The Girl Who Turned a Blind Eye

by Diana Wilkinson

  ‘No problem. Thanks for the coffee.’ I lift the mug firmly in both hands and clench until my knuckles whiten. She has no more lectures until tomorrow.

  ‘Thanks again for the purse.’ With rucksack over one shoulder, she marches off.

  For Cosette, the doubts will fester. I’d love to be a fly on the wall this evening when she confronts her boyfriend with the lie, as it’s not a little fib but a great big whopper. I’m sure, after a few more revelations, she’ll realise what a complete bastard her boyfriend is and get out before it’s too late.

  Scott will never be able to rest easy again, I’ll make sure of it.

  14

  I’m in the mood for something soothing, mellow. I look through the CDs and pick out Chopin. I like to listen to music. I used to play the piano and listening helps me get a better grip on rhythm and style. Waltz in C sharp minor kicks off the concert and the clink of ebony and ivory helps me concentrate on work I have to do.

  Googling has made me consider how my stalking will be construed. There are many possibilities. Perhaps I’m a rejected stalker unable to let go. Perhaps I’m trying to draw the eye, get her attention in weird and wonderful ways without daring to reveal myself. Intimacy could be the motivator with sex high on the agenda. She certainly rates herself.

  The cadences in the background rise and fall as the melodies invade my senses.

  I won’t be the incompetent or resentful stalker. I let the mouse hover over the predatory stalker and read on. This is much more interesting. Control and power are the drivers but it will require quite an input of fear and violence. I definitely have the unemotional traits to put me in this category and I’m up for the challenge.

  As the rattle of the piano keys reaches a thundering crescendo, I pound my fingers along the desktop, flitting from one end to the next as I work imaginary scales up and down the surface. Practise makes perfect.

  I check my Hotmail accounts with their bland, forgettable addresses. Today I use whoami@hotmail.com to begin the cyberstalking. Who am I? That’s the question indeed.

  I spend over an hour Photoshopping the pictures. I have several of my target and I crop them down, keeping only the head and shoulders. I slide the images on to a series of different naked bodies. The overweight torsos display obscene defining features: inverted nipples, festering birthmarks, swollen abdomens, disfiguring stretch marks. There’s plenty of choice.

  I then work on sending the line-dancing crab viral. It’ll not appeal to everyone but she’ll be shocked, mortified at the image, especially as her head is sitting atop the naked mover. I include a Chopin polonaise as the soundtrack. Predatory stalkers aren’t by nature cultured so it’s a nice touch, shows substance.

  The mock-up is soon slotted into thousands of Facebook accounts and within half an hour there have been 500 hits. Whereas a predatory stalker might not be particularly cultured, I reckon they would have a reasonable level of computer know-how. Wizardry in hacking should be top of their CV.

  15

  I’m enjoying the Spanish lessons. As I swish the paintbrush up and down the walls, a bright azure blue, I conjure up images of sunny romantic destinations. A Barcelona city break springs to mind.

  We could take in the Picasso Museum and the stunning architecture of the Sagrada Familia. Travis likes bike riding, so a trip to Carretera de les Aigues is on the list along with shopping at the Els Encants market. We could round it all off with a romantic stroll through the labyrinth of Horta, the city’s oldest garden and perhaps this is where he’ll propose.

  A loud bang at the door makes me jump and it soon becomes a mad hammering. The bell mustn’t be working.

  ‘Coming!’ I yell. I carefully set the brush aside, making sure that it doesn’t drip onto the reclaimed parquet flooring and climb down the ladder. The banging continues and I creep up to the window in the lounge and peek out from behind the curtains. Shit. It’s Scott.

  I used to watch out the window, praying that it would be him, that he’d come round to beg my forgiveness and plead with me to come back. But he’d become adept at ignoring my texts and phone calls and keeping out of sight. Ha. My new more subtle approach seems to have worked.

  I pull back the chain and open the door wide. ‘Scott. What a surprise. Come in.’

  ‘I’m not here for a bloody social call but to warn you to keep away from Cosette.’

