One Click

by Andrea Mara

  It’s almost ten by the time I put down the last file and switch on TV. The Snapper is on, and I go to Twitter to see who else is watching – most of the country it seems. Molly, Catherine and Anna are sitting in tonight too, tweeting all the best lines – there’s a virtual clinking of glasses when I join in, and some virtual raised eyebrows when I tweet them a photo of my sparkling water.

  Anna is surprised. Never had you for a sparkling water girl, Lauren. Just when you think you know someone!

  Maybe I’ll have a glass of wine later, I reply. Or chocolate. Or both. Girls not here, so feeling sorry for myself!

  The commiserations come then, and I’m glad to have these friends – these people I’ve never met in real life – keeping me company. Actually I did meet Molly once – we were both at a women’s networking event and we went for a drink after. She was exactly like she is online – outspoken, direct, but with a warm streak that pokes through regularly, much as she tries to hide it on Twitter. We said we’d do it again, but it hasn’t happened since. Her kids are much smaller than mine, so she can’t get out as often, and sometimes chatting online is easier. You can do it in your pyjamas for starters. With that in mind, I go upstairs to get changed for bed. And it’s only half past ten. It really doesn’t get much more rock’n’roll than this.

  The Snapper is over and I’ve switched off the TV with every intention of going to bed but my body isn’t listening – one more flick through the entire internet, and then I’ll go. The rain is still battering the window, loud now that the TV is off, drowning out even the ticking of the clock. I get up and move towards the window, switching off the lamp as I pass. The room is dark, save for the sliver of street-light that slinks between the curtains and across the wooden floor. Peeking out, I crane my neck to check if the lights are still on in Nadine’s. I can’t see, even with the curve of the bay window. The poplars at the end of the garden are swaying in the wind, and the rain is beating against the path, bashing down into the already formed puddles. At the end of the garden, over the wall, I see a sudden movement. Is someone there? The small fir tree beside the gate is darting over and back like a crazed puppet and it’s hard to see what’s shadow and what’s real. Gripping the curtain, I try to focus. Something dark moves on the ground, then just as quickly it disappears. I take a small step back, my eyes still on the garden. My heart is tight in my chest and my breath is gone; nothing’s coming in or out as I watch and wait. There it is again, but for a fraction of a second longer this time and I’m sure now it’s just the shadow of the tree. I’m almost sure.

  A noise bursts through the silence, making me jump. It takes a second to register that it’s my phone, buzzing on the coffee table. I pick it up, pulling down the envelope notification, sensing already that it’s be VIN.

  Dear Lauren,

  Are you all alone in that big house of yours tonight? It must be very quiet with the girls not there. You can hear every creak, can’t you? You look lonely. Would you like me to come inside and keep you company?

  Yours forever,

  VIN

  The phone skitters across the floor and my hands fly to my mouth. Is he outside? I’m frozen in the middle of the sitting room, my brain shouting at me to do something. But what? Call the Guards? What would I even say to the Guards?

  Out in the hall, I step over moving shadows towards the door – it’s double-locked and the chain is on. I’m sure the back door is locked too – I turned the key when I got dressed for bed. Didn’t I? Jesus, now I don’t know. I need to check, but I can’t make myself open the kitchen door. Surely I locked it? I’m trying to remember but my thoughts are knotted. Breathe. Breathe. Okay, I came downstairs, and went to the kitchen to get more water. I turned the key then, I know I did. The windows are all closed too, there’s no way to get in without breaking them. But what if he smashes one? Is anyone going to hear? Dave is too far away, and Clare is probably fast asleep next door.

  Alarm. I need to put on the alarm so it will go off if someone breaks a window.

  Nobody is going to break a window. It’s just an internet troll. I say it over and over in my head, like a mantra to ward him off.

  I cross the hall to the alarm panel beside the front door. My fingers are numb as I hit the buttons and hear the reassuring robot voice tell me the system is arming. The stained glass on either side of the front door lets street-light and tree-shadows in, but little else – nobody watching can see me here, I’m sure of it. And the logical part of my brain knows there’s nobody there, he’s playing with me. But still, I feel exposed, and when I go upstairs, I’m half-running. It’s only when I’m there, standing with my back against the closed bedroom door that I remember my phone is still in the sitting room. For half a second I think about leaving it there but I can’t. What if someone breaks in and there’s no way to call the police? I close my eyes and take a breath, then turn the handle of my bedroom door again.

  Downstairs, my phone is where I dropped it, lying on the floor, blinking up at me. I stare at its little green light, and my breathing starts to slow. I reach down to pick it up and logic kicks in. He’s not here. He knows I’m on my own because I said so on Twitter. He doesn’t need to break into my house, I let him in through my phone.

  There’s another email from VIN. It’s just one word.

  BOO

  Chapter 25

  When the girls arrive home on Sunday afternoon, Dave comes with them.

  “I think they can manage the walk on their own,” I say with a grin.

