Copycat

by Alex Lake

  ‘What’s up? You left without me.’

  ‘Just giving you the space you need,’ he said. ‘The kids wanted to get going, so after a few minutes waiting we decided to go.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Near Bath.’

  ‘Are you planning to come back and get me?’ Sarah said. ‘I’d like to join you guys at the beach. I was hoping to have a family day.’

  ‘I wasn’t planning to,’ Ben said. ‘We’re halfway there now.’

  ‘Great,’ Sarah said. She felt tears well in her eyes. ‘Thanks, Ben. Thanks a lot.’

  ‘Sarah,’ he said. ‘We waited for you. We wanted you to come. But you seem like you need to be alone. If not, come along. We’ll see you at the beach.’

  ‘OK,’ Sarah said. ‘I’m on my way.’

  ‘Great,’ Ben said. ‘But take your time. Relax for a while, OK?’

  Sarah decided to take him up on his offer.

  It was – she had to admit – not unpleasant to drive on her own. The road was quiet and winding and surrounded by beautiful views of the ocean. She stopped at a pretty café in an area called Winnegance and ordered an iced coffee. It seemed ages since she’d been alone, on a weekend, in a café where she had nothing to do but relax. She was in no hurry to get to the beach – after all, Ben had left without her, so he could hardly complain – so she took her time over the coffee, then, when it was finished, ordered a lobster roll.

  She was hungry, she realized. She hadn’t eaten much the last few days and all of a sudden her appetite was back.

  ‘A large roll?’ the waitress said. ‘Or small?’

  ‘Large, please,’ Sarah replied.

  ‘With chips on the side? And a pickle?’

  ‘Why not? Thank you.’

  The roll, when it came, was enormous, lobster spilling over the sides of the toasted bun. She took a bite; it was every bit as delicious as it looked. No wonder Maine was famous for the lobster rolls; as a local she rarely had one, but she might have to introduce them into her diet more often.

  God, it was good to have a moment to herself. She loved Ben and the kids, unreservedly and without limit, but a little distance – even this small amount – was a real treat. It relieved the pressure, and allowed her to get some perspective back.

  She paid the bill – twenty-two dollars well spent – and got back in the car. It was going to be a fun day at the beach. She was going to bring her good mood and let it spread to all of her family, washing them in a golden glow.

  She parked next to their SUV – the spot was open, which she took as a good sign – and walked the short path up the dunes that led to the beach proper. The smell of the ocean added to her good mood; it was invigorating and restorative.

  At the top of the dunes she scanned the beach, looking for the large red umbrella she had bought earlier in the year. It was off to her left; she could see the kids digging a hole a few yards from the water’s edge, and Ben, standing by the umbrella, talking to someone.

  Someone in a blue bikini. They looked deep in conversation; from the tilt of her head she seemed to be listening intently to whatever Ben was saying.

  She was wearing a red baseball cap so Sarah couldn’t make out her face, but she didn’t need to. She knew exactly who it was.

  It was Rachel Little.

  30

  ‘Hi, Rachel,’ Sarah said. ‘Beautiful day. I didn’t know you were coming.’

  She didn’t, and there was no reason she should have. Just as there was no reason she should be surprised to see Rachel here on such a hot, perfect Maine summer day. Where else would she go?

  To Simpson’s Point, or Reid State Park, or Popham Beach or one of many other coastal Maine locations within easy driving distance of Barrow, that was where. But she was here, and the sudden silence that had fallen when Sarah walked over to Rachel and her husband suggested they had been talking about a topic they did not want her to know about.

  Maybe she was being paranoid. Probably she was. But nonetheless: as she had approached they had been deep in conversation, a conversation that stopped as soon as they saw her. Normally people would continue their conversation when someone new joined them.

  Hey, how are you? We were talking about the new principal at the high school. Apparently she was an Olympic Swimmer in the 1984 games. Got to the final of some event. Breaststroke, I think. But swimming’s so complicated. There are so many events. You have to be a swimmer to tell them all apart.