  Scott barges into the hall but not before he has pushed me out of the way and slammed the front door. The noise is like a thunderclap. His face is bizarrely red and puffy, his hairline damp and his receding head of hair is like an ebbing tide.

  ‘I know what you’re up to. Don’t forget, Beverley, I’ve been here before. If you go within ten yards of Cosette again I’m going back to the police.’

  ‘Why? What are you going to have me charged with? Sharing a drink?’

  I move as casually as I can towards the kitchen, sidling past his large body, careful not to skim against him. Touching him, even unintentionally, could lead to accusations.

  ‘Listen, let’s have a coffee and talk like civilised human beings,’ I suggest.

  ‘I don’t want a bloody coffee.’ He spits which doesn’t look too attractive from my standpoint. ‘This is my last warning. Don’t you dare speak to her again. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?’

  ‘I don’t care if you know or not. I’m not doing anything wrong and I do know what I can and can’t do. Last time I checked, making friends wasn’t on the taboo list.’

  He’s sweating, panic kicking in. I can’t believe he thought I’d move on, accept what happened without payback. He takes a step towards me and for a moment I think his raised hand is heading in the direction of my face.

  ‘Are you going to hit me now? I dare you.’ I egg him on, sticking my chin out, willing him to cross the line. A slap would be good. It would give me fodder to make his life even more unpleasant and I’d relish the pain, the sharper the better.

  ‘God I’d love to but I’m not that stupid. I know you, Beverley. You’re one mad, sad bitch. Don’t kid yourself. Everyone has their breaking point and so help me if you push me one step further you’ll be sorry.’

  ‘Why? What are you going to do? The only thing I wanted you’ve already taken from me. There’s not much left to take.’ The abortion, the infection, the sterile womb were all down to Scott.

  He pauses for a moment as if he’s going to add something but decides against it and instead turns his back and heads towards the door.

  ‘Cosette tells me she’s moving in. I suspect she’ll soon be after a marriage proposal. Hope you’re now financially secure enough because she’s feeling broody. But I forgot. She told me all this before I shared your confusion over the words abortion and miscarriage.’

  I spurt my venom loud and clear and only recoil my forked tongue when he’s gone. The front door slams harder than when he came in and the whole house vibrates. I can hear the wrath in his retreating tread and out of the window I watch him stomp away with steam billowing from his nostrils.

  16

  Facebook. Not my thing but I signed up a few days ago to gather witnesses to my ballooning waistline. It’s a good way to drip feed people information that they’re not remotely interested in. I feel duty bound, as a member, to randomly scroll through the postings. Everyone seems to be smiling, faking happy. Familiar faces beam out from hip locations all round the world: cable cars, Trans-Siberian railways, and underwater shark cages. There’s even a picture of some random person on top of Mount Everest. OMG. It’s Harper Holland, Head Boy of ’85.

  Taking up Pilates at the same studio as Queenie mustn’t look contrived. My daily postings, cleverly edited to show bogus rolls of flesh, have gained plenty of likes, smiley faces and encouraging comments about the benefits of core conditioning. Khloe Jacobsen, one of my old classmates, has even suggested the health club where I’ll be going. How cool is that?

  Adverts keep popping up teasing with moisturising products and financial advice. There has been
a very magnetic quiz selling the belief that only one per cent of the population will be able to answer all the questions. I feel bizarrely chuffed when I get 100 per cent even though I know it’s a scam for something.

  Then all of a sudden my face pops up. Not just my face, but my whole body. I enlarge the screen. My swollen belly is criss-crossed with angry stretch marks running all the way to a vile patch of pink and purple pubic hair. Even as I watch aghast two likes appear along with a random message from someone I don’t know. I click on the message.

  Hi Beverley. Like the picture? Fun, isn’t it? Have you checked out the background? Zoom in. Twenty-four pizza boxes there… a clue to what might have caused the spare tyre! Our little secret.

  Anyway, enjoy the notoriety. Everyone is famous for fifteen minutes. Laters.

