by Tony Salter
Having my first child was obviously part of it but the process had begun earlier, possibly even before I met Rupert. I wondered if it might have been something as simple as the fact that I'd grown up, but I couldn't help worrying that I might have allowed Jax to drive a wedge between me and my family. By freeing myself from the relationship with her, I had also freed myself to question a lot of other things.
Every time I'd gone home, I'd needed to deal with a belly full of sniping from Jax which, in retrospect was plain nasty. She resented anything I thought, felt or did which wasn't about the two of us and our relationship. Why could I see it so clearly now, but hadn't been able to back then?
People can be so blind when they're wrapped up in a relationship. They will endure lifetimes of misery and abuse and fail to see what's right in front of them. Their myopia may be driven by unquestioning love and adoration, warped obsession, a sense of obligation, guilt or the pressure of society, but the consistent part is the fear which rushes in if the blindfold is removed. That moment of truth as you stand, blinking mole-like in the bright sunlight, naked and exposed.
I didn't want to believe I'd been that blind and wondered if I was still giving Jax too much benefit of the doubt to protect my ego from the full extent of my stupidity? If half of the half-memories were half-true, she really was a monumental bitch. How could I have loved her so much? What did that say about me?
Writing these thoughts in my new diary would help me remember. Putting them down on paper, reading them a few times, giving myself time to think, that would make things clearer.
It was too late to do anything about my parents and grandparents except for visiting their graves and praying for them, but I did want to go back out to Puglia and show Rupert and Sam my roots.
While I was putting a reminder in my calendar to have a look at flights to Puglia and to discuss the idea of a short holiday with Rupert, I couldn't resist flicking back to my morning appointment. It was there at 12:00, clear as day. I didn't see how I could have got it wrong. There was nothing wrong with my eyes and it made no sense. No sense at all.
Maybe there was something wrong with the phone? Next time I was in town I would have to go into the shop where I bought it and ask someone. In any case, I would double check on the iPad in the future just in case.
I needed to get my act together. I had a job interview in a couple of weeks as an assistant editor for Oxford University Press and I couldn't be late for that. My old boss in London had made the introduction, but it was a one-off favour. My networking has always been pathetic so I couldn't hope for other lucky breaks if I messed this one up.
The job was part time, three days a week and didn't start for three months which suited me perfectly. Sam would be almost nine months old by then and I'd paid a deposit for a provisional place at a great little nursery down the road. I loved being with Sam, but couldn't help feeling that being isolated from adult company was starting to mess with my head.
The Best Laid Plans
Most anti-hacker protection assumes the hacker has a traceable ambition such as theft, blackmail or concealing criminal activity. The most dangerous kind of identity thief is much more patient and has less obvious goals. They may go for extended periods with no activity. Reading emails, observing appointments made and waiting for the right opportunity. In such cases, it is extremely unlikely that the victim will ever become aware that their identity has been compromised.
"How much is your Life Worth? Protecting your Identity in a Digital World." JJ Martin, Insight Business Press 2015
Rupert was bathing Sam and singing him to sleep and, while he was happily engaged, I set to work transforming our small living room into an Italian trattoria. I quickly laid the table, switched all of the lights off, scattered lit candles on every flat surface I could find and opened up the wood burner.
I'd been preparing all day, or at least whenever Sam had allowed me to, and the food was almost ready by the time Rupert got home from work. It had been a long time since I'd felt so energised and efficient and it felt good.
'Wow, how did this happen?' Rupert's reaction when he came back in was exactly what I'd hoped for.
I smiled and pulled out his chair. 'I thought it was about time we had an Italian evening. What's the point in marrying a sultry Italian goddess if life is only shepherd's pie and curry?'
'Something smells good,' said Rupert, picking up the bottle of wine from the table and peering at the label in that faux-sommelier way which all men develop eventually. 'This looks nice. More expensive than our usual plonk. You're up to something aren't you? I'm not objecting, but I know what you're like.'
