Atlantic Shift

by Emily Barr

  ‘The guy who wrote this, perhaps?’ She takes a piece of paper from her dressing gown pocket, and thrusts it towards me. ‘Is this who you’re talking about?’

  I take it. Without looking at it, I nod my head. ‘Yes.’

  She looks at me levelly, suddenly calm. ‘So would you like to enlighten me? What in heaven’s name is going on?’

  This morning’s note wasn’t in an envelope. It is just a white piece of A4 paper, folded several times. The message, as usual, is printed from a computer. The grammar has got worse, lately. I know this person can spell, and can string a sentence together, but now he doesn’t bother.

  evie you slut you whore you bitch. now you know I know where you live. i can get a key. i will come for you next week. be waiting for me. you will love it.

  ‘Is it from one of your lovers?’ she asks, looking pointedly at Jack. ‘One of the many? A perverted game? That’s the best explanation I can think of. The only all right one.’ She leaves the alternatives hanging in the air. Then she looks me up and down, noticing my hair, my clothes. I see her expression shifting as curiosity takes hold of her.

  I look at Jack.

  ‘Tell her,’ says Jack, firmly. ‘I’d better make some more coffee. Tell her everything before the police get here.’

  ‘Police?’ asks Megan.

  ‘Did Guy not stay last night?’ I ask, knowing that she only wears pyjamas when she’s alone.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘Though I don’t see what it is to you.’

  ‘He’s always been here on Friday night before.’

  ‘Well this week he’s been at a conference in Nottingham.’ Her tone is defensive. ‘What is going on?’ she adds. ‘Whatever it is, why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Come to the sitting room.’

  I stare at our plants while I start to explain about the letters. Megan’s hostility is almost tangible. I tell her that I have now had twenty-five of them, and that they are all openly threatening. The geraniums need watering. The rubber plant is growing a new leaf. It is half unfurled. Megan and I sit at opposite ends of the sofa. We face inwards, towards each other, and our feet touch where the two cushions meet. While I speak, I can’t look at her face. I pushed Megan away and I hate having to let her back in.

  ‘And you went to New York for more than two weeks, and left me here?’ she says, some colour returning to her cheeks. I nod and look away from her face. ‘Right. Just making sure we’ve got our facts straight.’ Her tone is acidic. ‘So I was obediently picking up your poison-pen letters and piling them neatly in your room. OK. Carry on. What exactly happened this morning?’

  ‘I woke up early,’ I tell her, still avoiding her eyes, ‘at about half seven, and I got up to make a cup of tea because all this stuff was going round my head. So I was sitting in the kitchen flicking through your Vogue when I heard noises around the door. I thought it was the post, or maybe you or Guy arriving, not that you often come home at eight in the morning.’

  ‘But it wasn’t,’ she prompts in a high voice, as I tail off.

  ‘No. First someone was rattling the letter box, but nothing was coming through it. Then they were pushing the door. Then I heard him trying to shove something into the lock.’

  ‘And you thought it was me?’

  ‘I hoped it was you, but I kind of knew it wasn’t really. You don’t do clubbing till the morning. And you don’t do arseing around with the front door, either.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I checked it was double-locked with the chain on, which it was. So then I said, “Who is it?” really quietly, and then something came through the letterbox and I just heard their footsteps walking away. It sounded as if they were being very quiet, on purpose.’

  ‘You didn’t open the door and confront him?’

  ‘Bloody right I didn’t.’

  We look at each other for a moment.

  ‘And what have the police said?’ she asks quietly.

  I stare at a photo of a Thai beach. ‘The best thing they can get him on is sending obscene materials through the post. I think it’s an offence against Her Majesty. Unless he does anything, of course.’ She says nothing, and doesn’t look at me. I know I have to try to patch things up, much as I don’t want to. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,’ I say, quickly. ‘Really sorry. I wanted to, but at first I thought it might be Jack pissing about, and I didn’t know you that well at that point and I didn’t tell anyone. Then, when I realised it wasn’t him, I didn’t want to worry you. I wanted to sort it out on my own. This has got nothing to do with you. It’s all about me. When I didn’t sort it out at all, I didn’t know how to explain that all this time I hadn’t told you about it. It became harder and harder. Sorry, Megan. I feel terrible about it. I have done for ages.’ I swallow hard, and make eye contact. ‘It hasn’t seemed like a real threat until today. Now it does.’

