Perfect Ten

by Jacqueline Ward

  Chapter Twenty-three

  So the words I scrawled on my bedroom wall are the truth. Yet now, in the aftermath and with the real truth out in the open, they matter less. It just makes me more and more determined to show the world who you really are. This room will have to wait. I’m checking into a hotel where I don’t have to think about it. No reminders.

  I grab some clothes and push them onto a blue denim holdall with enough spare underwear for five days. I need to have this finished by Tuesday. I send an email to Eileen.

  Dear Eileen

  I’ve decided to go on a research trip where I can finish writing up the Naylor abstract and think more about this funding bid. I’m really excited! Be in touch,

  Caroline

  It’s only half a lie – I have finished the Naylor abstract already, but I do need to think about the funding bid.

  I sneak out the back way and go to the hole. I need to be anonymous, so I pull out some of the money I had left over from buying the car.

  No one is following me. It’s getting dark and I wait until the sun has stopped reflecting off its bonnet. Then I drive up across the moorland, purple with heather and shadowed with dusk. Quite beautiful. It’s all going well until I pass The Tea Cosy.

  I can’t help but slow down and stare at the door. It has the closed sign up.

  I check myself – weren’t the photographs from the journal enough? Why do I need to see this in person? Unfuck yourself, Caroline, unfuck yourself. It’s as if it’s all become one big game and I need to see it with my own eyes. I check my rationale for doing this – revenge. But revenge without harm. I just want them to suffer emotionally in the same way I did. Just a little bit more, I promise myself, then it’s over.

  I can’t think about that now. Wait, Caroline, wait. All in good time. It will all come out in the wash. For now, I need to focus on my next task. I park in the gravel area at the back of the Hare and Hounds Hotel. It’s hidden from the road, which is partly why I chose it.

  I’ve been here once before on a works outing and it’s pleasant, with an open fire and pub food. I check in as Carol Lord and bring in made-up Monica’s laptop and the flash drive. I unpack and half an hour later I’m sitting in a Queen Anne chair in front of a log fire. The pub is quiet and I order sausages and mash.

  While I’m waiting, I check that location is definitely off on this laptop, then I make three email addresses, one each for Alicia, Lorna and Louise. I prepare profile pictures from the scanned journal photos and make a Facebook account for all three of them. Then I set about making a history for them. I post ‘life events’ and copy pictures from random Facebook profiles and soon they all have make-believe lives. It takes me about an hour, including eating the sausages and mash, and when I’m finished I’m very pleased indeed with my work.

  Naturally, I’ll have to be careful, because DS Percy will believe that she’s got made-up Monica. Your mother will be in the frame for that and I don’t want to detract from the good work I’ve done there. These will be more of a personal campaign. More of a support group. Instead of working against the tide, I’m going to work with it and give everyone else a chance to say how they feel about Jack Atkinson. Test Pam’s theory that we’re all on the same side. Why should it be just me?

  I make Alicia the poster, as she’s the one who hasn’t actually got a Facebook account, so she won’t see it.

  ‘Never thought Jack was like this #shocked #ifyoucantbeat themjointhem #manshaming,’ I post a nice picture of them looking into each other’s eyes. I look through the photographs for another suitable one and I stop at a scene in a restaurant. He’s there. So is Alicia. So are our ‘friends’ Lucy and Kieron. All smiling. Alicia is holding up her hand and there’s a ring on the third finger of her left hand.

  I see red and slam down the lid of the laptop. An older couple in the corner look at me in disgust and I remember that I shouldn’t be drawing attention to myself. When my heartbeat returns to normal, I look again. I enlarge the picture and, yes, it’s my grandmother’s engagement ring. The one that went missing out of my jewellery box.

  It was claimed on the insurance and we spent the money on a nice camera. For the family. I never saw the camera again. It was all bells and whistles, timers and filters. Now I know what it was for.

  I write another status for Alicia.

