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Message from April. 2.30 p.m. Screw you. I’ve gone alone. Dickhead.
Message from Steve. 4.05 p.m. Well? Was she a goer?
I turned down the stereo.
“Text message to Steve. Best lay I’ve ever fucking had. Send.”
I wasn’t fucking lying.
***
Gemma
What a bloody raucous.
It sounded like a crowd of people at my front door. Angry mobsters hammering the place down.
I pulled my robe tight around me, flinching as I made my way through to the hall. Pole fitness would be interesting.
“THE POLICE ARE ALREADY ON THEIR WAY! OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR, RIGHT NOW!”
Shit! I knew the voice. It was emblazoned on my brain through years of screeching conversation.
“Chelsea?” I freed the catch. She was brandishing her handbag high above her head, teeth gritted and eyes wild. It took everything I had not to laugh, she was as threatening as a bloody hamster. She stormed past me in a typhoon of hair extensions, eyes darting about the place.
“Where is he?!”
I stared blankly. “Where’s who?”
“Jason,” she spat. “The psycho killer.”
“What the hell?” I began. “How do you know about Jason?”
“He’s not here?”
“He left ages ago. I’m just getting ready for pole fitness,” I said. “How do you know about Jason? What’s going on?”
“That’s whatyoushould be tellingme,” she spat. “We’ve been worried sick! Tessa got a message on her phone during her break, something about you meeting up with some crazy chatline weirdo who might kill you, and she tried to call you back fifteen billion times, only you didn’t fucking answer.”
My stomach lurched. Shit. I scurried to the living room, flinching again as I dropped to all fours to recover the phone from under the sofa. Sure enough there were fifteen billion calls or thereabouts. A few billion messages, too.
“Shit,” I said. “I had my phone on silent.”
“Looks like it!” she screeched. “You’d better call her, if I don’t call back within ten minutes she’s calling the police. We thought you were being raped, or killed, or abducted or some other crazy shit.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t think Tessa would get the message til later.”
“Yeah, well she did.” Chelsea dropped herself onto the sofa. “I risked my life for you, Gemma Taylor. I hope you appreciate that.”
It was strangely sweet. “You came in all guns blazing,” I smiled. “Like a real heroine.”
“I’m hardly gonna let some chatline freak kill my bestie, am I?”
“Clearly not,” I grinned. “Seriously, that’s really sweet. I’m sorry for stressing you out.”
“Tessa’s blowing a gasket, too,” she said. “You’d better call her.”
I dialled the number, bracing myself for the torrent. Luckily it rang to voicemail and I left a garbled and highly apologetic message.
