Page 23 of Cuckoo

I shake the thought away, then see myself in the reflection of my laptop screen, a distorted shadow grimacing. How could I ever compete with literal model genes?

I switch on the webcam on my laptop and begin an excruciating process of self-inspection. It feels like I’m torturing myself, my face blinking back from the camera with, beside it, Lilah’s photograph still visible. My eyes flit quickly from myself to the photograph, drowning myself in comparisons. My flesh looks pale and pillowy, hers is toned and tan. My lips, shapeless and boring. Hers are juicy, topped by a perfect cupid’s bow. My carefully groomed eyebrows suddenly seem outdated, hers naturally bushy and perfectly framing her eyes. How did Noah ever find me desirable in comparison? The more I look at both of us side by side, the more my body morphs into something grotesque. Have I been deluded all along? I’ve always been told I was pretty, in a quiet, bookish sort of way. Was that just everyone’s way of saying that, in fact, I’m repulsive?

Because Lilah … she’s a goddess. The Male Fantasy personified. I continue reading, reading, reading, scrolling through Lilah’s page and drinking in her life like it’s an elixir.

She went to an all-girls school until she moved to the UK, and she now works at an international fashion retailer as a content director, whatever that means. She has a master’s in marketing from Exeter University. She’s a keen kickboxer. She loves animals. She drinks green smoothies. She goes to hot yoga (gross). She smokes menthol cigarettes when she’s drunk. She edits all her photos to look like they were taken on an 8mm film camera. She goes to a spa for a facial once a month, and drinks white wine spritzers. She goes home often to visit her parents and her sister. She dabbles in watercolour painting.

And she has been dating my fiancé since before I even met him.

Chapter Twenty-One

Iam the other woman. Not perfect Lilah.

But why? Why would Noah even have entertained the thought of being with me when he’s had her all along? And why take it as far as proposing to me? My mind is spinning with possible storylines for the situation. Maybe it’s an abusive relationship and he’s been trying to leave her for years, tempted away by my meekness? But it didn’t look that way at the club. I rub the space on my ring finger as though a genie might appear and give me all the answers, but nothing comes. I wish I hadn’t thrown that ring at him. It seems too final, as though I had made the decision I was cutting him and our engagement off when really I want to work this out. I want him to come home. I want everything to be fixed.

I pull out a notebook from one of the kitchen drawers and begin scrawling on it, trying to get my thoughts out on paper. I write down the date of the upload of the first photograph of Noah and Lilah together, I write down the date we met, I write down our engagement day, I write the day he supposedly left Pulitzer Haas; I write and I write and I write until I’ve covered two sides of paper with random dates, random names.

I look down at my manic jottings and slam the notebookshut, shocked by my own ignorance, my desperate search for answers now permanently recorded in ink for anyone to see.

But then something I’ve written catches my attention.

Feeling a rush of determination, I leave the flat. I know one place Noahalwaysgoes, and it’s worth swinging by to see if he might be there now.

The smell of hot air and stale sweat hits me as I step into the gym. I feel distinctly out of my comfort zone, hard bodies brushing past me with a confidence that tells me they’re frequent gym-goers.

‘Can I help you?’ the young girl behind the counter offers. ‘Are you looking to join?’

‘No, actually, I just wanted to check if my boyfriend had been here this week at all?’

A guy behind me barks out a laugh and I feel my cheeks grow warm.

‘I’m not checking up that he’s exercising or anything,’ I explain quickly. ‘But he’s been lying to me about where he is and I’m trying to piece it all together,’ I say, lowering my voice and holding steady eye contact.

‘Oh! I see,’ the girl replies, and her eyes flit from side to side as she chews on her lip. ‘Look, I’m not supposed to do this, it’s against policy to share customer information, but between you and me, I know what it’s like to be cheated on,’ she confides under her breath.

I bristle. ‘Nobody said he’scheating.It’s probably nothing. He’s probably got a good explanation,’ I tell her, flushedwith embarrassment, the shock of seeing his kiss with Lilah hitting me once more.

‘Sure,’ she replies, and I can tell she thinks I’m a naive little loser.

I sigh. ‘There has to be an explanation for where he goes when he’s missing, right? One that doesn’t include a full-blown affair?’

Am I speaking to her or myself?

‘What’s his name?’ she asks me, obviously not wanting to give me her honest opinion on my situation. I wonder who hurt her, if she has mended from a similar pain as the one I am feeling right now.

‘Noah Coors.’

She gives me a tiny nod and types it into her computer. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t give out customer information.’ She speaks loudly, I assume for the benefit of the other people in the reception area. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ she asks. She’s frowning at the screen, then lowers her voice again. ‘He must have transferred. Same gym, different part of the city. He’s registered at the Limehouse branch now,’ she tells me.

I scrunch my nose. Limehouse? Then I realise that it’s right next to his new office.

‘You’ve been so helpful. Thank you, thank you so much,’ I tell her, putting my hands together prayer-style.

‘I hope you work it all out,’ she tells me. ‘Or kick his ass to the kerb,’ she adds with a smile.

The gym at Limehouse is identical to the Clapham one, the same musty smell of dried sweat and condensation drippingoff the glass panels that divide the workout space from the reception area. It makes me feel dirty just breathing the air.

‘Can I help?’ the guy at reception asks me. He’s young, barely out of his teenage years, and lean.

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