‘Because yours isn’t in the garage.’ The gates are already swinging open as I approach them.
‘Watch the fucking paintwork,’ he yells as I scrape through.
But the Range Rover’s paintwork is not my concern as I swing out onto the road, my destination Fontvieille on the coast.
I only have thoughts for Rose
* * *
ROSE
‘Where are we, Ben?’
‘Nowhere anyone would think to look for you,’ he says, closing and locking the door behind him. In his hand, he has a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses—plastic glasses—and a loaf of bread. A boule, not a baguette.
I’m still sitting on the stone bench where he left me, though I have investigated the place in the time he’s been gone . . . doing whatever he was doing.
‘I don’t mean where we are exactly. Just, what is this place?’ This windowless room that smells like earth and seems like the kind of place you’d put someone you want to forget.
‘It’s a cellar in a house I bought recently.’
‘I’m assuming Remy doesn’t know about it.’ Even as I ask, my heart constricts, and I send out a silent prayer that he does.
‘You assume correct. And like so many properties out here, it’s owned by a shell company operating out of the Cayman Islands. Completely untraceable. Here.’ He passes the bread to me, pulling out a lump of wax paper wrapped cheese from the pocket of his jacket and handing that over, too. I tamp back the bitter disappointment as I place them down on the bench next to me, quickly sitting on my hands again. My knuckles and fingernails are stained earth-brown from feeling my way around the gaps in the door, then along the walls and floors where they meet, frantically looking for something that night help my predicament.
I become aware of my engagement ring digging into my thigh, its presence suddenly the comfort I need as I swallow over my hammering heart, not sure if it’s scarier being here alone or with Ben
Ben, who is completely nuts, it would seem.
‘I’ll bring better food tomorrow. And blankets. You’ll forgive my hasty preparations,’ he says, using a small corkscrew attached to his keys to open the bottle of wine.
‘Is that one of those Swiss Army knives?’ He nods and I watch as he scores the seal before beginning to push the screw into the cork, as I aim to look either thirsty or thoughtful and not at all interested in where he puts his keys when he’s done.
‘You’ll come to see it’s not so bad being with me.’ Ben angles his head, and I become aware of how close I am to him right now. I immediately lean the opposite way.
‘Yeah, sure. A dank basement is totally the kind of place a girl wants to live.’
‘Better than dying in it,’ he murmurs, dragging the toe of his shoe along the earth packed floor. All the better for burying you in, the movement seems to say.
‘How am I going to use the bathroom?’ This isn’t a question. More a demand.
‘When I’m sure you can behave, I’ll take you. A couple of times a day, I should imagine.’ And he’ll be visiting me twice a day for what? I push away the thought. I’m not rotting away in this place. ‘I’ll bring you a bucket tomorrow,’ he adds. ‘For when I’m not here.’
I bite back my answer to that. Now is not the time nor the place, no matter how scared I am. No matter how a scream seems to be clawing its way up my throat.
I can’t stay here.
I can’t wait to be rescued.
What if Remy takes one look at the space where my suitcase was and decides I’m not worth chasing?
No. That won’t happen, I tell myself. You don’t declare your love for someone and then let them walk away. He’ll want to hear me say the words myself. Not that I’m going to say anything like that. I’m going to listen to what he has to say. Listen to his reasons, his explanation. Listen to his love.
But what happens if he never finds me?
What happens if he never looks?
My chest begins to heave, my sight going dim, everything narrowing in focus.
The dirt floor. The door. The walls as they close in.
Oh, God. Is this a panic attack? Drugs? Am I dying?
‘Rose?’
At the sound of my name, my head lifts to Ben who watches me with a kind of peeled eyeball kind of intensity that’s chilling.
‘Breathe,’ he says, still watching me. ‘Everything will be okay. Unless you don’t co-operate and then it’ll be like hell.’
He turns his back on me and splashes a little wine into the plastic glasses, handing one to me. I knock it back immediately without giving thought to what my dirty fingernails say. I don’t consider how the liquid could’ve been doctored, or the taste, or bouquet. I just throw it back, desperate for something to take away this sick feeling of dread.