One Click

by Andrea Mara

  Maybe Cleo has news. I send her a quick message and wait, but there’s no reply. Opening the email again, I check when it was sent. 8:13 this morning. Which would be the middle of the night in New York. A bad sleeper or one of those guys who plays video games all night?

  Susan knocks and pops her head around the door.

  “Jonathan is in for Thursday so. I was surprised you wanted him back so soon?”

  I put down my phone and sit up straight.

  “Did he say that – that I asked him to come back this week?”

  “Oh, crap! You mean you didn’t?”

  I shake my head. “Not your fault, Susan, don’t worry. You’d think at a minimum you’d be able to trust clients about their next appointments. Maybe he forgot that I said next week . . .”

  “Would you like me to call him and change it?”

  I consider it, but then remember him crying in the chair, and tell her to keep the appointment as it is.

  “There’s just one more thing,” she says, looking unsure.

  “Go on?”

  “It’s probably nothing, but he was parked beside you, and he stopped to look in the window of your car. I was holding the door open for another client and saw him. It was just a bit weird so I thought I’d say it, but it’s probably nothing.”

  I smile and thank her, trying to remember what personal belongings are in my car. Mine and Rebecca’s library books are on the passenger seat, and there are some empty shopping bags in the footwell – nothing else. My library books are on Social Anxiety, so other than highlighting that I need to step away from work and read some fiction, they don’t reveal much.

  On Thursday, I’ll park around the back of the clinic. And maybe another appointment isn’t such a bad idea – the sooner he gets through this break-up, the sooner I’ll be free of him.

  Chapter 19

  Tomorrow’s lunches aren’t made and the floor’s not swept but I’m already thinking about wine and considering leaving everything else until morning. I wonder for a second if I’m drinking more since Dave left – or perhaps it’s that I’m always on my own now, and more self-conscious so I notice. It’s like my mother is perched on my shoulder, warning me to be careful. It’s a slippery slope, Lauren. Remember what happened to Auntie Maggie? Poor Auntie Maggie, who was really Great-aunt Maggie to me, brought up seven children on her own, and liked the odd glass of sherry on a Sunday evening. In my mother’s teetotal family, this amounted to rampant alcoholism. But that was long before middle Ireland took to opening bottles of wine on Friday nights. Or Thursday nights, I think, as I pull a screw-cap Rioja from the wine rack.

  Monday morning’s black cloud still hasn’t lifted and my cheeks hurt from fake smiling. Brian’s still making veiled comments about my hours, and Jonathan was back in this morning full of double-entendres and innuendo – far from the sobbing, rocking husk he was on Monday.

  Today’s email from VIN was a scathing critique of a dinner recipe I shared last night – apparently I can’t cook, my food photography is sub-par, and nobody cares what I eat.

  And then when I came home this evening with a new backpack for Rebecca, she collapsed in floods of tears and stormed up to her bedroom. I followed and found the room in darkness, and Rebecca curled in foetal position on the bed, facing the wall. Sitting on the side of the bed, I touched her hair. Flinching, she pulled away.

  “Love, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Mum, the bag is way too babyish,” she said, still facing away from me. “I can’t take that to school. I’d literally die of embarrassment.”

  “Surely this isn’t about the bag? Rebecca, I can change the bag. It must be something else – come on, talk to me. Is it about your dad?”

  “Mum, there’s more to life than your stupid marriage break-up. Newsflash – not everything is about you and Dad. You’re not unique.”

  I was stung. “Okay. But sometimes when we’re upset about something big, we let it show by being upset about something small.”

  “Stop psychoanalysing me. I’m not one of your clients, and this isn’t about Dad. And please take that hideous backpack back to the shop. Can’t you just give me the money to pick my own?”

  Still mystified, I agreed to return the bag. Maybe we’d go shopping together on Saturday, I suggested. This was met with a shrug, and after a few more minutes rubbing her back, I slipped out of the room.

  Now I’m looking at the red-and-black rose-print backpack and wondering what on earth could be wrong with it, as I take a first welcome sip of wine. A tweet notification pops up on my phone and my stomach clenches. But it’s not VIN this time – it’s Molly asking if there’s any update on my troll. I reply, but in the private Twitter group we sometimes use for discussions we want to keep to ourselves.

  I’m still getting tweets, I tell her, plus emails now too. Catherine joins the conversation, saying she admires me for not letting it get to me.

  Ah you know, I type, sticks and stones.

  She sends me an applause emoji and I wonder what she’d think if she knew how sick I feel every time VIN makes contact.

  Lill joins then to congratulate me for my attitude, and suggests I write a blog post about the experience. I tell her I’ll think about it, but I won’t – I just want it to go away. Though if Cleo’s right and it’s Chris, why haven’t the police in New York done anything yet?

  Cleo still hasn’t answered the WhatsApp I sent on Monday – I try her again, and this time she gets back immediately.

  Sorry for delay. And unfortunately no update from home. My contact said he will look into it and no need to chase him, he’ll get back when he has news, so just waiting. All OK? Lots of VIN msgs?

  I type my reply.