  She looks down. I try to read her expression. ‘I wish you’d told me. Does Kate know?’

  ‘No. Just Jack.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Right now? The police are coming. I’ll make a statement. They’ve got all the other letters. Almost all of them.’ She looks at me questioningly. ‘I threw away the first one, because I thought it was from Jack. In fact I burnt it.’

  ‘I remember that. In my Le Creuset pan?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s OK, it came off. I did wonder, but I thought divorced people must make grand gestures like that all the time. Burning old love letters and so on.’

  We sit in silence for a moment. Fleetingly, I consider adding that my only suspect is her boyfriend. On balance, it’s probably best not to mention Guy. At a conference could mean anything.

  I send mental messages to Jack, begging him to come in with our coffee, but he is clearly giving us more time to talk. He is too considerate. As I start to stand up to seek him out, Megan speaks.

  ‘What are you going to do after that? I mean, we shouldn’t stay here, surely?’

  I sit back down heavily. ‘I don’t know,’ I tell her. ‘We need to talk about this, I guess.’ I look into her eyes, properly, for the first time. She is still enormously pretty, but her face looks different. I realise that not only does she no longer like me, but she is also as terrified as I am. ‘Neither of us should stay here, under the circumstances. You know that it’s not you he’s after, just me. But while I’m here neither of us is safe. Even if I wasn’t here, he might not know that. I’m sorry I went to New York like that without telling you. So sorry. I’d convinced myself, until this morning, that it was what the police said, just an empty threat, some crazy wanker sitting in their scummy bedroom living in a fantasy world. That was until I heard him trying to get through our front door. I think you should go home, Meg, and I think I’ll go too, to my mum’s. Let’s get out and go to Bristol. Then I’m thinking about going further afield for a while.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘And Meg?’

  ‘Yes?’

  I draw a deep breath and make myself say it. ‘I’m sorry about what I said about Guy. I was stressed about this and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. It was because you were nearest, and that was the easiest way to lash out. I didn’t mean it and it was none of my business. Sorry.’

  I wait for an answer, but there is none. I wish I hadn’t bothered.

  I hear Oliver Sinclair’s outraged voice shouting tinnily through the receiver.

  ‘Yes, Daddy,’ Megan says patiently. ‘We are going to the police. They’re coming now.

  ‘Of course you can come and collect us,’ she says a moment later. ‘See you in a couple of hours.’

  While her parents are driving their enormous people carrier to pick us up, the police come and go. Luckily, it’s Eleanor, and she confirms everything I’ve said, and expresses relief that we are leaving for a while.

  ‘Stay away as long as you can,’ she advises us, and Megan shoots me a black look.

  Mum and Phil would never dream of dri
ving to London to fetch me. They always assume I will turn up by train and taxi. Oliver Sinclair seems fussy to me. He dotes on his little girl. However, if I told Mum about the letters and the intruder, she would probably drop everything too. I imagine that any parent would. I expect that if Elizabeth materialised and needed me, I would rush to her side. In fact, I know that I would be there like a shot.

  Jack makes lots more coffee, and rustles up some sandwiches from the random ingredients in the fridge. Megan and I start packing. As I’m cramming my clothes into every bag I can find, she appears in my doorway.

  ‘How long are you packing for?’ she asks coldly. ‘Do you think I should take things for a few days, or clear my room out?’

  I barely look up. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I really don’t. Since it’s your dad’s place, I suppose you can leave stuff here, no matter what.’

  She turns round. ‘Well, I’m taking all my underwear. I don’t want some pervert coming in and thinking he’s found your knickers.’

  I look at her. She should never have rented the room to me. There were sixty-two other people who wanted it, after all. ‘Good point,’ I say. ‘Are you wishing you’d picked someone else to be your flatmate?’