  ‘We were engaged. Anyone else? Come on, girls. Let’s tell the world what Jack Atkinson’s really like #cheatingbastard.’ I post the picture and tag Jack, Lucy and Kieron. I wait ten minutes, sipping a frothy cappuccino, and congratulate myself for not choosing vodka. It’s nice here, in front of the fire. I feel a little sleepy, but I need to stay awake. I’ve dismantled my phone so when DS Percy rings me she will get my answerphone.

  I log into frigid Lorna’s fake profile and post a comment under Alicia’s post: ‘Me. He wanted more than I was prepared to give him #cheatingbastard #allgirlstogether.’

  Then I log into Louise Shaw’s profile. I post another comment on Alicia’s thread. It’s a photograph of her and you. You’ve got your hands on her breasts and she’s pouting.

  Lots of people are admiring your photography skills with your lovely new camera. I Google our insurance company, the one we used to use, because I changed it when you left. I go to their contact form and enter your details, our old address and your new address. Then I explain how the ring belonging to your wife that you said was stolen wasn’t stolen after all and that you actually gave it to your mistress. Oops. Then I attached the photograph of Alicia wearing the ring and press submit.

  When I go back to Facebook, incredibly, Katy Squires has posted her own photograph. I haven’t checked her out yet so I’m totally not ready for this. She’s standing beside a Christmas tree and I check the background to make sure that it isn’t my house.

  It isn’t. It’s a Victorian-style lounge with a Chesterfield and a piano in the background. You’re standing behind her. Your hands are stretched around her pregnant belly. I feel momentarily sick, but remember that I’m doing this so I know everything. I scour the picture to try to find some clue to how long ago it was taken. She was at the end of the journal, near to last.

  I find her Facebook profile and there she is, with a small child. He’s all over her Facebook. Jamie at playschool. Jamie in the snow. Jamie with a dog. Jamie with a bike. I scroll down and down through her photographs and, finally, about four years ago, Jamie with Daddy.

  There you are, Jack, in the hospital, holding Katy’s baby. I click through the photographs, almost blind with tears. This was in the years we were together. All the times I asked you if there was someone else, if things were wrong between us. You just stared at me and suggested I go and get some medication. That I was imagining it.

  All that time you were having a baby with someone else. You were working away a lot, home about every three weeks to see the kids, then off again. I flick, flick, flick through Katy’s pictures and see that you were there when Jamie took his first step. There are even some pictures of you in bed with baby Jamie.

  Jamie wearing a T-shirt saying ‘My Daddy is a Scientist’. I’m suddenly able to time it. Yes. I remember that day. You came home from the airport with presents. You’d bought me perfume from the airport shop as usual and I remember thinking that you did love me after all. Any little token would convince me. You had the same T-shirts for Charlie and Laura. Later on you took them out to McDonald’s to give me a break and yes, you did take them to see your other son. The next few pictures are of you and all your children. All the children I know about so far.

  I go back to the thread. For a second it’s as if there’s a whole world out there mocking me. How did you not know, Caroline? How could you have been so stupid? But then it ebbs away and I realise I was right. This isn’t just a bit of fun with another woman. This is seriously fucked up and it bolsters me. I was right. I was. Katy has posted another comment under the picture. ‘Seems like Jack made a lot of promises he couldn’t keep.’

  I somehow ma
nage to log into all the fake accounts and make them like each other’s comments. Then I post another Alicia picture. You and her kissing. ‘#cheatingbastard #allgirlstogether.’

  In a strange way, I am starting to feel some camaraderie with your women, especially Katy. Closer to them and further away from you. After all, I suppose, I am one of them. You lied to us all. Katy posts again. It’s a picture of you and Jamie. All smiles, a little boy who looks so like you. Our children are blonde like me. But Jamie is a mini-Jack. Katy is wondering how many more women there are. How many women you have lied to. She’s obviously bitter and I’m starting to feel sorry for her and Jamie.

  This is bigger than revenge. Yes, she knew that you were with me. She had my children at her home. I think about that day, when you brought Charlie and Laura home. When we all sat around the table later on and they were so quiet. I put it down to the fact that Daddy was home and they were behaving. None of the squabbling or poking each other, the kind of childhood behaviour that was normal for them when it was just me.