'Am I really so transparent?'
'Sorry, Fabs but, honestly, yes you are. I bend the truth for a living and am pretty good at smelling a rat, but you'd lose a lying competition with a four-year-old. It's fine though. Pretend I didn't say anything. I like the game and I don't want to wait too long to taste whatever it is that smells so good.'
'OK,' I said. 'We'll forget about your unjustified devious suspicions and put them down to the paranoid delusions of a professional slimeball. The wine is a Primitivo from the old country by the way. I managed to find one that comes from a vineyard just outside my family's old town.'
'Perfect,' said Rupert, taking a big slurp. 'I don't think I've had Primitivo before. It's delicious. My kind of wine.'
Rupert's dad had a big wine cellar full of expensive, special bottles which he'd been collecting for years, and Rupert knew a lot more about wine than most people his age. Fortunately he was self-aware enough to avoid slipping into the 'notes of cherry, infused with undertones of chocolate and blackberry' wine snob bullshit which was, in my view, the best way to ruin a good bottle of wine.
On this occasion, I'd done my research and prepared my spiel. 'Actually, you probably have drunk Primitivo before. It's the same as Zinfandel in the States, but with a different name for some reason. Primitivo is the original name though, and it's the main red wine grape in Puglia which is where it was originally grown. This is the real thing, not some American rip-off.'
'Well, la-di-da, who's the wine snob now then?' he said. 'I'm impressed.' He leant back and breathed deeply as I put a steaming plate of food down in front of him. 'Now that's what I'm talking about. It looks stunning.'
It wasn't fine dining, only spaghetti and meatballs, but, apart from the spaghetti, I'd made it all by hand, slowly cooking the tomato sauce over hours, using only fresh herbs and even getting the butcher to mince the beef on the spot for me that morning rather than using ready-minced. It smelt of home and glistened in bright colours on the plate, begging to be eaten. I think my mother would have approved.
I'd cheated with dessert; the ice cream wasn't home made, but the chocolate sauce was, and I certainly wasn't hearing any complaints from the other side of the table. Rupert finished scraping the glaze from the bottom of his bowl and looked up, a cheeky grin lighting his eyes.
'That was amazing. Now I remember why I married you. Consider me one hundred per cent primed and ready to hear whatever grand scheme you've been cooking up.'
I laughed, also reminded of why I'd married him. 'OK, guilty as charged,' I said. 'I'll start at the beginning. You remember I was upset that none of my family were there for the christening?'
'Of course, I do. But you've never explained why you fell out with them so badly, so I'm swinging in the dark.'
'I know darling, and I will explain one day, I promise, but not right now. It's difficult for me and, the thing is, I'm realising that the main reason why it's so difficult is because I've started to see that it was all my fault.'
'Oh come on ...'
'... let me finish. I've managed to convince myself for years that everything I said and did was justified but, the more I think back, the more I realise it's total bullshit. I was a selfish spoilt brat and my judgement where friends were concerned turns out to have been total crap.'
'Whooah, tell me what you really think,' said Rupert. 'Seriously
though, give yourself a break. We all did stupid, thoughtless things when we were kids.'
'Maybe, but there are degrees. In any case, the point is that I want to try to get back some sort of connection to my past. I don't expect I'll ever speak to my brothers and sister again, but I'd like to find out more about my parents' family back in Italy and I want you and Sam to know more about that part of me.'
'Is that it?' said Rupert with a big grin. 'You want us to visit your family in Italy? Sounds great. When can we go?'
I felt the softness of tears coming as my shoulders sank and my head dipped down with release, before I took both his hands in mine and looked up at his sweet, cheery face. 'You are a lovely man, Mr Blackwell, you do know that, don't you. I love you so much.'
We sat in silence for a long while, holding hands in the candlelight while, with impeccable timing, Dean Martin crooned 'That's Amore' in the background. Thank heavens for Spotify and its playlists. Eventually Rupert stood up.