  And then the new person would offer an opinion and the conversation would continue.

  Not in this case. Whatever they had been talking about was over.

  Rachel smiled at her. It was a bland smile, almost deliberately expressionless.

  ‘It’s beautiful here,’ she said. ‘I used to come here as a kid with my family.’

  ‘It’s definitely the most family friendly beach,’ Ben said. ‘Popham is more spectacular, but it’s harder to manage the children there, and there are some powerful currents in the water. This is much more self-contained.’

  ‘We come here for the same reason,’ Sarah said. She looked at Miles, Faye and Kim. ‘Because of the kids. If it wasn’t for them we might go elsewhere.’

  If Rachel had picked up on her point – why are you here, at this family friendly beach, surrounded by kids, when you could be enjoying the splendor of Popham? – she didn’t show it. Instead, she smiled.

  ‘Well,’ Rachel said. ‘I was on my way to get a coffee when I saw Ben. Would you like me to pick one up for you?’

  ‘No thanks. I had one on the way here.’

  ‘Oh,’ Rachel said. ‘Well, see you later.’

  As she walked away, her legs tan against the pale blue of her bikini, the muscles long and lean, Sarah felt disconcerted, as though there was something out of place in the exchange they had just had.

  It came to her.

  Rachel had not asked why Sarah had arrived late. No busy morning today? Or Problems at work? I guess some weekends you’re on call? Those – or some variant of them – would have been the natural questions to ask on a Saturday morning when a mom was not with her family.

  Unless, of course, she already knew. Unless that was what she and Ben had so abruptly stopped talking about when Sarah showed up.

  ‘Nice to see Rachel,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ Ben replied. ‘She’s very pleasant.’

  Sarah had learned over the years that Ben – in common with many of his countrymen – had the ability to answer a question with a pleasantry that could mean anything at all. The meaning of She’s very pleasant ranged from She’s totally beneath contempt but I don’t want to waste time talking about her to She’s an outstanding human being but I don’t want to talk about her anymore in case it gets awkward. It was the same with other things he said. I’m not sure I agree could mean exactly what it said, or it could mean Your opinion is utterly worthless but let’s pretend it isn’t.

  Sarah was in no mood to be fobbed off. She looked him straight in the eye.

  ‘What were you guys talking about?’

  Ben shrugged. ‘Bits and bobs. Usual stuff.’

  ‘It seemed rather an intense conversation,’ Sarah said. ‘More than bits and bobs.’

  ‘It wasn’t,’ Ben said. ‘I barely know her.’

  ‘OK,’ Sarah said. She was not convinced, not convinced at all, but it was clear Ben had his story and he was going to stick to it. ‘Fine.’

  The kids went to bed early. One of the benefits of a long day at the beach was that the fresh air and sun and swimming tired them out. It was a good feeling as a parent, to see your kids fall into a deep restful sleep, a smile on their faces, their limbs twitching as they dreamed of running around in tide pools and building sand castles.

  Sarah took a bottle of white wine from the fridge. It was more than half gone; she’d opened it when they got home and had a couple of glasses. Ben had drunk a beer, which meant she was responsible for half a bottle already.

  She’d have to slow do
wn, but it had been that kind of day.

  She went and sat next to Ben on the couch. He was watching a show about classic British sports cars.

  ‘What a fabulous car,’ he said. ‘A Triumph Stag. My dad had one when I was a kid. Lovely looking thing.’

  Sarah was not interested in classic British sports cars at the best of times; now she couldn’t muster up even a polite comment.

  ‘Ben,’ she said. ‘What were you talking to Rachel about when I showed up?’

  He turned to look at her.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘We were just chatting.’

  ‘There was an awkward silence,’ Sarah said. ‘Which isn’t what happens when people are just chatting.’

  Sarah did not think Ben was having an affair. He was a deeply honest person; he didn’t even like lying to the kids about the existence of Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, and when he did he got an odd, teacherly tone in his voice.

