Chapter 4
The box under my bed
It was a couple of weeks after I had first swiped right on Harry. There had been the conversation on the railway path, then a stream of daily WhatsApps and YouTube links, emoji hearts and phone calls that lasted deep into the night, his declaration of love. He eventually suggested we meet up on the next Friday night. Then, that morning, he sent me a text cancelling the date, cutting and pasting a message from his mum onto a WhatsApp to me preceded by the words “I can’t believe I forgot about this!” The message read:
“The table is booked for 7.30. Can you do me a favour and pick up Brian and Angela on your way?”
It was his mother and stepfather’s wedding anniversary dinner. He was mortified at having messed up and begged my forgiveness, asking if we could meet on Sunday instead. I was touched by his apology as well as by the fact he had such a good relationship with his parents that he had been invited out to a celebration of their marriage. It made me feel grateful and safe. I was fine with it. We rescheduled for Sunday. And that’s why I ended up going out for dinner with Isabel on the Friday.
Isabel won’t mind me saying she has had her fair share of nutters. Her father, who suffered from serious clinical depression, spent the years of her childhood staring at a wall, while her mother fussed around him, attending to his every imagined need and getting precisely no reaction. He stayed like that until the day he died. The effect of her mother’s behaviour was to normalise neglect and create an expectation of nothing when it came to relationships. And that is exactly what Isabel found in a husband, an abusive bully only interested in running her down, acquiring ostentatious material possessions and shirking his parental obligations. She was committed to sparing other women the same fate.
“Let’s see him then.” She reached over for my phone, where I was scrolling through my Tinder matches to find Harry Dawson. I handed it over and watched her face relax into blankness as she took in the photos of this man who, as she kept reminding me, had stood me up at the last minute. Isabel had never had anything good to say about swiping left and right to find a boyfriend, and her expression said that he would be no exception.
“Nice dog. Golden retriever?”
“I guess”
“You know what they say, pose with a dog and the women will come running…”
“He’s not with the dog though.” That was an own goal by me. Isabel raised one eyebrow.
“So it’s just a stock photo. Hang on, let me google golden retrievers and see what comes up.”
“Oh, come on Iz, give the guy a break!”
I topped up our glasses as she put my phone down and picked up her own.
“What did you say his surname was? What does he do again?”
I studied the menu and sipped my wine as she googled his name, his company name, and drew a blank.
“Who is he?” she asked, simply. “He’s nowhere. He doesn’t exist.”
“I know, you can’t find him online, I’ve looked.” I admitted. “It’s a bit frustrating really. I like to do my research – you know, get one step ahead.”
“Frustrating? It’s more than frustrating. It’s a red flag. I mean everyone has some sort of online presence. Ask him what the company is actually called. It must exist under another name.”
He texted right back, explaining that there was a complex corporate structure behind his business but gave me some links to click on. He explained that he needed to keep a lot of what he did under the radar. Isabel was unimpressed.
“Tax evasion.”
“Avoidance, maybe?” I said, hopefully.
She looked at his photo again.
“He’s got a tattoo on his neck. I bet he’s been in prison.”
“Really? How do you know?”
“Ask him if he’s been in prison, go on.”
I thought about it but took the roundabout route instead.
When did you get the tattoos?
After coming off the drugs, he replied straightaway.
He’d told me about the Priory. Everyone needs a chance at rehabilitation, and I told Isabel that, but she was shaking her head, so I asked him straight out by text whether he’d ever been in prison. The reply took a minute or so.
I got a community order for fighting.
The story came out. A man had been threatening a woman in a pub. He had gone to her rescue, knocked the guy out. Isabel just shook her head, but Harry needed to explain further.
Don’t forget, I used to box.
I wasn't sure how that excused assaulting someone.
“Ah, boxing. Legalised violence” said Isabel, nodding.
While she went to the bathroom, I poured the rest of the bottle of wine and Harry and I exchanged a series of furious messages.
I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that!
What do you mean? Do I have to tell you everything?
You have to tell me the important stuff, like having a criminal record.
Well, you know everything now.
Do I? I know you’re a violent drug dealer running some business under the radar, probably money laundering, people trafficking, who knows?
I pressed send before I could allow myself to rethink.
He replied that it might be an idea not to meet on Sunday, but to “talk a bit more” before arranging something. And then came a surge of guilt at my outburst, for jumping to conclusions, throwing insults at him when all he had done was tell me the truth, albeit about a slightly shady past. I had sent him away. I deserved everything I got if this was the way I behaved towards someone who had genuine feelings for me. I was a disgrace.
Sometimes I don't recognise myself. Press the right buttons, put together the right combination of trigger events and I will see an entirely different woman in the mirror from the one who was there yesterday. A demon sits on my shoulder and holds a mask in front of my face, showing me only a hideous distortion of the truth. With no other option to hand, I submit and retreat from life, because I am worth nothing. I know that when someone else feels like this, I don’t get it. I just join in the same old judgmental chorus. How can such a healthy, intelligent, good-looking, successful, kind, popular woman like you possibly have anything to complain about?
