There was no way to stop it. I couldn’t kill myself. It would just make things worse for Charlie and Laura, and prove you right. So I had to get on with it, somehow. I emailed work without checking my emails and told them that I was sick. Even that seemed like a betrayal of my children, as if I knew that at some point I would be better. Better. I never was better. Just different.
So you can see why I have to do this now, can’t you, Jack? Fight fire with fire. In the garden I take out Christine’s perfume and spray a little bit on my wrist. Still good after all those years. It’s a deep hole and there’s a lot of stuff in there. It’s like an unlucky dip of everything that’s gone wrong in my life. I push my hand deep into the wallets and watches and credit cards and photographs and pull out an item at random. Mrs Simister’s business card. It had to be, didn’t it?
It’s like a warning. As if to say, Be careful, Caroline, because you know what happened with this. God, I did feel sorry about that. I was just trying to find out what you were doing, because you wouldn’t tell me. I was following you. Yes. But only because you were lying. I saw you with Lorna. I was watching you, but she said I was stalking her. They saw me on the cameras in the car park.
Now I know I’m right because she’s on your list. You leaned in and I couldn’t quite tell if it was a kiss or not. Obviously I went straight from zero to ten in one second. I knew that, if I asked you, you would say you weren’t having an affair with Lorna, no matter how it looked. I know now you gave her three out of ten but that’s not how it looked that day.
She looked hot and you were all over her. The mist descended and I stopped crouching behind the bush and started to walk across the car park, towards her Audi. It was anger that drove me. I admit it. I imagined her and you exposed, trying to explain something that couldn’t be explained, cancelling out the pain I was feeling right at that moment.
But she drove off and I was left standing in a deserted car park. I thought she hadn’t seen me. Instead, I had the police knocking at my door three days later. Lorna had complained that I was harassing her. They had a file. ‘Several instances of you approaching Lorna Kershaw.’ The policeman said he was there to warn me and asked me if I was planning on doing it again.
I told him that I was, if she carried on sleeping with my husband. I actually said that to them. Yes, I’ll keep following her. I’m not going to stop. That’s all they heard, not the bit about her sleeping with you. Their silent shock shook me into reality and I realised that I was in trouble. They took me down to the police station and cautioned me.
You arrived to bail me out. I wasn’t charged because you persuaded Lorna to drop the charges. You got me a solicitor and I asked to read the file, which was when I found out exactly what your tactics were.
Caroline is a little bit disturbed. She’s imagining that I am having affairs with women I work with and with friends. Lorna has agreed to drop the charges on the condition that Caroline gets help.
Even then I convinced myself that there had been some massive mistake. That you were just doing it to get me off. That we were still in it together. You were on my side. But soon afterwards I found myself sitting in a counsellor’s office. Of course, I knew her techniques. People-centred counselling. Everything out in the open. It was my chance to finally make someone understand what you’d been doing.
I told her all about Christine and Lorna and Julie and what I had seen. She had the case notes from my solicitor and her recommendation was that Jack and I had considerable difficulties and that we should go to marriage guidance in order to resolve them.
Obviously, I didn’t think you were going to immediately admit that you were having an affair. Or affairs. But I did think that you loved me. That we were a family. That you would protect me. That you knew what you had done and you would at least keep quiet and just not deny it outright. Do the decent thing.
But you have to be right. And you know me; I’m going to defend myself to the death. So we were at loggerheads and you had the advantage. The marriage guidance was a disaster. Mrs Simister, a tiny, middle-aged woman, sat between us. I accused you of having an affair and you denied it. Not one single new situation came out of it. I got more and more upset and annoyed as you insisted that I was imagining everything.
As a result, my feelings were pushed deeper down and Mrs Simister’s report on my neurotic, jealous tendencies just made me feel like the world was completely unfair and that I had to do something about it. So really, what I’m doing now is just an extension of that. Of putting everything I have into not just proving that you were wrong, but into showing everyone that I was right all along. It’s the only way I can get my life back.