  I spend the next half hour frantically deleting all traces of myself from Facebook and finally manage to close down my account. It seems the safest course of action as I can’t see any way to track down the culprit. I’m already twenty minutes late for my appointment with Ms Evans and I’m not allowed to miss appointments except with a validated note from a doctor.

  I lock up and dash across the road and down the drive towards the hospital entrance. I’m breathing heavily when I knock on the door, aware that I’m looking flustered and unkempt.

  ‘Come in.’

  ‘Sorry I’m late. The dishwasher sprung a leak and I couldn’t find the stopcock.’ I gently close the door behind me.

  ‘No problem, Beverley. Better late than never.’ Ms Evans is welcoming but probably secretly pleased to have been given an easy afternoon. Same money. Less work.

  The couch has been moved out of the therapy room for repair, something to do with the wind-up mechanism. It won’t go up or down and has stuck apparently in an awkward halfway position. Instead I find myself sitting in a plush Queen Anne Belvedere leather armchair directly facing Ms Evans. It’s going to be hard to avoid her beady stare and it couldn’t have happened on a worse day. I try to put the Facebook taunt to the back of my mind.

  ‘Perhaps today you’d like to tell me a bit about how you’re moving forward. About your new home and I think you mentioned a new man. Terence, if I remember correctly.’

  Over her shoulder I can see out the window. Someone is standing a short distance away from the building, hovering beside the large oak tree, and wielding a paintbrush. It takes me a minute to register it’s Bob Pratchett. When Ms Evans follows my gaze he jumps behind the thick trunk and I can’t help but giggle. His fingers wiggle into view every now and then, flicking up and down on opposite sides of the trunk to keep my attention.

  ‘I met Terence at a property show in Eastbourne. He was selling villas in Spain. He thought I was really interested in buying and at lunchtime followed me into the bar and offered to buy me a drink. I’m a bit wicked when it comes to sales people. The commission had him salivating like a slobbering Labrador, but we sort of hit it off.’

  Bob has started doing funny little dance moves but keeping well out of Justine’s eyeline. I have an urge to burst out laughing but am worried Ms Evans might jot down that I’m suffering from schizoid illusions. The urge gets worse when Bob starts painting the tree with bold white stripes, ducking out of sight at regular intervals.

  ‘In what way did you hit it off?’ Here we go again, more questions.

  ‘We have the same sense of humour. He makes me laugh and says I understand him in ways his wife doesn’t. I mean, didn’t. They’re separated,’ I lie. I don’t mention our shared love of Bollinger or the slightly kinky sex.

  ‘This sounds promising, Beverley. However, there is something I now need to discuss with you.’ Her voice loses its lightness of tone as she consults her notes, as if referring to a prewritten after-dinner speech at a fundraiser. It must be important.

  ‘Yes?’

  Bob waves goodbye, holding the paintbrush aloft and before Ms Evans continues, he has disappeared from view, pocketing the light relief.

  ‘I received a phone call earlier this morning from your case officer, Damien Hoarden. Mr Scott Barry has lodged a new complaint against you.’ Ms Evans is reading her speech verbatim, without looking up. ‘He says you’re harassing him and his girlfriend, and he’s in the process of obtaining a fresh restraining order.’

  I decide not to jump up and act incensed as this might make Ms Evans think I’m feeling guilty and it might also encourage her to think I am guilty.

  ‘You must be joking. I bumped into Scott by chance in Covent Garden. I was at the market, for goodness sake, minding my own business. How can that be construed as harassment? I’ve been going there for years. Mr Barry also knows that, as we used to go there together,’ I say calmly.

  I don’t mention the Spanish lessons or meeting Cosette but I guess Scott will have gone the full hog with his vitriol.

  ‘Mr Hoarden says that, according to Mr Barry, you have deliberately befriended his new girlfriend in order to get at him.’ Ms Evans watches me.

  ‘I’m at the same college as Mr Barry’s girlfriend and we had a coffee together. Once. You’ve got to be joking.’

