When I Find You

by Emma Curtis

  ‘How did you recognize him?’

  ‘Because I’d seen him coming out of your house.’

  ‘You’d been watching my flat? How did you know where I live?’

  He shrugs. ‘Agnes can be careless. She left the staff files unlocked. Your neighbour’s husband had been following you, Laura. I’ve even seen him sit on the next table to you in Luigi’s. You thought that Jamie had come back to claim you, but he was talking to Guy. He’d forgotten all about you. I followed you round the corner to where the cab was waiting.

  ‘I didn’t have a plan, I only wanted to save you from doing something stupid. He pushed you in. He literally had to heave you, you were so pissed. I told him that you were my girlfriend and to get lost if he didn’t want me to tell everyone what he was up to. You should have seen his face.’

  An image pops into my head. My nephew, his hands moving, jumping from cup to cup, weaving them in and out, switching places while my eyes try to keep up, preening in triumph when he manages to outwit me and his brother. Three men, moving in and out of my vision; another weave to trick my mind, another sleight of hand, too drunk to notice until it’s too late, and I am trapped.

  ‘Laura, I wouldn’t have touched you. I would have been the perfect gentleman, but you leant against me, and our lips met, and you can’t, hand-on-heart, say that you didn’t respond. It snowballed, didn’t it? You wanted me.’

  I catch my breath. I remember everything I did. ‘No.’

  His voice is urgent, self-pitying and wheedling.

  ‘Then in the morning, I felt you get out of bed. I pretended to be asleep. I saw you pick up my shirt. I was going to say something then, but I bottled it. When you locked yourself in the bathroom, I threw on my clothes and made a run for it. It was a stupid thing to do; a big mistake. I should have stayed and talked to you. You would have understood and forgiven me, because we had chemistry. It wasn’t rape, Laura. I didn’t rape you. At worst, it was a mistake, not a crime. What we did was consensual. You wanted it.’

  I stare at him in disbelief. ‘I was drunk, and I had no idea who you were. If I had known, none of this would have happened. You’re repulsive, Graham. You are a pathetic and insignificant creep who gets off on frightening women and I hope you get raped in prison. I’m calling the police.’

  ‘And tell them what? You were happy enough to point the finger at your innocent neighbour and wreck his life. They’re hardly going to look favourably on a complete change of mind. “Sorry, Officer …”’ he puts on a high-pitched voice. ‘“I made a mistake. Silly old me.” Come on. Get real. How many times have you got it wrong already? First David, then poor Elliot. Do you think they’re going to listen to you?’

  He must have seen something in my face because he laughs. ‘They aren’t listening, are they? They don’t give a shit because they know you’re a crap witness and they think you’re probably lying anyway. And even if you do manage to convince some man-hating policewoman, do you think the CPS is going to allow it to go to trial? Do you even know how hard it is to get a conviction for rape, even with evidence?’ He brings his face close to mine. ‘Ah ha. You do. I can see it in your eyes.’

  I shove him away. ‘You are going to face up to what you did.’

  ‘Is that right?’ he says.

  It’s the derision in his voice that makes me do it, the dripping scorn. I kick him so hard that he cries out. Then I jam my fingers in his eyes and run, but he’s faster and within seconds he’s caught up. He tackles me, catching me round the waist and propelling me off the path, into the trees and down a wooded incline, branches catching at my hair and my top. We fall on wet ground and roll a few feet. He climbs on top of me and pins me down, one hand covering my mouth, the other gripping my wrists above my head. A tree root jabs painfully into my shoulder blade. Graham darts a glance back up the hill, but we are in darkness now, and all I can hear is birdsong and distant traffic. No one in their right mind wanders round here at night. The gloom is impenetrable and there’s no one around, no one to help.

  He lets go of my wrists and I lash out at him, but he avoids my flailing arms and turns me over, pushing my face down. I only have time to scream ‘Don’t!’ at him, before my mouth hits soil and rotting leaves. He spreads his hand across the back of my head and keeps it there, his fingers clamped hard around my skull.

