash cold water on my face and take a glass from the side and fill it from the tap, drinking it down like a camel. My body demands more and I fill the glass a second time and a third time until my stomach sloshes with water. I ease open the bedroom door and walk into the hallway, on shaky, fever-dream legs.
The kitchen and living area are empty. There are several water and wine glasses scattered about and an empty wine bottle on the table. I notice Kate’s jacket flung on the back of the sofa and her shoes, kicked off by the sliding door to the balcony. There’s a wet towel lying in the middle of the living room floor and I pick it up. They must have gone in the hot tub.
I wander outside onto the balcony, squinting against the bright morning sunshine. The hot tub is bubbling away like an unwatched saucepan, and I find Kate’s dress abandoned on one of the sun-loungers.
I head back inside. Is she in the bedroom? Nervously, I approach the door to her room. What if she’s in bed, passed out with the other guy? Or even with both of them? I wouldn’t put it past Kate. What if they’re having sex right now after an all-night bender? I press my ear to the door but can’t hear anything so I crack it open and peek in. The shutters are drawn but a sliver of morning light streams through a gap and illuminates the rumpled bed. The contents of her suitcase are still strewn about the room as though they’ve erupted out of her bag, but there’s no sign of the men or of Kate.
I push open the door more fully and turn on the light.
‘Kate?’ I call, crossing to the bathroom.
There’s no answer and she isn’t in the bathroom either, though I pull back the shower curtain to double-check in case she’s passed out in the bathtub as happened one time in Ibiza.
‘Kate?’ I shout, heading back into the living room, feeling a little worm of worry burrowing into my gut.
Silence greets me. Where on earth is she?
Chapter Six
‘She’s gone,’ I tell Rob over FaceTime. ‘I don’t know where she is.’
‘Have you tried calling her?’ he asks.
‘Yes, of course, but her phone’s switched off.’ I’ve tried calling at least a dozen times already and each time it goes straight to voicemail.
Rob frowns. He’s balancing Marlow on his arm. I’ve caught him heading out with her to the park. ‘Did she leave a note?’
‘No,’ I say, frustrated at the lack of concern he’s showing. He doesn’t seem to appreciate how worried I am, but perhaps that’s because I haven’t admitted to him that we brought two men back to the apartment last night. How would I explain that?