That’s it. She’s completely invested. She stands up and it’s time to leave. I can’t go home – I can’t face it yet – so I ask her to ring a taxi to take me to my office. I wait outside, my backside numb on the hard wooden bench. I check my messages and there’s one from Eileen confirming a meeting on the 27th. Another from Amazon telling that, based on my previous purchases, I might like another slow cooker. I almost laugh out loud and look up just in time to see Missy being led into an interview room.
She looks older and frailer and if I didn’t know that she was such a bitch I would feel sorry for her. She’s still wearing her slippers and I suddenly wonder where Charlie and Laura are. Probably at school. Who would collect them? Rage surges up at the unfairness that it isn’t me. I only just manage to resist the urge to phone social services and demand to know what’s going on, who will care for my children. But I know that’s what you want. Hysterical me jeopardising the meeting. All that shit still in my house. Another black mark against Caroline. It takes me all my will to stop myself though.
There was no chance that I could try to pick them up. Not after last time. I’d waited in the playground with the other mums on my allotted joint day and gone in to help with their coats when the bell rang. The teacher had shielded Laura protectively, even as she darted towards me. It turned out that your mother had rung ahead and told them that ‘Caroline is having one of her off days’, and that the children shouldn’t go with her. But one day I will be there to pick them up. I will.
What will you do now? Now that she is no longer the shining star on the horizon? No longer the strong matriarch who will endure anything? Who will be on your side now to do your dirty work?
I’m just congratulating myself on blasting a huge hole in your defences when I spot your cheating fucking lawyer striding through the double doors and going into the interview room. They’re going to claim that I planted the bag there and that Missy is innocent. Of course they are. But they can’t prove it. If the police have done their homework, all the evidence will put me at home, aided and abetted by Pam’s insistence that I was there to open the door for her, and that I had been trashing the bedroom before she got there, if necessary. And I have her number if I need to prove it.
My taxi arrives and on the way to work I mull over a niggling doubt I have. Where are you, Jack? If you’ve been following me, tracking my movements, why has that suddenly stopped? Granted, I have been very careful. Maybe I’m underestimating how clever I have been. But you knew I was at the hotel. You knew I was in Peter Daubney’s room. You must have had me followed to know what I was up to. And the photographs going back weeks and weeks. So what about the rest of the time?
Pam spoke to you on the phone but you could be anywhere. If you’re not following me, and I don’t see how you can be because you would know about the hole and the other car, you must be distracted. I’m overtired and stressed and I want my kids back, but I have my finger on the pulse. I check the news for anything about an incident at a tea shop again. Nothing at all. Not even local news. Nothing has been reported.
By the time I get to the university I’m all worked up about it. I go into my office and close the door. It wasn’t that long ago that I was sitting here waiting to send those cases back. For the first time since then I wonder if I should have done just that. Let it be. If I hadn’t looked in that journal, I wouldn’t be half mad with tiredness. At least then I knew where the kids were. Now they could be anywhere.
There’s only one way to find out. I take the social services letter out of my bag. This is the perfect time, with your mother in custody, to make this approach. I press the numbers on my mobile phone slowly, savouring the moment. I have to be strong. Take the initiative. A steely determination takes over me.
‘Hello. Karen Connelly.’
For some reason I was expecting one of the team who had worked with me. This was someone different.
‘Hi. This is Caroline Atkinson.’
‘Hello, Mrs Atkinson …’
‘Dr. It’s Dr Atkinson.’ Damn. Damn it. Not a good move. I need to wake up. ‘But please call me Caroline.’
‘Oh. Yes, yes of course. Caroline. How can I help?’
‘I’m responding to a letter you sent me. I’m afraid I didn’t open it straight away and I’ve only just had a chance to ring you.’
I can hear her rustling paper. She shuts a filing cabinet and then she’s back.
‘Ah, right. Yes. So, we’d like you to come in for a meeting. When would it be convenient?’
‘What’s it about? Only, it’s been a while?’
There’s a long pause while she reads the file.
‘A review of arrangements. We’ve noted that you haven’t been taking your access with your children and we wanted to check that everything is OK.’
I’m not supposed to know what’s happened. That your mother has been arrested and you’re living in a posh apartment sans dependants. I sniffle.
‘I just wanted to ask … are they OK? My children. I miss them. A lot.’
She’s quick off the mark. ‘Fine. They’re doing fine. But there are some issues we need to discuss. Nothing negative. So shall we say a week on Tuesday?’
‘I was hoping for sooner than that. I really want to make an effort. Things have taken off for me at work and I’m in a much better position now.’
She flicks pages and taps her pencil on the desk.
‘OK. Next Tuesday?’
‘Great. So who will be there? Is it just me or will Jack’s mother attend? Only she’s looking after them and I—’
‘No. No. I don’t think she will.’
I wait a moment, but she doesn’t enlarge.
‘Jack, then? Their father?’
‘As the other parent he can be. If he requests it. Look, I’ll explain everything when I see you. Don’t worry, Mrs Atkinson, it’s just an informal meeting. 2 p.m. OK for you?’