  I struggle frantically but he forces my thighs apart, pulling at my leggings, his hands on my skin. The realization that he’s going to rape me gives me the strength to lift my head and scream, before he shoves it down again. I can feel the effect my terror is having on my body as the strength drains from my muscles, as the messages from my brain become muddled. I can’t breathe, I can’t move, it’s as if all the energy has drained out of me, leaving me paralysed. Is this what happens to trapped animals? My struggles become weaker, the pressure harder, my lungs hurt so much. My vision is pin-pricked with stars.

  I shut my eyes tight and picture Jamie cycling in front of me, the night clear and crisp, my feet pedalling round and round, my nose and chin stinging from the cold, but not unpleasantly. A smile plastered on to my face. I feel alive and full of joy. He can’t hurt me here.

  And then there’s a new noise that has nothing to do with me or him: a rush of feet, a scrabbling, before something squat and dark launches itself at us. I turn my head as a paw lands on my neck, the nails so sharp they pierce my skin. Graham lets go of me to shield himself and I cover my face with my arm as the Staffie snarls and sinks its teeth into his flesh.

  ‘Get it off me!’ He tries to swing the dog away from him, but it won’t let go. Its jaw is locked.

  I cry out as figures come running out of the gloom. Five boys flinging bicycles to the ground.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing, you perv? Get off her.’

  Graham scrambles, tripping and falling on to the earth beside me. Two of them launch themselves at him, restraining him between them, two others help me to my feet, one heaves the dog away by its collar.

  ‘Call the police, man,’ someone yells.

  56

  Laura

  ELLIOT IS OFFICIALLY exonerated with a formal apology from the Metropolitan Police. I write Phoebe an ashamed and heartfelt apology and push it under her door, but she doesn’t respond. Yesterday, I watched from my window as she and Elliot filled a U-Drive van with their belongings and drove away.

  The authorities are none too pleased with me either. The only person I can bear to spend time with, who doesn’t judge, is Jamie. At weekends, we work on my new flat in Streatham. It’s exactly the therapy I need. I follow instructions and he’s ruthless, forcing me to properly prepare walls and surfaces before I even look at a paintbrush. We snatch breaks, sitting on dustsheets with mugs of tea and packets of biscuits. I study him when he doesn’t know I’m watching, taking mental measurements of his shoulders, his hands, the length of his fingers; I look for particular gestures and listen for verbal cues. When he rings my doorbell, I list things about him that I remember. Even so, he is always a surprise. We’ve had the odd mishap, like when, on a trip to the theatre, I waited for him outside the Gents and then accompanied the wrong man back to the auditorium. I realized in time, of course, when his girlfriend caught us up. I did a comedy about-turn. It was only a matter of seconds, and luckily, he hadn’t noticed his shadow.

  There are few absolutes about face-blindness. The only hard fact is that there is no magic pill; this is not a condition I can train my brain out of, despite what people insist on telling me. It is for life, as much a part of a person as touch or taste. Experiences differ, and we each deal with it in the way that suits us best. Some of us believe in telling everyone over and over again until they get it. Some of us never tell anyone but our nearest and dearest and manage to function, but, as I know only too well, that can be a lonely place. It’s hard for us to get to know people and, by extension, it’s hard for people to get to know us. Some people, when told, refuse to believe that the condition exists, even when pointed towards the res
earch; and that can be incredibly frustrating. They think it’s some made-up thing, an excuse for laziness or social inadequacy; or worse, they think it’s a mental health issue. These days I tell people when I need to, but I don’t keep a list, and that causes as many problems as it solves.

  At S&C, life is proving tricky. I thought long and hard about sending a whole-staff email, but when it came to it, I couldn’t do it. Some people know, but not everyone. And people quickly forget what they read in the papers. The company is vast, employing over two hundred people; a commercials factory stuffed with creatives and suits. It is confusing, often panic-inducing, and I’ve already pulled back into myself. Although I try my best, I really do. My copywriting partner is mixed race, which helps, but they are otherwise a homogenous lot. The men are more self-consciously hipster than they were at GM, dressing in tailored suits and sporting tattoos and beards. The women wear quirky frocks and favour glasses over contact lenses. There are so many more desks to mind-map, so many bodies to keep an eye on. It’s a job in itself.