  She maintains eye contact. ‘Yes.’

  Jack declines to come to Bristol with me, even though I suggest it several times. I would like to cuddle up to him tonight.

  ‘Evie,’ he says firmly. ‘I’d love to, but I’ve got things to sort out here. You’ll be fine when you’re out of London. Take your cello, take your stuff, and go and see your mum. Hang out with Tessa.’

  ‘Things to sort out with Sophia?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He takes out his phone, and checks it anxiously. As he starts to type a text message, I interrupt him.

  ‘But what if he’s waiting for me there? What if he knows where they live? It wouldn’t be hard for him to find out.’

  Jack puts his phone away and pulls me towards him. I like the feel of his hand on my waist. ‘He won’t be there, I promise. He’ll think you’re still here.’

  ‘He might watch us leave. He could follow us all the way.’

  ‘Even if that did happen, you sleep on the top floor at your parents’ place. There are plenty of other people in the house. They’ve even got a burglar alarm, haven’t they? Make sure it’s set at night. It’s the best place for you to be, babes. Far better than sleeping at mine.’

  I look down. ‘I know. I’ve messed your life up enough already. I’ll miss you.’

  He smiles. ‘You haven’t messed up anything. I’ll be ringing you every morning and every evening to make sure you’re OK. Don’t worry, Evie. It’s not your fault.’

  I dread driving home with the Sinclairs, but less than I would dread either staying in the flat by myself or going alone by public transport. Oliver Sinclair is in a strange mood when he arrives. I expected him to be worried and angry. I barely dare to look at him, at first. I have brought a psychopath to his prized London apartment and put his daughter in danger. But he seems almost ebullient.

  ‘Evie!’ he exclaims, and kisses me firmly on each cheek. I suddenly realise that he reminds me of Guy. They are even the same age. Oliver may be three years older, but three years is nothing. It is not just their age. It’s their mannerisms, too. Megan is, essentially, having sex every weekend with her father. I wonder what Oliver thinks of the relationship. I don’t even want to mention Guy in front of him, in case Megan hasn’t told him. If he knows about it, he is probably with me on the subject.

  Oliver and Jack, together, carry our bags and my cello down to the car. Oliver gets back behind the wheel, and waits for us to say goodbye. Josie sits next to him, and I see her looking at me. She doesn’t look friendly. As soon as she catches my eye, she takes a make-up bag out of her handbag, and starts reapplying her foundation with a studiedly casual air.

  I feel self-conscious, saying goodbye to Jack with an audience.

  ‘Thank you so much for looking after me,’ I tell him quietly, stroking his arm. ‘It means everything. There’s no one else I could have gone to. You’re the best.’

  ‘I’m glad you came to me,’ he says warmly, ‘and not to that godawful teenager. Or to anyone else.’

  I look at him. ‘The thing with Dan never really happened,’ I say softly, ‘and when Megan said I had lots of lovers, it wasn’t true. She was just getting at me.’

  ‘You’d better go,’ he says. ‘Love you.’

  ‘Love you too.’

  We gaze at each other. For a moment, I almost believe myself.

  ‘Play the cello!’ he adds suddenly.

  I smile. ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘No, play it properly. Play it like you used to. That’ll keep you grounded.’

  ‘Nice boy, your husband,’ says Oliver, as he pulls the people carrier authoritatively on to Kensington Church Street. A cycle courier swerves and swears, and Oliver affects not to notice. ‘He appears to be very supportive.’

  ‘He is.’

  Meg looks at me appraisingly. ‘Are you getting back with him? Or are you just trying to mess things up with his new girlfriend?’

  Oliver roars with laughter. I try to see Josie’s expression, but she is facing forwards and is not participating in the conversation.

  ‘Neither,’ I say firmly. ‘Some people really do stay friends when they split up. Jack is the first person I go to when something happens. He’s my best friend. That’s all.’

  Josie speaks up. ‘Does he realise that you’re using him?’

  I stare at the back of her head, but she doesn’t turn round.