  I sit up and lean forward out of the chair. I’m not surprised by the turn of events as Scott was fuming when he came round, and he certainly wasn’t going to let things rest. It was most likely him posting the scarred images of me on Facebook as a childish attempt to scare me off. He’s got enough spare time on his hands to fiddle on the computer now that he’s on a three-day working week due to stress leave. The silent phone calls, the pizza boxes and the dead mouse. It adds up. He’s trying to turn the stalking issue back my way.

  ‘Are you sure it was coincidence, Beverley? Meeting Cosette, I mean.’

  Scott seems to have gone into detail about my relationship with his girlfriend, and appears to have officially named Cosette as his significant other.

  ‘Of course I’m sure. Learning Spanish has always been on my “to-do” list. Now that I’ve got a bit of money, Goldmeyer College is the obvious choice. It’s the best language school in London.’ I pout and let out an audible sniff.

  ‘In light of the request for a new restraining order, I’ve been asked to recommend to Mr Hoarden if this will be necessary. Are you to be trusted to keep your distance? They’re looking for a recommendation based on our progress.’

  What role is Ms Evans now playing? Court prosecutor? Judge? Police officer? This isn’t any of her business and yet she seems to have been handed a rather pivotal role in making monumental decisions pertaining to my life.

  ‘Does the report mention that Scott, I mean Mr Barry, barged into my house the other day brandishing threats? He even tried to hit me.’

  The clock on the wall reaches the hour. When Ms Evans doesn’t respond, I put on my shoes, sparkly new white designer trainers with wedges. I tie a double knot in the laces, pump my feet up and down and get out of the chair. A long jog round the lake will wake me up, help me work out a way to deal with events. I can’t take any more interrogation.

  ‘Do you mind if we call it a day? I’m off to sign up for a Pilates class and registration is at five. But I promise I won’t go within a hundred yards of Mr Barry.’ I’m not sure now if I’m up to any new classes but it sounds a positive move on my part.

  Ms Evans stands up and I note she’s a good bit taller than me in her high-heeled work shoes. In flat sensible pumps, she’d give me an inch or two.

  ‘Okay. I’ve made a note of your comments and hopefully when we meet next week there’ll be nothing more to report. As long as you keep away from Mr Barry and his girlfriend I can’t see there being a problem.’ Her smile seems genuine, encouraging.

  But I can’t promise anything of the kind and if Scott is the one posting obscene Facebook pictures then I’ll have no option but to keep at him.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  As I head outside I have conflicting emotions. It feels good to be under Scott’s skin again and back in his life, but I still feel the need to punish him. It’s the only w
ay I’ll be able to stop picking at the scab. The destruction of my womb comes at a very high price and the therapy keeps my anger simmering rather than helping calm it down.

  I jog back through the park which skirts the hospital grounds and take the longer route home. As I build up speed I realise I’m really freaked out by the online attacks. If it is indeed Scott, I’ve probably done him a favour by jolting him out of his inherent lethargy. My persistence as far as Cosette is concerned has certainly fired him up.

  I pound on faster and faster until my brain is ready to explode, letting the pain suffocate coherent thought and bury the demons till tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day. I’ll worry about the day after that when tomorrow comes. One day at a time.

  17

  Travis caressed the cream leather seats, running his fingertips along the fine-grained upholstery. Queenie hadn’t put up too much of a fuss when he’d casually thrown into conversation that he was treating himself on his birthday and that she needn’t worry about getting him a present. A couple of jumpers, a smart pair of slacks and a Barbour jacket had originally made up his wish list and his wife had been pleased enough not to have to make the choices. Instead he’d torn up the list.

  ‘A fucking Mercedes? You must be joking. It’s your first sale in months.’ Hailstones of disbelief rained down on him. ‘Is this some pathetic mid-life crisis?’

  She wouldn’t ruin his birthday. Mr Keverne’s friend had offered on an adjacent apartment and the cash was rolling in. Business was on the up so why shouldn’t he treat himself? A fresh property boom was forecast.