‘C?’ he says.
C is for Claire. That’s her name. The other woman.
‘Nope.’ The gallows and most of the stick man are already finished. I draw a wiggly line for his mouth to indicate fear and trepidation. ‘One more mistake and you’re dead.’
I try to deliver the line pointedly, with ominous eye-contact, but Steve’s attention is drawn to the other side of the waiting room, where the only other person, ‘Tim Barrett,’ is being called in to see the dentist. Tim Barrett puts down the out-of-date issue of Marie Claire magazine that he has been pretending to read – precisely the reason we have resorted to pen-and-paper games – and follows the assistant into one of the clinics. A muffled greeting and a waft of disinfectant mixed with dust escape the room before the door clicks shut. There are only two dentists in this surgery, so this means Steve is next. He thinks I can’t tell, but I know his hands are sweating because he’s wiping them on his jeans.
The fact that he believes a root canal is the worst thing that’s going to happen to him today almost makes me laugh, but I suppress it. Patience, Lila.
I should clarify that the lack of inspiring and up-to-date reading material is not, strictly speaking, the only reason we are playing Hangman. Steve has an aversion to getting his phone out in front of me these days, for reasons that will soon become apparent. Moreover, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to stage such a symbolic and theatrical revelation. And what better place than here, amidst the fake orchids, sterile white surfaces and natural air of anticipation? It’s perfect.
‘B?’ he says, staring at the other closed door where he thinks he will meet his fate. B? Seriously? If he was paying the slightest bit of attention, the film title should be obvious from the letters already there. Still, it’s probably even better if it’s me who says it.
B is for Beach Hut. That’s where the affair started. A dated, kitsch beach hut in a run-down resort in Torquay, on a drizzly August afternoon on his mate’s stag do. The third in the run of second-time marriages amongst our friends. Pretty cliché. Don’t even get me started on the state of the girl. Believe me, I have doctoral-level knowledge of everything about her online. And it’s exactly as you’d imagine.
‘No.’
I smile expectantly, heart racing now.
He looks down at the piece of paper, brow furrowed, still not seeing it.
‘Go on then, I give up. What film was it?’
He turns to me and I hold his gaze, waiting a beat for dramatic effect. ‘I Know What You Did Last Summer.’
The tendon in his neck pulses.
I finish off the noose with a sweeping loop.
‘Steve Marshall?’
He leaps up as though his seat is on fire.
‘Have fun!’ I chirrup as he hurries off to the relatively painless ordeal of the dentist’s chair. ‘I’ll be waiting…’