  Loads unfortunately. And emails now too. I’ve kept them all, will I send to you?

  She says I should, and passes me her email address. Forwarding on the emails feels good, like undoing a too-tight ponytail at the end of a long day. Cleo sends me another WhatsApp.

  Got the mails, thanks. Jeez, he’s really getting nasty towards you now, not so much about me?

  Tell me about it. It’s not fair to resent her free pass though – none of it would be happening if I hadn’t taken the stupid photo. I send a reply.

  Don’t worry, I can handle it!

  Closing the curtains tight, I turn up the TV to drown the silence, and switch off my phone.

  Chapter 20

  Dave’s mouth is moving and he’s saying something about what he’s cooking for the girls tonight, but I’m distracted by his cheeks, which are even redder now than they were a few days ago. And when I look down, I can see definite signs of a belly pushing through his shirt. Rubbing my thumb against the inside of my ringless finger, I turn this observation over, and find a nugget of quiet glee. I’m thinking about Nadine and wondering if she’s noticed when I realise he’s asked me a question.

  “Sorry, what was that?”

  “Jesus, Lauren, you’re miles away! I was asking if you’ve had any more trouble with the client who was going on about you being in Italy?”

  I get up to boil the kettle again. “No, nothing about Italy. Other stuff, but I can’t really talk about it because it came up in therapy. More tea?”

  He looks at his watch, then up to the ceiling as though he’s doing a calculation in his head.

  “Are you all right?” I ask, tipping the dregs into the sink.

  “Yeah, just working out how much longer the gnocchi bake will be. I don’t want the aubergines to dry out.”

  I burst out laughing and he looks hurt.

  “The what? You made what?”

  “Lauren, I just told you all about it. Were you listening at all? It’s one of Nadine’s recipes. Vegetarian. It’s very good.”

  I’m still laughing but I can see he’s serious. Two months ago he didn’t know an aubergine from his elbow.

  “It sounds lovely. I’m sure the girls will really enjoy it. I didn’t know you’d gone vegetarian?”

  “I�
��m not really, but Nadine is, and it’s not that bad when you try it.” His cheeks pinken further. “Anyway, yeah, go on. I’ll have one more cup. The girls are probably putting on make-up or something, are they?”

  “Finishing homework and throwing stuff in overnight bags. Don’t worry, they’ll be down in time for your gnocchi bake.”

  “Cool. So anyway, what were we talking about – oh yeah, your man at work and the social media?”

  I give him a look.

  “It was one comment about Italy, and it hasn’t happened since.”

  “But even that it happened at all – he obviously found your blog. Aren’t you getting too old for blogging and social media?”

  Oh Dave.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I just don’t get it. Why talk to total strangers on the internet?”

  I’m standing at the counter, pressing his teabag with a spoon to eke out every bit of tea into the hot water, because I know he likes it weak. This isn’t a new argument but the ‘aren’t you too old’ angle is.

  “Okay, let me explain this one more time. I enjoy taking photos. I share them on my blog because engagement and reaction are part of the enjoyment. I talk to – as you call them – strangers, because that is in fact what millions of people all over the world do, and you might be surprised to hear this but broadening your horizons, engaging in social and political debate, and chatting with a diverse group of people from all over the globe is not in fact a terrible idea. And it only seems to you that I’m too old, because you’re so far behind the curve, you’re looking at your own arse.” I put the tea in front of him with more force than intended and a drop splashes on his sleeve.

  “Jesus, Lauren!” Dave’s eyes are wide. “Mind the hot tea!”

  We’re saved from further discussion by Ava, who arrives in looking for her hair-straightener. Dave wants to know why she needs it, they’re just sitting in to watch a film, and she rolls her eyes.

  Rebecca comes in then, throws her bag on the floor and flops into a chair with a sigh, burying her chin in her skull-print scarf. Dave and I exchange looks. We both know that sigh.

  “What’s up, pet?” Dave asks, reaching out to rub her arm.

  She jerks away from him and mumbles something into her scarf.

  “What did you say?” Dave asks.

  “I said is she going to be there?”

  “Who?”

  Rebecca says nothing.

  “Nadine, Dave,” I say eventually, “she means Nadine.”

  “Oh right. No, she’s gone out for the night. So it’s just the three of us.”

  “Yeah, but I bet she’ll be there in the morning,” Rebecca says, tracing a circle on the table with her finger.

  “Well, yes, it’s her house, so of course she’ll be there.” Dave is getting defensive now. He’ll never learn.

  “Fine. I’m not going.”

  “Ah Rebecca, come on. Don’t be like that. We’ve a lovely night planned – I made gnocchi bake and –” he looks at his watch, “and actually I’d better get going or it’ll be all dried out.”

  He stands up but Rebecca doesn’t move. I can hear Ava pulling out drawers upstairs, oblivious to the crumbling plans. She’ll be disappointed. And worried that we’re not making this co-parenting thing work. I walk around to Rebecca and hunker down.

  “Hey – why don’t you go and enjoy the movie, and then come home early tomorrow morning. I’ll be here anyway. Would that work?”