  When the days become longer, I start running again. Streatham Common isn’t Hampstead Heath, but I like the fact that I’m never far from a road. The demographic of Streatham isn’t dissimilar from Kentish Town, a diverse mix of class and ethnicity. There’s no pressure to be part of things, to find my tribe. I can exist here.

  But Jamie is a sociable man and has lots of friends, to whom he is gradually introducing me. Before we go out, he shows me pictures on Facebook, points out what distinguishes one from another and when we get there he addresses everyone by their name, so often that it feels weirdly contrived, but only I appear to notice. It’s good to have a wingman, but ultimately this is my problem.

  What happened will never leave me. I can’t imagine a time when I won’t feel this way. I am still nervous; still worried that I can’t distinguish friend from foe. But Professor Robinson said something to me when I called her last week, which put it in perspective: ‘None of us can. Not when it comes down to it.’

  Acknowledgements

  I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the following: Dr Michael Banissy, Director of Research at the Department of Psychology, University of London, for his professional and invaluable insight into face-blindness. Charles Attlee, for talking to me about his personal experience of the condition, and his wife Annie for her perspective on living with a profoundly face-blind spouse, and for showing me the darkly humorous side. Thanks also to my wonderful agent Victoria Hobbs and her assistant Jo Thompson for their patience with me and excellent suggestions, and to the team at Transworld who have been so enthusiastic about the story: Tash Barsby, Rosie Margesson and Hannah Bright. To my first readers, Lulu and Steve, and to Max for his staunch support. Many thanks to the amazing Primewriters, and in particular to Vanessa Lafaye – a woman of remarkable energy, generosity and talent. You are missed. To the bloggers and tweeters who have been so brilliant and whose passion for books helps fire up my writing in the early mornings – I hope you know you are appreciated.

  WHEN I FIND YOU

  Reading Group Guide

  Were you aware of face-blindness as a condition before reading this novel? What do you think your defining characteristic would be for someone with face-blindness? What about your family members, your best friend, your partner?

  Apart from their appearance, what is it about a person that defines them? What is the most important element of someone’s ‘identity’?

  How does Emma Curtis explore the issue of sexual consent in When I Find You?

  How does Laura’s condition affect her interactions with the other characters in the novel? Is there a difference between her relationship with male and female characters?

  The only people who know about Laura’s condition are her family and Rebecca. If you were face-blind, would you choose to tell people? If not, why not?

  Discuss the theme of secrecy and trust in When I Find You. Which characters are keeping secrets, and why? Which secrets cause the most damage throughout the course of the novel, and how?

  Have you read Emma Curtis’s gripping debut novel?

  Vicky Seagrave is blessed: three beautiful children, a successful, doting husband, great friends and a job she loves. She should be perfectly happy.

  When she makes a split-second decision that risks everything she holds dear, there’s only one person she trusts enough to turn to.

  But Vicky is about to learn that one mistake is all it takes; that if you’re careless with those you love, you don’t deserve to keep them …

  ‘A compelling page-turner which kept me reading well into the night’

  Jane Corry, bestselling author of My Husband’s Wife

  Sixteen years ago, best friends Nancy, Georgia and Lila did something unspeakable. Their crime forged an unbreakable bond between them, a bond of silence. But now, one of them wants to talk.

  One wrong word and everything could be ruined: their lives, their careers, their relationships. It’s up to Georgia to call a crisis dinner. But things do not go as planned.

  Three women walk in to the dinner, but only two will leave.

  Murder isn’t so difficult the second time around …

  Available to pre-order now

  About the Author

  Emma Curtis was born in Brighton and now lives in London with her husband. After raising her two children and working various jobs, her fascination with the darker side of domestic life inspired her to write her acclaimed debut novel, One Little Mistake. When I Find You is her second thriller.

  Find Emma on Twitter: @emmacurtisbooks

  Also by Emma Curtis

  ONE LITTLE MISTAKE

  TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS

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  www.penguin.co.uk

  Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com

  First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Black Swan

  an imprint of Transworld Publishers

  Copyright © Emma Curtis 2018

  Cover images © Stephen Mulcahey/Arcangel Images

  Cover design: Stephen Mulcahey/TW

  Fleur Smithwick has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781473559783

  ISBN 9781784164003

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

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