by K. L. Slater
‘Are you even listening to me?’ Steph grumbles, draining the last of her coffee and pushing away her cup and saucer. ‘Just tell me if I’m boring the pants off you.’
I can hear the slight edge to her words. Nobody enjoys being ignored, after all.
‘Sorry. I am listening; just got distracted by my phone.’ I reach down and close my handbag. ‘You’re doing really well with your fitness plan. How much have you lost again?’
‘Ten pounds in five weeks.’ She narrows her eyes slightly, obviously irritated at repeating herself. ‘You know, you were looking good too, Darcy, but now you look a bit peaky. You feeling OK?’
I nod, then blurt out, ‘Have you heard anything else about her? About what she’s up to?’
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I’d never said anything. Meeting George has helped me push Daniela to the back of my mind, but the knowledge that she’s back in Nottingham now and plans are afoot for her to buy the house we were renting, makes it so much harder to tuck everything away, to rewrite the story of what happened.
Steph’s face freezes for a moment. Then she sits up a little straighter, seeming to steel herself.
‘Mum is meeting up with her tomorrow. Just for a coffee and a chat.’ She sees my face and rushes to explain. ‘She just needs to ask her a few questions about Joel. Stuff she’s always wondered about and never got to ask, what with her rushing to move to Manchester so quickly. It’s no disrespect to you at all; just something Mum needs to do for her own peace of mind, and now that you’ve obviously moved on—’
I push my cup away and stand up, scooping up my handbag. The people sitting on the next table stop talking and stare.
‘I can’t handle this,’ I say, my voice shaking. ‘I can’t deal with you embracing her into the family again.’
‘It’s nothing of the sort. It’s just a chat. Don’t go,’ Steph pleads. ‘I don’t want this to come between us.’
‘Neither do I. But it’s time you and your family remembered that I’m the mother of Joel’s sons, not Daniela. I’m the one you should be sympathising with. She was probably planning to evict us, before we moved in with George.’
Steph glances at the other customers who are taking an interest. ‘Darcy, you can’t carry on like this. It’s not healthy.’
‘I’ve got to go,’ I say shortly, marvelling at the way she always manages to turn everything back on to me so effortlessly. I shove my chair under the table and see the elderly woman next to us grimace as it scrapes the floor tiles noisily. ‘I’m sorry, Steph. I can’t talk about this right now.’
Forty-Two
I step outside just in time to see a figure dart behind a couple walking towards me.
Before I met George, I’d probably think nothing of it at all, assuming, as there are several people around nearby, it’s someone just messing around and dodging a friend. But this is now. And every suspicious thing, no matter how small, boils down to one name in my mind: Opal.
I stand there a moment, almost turning around and going back into the safety of the café but that’s ridiculous because I don’t know it’s her. The odds are surely stacked against it.
But if it is, if that person is Opal, what can she do, really? She could stab me in the street, attack me, but this constant fear, watching out for her, is driving me insane.
The couple are chatting, laughing about something together, and the figure is walking directly behind them. Advancing closer to me by the second.
And then all at once, they’re right in front of me and the figure behind them is revealed. Opal Vardy.
She looks wild-eyed and desperate, as if she’s searching for something but isn’t quite sure what. There’s no sign of the shiny hair, the sparkling eyes and wide smile of the woman in George’s photograph. I might not have even realised they were the same woman if we’d just passed in the street. But this person is definitely the one I met briefly outside the urology ward. She has that same neediness emanating from her like steam.
‘Stop following me around!’ I yell, the frustrations of my conversation with Steph fuelling my indignation. ‘Sort out your own life and leave us alone!’
The sound of my own voice almost makes me jump out of my skin. The couple falter as the woman nudges the man and they look at me warily as they pass by.
Then all of a sudden, it’s just me and Opal. We stand in silence, two women squaring up to each other. Face to face, eye to eye. Like two boxers waiting for the bell. And I do feel as if I am fighting, for both the safety of my children and for my right to be with George without her interference.
George has been adamant on one point, and that is that I must have no contact with her.
‘She’s like poison, Darcy. One drop and she’s into your bloodstream, corrupting everything that’s good. She thrives on attention, so don’t give her any.’
I break the stare, turn and walk briskly back up the road the way I came.
‘Darcy, wait!’ I shudder at the sound of her shrill voice uttering my name, but I don’t turn around.
I feel rigid, like a robot, as I stride forth, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, my mind racing. I clock the vehicles coming past, praying for a vacant cab. She’s still calling to me, following me, when at last I spot one. I put out my arm and it slows, pulling up so two wheels are on the pavement.
As I rush towards it, a hand clutches at my upper arm. I pull away and spin around, expecting to face her fury.
Yet there are no devil horns on her head, she brandishes no weapons, nor are there vitriolic words spat in my face. Just eyes that aren’t as much wild now as tired and sad, and a pale, slightly puffy face.