  “Before breakfast? Before she gets up?”

  “Yes, early as you like.”

  There’s a hint of a nod, and she picks up her bag. Dave’s shoulders drop and he mouths a thank-you at me.

  Ava bounces back in, hair-straightener in hand, and stuffing it in her bag she looks around at all of us.

  “What? What’s up?”

  “Nothing, let’s go,” Dave says, leading the way to the front door before Rebecca has time to change her mind.

  And then, after hugs and waves, it’s just me.

  On autopilot, I pick up my phone, and find a new email from VIN waiting for me.

  So, Lauren, you like running by the sea I notice. Right along the DART line. Nice of you to share your interesting photos with us. We’re so fascinated by your running photos. Because you’re the only person in the world who knows how to run, aren’t you? You should be on a TV program for people who know how to run. SO UNIQUE. Maybe I’ll join you next time.

  The phone feels like it’s burning me – I stare at it, my mind racing. If VIN is Chris, how the hell would he know anything about the DART line, let alone recognise the backdrop of my photo? I check Instagram – the picture was taken early on Saturday morning and it’s mostly me and sky. On the far right of the shot, there’s a green blur, and I know it’s a DART, but would Chris know that?

  I message Cleo to ask if she’s free to chat, and my phone rings a moment later. She’s getting ready for work, she says, but has a few minutes. I tell her about the latest email, and my rising sense that VIN is not Chris.

  “But if he saw a train, it wouldn’t be difficult to Google and find out the local urban rail is called DART,” she says.

  “I guess. Did you hear anything from your detective friend?”

  “No – I did chase it yesterday but nothing yet. Relax, Lauren, I’m nearly certain Chris is VIN. Do you want to send me on the email and I’ll take a look?”

  I agree to do that and she says she needs to go to work. Suddenly I envy her. I waitressed for a summer in New York during college and I was absolutely terrible at it, but I’d still swap places with her now, just to be around people, instead of sitting here staring at the walls.

  I microwave some soup and scroll through Twitter as I eat. Molly, Lill and Catherine are all online, talking about a politician who resigned, and I join in, forgetting for a while about VIN. Then Catherine breaks the spell and asks if he’s gone away. I’m about to say something breezy, but a spasm of loneliness rips through me, and suddenly I need to share. I want sympathy and hugs and, in lieu of human company, virtual hugs will have to do.

  Still there, still doing that really brave anonymous thing, I tell her, replying in our private Twitter group.

  Catherine says to keep ignoring, it’s the only way to deal with it. Lill is still not convinced – she thinks there’s a lot to be said for fighting back. She suggests again that I blog about it, then tags me on a reply to a journalist who is writing about trolling.

  @LaurenLePhoto you might be interested in this – @CarolineMcGahernJournalist is looking for contributors – see here:

  “Looking for people to chat to me for sensitive article on internet trolling – please RT #journorequest”

  Before I have a chance to say I’m not interested, the journalist replies.

  Hi Lauren – if you are on for it, would love to chat? Thanks, Caroline

  I’m annoyed at Lill for putting me on the spot and so publicly too, and I’m not sure attack is the best form of defence, no matter how often Lill says it.

  I tap out my reply.

  Sorry, wish I could help but in my case not really troll, it’s person with grudge against a friend. Sorry!

  She replies straight away.

  That sounds intriguing and a bit scary! No worries at all, thanks.

  I reply: Storm in a teacup, sorry can’t be of help, good luck with article!

  Then I go back to Molly, Lill and Catherine and ask if they know who is on The Late Late Show tonight. I’ve had enough of talking about VIN.

  Much later, Cleo messages me during her break at work. She’s looked at the email and says that because “program” is spelt with just one m instead of “programme” it means the sender is American. That hadn’t jumped out at me at all, and I try to remember how I spell it. I’m nearly sure I always write program, but it’s hard to look at it objectively now. She also says that if you Google “Dublin suburban rail” you find out about the DART pretty quickly. So VIN is still more than likely Chris, she says, and I don�
�t need to worry about him joining me on my run any time soon. I ask her if she’s sure Chris is really in New York – could he have come to Dublin looking for her?

  As I type, I realise how dark it is outside and get up to walk over to the window. The poplars at the far corners of the front garden sway in the night-time wind and look almost sinister against the dusky sky. I pull the curtains, without looking out this time.

  Cleo replies to remind me there’s no reason for Chris to think she’s in Ireland – the photo was taken in Italy, so why would he come here?

  Unless he’s shifted focus, I think. More and more of the messages don’t mention her at all now, they’re about me. My running, my food photos, my daughters, my blog. What if he doesn’t care about finding Cleo any more – what if it was just a random, temporary fixation? It would be a hell of a lot easier for him to find me.

  Chapter 21

  “Can you put the trolley back for me?” I ask Rebecca and I’m met with a downturned mouth and a sigh, but she starts to pull the trolley across the car park to the bay.

  As I’m reshuffling bags in the boot, I sense someone coming up behind me. I swing around and find myself looking straight into Jonathan’s grinning face.