Page 11 of Cuckoo

‘Are you okay, Claire?’ Sukhi asks, placing a tentative hand on my back.

I want to shout at her that no, frankly, I’m not fucking okay.

Instead I snatch the laptop from her and begin scrolling down further and further, frantic for information.

I click on photos. There is Noah, partying with strangers in a bar I’ve never been to. Noah laughing, giving the finger to someone who has snapped a shot of him during a gym workout. Noah sitting in a room I don’t recognise and watching a football game, his feet up on a stool and arm slung across the back of the sofa; a portrayal of total familiarity and ease with the surroundings that I, his future wife, have never seen before. On and on I scroll, gorging myself greedily on these photographs of his hidden double life while my brain screams in protest.

My blood runs cold as I pause at a photograph of him with his arm wrapped around a lithe blonde with dimples. I try to swallow, but it gets stuck in my throat. It’s a photo he himself uploaded, and she’s not tagged. Her skin is lightly golden, her straight hair thick and shiny, a gorgeous shade of honey blonde that starlets would pay thousands for. Big bluedoe eyes are rimmed with brown kohl, which emphasises the darkness of her wispy, fluttering eyelashes. A pixie ski-jump nose, full rosebud lips and long, toned limbs complete the picture. Her arms are wrapped around Noah, one perfectly manicured hand resting on his waist.

I jump as Sukhi snaps the laptop shut. ‘Claire, don’t torture yourself. Just wait until you’ve spoken to him. Looking at things like that will only make you reach the worst conclusions.’

‘What conclusions? Do you mean: here is my boyfriend with his arm around a gorgeous blonde, while he’s working a job he didn’t tell me he had?’ I force out, trying to ignore the tremor in my voice as the enormity of what I’ve seen begins to bear down on me.

‘I mean, yes… but it might all have a reasonable explanation or not be as bad as it looks,’ Sukhi says.

I blink slowly, wanting so much to believe her. But I don’t have to say it; we both know she’s being over-optimistic about my situation.

‘I brought wine,’ she announces, reaching into her bag.

‘I don’t really drink,’ I tell her, hoping she can’t smell on my breath the wine I’ve already had.

‘We don’t have to drink it. I didn’t want to turn up empty-handed and wasn’t sure what else to bring that was appropriate,’ Sukhi admits.

‘Do you think it will make me feel better?’ I ask her.

She puts her hand down on top of mine and looks at me, properly. I fight every part of my body that wants to turn away, to stop her seeing the ugliness in me.

‘No, I don’t think it will make you feel better. I don’t think it will fix anything. I don’t think much other than your fiancé walking through the door right now will do that.’

I swallow hard. ‘Would you like a glass with me?’ I ask.

‘Sure,’ she replies.

I head over to get two glasses from the cabinet and shakily pour the wine. I blink away flashbacks of Mother pouring herself mammoth-size glasses of wine before a night out.

This is different. I am in control. I am with a friend. And I am desperate to dull the ache of my situation.

‘If ever there’s a reason for having a drink and a friend round, it’s probably now with Noah missing,’ Sukhi says, echoing my own thoughts.

I warm briefly at her use of the wordfriend, but my brain quickly spasms back round to the wordsNoah missinginstead.

Chapter Twelve

I had a good friend once. Her name was Georgia and we were eight. She was an equally shy little girl and after a handful of summer lunchtimes spent hiding in the crafting room, our hour soundtracked by the screaming laughter and taunts of everybody else playing Tag outside, she spoke to me.

‘You don’t want to play Tag with the others?’ she asked in a soft, whispery voice with a gentle lisp.

I looked through the window to the stretched smiles, the frantic chases and panting chests. I shook my head in response. ‘No.’

‘I’d like to play,’ she admitted. The first secret a schoolmate had shared with me.

‘Why don’t you?’ I asked, curiosity overriding my usual shyness.

In response, she stuck her left leg out from beneath the table and lifted up her purple cotton trousers. My eyes widened. ‘Robot,’ I breathed.

She burst into delighted giggles and I recoiled immediately. She was laughing at me, making fun of me. I threw my hands over my face to hide my embarrassment, to hide myself. To my utter fascination, she leant forward and her grubby paint-covered hands gently peeled mine off my face.‘Don’t be afraid. I’m not a robot, it’s just a metal plate, see?’ She tapped it with the end of her paintbrush. ‘I was born with a bad leg, but they’re fixing it. For now, I can’t run. I probably can’t play Tag for a while yet,’ she told me.

‘Oh,’ I replied lamely, unsure what else to say or how this entire interaction was making me feel.

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