  They were subdued. What had you told them? Had you told them not to tell Mummy? It all starts to fit together. Laura packing a backpack in her room. Then when she realised I had seen her, unpacking it quickly, pushing the clothes into a drawer and standing in front of it to hide it. To think that I was worried that she was going to run away because things were bad between us. Promising myself that I wouldn’t criticise you any more because it was affecting the children.

  You were going to take them to live with Katy. I go back to her profile and load more pictures. It writes its own story. You are there with the children. In her lounge, wearing slippers, with Jamie on your knee. At Jamie’s birthday party, again with Charlie and Laura. Then, suddenly, no more Jack. Katy with Jamie. A worried expression and dark circles under her eyes. A forced smile because she doesn’t know what’s going on. Katy on nights out with her friends. Jamie’s next birthday, no Jack. Katy’s lost weight, had her hair cut. Katy with her new boyfriend. Katy and Jamie.

  You abandoned her. Of course. My God. I feel sorry for her. She was the opposite side of the deceit, the other me. I can’t help but think that it would have been easy for her, when you left her, to let me know what had happened, but I feel sorry for her. And I feel you slipping away, less of my Jack and more of someone I hardly knew.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  That’s it. I can’t take any more of this. You’ve got another child. With someone else. Neither of us knew the full story, the truth about each other. Something has snapped inside of me and I’m no longer hurting so much. With every revelation I’m a little bit stronger, more driven to get my children back.

  Your mother is in custody and I’m entitled to access to my own children. I’m not going to let them go through another minute of suffering and this won’t wait until Tuesday. I tell myself that it might count against me at the meeting but I can’t take it. I can’t. That injunction isn’t worth the paper it’s written on. It works in my favour, because it says that I can’t go within 50 yards of you wherever you are. You and your bent fucking solicitor thought you were clever, didn’t you, having it written up like that because you didn’t know where you would be living after you were ‘forced to leave the marital home’.

  My solicitor had no choice but to agree to not approaching the marital home because I was still living there. She told me at the time that the solicitor’s clause was pointless because I could claim that I had no idea that Jack was in a bar before I went in. Or in a town. Or a country. Or in this case, an address.

  I’m not supposed to know where you live. It’s been kept a big secret in case mad Caroline rolls up. That’s where you’ll have taken Charlie and Laura. I just need to see that you’re treating them properly, because I don’t fucking trust you with them. Parading them in front of all these different women. They’re probably confused. No wonder Laura wants her Mummy. The thought of it distances me further and I can’t even picture you now.

  I hurry out to the car, pull on the dark wig and throw the laptop onto the seat beside me. I open it at my Spotify cheating bastard playlist and select ‘There You Go’ by P!nk. That posh flat you’re renting isn’t far from here. While I’m driving, I get an uncomfortable sense that I perhaps shouldn’t be doing this. That taking the children at this point isn’t the best idea. That I should just check that they’re OK and go through with the social services plan.

  I’d do anything to be at home, insulated by my boxes, blocking the world out with vodka. But I’m not and you’ve got another child and Alicia’s got my Grandma’s ring. I pull over and remind myself that I opened Pandora’s box. What did I expect? I knew what you were up to and now I’m facing it. I just didn’t realise how bad it would be. There could be more to come. I stare into the night as I grip the steering wheel hard. I’m suddenly alone. I can’t see the shape of what else could happen. What could be worse than this?

  It’s a remote location. I assemble my phone and its green screen light gives the inside of the car an eerie glow. I check your profile because that’s the only way for me to see Alicia’s thread. Three other women have commented. One, Janet Baines, is telling us that you took her on holiday then didn’t return her call.

  Another tells a very vivid story of you meeting for a second date, then saying you had to take a call and not returning, leaving her to pay the bill. The third, who I recognise vaguely from the list of one-night stands at the end of the journal, explains that you told her you were divorced, but, after seeing you a couple of times and you not inviting her to your place, she followed you and saw you with your wife.