'I'll start to clear up,' he said. 'You go and check on Sam.'
When I came back in, he was bent over the sink, scrubbing the griddle pan.
'Well, as you might have guessed,' I said. 'I do have a bit of a plan. Firstly, I think we can afford it and secondly, I think we should go in the first week of December – in three weeks.'
'OK, so not hanging around then?'
'No. I've got my interview next week and the job starts at the end of February, so it makes loads of sense. You've got that week of paternity leave saved up, so why not?'
'I can't think of any good reason right now, but ...'
'Plus, the weather will hopefully be lovely, it'll definitely be rubbish here, and Sam's still small enough to drag around without too much trouble. I've been emailing back and forth with one of my relations in Puglia. It's my cousin, Alberto, and he speaks perfect English. If we go, he says we can stay with them and it would be easy for him to take a few days off work to show us around. I remember him from my Nonno's funeral, he was the only one who was able to get over here. You'd like him. I know you're busy at work but I think this would be great for us and some fresh Italian air and sea breeze would make me feel better.'
'All right, take a breath,' said Rupert. 'The idea sounds great but can I have a few days to think about it? You're obviously all over it and very keen. I just need a little time to get up to speed and to check with work. Have you looked at flights?'
'Of course, you know me. Once I get going, I cover all of the bases. There are lots of flights to Bari and Brindisi, RyanAir are the cheapest but we both hate them, so I thought we'd probably end up with Easyjet as the slightly less unpleasant option. I've applied for a passport for Sam and had email confirmation that we'll get it in time. I think we can do the whole trip for not much more than a thousand quid which we can afford in any case, and definitely if your Q3 bonus comes in.'
'Bloody hell,' said Rupert. 'I'd forgotten how frightening you can be when you're in organiser mode. I'll know about the bonus tomorrow, so why don't we decide then.'
I hadn't managed to wean myself from the habit of checking emails and social media in the middle of the night. I'd stopped breastfeeding, but Sam still woke up needing a bottle and I usually took the graveyard shift. Rupert was working so hard.
It was a lonely time, sitting in the shadows watching Sam enjoying his milk and waiting for him to drift off again – not alone, but still lonely. I found it all too easy to let my mind drift down dark avenues and my phone gave me a lifeline to reality.
It was almost five in the morning. The clocks had gone back and the night sky was softening a bit around the edges – not that it was ever properly dark in the centre of town. Sam was done with his pre-breakfast, eyelids heavy with milk. I checked my email once more and there it was, just like before.
No sender, only a row of asterisks where the name should be, and a single line of text, 'I hope your interview goes well tomorrow. Don't be late.'
I hadn't imagined it. Something was going on. I had no idea what, but here was the proof. I put Sam back into his cot, a bit roughly maybe, and ran next door to show Rupert. Now he would believe me.
It took some vigorous shaking to wake him before he sat up in bed looking confused and worried. I expect I painted a pretty picture, standing over him, waving my phone at him like a mad person.
'What's going on?' he said. 'Why's Sam crying? Is he OK?'
'Yes, he's fine,' I snapped. 'I didn't wait with him because I wanted to show you this. I've had another mail. Just now. I wasn't imagining it. Look.' I handed him the phone.
'OK, OK, calm down. Let me see.' He took the phone and looked blankly at it for a few seconds, before handing it back. 'You'll have to show me Fabi. The last mail I can see was a few hours ago and it's some spam from Hidden Escapes.'
'No, let me show you. It tells me not to be late for my interview. It's right here.'
But it wasn't. It wasn't anywhere and I felt the darkness closing in on me. I couldn't have imagined it, but it was gone. Was I losing my mind?
Sam was screaming now, but I sat on the edge of the bed transfixed, staring at the phone and gulping for air like a dropped fairground goldfish while Rupert ran next door to calm him down. The poor baby was very upset, struggling in his own way to breathe through the red-faced outrage of his rough treatment and neglect, and it took ages for him to settle.