  “I need to talk to you,” he mouths, watching as the girls go up the stairs, then making his way to the kitchen. I follow, but don’t sit down. I’m not in the mood for one of Dave’s monologues.

  “What’s up?”

  “It’s Rebecca – the attitude is just non-stop now.”

  “Oh look, Dave, she’s a teenager, her parents have just split up. Nadine is going to have to suck it up sometimes. What was it this time?”

  “She was taking photos of Nadine’s paintings and sniggering to herself.”

  I want to snigger now. Nadine fancies herself as an artist, and has framed her own artwork and hung it all over the house. I’m not any kind of expert, but I don’t think her landscapes and bowls of fruit are destined for the National Gallery just yet.

  “Right, I’ll tell her to lay off.”

  “And she was rude to the cleaning lady yesterday morning too – Grace was mopping the kitchen floor, and Rebecca spilled some milk. It was an accident, but she completely ignored it and got up to leave the kitchen. I told her to clean it up, and she pointed at Grace and said, ‘That’s her job though, isn’t it?’ and walked out of the room.”

  I feel something squeeze my heart – this isn’t how I raised Rebecca. Laughing at Nadine behind her back is one thing, but this is another level entirely.

  “Okay, that’s not on. I’ll have a chat with her,” I tell him, sinking slowly into a chair. “God, she’s lashing out in every direction – it’s so bloody draining.”

  “Well, you need to get tough with her – there’s only so long you can keep saying it’s because of the break-up.”

  There’s no parent so wise as the one who doesn’t have to actually do most of the parenting. He calls a goodbye to the girls and lets himself out, and I ready myself for the next battle.

  “Rebecca, do you want to tell me what went on at Nadine’s yesterday?”

  She looks up from her phone, a guilty look crossing her face.

  “What, about the dumb paintings? Mum, they’re so bad – you’ve seen them. The hideous one in the kitchen with the mud-coloured fields and the grey sea – how is that art?”

  “I’m no fan of Nadine’s artwork either but you can’t be rude about it, it’s not nice,” I say, sitting beside her on the couch. “Imagine how you’d feel if someone did that to you? And your dad said you were rude to the cleaner as well – what was that about?”

  Her cheeks flame and the bravado slips away.

  “Sorry,”
she mutters, looking down.

  “So it’s true?”

  “I didn’t mean it. It just slipped out”

  “Hmm. And did you say sorry?”

  “She was gone when I went back in.”

  My own cheeks are heating up now. If I saw another child behaving like that I’d be horrified.

  “Right, well, next time she’s working, we need to go down and apologise, okay?”

  She sighs, but doesn’t argue. I take a breath, ready for the next battle.

  “Now, do we also need to talk about Snapchat?”

  There’s the guilty look again.

  “What?” she says.

  “Remember what we agreed. I said you could have it as long as I can see what you’re sharing, you don’t share any photos of yourself that you wouldn’t like your gran to see, and you don’t post pictures of people without their permission.”

  There’s the guilty look again. I can see her trying to work out which rule she’s broken or, more likely, which one I’ve discovered.

  “I don’t know what you mean?” she says with a smile I haven’t seen in a while.

  “The photo of your dad and Nadine last night? ‘Ugh!’ was the term you used, I think?”

  The smile disappears and she’s hunting for an answer. She’s obviously forgotten she posted it.

  “Well, you’re one to talk. You put the picture of that woman up when we were on holidays. At least Dad is someone I actually know.”

  Touché.

  “This isn’t about me, it’s about you.” The Nine O’Clock News is starting, and instinctively I reach for the remote to turn up the volume, then remember I’m still in the middle of a parenting lecture.

  “Well, that’s a handy one to use, isn’t it?” she says. “Kind of gets you out of everything. I must remember that if I ever have kids.”

  I take her hand and she pulls it away.

  “Look, I’m not cross. I probably would have done the same thing if Snapchat was around when I was your age. But think before you do it next time, okay? Dad would be upset if he saw it.” Even as I say it, I wonder why I’m protecting his sensitivities.

  “Mum, Dad’s hardly going to be on Snapchat. He thinks it’s exclusively for stalkers and naked selfies.”

  I smile at that, and despite herself she smiles back. Oh, what I would give to hold on to that girl – the smiling one who still engages.

  “You’re right. But what if someone else sent it to him? Someone could screen-grab it, don’t forget that.”

  Her face changes then, and there’s something there, but I can’t tell what.

  “Rebecca, are you okay?”

  “Yeah, Mum. I’m going to bed.” She gets up, and taking her phone with her, goes upstairs to her room.

  Jesus, who’d be a parent of a teen?

  I text Dave to tell him I’ll bring her down to apologise to the cleaner whenever she’s there next. As I hit send, I notice a new email notification.

  Dear Lauren,

  I’m getting tired of you now. Let’s get back to where we started – you give me the details I want about the woman in Italy, and I stop. Nobody telling you your photos are crap, your daughters are ugly, and your thighs are a little on the wide side for those leggings you wear running. Tell me what I want to know, and I’m in the wind.

