‘You sure you didn’t delete them?’ she asks. ‘Maybe you just don’t remember.’
‘I think I’d remember deleting pictures of me and Seth!’
Daisy’s lips clamp together.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to snap,’ I reply, cursing myself for taking my distress out on my friend.
‘It’s fine.’ She waves away my apology.
‘Seth’s not on social media at all,’ I continue, ‘except Twitter, but he never tweets anything and his profile pic is the NHS rainbow thing.’ I try to slow my breathing. Every time I talk about or think about Seth, I feel sick and dizzy, like I’m not even here.
‘Hang on, let me have a look.’ Daisy picks up her phone and starts scrolling. Within seconds, she passes it across to me. ‘There.’
I take the phone with trembling fingers. Daisy notices, but quickly covers her shock at my nervous state with a forced smile. I hungrily transfer my gaze to the screen, willing it to be a photo of me and my real fiancé.
‘I think that was the first time you went up to London to meet him,’ Daisy says. ‘You sent me that photo because you wanted to show me how hot he was.’ She grins.
It’s a photo of him on his own, sitting on a blanket in Regent’s Park, giving me a sardonic smile. I remember taking the photo. But this image is of the strange new Seth, notmySeth. How is this possible? My head swims and I get up from my seat. ‘Back in a minute,’ I mumble before rushing to the back of the restaurant where I barge into the loo, fumble with the door lock and throw up down the toilet.
It’s mainly tequila and beer. I haven’t eaten any proper food since breakfast which, granted, was at around 1 p.m. when I had a couple of slices of toast and a Snickers bar.
I rinse my mouth with tap water and sit on the lid of the toilet, trying to get the whirl of thoughts in my head to slow down. Everything is jumbled. Everything is strange. As though I’ve stepped into an alternate universe where nothing makes sense.
I glance up at a light tapping on the door.
‘Alice? It’s Daisy. You okay in there?’
I inhale and get to my feet. ‘Yep, fine. Be out in a minute.’ My voice sounds strange to my ears. I fight the urge to break down into a heaving, sobbing mess. Instead, I splash my face with water and dab it dry with a paper towel that smells of stale chemicals.
Back out in the restaurant, I’m almost shocked by the normality of the place – the salsa music, the chatter, laughter, clink of cutlery, the warmth and buzz of everyone enjoying themselves on a Friday night. I try to cling to that normality. To let it anchor me and keep me from being pulled under again.
‘Are you ill?’ Daisy asks. ‘Is your food not good?’
‘I think it’s just the alcohol on an empty stomach,’ I reply with a fake laugh. ‘I haven’t been eating much this week.’
She reaches over and squeezes my hand as I sit back down.
I push my full plate away, unable to bear even looking at the food.
‘Alice, I’m worried about you. Are you sure you’re okay?’
Annoyingly, a tear has slid down my cheek. I swipe it away with the side of my forefinger. ‘No, not really.’
‘Was it the photo that upset you?’ she asks.
I nod.
‘Seeing a picture of Seth? Was it ...? I mean ...’
I answer her unasked question. ‘The man in that photo you showed me was the same man at the church last week. I don’t know him, Daisy. It’s not Seth.’
Her eyes widen and I see her brain working. Daisy’s being kind and helpful, and saying all the right things, but I know what she’s like. Part of her is loving the drama. I can’t help feeling bitter and annoyed that she wants all the details. But it’s not her fault. I’m also annoyed at myself for feeling this way. For being upset withDaisy for simply wanting to know what’s going on with me. She’s my friend. Of course she’s interested and wants to help. I have to get over this fear of talking about it. I need to trust my friends and family. Let them know what’s going on in my mind instead of keeping all my fears bottled up.
‘I ... I was wondering if I should go to London. See if Seth’s there. In his flat. Or if anyone at work knows where he might be.’
Daisy can’t keep the doubtful expression off her face. She bites her lip. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’
‘No. I’m not sure of anything. But it’s got to be worth a shot, hasn’t it? Maybe he’s in his flat. In trouble, or in danger, or ... I don’t know.’ I slump in my seat.