Of course, up until now there was no way that I could do that. But finally I have some proof: I have the journal. You’ll be seething. Ringing around everyone you know, trying to talk it round, make me out to be a liar, paving the way for the inevitable. Because you know full well what’s coming next. What goes around comes around. It worked before, canvassing my sanity all over town. And I had nothing solid to defend it with. Only hearsay.
Naturally, those in the know weren’t interested anyway – they’d already nailed their colours to the mast. But the others were gently lulled into believing the possibility that I wasn’t the lovely academic they worked with. That I wasn’t the calm friend who was always there to listen to their problems. That I wasn’t the trusty PTA member who never missed a meeting. You whispered your lies to everyone.
Naturally I tried to explain, told them that the only reason I was acting like you were cheating was because you were cheating. Some of them looked full of pity and touched my arm. Some of them looked shocked and shook their heads. Some of them came right out and told me to get help because Jack Atkinson was a hardworking, decent man. Occasionally, someone would ask me how I knew. I suppose they wanted evidence. But I had none. Only what I had seen and felt.
But I have it now. Not just a few scribbled diary entries that could be written off as fantasy. No. I have photographs. And now I’m going to post them online. I’m going to post them on Christine’s profile and on your profile.
Before I know it I’m on the bus with my laptop open. Back seat, beside two men working frantically on spreadsheets. I’m Monica now, in her head, checking who’s accepted my ‘friend’ request. I see myself there, along with Jack and Christine and twenty-three other people.
Then there are another twenty-five friend requests. People who think they know the imaginary Monica. I wonder if that’s worth a psychological study as I slip back into serious day mode, then I focus on the task in hand. I push the flash drive into the USB and flick through the photos until I find the one. You’re in her room at the Ibis. I stare into the background. It’s exactly as I remember it. A spike of temper rises but I push it down, down into the depths.
Select. ‘What’s on your mind?’ Facebook asks me. I’ll tell you what’s on my mind, Facebook. Revenge. I type: ‘#ThrowbackThursday #London #Backintheday’. I’ve already saved some pictures of made-up Monica to her photos, and I post some more of her in London just to make it look like these are just part of a series of pictures of Monica’s past. Only three people will know the truth. Christine will know. I’ll know. And you, Jack. You’ll know.
You know me, Jack.
Chapter Six
I arrive at work early, and I log into my own Facebook account on my office computer. More people have friended the lovely made-up Monica and I flick through the profiles of people who I haven’t seen for more than fifteen years. Then back to the picture. It’s there, sitting in the middle of my screen. You’re laughing. Jack and Christine. It’s obvious from the series of pictures you stuck in the journal that they’re taken using a camera’s timer.
Jack and Christine, laughing at first, then undressing each other. Then naked. Then fucking. But to anyone looking at this single picture, it just looks like Monica was with them in their hotel room, perhaps getting ready for a night out. She took the picture of them together
.
I check the ‘number of views’ digit and it’s moving upwards, ever upwards. The picture’s been shared three times. Simone Lawrie, one of your sister’s friends from school, has posted a question mark in the comments section and your name so you are sure to see it.
My mobile phone rings and it makes me jump. I snap out of this fantasy world and see that it’s DS Percy.
‘Hi. Caroline Atkinson speaking.’
There’s a slight pause. I know she’s assessing my opening. But I’m calm as can be.
‘DS Percy. Look, Caroline – if it’s OK to call you Caroline?’
Of course it is. Be as personal as you like.
‘Sure.’
‘OK. Mr Atkinson has been in touch. He’s made a further accusation. About a picture on Facebook.’
I intentionally wait.
‘Oh. Go on.’
‘Well, that’s it. He feels that you have posted a picture from his personal journal, which was in the bag that he claims was left at your house, on Facebook.’
She sounds pissed off. I expect this isn’t really her crime domain, Facebook posts, but your cheating fucking solicitor would be ranting and threatening and insisting that she follow it up. I pause again.