We agree and I end the call. Good. It’s underway. It makes me feel excited, but nervous. It’s a step forward, finally. What will they think of me? Laura must have missed me or she wouldn’t have asked to see me, would she? The only problem is that now I have less than a week to finish my mission. And six more women to track down. I just want to know who they are. Like Pam said, it’s gone too far and I feel genuinely guilty about what happened with Frances, but social networking is different. It isn’t real. Is it?
Chapter Twenty-two
It’s difficult, but I manage to stay in my office all day. I even switch off my phone and I don’t check the internet once. I finish off some research for the funding grant and go over the work I did on the psychopath test. I make sure that I leave the door open and log onto the university computer system so that, if necessary, I can prove I was here.
It’s teatime before my mind wanders to Pam and the house. I turn my phone back on and there are two missed calls from DS Percy. She’s left a message and I listen: ‘Have you thought any more about what I said? You might want to think about getting some counselling after what’s happened. Give me a call back so I can update you.’
I dial her number and she answers immediately.
‘Hi, Caroline. How are you feeling now?’
I almost laugh. She’s so concerned.
‘Well, I’m tired, obviously. But I had to go to work.’
‘OK. With the pictures on Facebook and everything. Have you thought about what I said?’
I have thought. About little else. But it isn’t time yet. She wants me to have you charged with harassment. To haul you in front of a poxy magistrate and have you bailed the same day. No. I want more. In that moment I realise that this isn’t finished yet. I’ve memorised the running order of your journal and Alicia Turnbull is next. While Lorraine is going on about the procedure to get you to court and what I would have to do, I look on your profile for Alicia, careful not to click anything. No one can sue me for looking at my ex’s Facebook profile, can they? She’s not there. Expensive tastes. That’s what it said in the jo
urnal. Must have an expensive-tastes job then.
I log into the untraceable University LinkedIn – the servers are reset every night – and type in her name. There she is, just like in the pictures of you and her. Pale, thin, with caramel coloured eyes. I see that she works for an underwear company. She has lots of recommendations.
Alicia is a top performer. She excels at everything she attempts. Since becoming the MD Alicia has taken the company from a midlist to a Blue Chip.
And:
I’ve worked with Alicia for many years now. Down to earth, funny, yet a top-notch sales person, she prides herself on her grounded attitude and flawless personal and business reputation.
Oh, this is going to be easy. I save it up for later, then scope the next one. Lorna Kershaw. This one is interesting because she was a three out of ten. If I remember correctly, there are no sex pictures, just a couple of nights out. Next: Louise Shaw. In-your-face, footballer’s-wife type, if her Facebook profile is anything to go by.
I suddenly realise that Lorraine has finished speaking.
‘… so it looks like we would be able to charge him with harassment.’
‘Oh. Right. Well, he did give me quite a fright.’
‘Yes. I know. But Caroline, if there’s anything at all you want to tell me …’
I fake laugh. I know exactly what she means and earlier on I would have. But I need time to think. Make sure I cover my tracks. I took a massive risk going to The Tea Cosy. And Pam knows how fucked up I am from the state of my bedroom. I want my kids back and that wasn’t the way to go about it. I face it out.
‘Well, I know I need to get the house sorted, if that’s what you mean?’ I know full well she doesn’t mean this. ‘By the way, I just wanted to say thanks. I phoned social services and I’ve got a meeting set up for next week. So …’
Silence. She’s debating whether or not to tell me about your mother. I hold on seconds longer.
‘If that’s all …’
‘Yes. Yes. Look, I’ll give you a call in the morning. There are a couple of other things I need to check out. Speak then.’
She drops the call and I stare at Louise Shaw. I check the comments on Monica’s account. Obviously, none from Alicia, none from frigid Lorna – she probably thinks she’s had a lucky escape. But Louise is all over it. Liking comments. She even posts a sad-face emoji.
But she doesn’t comment anything about why she slept with my fucking cheating husband. She could be agreeing or, like me, just stalking. These women. All so different. Surely they would all want to come out and show you for what you really are? A philandering bastard. I’m actually starting to wonder if we are on the same side.
I log out of the university system and flick off my screen. I call a taxi and when I arrive home my next-door neighbour is waiting. She’s got a lot of make-up on and she’s had her hair done.
‘Police have been. Been asking questions. That woman. Saw her when … you know. Told ’em. Told ’em she was here with Jack.’
She’s got a memory like an elephant. I wonder what else she’s told them.
‘Thanks. That’s brilliant. Did they ask you anything else?’
‘Only the usual. Who’s been here lately? Told them that his mum was round a couple of times. Were you here last night? Which you obviously were coz Brian saw you open the door to that woman. She was shouting for a bit before that.’
Your mother. She told them that your mother had been here. Brilliant.
‘Yeah. I was upstairs. To be honest, I was a little bit scared.’
‘Well, you had good reason. She’s a nutter.’
I take the opportunity to exploit her nosiness.
‘So have you seen anyone hanging around here? You know. Anyone?’
She shakes her head and her hair extensions swish.
‘No. Never seen anyone round here. All this is proper exciting for us. Brian’s got it all noted down.’