  Why did you put that voice on? Sarah had asked him, once.

  What voice? he said. My voice was totally normal.

  So even if he was lying to her, she was pretty sure she’d be able to tell.

  You never knew, though. She would have thought the same about herself, but she had managed to get involved in that awful, tawdry episode with Josh, and she had lied about it. Not in the sense of telling an untruth when asked, but in the sense of keeping it quiet.

  She’d done a lot of thinking about what happened and what to tell Ben and she’d decided it was not worth breaking up her family over. It was worse than a one-night stand, certainly – there’d been a few dates and then the one occasion they’d slept together, an event which had been eminently unforgettable, as well as horribly awkward – but still not enough to put their marriage and family life at risk.

  She’d also thought about how it had happened. Back then, she’d been in the throes of the worst of her anxiety attacks, prone to a sudden onset of dizziness and heart palpitations and nausea and blurred vision at any moment. On top of which, Faye was two and a lot of work and she was constantly exhausted. She often felt either desperate, or a passive, disinterested observer of her own life. It was this numbness that upset her the most; she’d felt unable to truly experience anything: no joy in her kids, no enthusiasm for her family life. The color and pleasure were gone from the world; the only intense experiences she had were the panic attacks, and those she hated, which was what the affair had been about. It wasn’t about sex or lust, but about recklessness and danger and how it made her feel. It was a cliché but it made her feel alive again. It was like dancing in a rainstorm after a long walk through a parched desert. Which didn’t make it any more forgivable, but it made it explicable. And the explanation was good enough for her.

  So she’d kept her mouth shut. She hadn’t been sure she would be able to, but it turned out she was. She didn’t think Ben could, though.

  He paused the show. On the screen a green convertible was frozen in the middle of a corner on a racetrack.

  He looked her straight in the eye.

  ‘I was telling her about the books—’

  It turned out she was right. He couldn’t tell a lie.

  Sarah stared at him. ‘Are you kidding? You told her they showed up at the house with a note from me – the fake me – to me?’

  ‘No!’ Ben said. ‘Of course not! I was asking her about her job as a psychologist. She said she worked with people who needed therapy, so I asked if she’d heard of the books. I only wanted to see if she’d heard of them. Any information could help us figure out who sent them.’

  ‘I can’t believe you told her,’ Sarah said. She took a swig from her wineglass. ‘It’s none of her business!’

  ‘I didn’t tell her anything,’ Ben said. ‘I asked about those books.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Ben,’ Sarah said, aware of the ugliness in her tone. ‘How could you be so naïve? She’s a therapist; she’ll know we have those books – why else would you be asking about them – and she’ll think I need them. She’ll think I have depression or a bipolar disorder. I’m a doctor, Ben, I don’t need people gossiping about my mental health!’

  ‘Sarah,’ Ben said. ‘She’s your friend. She’s not going to gossip. And she’s a professional. There’s patient confidentiality issues.’

  ‘So you’re her patient now?’ Sarah said. ‘Or is it me who’s the patient? This is getting ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m not her patient,’ Ben said. ‘And neither are you. And I didn’t give anything away. I was only asking about the books.’

  ‘So why the awkward pause when I showed up?’

  There was a long silence. ‘I think you may be reading a bit too much into this,’ Ben said, his voice low and quiet. ‘And I think you might want to take it easy on the wine.’

  ‘Oh,’ Sarah said, feeling her neck and face flush. ‘So I’m an alcoholic now, too?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. All I said was, you might want to take it easy. I don’t think it’s helping.’

  She stood up, taking care to do it as steadily as she could.

  ‘I’ll drink,’ she said, ‘what I damn well want.’

  He nodded. ‘OK. Enjoy it.’

  She went into the kitchen. She stared out of the window, watching the trees sway in the breeze. Who was doing this? Who had sent the books? The only people who could have done were her and Ben. So was it her husband? Was he doing this?