‘I don’t understand. A picture? On Facebook? But surely you’ve checked my Facebook account? Surely you can—’
‘Yes, yes. Of course. But you are friends with the person who posted it.’
‘Am I? Just me? Only I …’
She’s getting annoyed now. I can hear the tension in her voice as we reach the null hypothesis.
‘No. Not just you. But you added this person yesterday.’
I tap some keys to imply I’m logging into my Facebook account.
‘Oh, Monica Bradley? Yes. I did. I thought she was someone from school as everyone else added her.’ I tap, tap, tap to prolong the suspense leading up to my discovery of the picture. ‘Oh. Oh.’
‘So can you see why he’s upset?’
I smile to myself. She’s neutral.
‘Yes. But what about me? That’s not exactly pleasant for me. Seeing him with someone else when we were married.’
‘And that’s why he feels you posted this picture.’
‘Of course he does. He feels that I’m responsible for everything. To be honest, DS Percy, I don’t think I’m the person in the wrong here. I would say that he’s the one who’s caught out. So, as you say, I can see why he’s upset. But it wasn’t me.’
She’s breathing into the phone. I try to be as helpful as I can.
‘Perhaps it’s something to do with the woman in the picture? Look, I absolutely insist that you send someone round to my house to confirm I don’t have the bag. And you are welcome to look at my computer records. But you’re wasting your time. It wasn’t me.’
‘That won’t be necessary. Not at this stage.’
‘OK. Well, I’m at work right now so …’
‘Of course. And thank you for your help. I’ll be in touch.’
I give her my work number and she thanks me.
‘You’re welcome.’
Very welcome. Because she’s going to end the call and call you. Tell you that she doubts that I’m behind this. That it must be someone else with a grudge. Ask you more about this photograph. About Christine Dearden. Look up her Facebook profile and see her lovely husband. He loves her. It’s clear. Loves her so much that if he found this photograph he could possibly make a fake profile to make her and Jack suffer. Make the world see what they were really like.
By teatime DS Percy will be knocking on Christine Dearden’s door. Asking her husband if he knows anything about the picture. Doing my job for me.
I press on with my work and before long it’s lunchtime. I can’t help but check my Facebook again. I can only get a limited view from my own profile, but I dare not check Monica’s from here. Lots of WTF comments under the picture. Christine Taylor (née Dearden) has over-explained that ‘we were at a party’ and ‘can’t everyone see that this is quite innocent’. I suppose it does look innocent in this picture – they haven’t seen the rest. But they’re picking up the clues. Her sister-in-law has helpfully told us that ‘Barry bought you that necklace so this must have been after you two got together’ and ‘what the hell do you think you’re playing at?’
Every psychologist must have supervision. I’m no exception. If I want to practise, and I do, I need to go to a session with a senior colleague every month. Irritatingly, just when Monica’s picture comments are hotting up, a reminder flashes onto my screen. Supervision is this afternoon. Room G43.
I hide Monica’s laptop in a ceiling tile (you never know when people like DC Percy will take it upon themselves to pay a visit) and go to meet Eileen Simpson in G43. She always brings cake, and I haven’t eaten.
I open the door and she hasn’t let me down. A tray of assorted doughnuts glimmer on a low table. She’s typing away, but she turns and smiles.
‘Caroline, I can hardly believe it’s been a month.’
Her voice is smooth and soothing and puts me immediately at ease.
‘Yeah. Gone quickly.’
‘Have you seen your …?’
‘Children. No. His mother is still resisting. Not answering my calls. Social services keep making appointments, she keeps cancelling.’
‘God. How are you coping? It must be awful.’
Awful? It’s indescribable, the deep pain. The grief.
‘Not good. But I try my best to get through.’
It comes out much more jolly than the deep sorrow that I feel inside. She nods and sits at the table as I munch a chocolate doughnut.
‘So. How have things been?’
I smile a chocolate smile.
‘Good. Great, in fact. Except there’s been an incident with my ex-husband. Just yesterday, in fact.’