I was impatient with Adam during his mental illness in the last years of our marriage because of the resentment I felt at having had a part of him stolen from me. I blamed him for tampering with my fairy tale life. I thought he should fight harder, resist the darkness, for me. But he wouldn’t. I didn’t really consider that perhaps he couldn’t, and from there I developed a kind of blanket distrust of the word depression. From time to time most of us find ourselves in that place, hiding in a corner, waiting for the cloud to pass and for the demon to climb down. None of us is immune to the darkness.
Neither are we always averse to the charms of a good rescuer, and we can fight tooth and nail against the wisest advice. I knew that Isabel wasn’t going to hold back. It didn’t surprise me that she said absolutely, categorically, that Harry Dawson should be avoided at all costs.
She moved our empty glasses aside and leant forward across the table. Her expression was blank, emotionless.
“Do not go out with this man.”
I took a deep breath and sat back, because she was invading my space, spoiling my fun. “Okay, I get why you say that. Let me think.”
She sat back now too, took a sip of wine, smiled a half-smile. I blinked, scratched around for something different to talk about.
“You’re not coming away with us this weekend then?”
“No. Got lots on here.”
“Really? It’s not like you to miss a party.”
“It’s a couples’ retreat isn’t it? Like that film. Can’t imagine anything worse.”
“I’m not in a couple.”
“Not yet.” She raised her eyebrows, glanced around for the waitress and mouthed can we have the bill please?
“Maddie’s not in a couple, Johnny will be on his own and S
imon’s probably not going. He never goes to things.”
“Maddie's way too enthusiastic for me. Exhausting just thinking about her.”
“That’s a good thing isn’t it? We like a bit of enthusiasm.”
Isabel nodded, pursed her lips. “Up to a point, we do. And you know her way better than I do. Just sometimes it feels a little… I don’t know. Can it be real? Is life really that exciting?”
I thought for a second. “No, not necessarily, but nothing wrong with acting as if it is. Fake it till you make it and all that?”
The bill arrived on a saucer with some confectionery wrapped in green shiny paper. Isabel pulled it from under them with the dexterity of a children’s party magician and pushed the saucer towards me.
“I’ll get this.”
I protested weakly , but she held up her hand. “Actually, there is something you can do for me, in return, if you like.”
“You name it.” I looked straight at her, then felt the joy seep out of my soul as her face clouded.
“Don’t meet this man. Find someone as good as you. As clever, funny, kind as you.”
She was describing herself, but she was never going to let me turn it back on her. I nodded slowly, half smiling in mock defeat. “Okay but where?”
“I have no idea, and I know you will do what you want to do. But please, please be careful.”
And I put her advice in a box under my bed, promising to take it one day, and she saw me do that and just gave me a knowing look that has the wisdom of the world behind it.
When I look at the messages that Harry and I exchanged during that evening while I was out with Isabel, it’s a wonder we ever met up at all. It’s even more surprising that he was able to spend so much time on his phone while out for dinner with his parents for their anniversary, but I didn’t think of that. Not until many weeks later. Things still occur to me now, little things that don’t add up, and I wake up in a sweat, my heart pumping, getting ready to run.
How we got to the point of meeting up, how we climbed out of the ditch that our wayward vehicle had steered drunkenly into, is a story for the psychiatric profession. I don’t know how he did it, but over the next two weeks, several hundred texts and phone calls later, he had me back where we wanted me. Tattoos, rehab and community service were worn like battle scars, and if he was working under the radar, then the less I knew about it the better. Our meeting in Guildford High Street was the culmination of a strategy operated by a master of manipulation.
Isabel’s words of warning were still locked away as we trudged through the forests of Dorset three weeks later.
Chapter 5
We’ll have our time
“I think we’re lost.”
We had turned off the path of Danger of Death and were walking through an open field. It was looking less and less like the idyll where we had begun our morning stroll, and the sun was still showing no sign of breaking through the cloud.
I nodded towards a figure in the distance. “We need to ask this guy the way back. I’m sure this isn’t it.”
“Ah, that must be your gut feeling again”, said Sally.
A jolly rambler in walking boots with a ruddy face and bright eyes was walking towards us, and guessing we were lost, which wasn’t hard, proceeded to point us back to the road. We were heading almost in the right direction after all. The girls gave me a look that said I told you so.
“There are a few cows up ahead,” he added, “if you don’t mind cows”
I liked the way he used “if” as if to say the cows would go away if we did mind.