I nod. Of course he has. I expect he’s been showing his notes to the police, which bodes well for me because I know for a fact that you can’t see my back garden from their kitchen window. The only time I’ve been in there, when my water was off and I needed to fill the kettle, I looked across. To see if they had a view of the hole. But the fence is just that little bit too high. So fucking Rover can’t escape. Good boy, Rover.
‘Well, I’d better get in there and tidy up.’
She stifles a laugh as she turns away. I know they’re all laughing at me. That mad woman whose house is full of Amazon boxes. She doesn’t throw anything away, you know. She’s an eccentric academic type. Her husband divorced her. She lost her kids.
But I haven’t lost them, I remind myself as I grip the side of the skip and smile at her. If I can just get through this, get to next Tuesday, I’ve got a shot at getting Charlie and Laura back. Your mother’s learning her lesson right now and, by the time I’ve finished with you, you’ll wish you’d never been born. The rest of your harem are going to help me in my mission, even if they don’t know it. I know I can’t do anything that will compromise Charlie and Laura, but I need to get the message through that I’m no pushover.
The inside of my house is a complete mess. The boxes I have opened to find the knives are stacked up against the other boxes. I start to take the stuff out and make a couple of trips to the skip with empty boxes, but I’m tired. Then I suddenly remember that I have no bed. No mattress, anyway.
I go upstairs and survey the damage. As well as what’s left of the the ripped-up pillows and mattress, and the dresses and tiaras, the tiaras’ metal has ricocheted off the back of my bedroom door. The beautiful wood is damaged. I run my fingers over the rough welds. In a previous drunken temper I’d scrawled on the walls in red lipstick that I deserve everything I got and didn’t I know that you never loved me?
It seems like it was someone else who did that now – someone desperate – whereas now I’ve changed direction and I’m not craving the in-between so much. But how appropriate those words were. These words decorate the very room where I realised that you didn’t love me. I’d been interviewing people for my Ph.D. studies. It was about relationships. Most of the women I interviewed had talked about their husbands or boyfriends like they were friends. Many described them as their best friends and the person they trusted the most. It had rankled. One of the questions in the study was: how has your relationship changed after five years?
All but one of the women told me that their relationship had improved. Particularly their sex lives – less often but better. The one quality that stood out in their relationship was laughter. They laughed with their partners. I didn’t laugh with you. We went out to restaurants and you talked about your work. I talked about my work. We discussed the kids. Sometimes the past.
We never talked about sex. It was as if it was a taboo subject between us. Even when we were doing it we didn’t speak to each other, did we? It was a performance. Worse, it had always been that way. No laughter. No fun. It was as if the kids, the house and I were just a container that you could step into every so often for clean clothes and respectability.
I suppose I knew deep down that you didn’t love me. After the study, it nagged at me more and more every day. I watched other people, couples, wearing wedding rings. I sat in cafés in shopping centres in town and watched how people reacted to each other. Was there laughter? Was there touching? Listening? Yes. Yes, yes, yes.
So, I brought you shopping. I wanted to see if it was my imagination or if you really were perpetually distracted. I brought you to the Costa Coffee where I’d been people watching for months. Ever the scientist, I repeated the experiment in situ. A controlled environment where everything that the other couples had was in place.
Social situation. Coffee. Piped music. Cake. Just two people on a shopping trip, treating themselves to some of life’s luxuries. You looked bemused right from the start, because I never made demands on your time. You agreed to come with me for the children’s Christmas presents. The journey there was c
onducted in the strained silence that always pervaded when you needed to be somewhere else. It was as if you were under extreme duress.
Once there, I laughed and made light conversation. Some would say I flirted, but how can you flirt with your husband of many years? You stared at me for a long time, until I ran out of amusing stories. You drained your cup and, as I placed my hand over yours, you drew it away.
‘Are you feeling unwell, Caroline?’
I laughed again and your expression barely changed. We did the shopping and went home. I suggested that we store the toys and clothes in the top of the concealed wardrobes. You’re taller than me and I had to ask you to reach up. As you did, I put my arms around you and drew you to me. I raised my face up to kiss you, but you pushed me away. In that split second I saw your face in the dressing-table mirror as you turned away. I wasn’t supposed to see it. You hid that expression from me, but I saw it. It was disgust.
Even though I was shocked, I kept trying. Turning my head so that the brotherly kiss on the cheek became a kiss on the lips. Making the first approach in bed, only to be snubbed and told that it wasn’t ladylike. I bought new underwear. It turns out it was from Alicia’s company.
It was one day, sitting in this room, that I finally realised. I suspected your philandering but I could never prove it. And you’d never hit me. You weren’t especially cruel to me. You gave me money, bought me birthday and Christmas presents. You took me to nice restaurants. We never argued really. I shouted but you rarely reacted. You just withdrew. You were away more and more, and when you came back you played with the kids, then sat in the study.
I suddenly realised that we had no life together. If I disappeared into thin air you wouldn’t miss me, as long as the washing was done and dinner was cooked. It has always been like this, except at the very, very beginning. I was a means to an end. Someone to feed the cat, and then the kids, while you were away. If I got too close, you could just push me away without any fuss. That wasn’t love. It broke my heart.
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