  ‘He was happy to help us out today,’ I tell her, ‘and he wasn’t pretending. He really didn’t resent it. Did he, Meg?’ I look to her for support. She shrugs.

  ‘Don’t really know him,’ she says.

  Late at night, Mum, Phil and I drink red wine, and once we are certain Tessa is asleep, I tell them the whole story and not the abridged version that I have managed to whisper in instalments through the early evening. They are horrified.

  ‘So it seems as if someone really wants to harm me,’ I tell them. I have never spelt it out before. ‘All the time they’ve been writing to me, and they’ve really meant it.’

  ‘Darling,’ says Mum. I know she wants to hug me, and I have purposely sat in a chair, not on the sofa, to stop it happening. I need to be self-reliant. ‘Promise me you won’t go back.’

  ‘Of course I won’t go back. Do you think New York is a good idea?’

  ‘Yes. Get as far away as possible.’

  Phil leans forward. ‘And make sure you tell Howard everything you’ve just told us.’

  I nod, meekly. ‘I texted Kate earlier,’ I tell him, ‘because I didn’t really want to talk to her. I couldn’t face explaining all this again. I said I was going to New York at the same time as them. She was pleased. I hope she gets pregnant, I really do. It’s about time something good happened. The ad is apparently on all the time now, and the concert at Lincoln Center has been confirmed, so I’ll be able to stay out there for weeks and months if necessary.’

  I smile my best smile, first at Mum and then at Phil. I hope it takes them in. Inside, I think I must be close to rock bottom. Sometimes I wonder if I might be mad, if I could be writing the letters to myself. I deserve to be hounded. I had a beautiful daughter, but I gave her away. Elizabeth was mine while she kicked me and rolled around in my womb. She is not mine any more, and she wouldn’t know me if she passed me on the street. I would not recognise my own daughter. I am no kind of mother to her. We would be friends now, Elizabeth and me. It should be the most important relationship in my life, and instead I am empty. I have done the worst thing any woman can do, and now I have nothing.

  I lie awake for most of the night, convinced someone is about to climb in through my window. I hear his breathing. He never arrives.

  chapter thirteen

  Two weeks later

  ‘Delighted to meet you,’ he says, holding out his
hand with a practised smile. ‘Ron Thomas.’

  ‘Evie Silverman,’ I reply, giving him a fake smile of my own. I dish these out often enough to know one when I see one. Fake smiles have been my sole currency lately, as, more than ever, I have needed to mask everything I am really thinking, everything I am feeling.

  This man is just as false as I am.

  ‘Right!’ he says, pointing to me, his head on one side. ‘The Calm cellist, yes?’

  ‘That sounds about right,’ I agree.

  ‘That ad is on all the time. You must be stopped in the street every five minutes, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not really. I’ve seen a few people recognise me in Manhattan, but you know what Manhattan’s like. People have far too much attitude to say anything.’

  ‘It’s a good place to be famous,’ he agrees.

  I have been in America for three days. Being here was supposed to make me feel better. Instead, I am lost. I feel as if I have been cast adrift in the world, and it is hard to make sense of anything. The only thing that is keeping me going is company, and my well-honed ability to put on a show. As long as somebody is with me, I can pretend to them that I am all right. I have managed to spend next to no time on my own in the past two weeks.

  Although those letters do not reach me out here, I know they are still being written. It makes no difference whether I read them or not. Somebody hates me enough to threaten me. Every day I have a new idea about who it could be. I don’t trust anybody at all any more.

  At least I have a prestigious concert to worry about in a few weeks. I practise my cello every day, which helps me blank things out for a while. Being an extremely minor celebrity in America also helps. I saw my advert on Howard and Sonia’s TV on the night I arrived. It gave me all the adrenalin rush of a live performance, and distracted me wonderfully from the inside of my head. I was critical of my rendition of ‘The Swan’, my appearance, my slightly wonky bow. I was terrified, even though I knew they would never be allowing it to air unless they were completely happy with it. I’ve seen it again, twice, since then. I’m getting used to it. It allows me to be Evie Silverman, famous cellist, rather than Evie Silverman, the teenage girl with a secret.