She picks up her notepad and flicks a switch on her Dictaphone. Good. I want everything recorded in multiple places. That’s where I went wrong last time. I didn’t drop any breadcrumbs. Or cake crumbs, I almost laugh, as I scatter remnants of doughnut on my lap. Eileen’s staring at me as I suppress a giggle.
‘Sorry. It has this effect on me. Severe stress. Humour. As we know. It’s a coping strategy.’
‘Yes. It must be very stressful. So what’s happened?’
She leans forward, a mixture of professional interest and gossip gateway, listening to my perfectly related sorry tale. Official version, obviously. I end with the call from DS Percy and Eileen places her notebook on the table in front of her.
‘Good God, as if you haven’t gone through enough. All you’re trying to do is build a new life and this is what you get.’ She pours another coffee. ‘You’d think that they’d have better things to do.’
I stare at her. Yes, you would. But I know you, Jack. I know how you would insist, get your fucking bent solicitor to push the police. I’m choosing another doughnut and when I look up Eileen is holding out a brown A4 envelope. At first I think it’s bad news, but she’s smiling. ‘This came for you. It was left in the common room.’
She watches as I open it. I make sure that it’s raised and facing me and it’s just as well because it’s some pictures. Of me. And the guy at the Premier Inn. Not just the guy from last night, though. The one before him. From what I can remember. How the fuck has someone taken these? I feel my pulse quicken. I flick through them and thank God that they haven’t gone as far as you. They’re of me and the men dancing and kissing, still bad but at least we’re not having sex. They’re all taken before we go to the purple room.
‘Thanks, Eileen. Just some research I requested.’
I’m guarded. Previous experience of talking while shocked has taught me to only ask very basic questions.
‘Oh. Right. So. Shall we get started?’
I pick up another doughnut and begin to eat it.
‘Yeah.’
I’m chewing and thinking. Casting my mind back two weeks. Four drunken excursions ago. Walker Street. The one w
ith the cheap crystal light fittings behind the bar. Pissed-up me feeling like a million dollars. I’d even ordered champagne.
I swallow the last of the doughnut. Naturally, I haven’t told Eileen about my penchant for married businessmen when I’m pissed. How I sometimes drove to my destination. How I exchanged my Boden clothes for online trashy underwear and mass-produced throwaway tat, courtesy of eBay. None of this would help me keep my job, and this is what I’m here for.
Eileen fills me in on the research project and I nod in the right places. I’m itching to look at the photographs, examine them. But I need to get through this first. Eventually she’s done.
‘Right. Back to you. So what will you do about this mess? With your ex?’
‘Oh, like last time, there’s not much I can do. I expect they’ll find the culprit in the end but, again, everyone will still think it’s me as I was the first accused. I’m so used to it, Eileen. But as long as it doesn’t affect all my work here …’
She makes a stern face.
‘Oh, no no no. No, it won’t. You’ve been completely upfront and that’s all we ask. Obviously, if you were convicted of a crime. But hearsay is just that.’
We sign the forms and I watch as she ticks a box on her computer. Fit for practice. I manage to remain calm just long enough to leave her office and lock myself in the disabled toilet at the end of the corridor. I open the envelope. A face stares out at me. I look closely and see thick, wiry hair escaping his open-necked shirt.
I feel sick. How did that happen? How? From the vague, out-of-focus memory I had of him, he’d been as pissed as me. Rowdy. I remember rubbing up against him and laughing loudly as I practically dragged him to his room.
There’d been a sobering moment when he’d asked me how much I charged, but, apart from that, all I remembered was having sex then passing out. I read the writing on the back of the photo carefully.
I’M WATCHING YOU, CAROLINE.
Chapter Seven
Made-up Monica’s phone is beep, beep, beeping as I make my way back to my office. It’s a notification beep that reminds me to put the phone on silent and I soon see what the fuss is about. Christine Dearden’s husband is on the warpath. He’s seen the picture and he’s posting threatening comments aimed at you.
Perfect Ten Page 5
