when I was a teenager and hearing the most awful tales of mass killings. What side was Konstandin on and how old must he have been? If he’s late forties now and the war was around twenty years ago, then around his late twenties?
‘Here,’ Konstandin says, handing me his phone.
I take it.
‘Call,’ he tells me.
I look down and see a number on the screen.
‘It’s Lotus Models,’ he explains. ‘I looked them up online. Call them, give them your friend’s name. Pretend to be her. Ask if you can meet the same men again tonight.’
‘But what if they did something to her?’ I ask. ‘What if they know what’s happened to her? They’ll know it’s a trap.’
‘So, tell them you want their names to give to a friend of yours. All you want is their names and a phone number.’
I nod and press dial, hoping that whoever picks up didn’t speak to Kate and won’t remember she doesn’t have an Irish accent.
‘Hello,’ a woman’s voice purrs when the call connects.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘How are you?’
‘Good, how can I help you?’
I have no idea how this works. What am I meant to say next? I panic and look at Konstandin who urges me on with a look.
‘Are you calling to book a model?’ the woman asks. She sounds like she might be Australian.
‘Um, yes,’ I say. I glance at Konstandin again and he nods encouragement. ‘Actually,’ I say, ‘I’m wanting to book two models. I … um … enjoyed their company last night.’ I wince at how hammy I sound.
‘OK, do you remember their names?’ the woman asks.
Damn. ‘Um, actually I was really drunk and it’s slipped my mind, but they were about thirty, one had green eyes, dark hair, the other guy was black, maybe North African?’
‘Emanuel and Joaquim.’
‘Yes! That’s them!’ I look at Konstandin, grinning, and see he’s pulled out a scrap of paper from somewhere and a stubby pencil. He scribbles the names down. ‘Is it possible to get a number for them?’ I ask the woman on the end of the phone.
‘I’m afraid you have to book directly through us. We don’t share personal information.’
‘Oh,’ I say. What do I do? I can’t book them. If they think I’m Kate they might get spooked and disappear. I could call back I suppose and pretend to be someone else.
‘Would you like to make a booking?’ the woman on the end of the phone prompts.
I panic again, and not knowing what else to do, I say, ‘No, you’re all right, I’ll call back.’ I hang up and look at Konstandin. ‘I couldn’t book,’ I say. ‘If they think I’m Kate they might not show. And she wouldn’t give me their numbers.’
‘We have their names,’ he says. ‘Maybe it’s enough. Do you remember anything about them?’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t remember anything, that’s the problem. I think they drugged me. Maybe even Kate. I don’t know for sure.’
He scowls. ‘Did they do anything to you?’
I shake my head, unable to hold his gaze. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Maybe they drugged you because they didn’t want to go through with it. It’s easier. They get paid for nothing, and in the morning can claim they had sex with you but you were too drunk to remember.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, unable to keep the annoyance out of my voice.
‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ he says.
‘It’s fine. It’s a possibility I suppose.’
Someone honks behind us, probably at his bad parking, so Konstandin starts the car and pulls out into traffic.
‘Are you OK to drive me back to my apartment?’ I ask, fishing around for the address.
‘Sure,’ he says. ‘But have you eaten?’
I shake my head. ‘No.’ We’re just passing a restaurant with candlelit tables on the street and a Fado band, and I stare longingly. I’m so hungry.
‘There’s a place I know,’ Konstandin says. ‘Good food.’
I glance over at him. ‘OK,’ I say, because it feels easier than having to figure it out on my own. As soon as I agree, though, I regret it. Isn’t it a bit weird? He’s a total stranger and I don’t know him from Adam. Can I trust him? And why’s he helping me?
The thought crosses my mind that maybe he has something to do with Kate going missing. What if he got mad at her for snorting coke in the back of his cab and hung around outside the bar until we came out? What if he followed us home? What if I’m sitting in a car