  Yours,

  VIN

  As if on cue, a gust of wind outside blows the door-knocker against the door, and the bang makes me jump. And for a minute, I’m tempted. What if I reply and tell him something – anything? It doesn’t have to be Cleo’s real name, he’s never going to know anyway. If it’s Chris, he’ll think he’s made a mistake and the person in the photo is not Cleo, and if it’s not Chris, maybe he’ll leave me alone, believing he has the information he needs.

  I start to type, then stop – Cleo needs to okay this.

  Switching to WhatsApp, I message her my idea and wait, but there are no blue ticks to show me she’s read it.

  There’s another bang. I listen for the wind. Was it actually someone at the door this time? Nobody would call at half nine on a Sunday night, not without checking first. I walk over to the window and reach out to pull the curtain aside but my hand stops in mid-air. The thought of looking out and actually finding someone looking back at me is too much – it’s easier to stand here not knowing. My hand drops to my side, and I wait, transfixed. A gust of wind whips up and the knocker bangs again. It must have been the wind all along. Jesus, I’m losing it.

  Suddenly my phone starts to ring, clanging loud in the silent house. At first I don’t move – I watch as the phone jerks on the coffee table, demanding to be picked up. I don’t want to answer but I need the noise to stop. Forcing one foot in front of the other, I reach down to pick it up. It’s my mother. And then I’m laughing, with the relief and the silliness. God, I need to get a grip.

  Chapter 26

  It’s Tuesday night before Cleo finally sees my WhatsApp – she likes the idea of me giving a false name to VIN to see where that leads, but as soon as I see her reply my stomach turns. It was a great plan when it was just a plan. Now that it means actually engaging with VIN, I’m not so sure. I tell her I need to consider it. She’s going to think I’m a lunatic, all gung-ho one minute, backing out the next, but then she’s not on the receiving end of the messages.

  As though reading my mind, a new email pops up.

  Dear Lauren,

  While you’re deciding what to do, let’s chat some more about you. I feel I’m getting to know you better. I see your running photos, your attempts at “arty” ocean shots, and your fascinating (yawn) breakfasts. But I have questions. Why, for example, do you pay a fortune to send your girls to St Catherine’s private school, when they could just as easily go to another school for free? Is it a status symbol? Dress your daughters in the most expensive uniform around to show everyone how successful you are? Oh, did I mention? People like you make me want to PUKE.

  VIN

  Pinpricks of cold sweat break out across my forehead. How could he know what school the girls go to? Christ. My fingers grapple to open my camera roll – there are dozens of pictures of the girls, but I haven’t put any online since that first VIN message in Italy. And I don’t think I’ve ever shared anything from inside or outside their school – I’m certain. How could VIN know anything about St Catherine’s?

  I need to speak to Cleo. She answers on the first ring, her lazy drawl at odds with my hyper state.

  “Hey, Lauren, what’s up?”

  “Cleo, I really don’t think it’s Chris. VIN knows the name of the school my girls go to – it must be someone local.”

  She doesn’t miss a beat. “Relax, Lauren, it’s Chris. I know it is. My friend Ruth back home told me she bumped into him in a bar one night recently. He was drunk, and talking non-stop about what I’d done to his sister and about confronting me. He demanded she tell him where I am, but she just called security. When he was being put out, he yelled something about Italy to her, and said ‘I bet she’s sitting on a beach somewhere, and doesn’t give a shit about what she’s done’. So I’m even more sure now he’s the person who’s been messaging you.”

  I rub my fingers against my forehead, pushing back against my hairline, trying to ease the tension headache I can feel building.

  “Cleo, it just doesn’t make sense. How would Chris from – where, Brooklyn? – know about the school my daughters go to?”

  Silence for a moment.

  “I’ve noticed a lot of kids here wear uniforms – do your girls? Maybe you’ve posted a photo of them in uniform, and he googled to find out which school it is?”

  I shake my head at the phone. “No, I never have. I wouldn’t, for exactly that reason. And since I started getting the messages, I haven’t shared a single photo of the girls. Not one.”

  “But isn’t it possible you posted some random picture in the past that has a school uniform or a school photo or a team sweater in the background?”

  That forces me t
o stop and think. Could I have done that? Ava has a basketball hoodie with the school name on the back – would I notice if it was hanging over the back of a chair and inadvertently in a photo? I don’t know.

  “I suppose, but it’s a long shot. Chris would have to go back through hundreds of photos on the off-chance that I’d done it. Is that likely?”

  More silence.

  “Okay then,” she says eventually. “I think the best thing you could do is give a false name, and see how he reacts. If he believes it, he might go away. If he doesn’t, then it’s further proof it’s Chris. Right?”

  My stomach flips.

  “Okay, I’ll do it,” I tell her, feeling sick. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  Before I can back out again, I finish the call and open my email to tap out a reply.

  Fine, you win. The woman is called Giulia, and she’s Italian as far as I know. I took her photo, we chatted briefly, and I never saw her again. Now you have what you want, please leave me in peace.