‘Darcy, please. Just give me five minutes. Listen to what I have to say and then you can make up your mind about—’
‘Take your hands off me,’ I yell, and pull open the cab door, sliding in and locking it. I feel breathless with adrenalin, but I just about manage to tell the driver my home address before sinking back into the seat. My heart hammers on my chest wall, making me feel nauseous.
Relief floods through me, but as the cab pulls away, Opal hammers on the window. I sit bolt upright and she presses her face up close, calling out words I can no longer hear.
‘Blimey, she’s got an axe to grind, hasn’t she, love?’ The driver laughs, putting his foot down and leaving Opal behind us. ‘Bye bye, crazy woman.’
I don’t answer him; I can’t. I just want to get home and sort this mess out once and for all with George.
After today’s confrontation, I’ve made up my mind.
* * *
Typically, George is working late tonight. He sees his private patients on a Tuesday and Wednesday evening until 9 p.m. I have a few hours to myself before the kids get back. They’ve all got clubs straight after school, so I have some time to think about the idea that has been constantly circling in my mind since George told me how Opal is making his life a misery.
I make a coffee and sit quietly in the living room. I’m already developing favourite spots in my new home, and this is definitely one of them. It’s situated at the back of the house where wide French doors lead out onto a small patio and the long-grassed lawn.
Romy is such a well-behaved child, you would never guess a little one lived here. She has a quiet nature, and although she’ll giggle at the boys when they ape about, she rarely joins in, preferring to tuck herself into a corner and observe proceedings.
I hope that with time, I’ll win her trust. When I try and show her affection, or pull her close, she stiffens and can’t wait to escape my embrace. That saddens me, as I have a lot of love to give.
I sip my coffee, certain that the boys will eventually manage to introduce her to the joys of football and cricket. My eyes alight on the glossy new goalposts on the lawn, a symbol of George’s kindness and thoughtfulness.
I want to believe George is invested in us and wants the best for us all, I do. But I’m afraid because once, I believed with all my heart that Joe
l was devoted to our little family and look what happened.
But George is not Joel and Opal is not Daniela. The situation is completely different. This is the present and that’s the past.
I feel a little calmer now, and force my thoughts back to the problem in hand. George is bound to feel protective and has tried to shield me from Opal’s toxicity but it’s obviously not working. We’ve been given this wonderful opportunity of making a new family, and I feel a dull rage inside when I think about anyone trying to scupper that.
George is so busy with his career, it makes sense for him to push the problem away and convince himself that Opal will tire of her games. When she sent that awful death bouquet, he took the flowers from my arms and dumped them unceremoniously in the wheelie bin.
‘Don’t give it another thought,’ he said as he closed the door and gave me a bright smile. It was as though he believed that by removing the blooms from sight, he’d made the problem go away. George might be a skilled and brilliant surgeon with a detailed knowledge of the human body, but he has very little understanding of an obsessed mind.
A cramp of hypocrisy makes itself known in my lower abdomen as Daniela’s perfect face drifts into my mind’s eye.
Thankfully, I’ve never had the urge to send her funeral flowers or disturb her in restaurants, as George has had to put up with. But, before she moved away to Manchester, I did drive to her house on several occasions and just sat in the car, staring up at the softly lit windows where Joel spent so many nights, when I believed he was working to make a better life for me and the boys.
In the early days, just after his death, when Daniela first ran off to Manchester, I contacted her several times under the cover of a false profile, saying, I’m ashamed to admit, some not very nice things. And shockingly, up until I met George, I’d been regularly and obsessively monitoring her life and activities online, to the extent that I’d look at the clock and be shocked to find I’d been sitting there for over an hour, while the boys watched television, utterly absorbed in my snooping.
I hated her for what she did to us, truly hated her. It blinded me, negated every step I tried to take to move on with my life.
Yet I’ve never approached anyone she knows or tried to directly push myself into her life. Daniela hasn’t got children, although when I grilled a reluctant Steph, she said it wasn’t through lack of trying. Daniela just never managed to fall pregnant. Apparently, she said, Joel refused to go and see the doctor about it; obviously he knew the problem wasn’t him because he was father to our two perfect sons! I’m not sure Steph told me the full story but it sounded close enough.
Daniela has been a drug. That’s the only way I can adequately describe it. A drug I hated but once needed, one I’ve been unable to wean myself off. Even now, I still check her online profiles periodically although that’s far, far less than it used to be.
Never did I think any good could possibly come out of this sad and shameful period in my life, but after today’s confrontation, I’ve had a bit of an epiphany: I’m probably expertly qualified to understand the workings of Opal’s mind. Far better than logically minded, academic George could possibly do.
The time has come to stop listening to his advice on dealing with the problem. I love him, and although his reasons for letting her carry on with her disturbing campaign are valid, they don’t make enough sense for me to continue to put my boys at risk.
I take another sip of my coffee and grimace when I find I’ve been so embroiled in my thoughts, it’s gone cold. But I don’t make another. I reach for my phone instead, and before I get cold feet, I call the non-emergency number to speak to a police officer.