  It’s incensing. My life has been on public fucking show. A steady procession of paranoid women waiting outside our home, watching me to see if we were still together. While I was watching to see if you were still with them.

  I’m scrolling down the comments when my phone rings. It’s DS Percy. I think about letting it go to answerphone but I decide that it would raise more suspicion, so I get out of the car and answer.

  ‘Hello?’

  I’m whispering into the darkness, the night pressing in on me.

  ‘It’s Lorraine Percy here. I just wanted a word about—’

  ‘Oh, my signal might be bad. I’m just going for a drive. Blow the cobwebs away. Can’t face sorting the house out just now.’

  She pauses.

  ‘It’s about the holdall.’ I let out a sigh of relief. For the first time in ages there’s a tingle of anticipation in my tummy. I wait for her to carry on but she doesn’t.

  ‘Oh. Right. Have you arrested someone?’

  ‘No. I just wanted to put your mind at rest. But there’s something else.’

  ‘OK. Is this to do with Peter Daubney? Should I be worried?’

  I can hear her breathing. She’s up against it, trying to work it out.

  ‘It is and it isn’t. We examined the holdall this morning. Forensics are having a look at it. It’s thrown some light on the pictures that were posted on Facebook.’

  I jump in. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is, but the problem is, we’ve questioned the person who had the holdall and they deny posting the pictures. And since we found it, more posts have been made.’

  I smile to myself. She’s going to have to tell me.

  ‘I’m sorry, you’ve lost me. I don’t see what this has got to do with me.’

  ‘OK. The pictures were in the bag. The ones that were posted. The person who had the bag has accused you of planting it in their house. And your ex-husband has made another complaint about some Facebook posts since the bag was found.’

  Come on, Lorraine, tell me that his mother has the bag. Listen to how ridiculous it all sounds.

  ‘But that’s impossible. I’ve never had any bag. Or pictures. None of this has anything to do with me. To be honest, I’m more concerned about those threatening messages and the photographs of me. I have my rights. They could be after me.’

  ‘You do understand that I have to check,
though, don’t you?’

  So far I’ve been as helpful as possible. I’ve been friendly and pliable and told her everything I know.

  ‘I do, but as I said this morning, this has gone too far. I’m scared of going home. This could be anyone. God knows there are enough bitter women involved to make a bloody army of suspects. So why me?’

  ‘You’re the only one he has accused.’

  ‘Of course I am. You’ve read the file. You know exactly what the deal is with me and Jack. He’d do anything to keep his glowing reputation. Usually at my cost. You must see that from our history.’

  She pauses. I visualise her nodding into her phone.

  ‘But that would give you a motive, wouldn’t it?’

  She’s gone to a point beyond where she should have. She’s telling me her game plan, so she can’t believe it.

  ‘No. That’s the thing. He beat me in court. He had me in court and took my children. You’ve seen how I live. It’s all I can do just to survive.’

  It all screams that I’m the victim here, I’m the one who is being wrongly accused. Again. She’s not stupid. She knows there is something wrong with all this. But she has to prove it, and she can’t.

  ‘Yeah, I know. Look. I don’t want to do this on the phone. I’ll pop round.’

  Of course you don’t. You want to see my reactions. My body language. Shit. I’ve just told her that I’ve gone for a drive but my own car is parked outside my house.

  ‘Give me an hour. I need to go to the supermarket.’

  ‘Oh, it’s OK. I’ll just wait outside till you get back.’

  She ends the call. Shit. Shit. Shit. I jump in the car and reverse, screeching the tyres. I throw the vehicle around corners at speed and down, down, down towards town. When I’m a few streets away I call at a local shop and pick up some milk, then park up. I can see my house from here and her blue Yaris is parked up in my road. I hurry around the back of the trees and towards the shop.

  Luckily, having been brought up round here, I know all the short cuts. I can’t get around the back of the house without her seeing me, so I cut through a copper-birch-lined alleyway and come out at the end of my road. My heart is beating fast and I start to jog. As I pass her car, she jumps out.