  It couldn’t be. Ben would have to be someone so utterly different to the man she knew that she couldn’t believe it was him. Which left her.

  But it wasn’t her. She wasn’t doing all this. She knew she wasn’t, and the only way she was wrong was if she was crazy.

  And she wasn’t crazy.

  Her head was swimming, a combination of anxiety and alcohol. She tipped the wine into the sink and filled the glass with water. Ben was right; it wasn’t helping.

  Then she went upstairs to shower away the salt and sand of the sea and put an end to this day.

  31

  Sarah buried her head under her pillow. There was a buzzing noise in the room.

  Probably one of the huge flies that made Maine their home during the summer. She tried to ignore the sound; despite dumping out the last glass of wine and replacing it with water she had woken up with a headache. Maybe a hangover, maybe stress: either way, the noise of the fly was not helping.

  Damn, it was annoying. When Kim had woken up – she was an early, noisy riser – Sarah had nudged Ben and asked him to get up with her. He had, which meant this was a rare chance to have a lie-in.

  Which was in danger of being ruined by this fly.

  It was one of the mysteries of life: you could fall asleep in a noisy airplane or with the TV on, but one little buzzing fly was enough to destroy any chance of nodding off. It wasn’t the volume, either: there was a particularly irritating quality about a fly’s buzz.

  She took her head from under the pillow. She was going to have to kill it if she was going to go back to sleep. She looked around the room; there was no sign of any fly.

  But the buzzing was still there, and, she noticed, it was constant. It didn’t rise and fall or stop from time to time like a fly would. It went on, a constant drone.

  And it was coming from outside the window.

  She got to her feet and opened the blinds. The noise was definitely louder here. It seemed to be coming from above the house. She craned her neck to look up, but the roof of the house was in the way.

  She pulled on a pair of shorts and a tank top and headed downstairs. At the bottom of the stairs there was a note in Ben’s cursive script:

  Taken kids to Little Cat for breakfast. See you there?

  It sounded good. Coffee and a breakfast sandwich. She’d figure out what was making the buzzing noise then head down to see them all.

  In the kitchen she opened the back door and stepped on to the grass. The buzzing was louder outside; it was definitely coming from above her. She looked up. The sky was blue and cloudless. She was e
xpecting to see a plane or a helicopter, but there was only the unbroken summer sky.

  And then it appeared.

  A square white box the size of a paperback book moved slowly over the roofline and into view. There were four spinning blades – each like a helicopter rotor – keeping it up in the air.

  She tensed. For a second she had a feeling this must be what it was like the moments before a military drone showed up and started firing at people: out of the blue a faceless machine appeared, close enough so you couldn’t miss it, but high enough so there was nothing you could do about it.

  It stopped directly over her head, and then started to slowly descend.

  Sarah sprinted inside and slammed the door. She turned the lock. The main panel of the door was glass and she pressed her face to it and looked upward, her ragged breathing fogging up the window.

  The thing was still coming down. She watched as it descended until it was dead level with her head. It hovered, six feet from the back door, the four blades spinning, the buzzing much louder.

  She stared at it. There was a kind of tube suspended from the main body. As she looked, it tilted until it was facing her.

  It was a lens, she realized. This thing was carrying some kind of camera.

  She was being observed.

  The machine moved toward the door.

  She screamed, and ran back from the window. She looked around for her phone then remembered it was next to the bed, so she bolted up the stairs two at a time and grabbed it. As she typed in her passcode, she realized the buzzing was gone.

  She looked out of the window. Nothing. No machine, and no noise.

  Hands shaking, she called Ben.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘You coming to breakfast? I can order for you, if you’re feeling better.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘But, Ben – there was – there was a thing here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There was a – some kind of machine. In the backyard. Like a helicopter.’

  ‘Sarah,’ Ben said. ‘You’re not making much sense. Are you sure you’re OK? Do you want us to come home?’

  ‘No,’ Sarah said. ‘I want to get out of here. I’ll come to you. I’ll explain then.’