Troll
Chapter 1
‘Do you think she topped herself?’
It’s the daily commuter crush. I’m rammed up against some random bloke’s arm, as he reaches to steady himself on the handrail. I’m trying to hold my head away from his armpit, mimicking the unnatural head angle that a ballroom dancer takes. Everyone has that distant, bored kind of expression, although he must have the whole carriage’s attention now.
‘Or a mistaken drug overdose?’ his friend replies from my other side. ‘You get batches that are super strong.’ He’s so close, his breath is striking my face. I’m grossed out by the potential Covid factor.
Zoning out from their conversation, Daniel’s words from work yesterday ring in my ears: ‘The fate of our esteemed restaurateur, Pierre Fontaine, lies in your hands, Sophie.’ Pierre’s been caught in so many broom cupboards with his trousers round his ankles that people wonder why we still represent him. But it’s all grist to the mill in PR. Who wants to be boring, or worse, normal? Then there’s nothing to work with.
My hand is nervously tapping out a rhythm against my thigh, itching to take out my phone. I didn’t check it this morning, a cardinal sin in my line of work, staying present and in the moment for the breakfast pandemonium with Grant and the kids – my attempt at an olive branch. Of course down here, there’s no signal anyway, and I’m forced to listen to these two philosophers pontificating about some poor person’s death.
‘I wonder who’ll take her place on Saturday night.’
They’ve certainly got my interest now.
‘It’s not worth watching without her.’
Who are they talking about? Not a random person. But someone famous. Oh no! I’ve missed something big. The familiar panic rises. I want to ask them, but we’re arriving at Oxford Circus and the tube is emptying. The two guys and their conversation are carried out the door as the squeeze subsides.
I dive for the vacant seats, scooping up a discarded Metro. My eyes fall on the front page. It feels as though my vision is narrowing and the blood is draining from my face. My hands are suddenly cold.
FELICITY BARDELL FOUND DEAD
Felicity Bardell, 45, was found dead at her flat in Bayswater on Wednesday. The actress and judge of ITV’s Dance Like No One Is Watching failed to show up for a fund-raising gala dinner for the mental health charity, Peace of Mind. The Metropolitan Police is yet to comment.
‘Can you move along? We all want to get to work,’ someone trills, as the tube begins to fill up again with more commuters.
Next to the headline, a smiling Felicity in a fluorescent pink swimsuit with oversized Gucci sunglasses, flaunting herself on a beach, stares back at me. No, no, no, this can’t be right. This is an awful joke. Someone is about to jump out and tell me this is a set-up.