By the time Rupert had the chance to pay any attention to me. I'd moved from my petrified catatonia to an equally dysfunctional state of girly sobbing.
'I don't understand what's going on,' he said, stroking my cheek with the back of his fingers. 'You really frightened me just now. Something's obviously not right, but I don't have a clue about stuff like this.' He lifted my face gently and looked down at me. 'Don't worry, we'll figure it out somehow. We'll work it out together.'
'Am I going mad?' I said. 'Is that what you think? I don't feel like I'm going mad, it's just ... it's just ...'
'Come on darling, you lie down and try and rest. You've been up half the night. I can call in late for work today and Sam won't need feeding for a few hours. Try and get some sleep and we'll talk later.'
He walked out and closed the door gently, leaving me to lie back on the bed, frightened eyes fixed on the elephant-shaped water stain which should have been painted over months ago after we had the roof fixed. Sleep came eventually, but it was full of demons.
Just the Job
Another version of the Calendar Jog is used to modify location. The address can be changed in a confirmation email, or in the co-ordinates which are sent to the device's mapping software. The result is that the victim arrives on time for their meeting but in the wrong place.
"How much is your Life Worth? Protecting your Identity in a Digital World." JJ Martin, Insight Business Press 2015
It was after ten by the time that Rupert came in to wake me, carrying Sam on one arm. 'I wanted to leave you longer,' he said, 'but I need to be at work in half an hour or so.'
He was trying hard to appear normal and chirpy which was his standard response to most problems. So British and I loved him for it.
'I'll come out,' I said. 'You put the kettle on and I'll deal with muggins here.'
We sat in our small living room for a while, sipping our tea and focusing on little Sam. Anything to avoid the conversation which we both knew was coming.
Rupert broke first. 'Did you manage to get any sleep?' he asked.
'A little,' I replied. 'But it took a while.'
The silence slipped uncomfortably back between us and lingered.
'Look ...' we both blurted out at the same time before stopping dead with awkward laughs.
'You go ...' said Rupert, waving his hand in what I supposed to be an attempt at gallantry.
'OK. I'll try.' I shifted round on the sofa so we were facing each other. 'I'm not imagining any of this. I saw the emails, I checked my calendar. I get that there's no evidence, but I'm not that tired and I'm not going mad.'
'Nobody's sa
ying you're going mad,' said Rupert. 'If it turns out you're confused and forgetting things, it doesn't mean you're losing your mind.'
'Doesn't it?'
'Of course not. There might be some perfectly normal explanations for it. Lots of women have issues after their first child.'
'But that's my point. If I accept that possibility, then I've got to accept the possibility that I might have been imagining these things, and that's a slippery slope.'
'Perhaps,' he said. 'But it doesn't need to be such a black or white thing. I really think you should consider that it could be simply because you're overtired.'
Acid bile burned in the back of my throat. Rupert had already decided everything was in my head. That hadn't taken long.
'Maybe we could get an au pair or a nanny?' he continued. 'So you can get a bit more sleep. I can't see how it can have anything to do with your phone. I've checked your emails and calendar on mine, and on the PC.'
My head snapped up. 'What? You've checked my mails and calendar? Have you been spying on me?'
'Oh, for fuck's sake! You know I know all your passwords. Don't be so bloody paranoid. I was only trying to help.'
'Right,' I spat out. 'Of course you were.' I picked Sam up and stomped out to put him down for his nap.
What was wrong with me? Rupert was trying to be supportive and all I could do was jump down his throat.
When I walked back into the living room, Rupert was standing with his back to me. He was stirring his tea with a rhythmic chinking of the spoon as though it might calm him.
I wrapped my arms around him. 'Sorry ... Sorry ... I didn't mean that. I'm not myself. Please just ignore me.'
He turned me gently around and kissed me on the forehead before looking into my eyes, his brow crinkled with worry. 'You sure you're up for the job interview?' he said. 'We could always push it back a few days. I'm sure they wouldn't mind.'