Forty-Three
‘Let me get this straight, madam. This woman is stalking your partner, not yourself?’ says the slightly bored-sounding officer on the end of the line.
I’ve explained the situation as clearly as I can, but the police operator still seems not to be getting it.
‘She started off stalking him, but the situation has now escalated. I’ve already explained this. If we hadn’t gone outside during the lodge incident I’ve just described, one of our children might well have been abducted.’
‘But you said you weren’t able to obtain visual identification of the suspect.’
‘My partner’s daughter did though.’
‘And how old is she?’
‘She’s six.’
Silence on the other end of the line.
‘Well who else could it be?’ I snap and then I’m immediately contrite. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just so frustrating. We have every reason to believe it was her, and the lodge park management must have thought so too, because they put on additional security.’
It’s just like the brick wall George said he came up against when he went to the police himself. Everything Opal does affects our life tremendously but leaves no trace of any proof.
‘What about the coffee shop incident?’ I say.
‘As far as I can ascertain from what you’ve told me, the woman asked to speak to you,’ the operator stated. ‘She didn’t attack you, or threaten you?’
‘No, but… What do I need in order for you to speak to this person, warn her off our family? Do you really want to wait until she takes one of our kids? The papers would be very interested in the fact that I tried to get police help beforehand.’
It’s a low blow, and worse, it doesn’t work.
‘As it’s your partner who seems to be at the centre of this situation, and for some time before meeting you, so I suggest you ask him to contact his local police station with full details including dates, times and any other relevant information.’
Great! I can just imagine George’s reaction to me telling him this.
‘Whatever happened to the new stalking act I read about a while ago?’
‘The Protection of Freedoms Act 2012 is in place, but incidences of stalking can’t be taken in isolation. There needs to be a clear record kept over time, and that’s why I’m suggesting that you—’
‘Fine. Thanks. You’ve been very helpful – not!’
I slam down the phone, my throat and face burning. They were absolutely useless, just like George said. I’ve questioned his lack of action so many times, and yet here I am, in exactly the same predicament myself. I wouldn’t bother calling for advice again.
Yet a part of me knows that what the operator said makes perfect sense. We need to keep Opal’s antics logged, so the police can see there’s a clear record of incidents. I know George has never kept one, so we’d have to start from scratch, and it would take forever to compile a case that reflects how awful the reality of the situation is.
But if she’s to be stopped and we’re to keep our children safe, then I guess that’s exactly what needs to be done. It occurs to me that I might start by calling the council to try and trace the cab driver who picked me up earlier. He witnessed Opal’s unstable and aggressive behaviour.
George and I could also sit down and try to remember dates and times of the incidents that have happened recently, even those that can’t be proven to be Opal’s doing like the funeral flowers, the mess on my car. That would give us a good start.
Then, out of nowhere, my mind lights up with another idea that might just help convince the police there’s a problem. I could contact the management of the lodge park and asked them to confirm details of the Christmas Eve incident in an email. That’s the kind of evidence the police will take seriously.
I pull up the lodge website on my phone and click on the telephone link. After a couple of rings, the call is answered. I explain that we recently visited and had a concern, and that I need to speak to the manager.
‘Hold the line, please, I’ll just put you through.’ Awful tinny muzak rattles my ear until a polite male voice with an accent interrupts and ends the torture.
‘Good afternoon, Antony Romano speaking. How may I help you today?’
Romano! I distinctly remember George mentioning that was the na
me of the man he spoke to. For once, something is on my side.
I give him my name, and George’s as the lead booking contact, and explain again that we stayed over the Christmas period in one of the two Woodland Supreme lodges.
‘Excellent. Let me pull your reservation details up on screen for that period… Ah yes, I have you here. Two adults, three children in a Woodland Supreme, booked in the name of George Mortimer.’
‘That’s right. There was an incident not long after our arrival when a woman lurking in the woods tried to communicate with our children.’ I take a breath, aware that I’m talking too fast. ‘George reported it and you agreed to provide additional security around our lodge.’
A moment of silence. Then, ‘Who was it exactly that your partner spoke to, madam?’
I frown. ‘It was you. When he came back, he told me he’d spoken to the manager, a Mr Romano.’
I suppose he speaks to a lot of people in his job and might not instantly recall a conversation. But when he replies, he doesn’t sound confused at all.
‘It wasn’t me, I’m certain of that. I’d taken holiday leave and didn’t come back to work until the twenty-seventh of December. Your partner must have spoken to the duty manager working that day, but it’s very strange…’ I hear him tapping the keyboard. ‘There’s no note of the report on the reservation.’
‘Perhaps they forgot to do it, I’m sure it’s a very busy period.’
‘No,’ he says firmly. ‘Absolutely all formal communications with guests must be logged, and something of this nature… It would definitely have been filed, and reported to the police as well.’
I bite down on my tongue. What is he saying? That I’m lying?
‘I am not doubting what you say,’ he adds hurriedly, breaking the terse silence. ‘Just that I will need to investigate this issue further with my colleagues.’