I don’t mind cows at all, and neither did Sally or Maya, in theory, but then cows are cows and bulls are bulls, and this friendly rambler hadn’t conducted a full assessment of the situation. As we rounded the corner to make our way towards the road, we came across what I assessed at first glance to be three hungry bullocks, fully equipped with killer horns and attitude. Indiana Jones (me) came into her element, sheltering town mouse Maya from imminent carnage, while country mouse Sally stepped boldly ahead with a big stick which she planned to wave around in the event of an attack. It was the most exciting thing that happened to us all day, and I made sure that we kept up the whole “face to face with a herd of bulls” side of the story rather than admitting that some cattle were just grazing by the roadside minding their own business. We needed to be labelled as heroes, not just lost and late.
It was probably the most delicious cold beer ever that I gulped down when we finally set foot in the village café two hours later. Jess and the others had been there for ages and were halfway through unfeasibly large doorstep sandwiches. They cheered our arrival, Maddy leapt to her feet and hugged us one by one, chattering about how she knew it wasn’t a short cut and that we should have taken the road as they had. I wasn’t so sure. Something about huge physical exertion, thirst and the reward of cold bubbles, combine to bring happiness to a whole new level. We felt doubly entitled to celebrate, and Johnny had just the thing. Friday night was curry and quiz night at Highfield Manor.
Caro looked on with pride as her brother read out the questions, beaming at his innate ability to deal with the drunkest of hecklers. He knows exactly how many times to repeat the question before saying “tough it’s too late, hand in your papers,” and I am just grateful that quizzes are a team sport With my hard-won degree and PGCE behind me, I still can’t recognise the face of my own prime minister on the picture round. There's a name for this inability to see things properly that I can’t recall. But Caro’s team had no sympathy as they roared and fist-pumped their way to victory.
And it wasn’t only curry and quiz night, but the night of swaying lines of tipsy women slumped over their naan breads, whose renditions of Wuthering Heights would soon be being used for the torture of terrorists. With my stream of texts, photos and videos, Harry was getting a feel for what kind of girl I was. We talked for an hour on the phone that night. I told him about the walk, the tanks, the cows, the beer, and how he was the focus of everyone’s curiosity, but I didn’t relay the psychopath conversation because that was all behind us. I had met him, looked into his eyes and seen the man who was going to make everything right.
“Come down tomorrow.” It was an invitation offered in the rosy glow of Maalbec. He was the missing piece of my puzzle of love.
“To Dorset?”
“Yes, come down for the birthday banquet. I want you to be here. Come down on the new motorbike.”
“I’d love to - but do you think it would be okay with everyone else?”
“Yes, they think so.”
“You’ve asked them?”
“I said I wanted you to come down, maybe on the last day, and they said why not Saturday, why miss the big night?”
“You sure they meant it?” His shyness tugged at my heart, made me all the keener to bring him into the fold.
“Yes absolutely. They want to meet you.”
“Check I’m not a psychopath you mean?”
“Probably.” I didn’t like that he kept bringing that up.
We decided to talk again in the morning, by which time I had changed my mind. It had occurred to me that Harry’s arrival could cause upheaval in the group dynamic that I would feel responsible for, and I didn’t want to be responsible for anything, least of all for upsetting anyone. I just told him, tentatively, that maybe Sunday would be better. It was only a couple of us staying on the last night, so it made sense to have a quieter time. Our first real date, after all. To my relief he was okay with that. I think that was yet another thing that won me over – a man who is okay with me changing my mind.
“We’ll have our time,” was all he said.
Chapter 6
Ghost mode
After the extreme curry-oke the night before, the weekenders were hoarse, exhausted, alcohol poisoned and ready to leave, but dragged themselves out for hearty clifftop walks and sea air. I escaped to my room in the afternoon and spent most of it chatting to Harry on WhatsApp. He had looked at
train timetables. He was coming down the next day. I couldn’t even nap properly I was so excited.
We ate like kings that night, drank like alcoholics, danced like the drunk parents we were. Our only source of music was a Bluetooth speaker, a thoughtful present for Caro from Maddie whose need to keep moving ensured that we weren’t going to go very long without a boogie. But having failed to work out that the volume was controllable from the phone handset we were only able to dance one at a time with the speaker glued to one ear. Maya had the bright idea of getting a louder sound by putting the speaker in a saucepan, but whichever way you looked at it, it was a very bad silent disco. Anyone looking through the window would have called for the men in white coats. But I couldn’t have asked for better friends, for a better time, and I was the luckiest person alive.
“You…” Caro almost slurred, flinging one arm around me and the other around Maddie, “are my besss friends. Love you.” She planted smudgy kisses on our cheeks and staggered backwards to the sofa, pulling us down with her and bursting into giggles. Jess perched on the arm and held a glass of water out to Caro.
“This isn’t like me, I know, but I have your interests at heart, birthday girl.”
Caro waved her away. “I’m just sooooo happy, that you’re all here, my besss friends, and I don’t want anything to get in the way of our friendship…”
“Drink the water. You’ve stopped making sense.” Jess thrust it in her face but she carried on.
The Delusionist Page 4
