The Secretary

by Zoe Lea

  ‘Get your coat on, Sammy.’ I leaned against the wall for support. ‘We’re leaving in a minute.’

  My heart was hammering. The temptation to call Will back was strong, the urge to drive round to his fancy house with his new girlfriend and smash something hard into them both was powerful. How dare he, was all I could think, how dare he.

  ‘Mum.’ Sam was at the side of me now, by the window.

  ‘Got your book bag?’ I took a big lungful of air. ‘Lunch box?’ I closed my eyes and counted. One, two, three, breathe in, one, two, three, breathe out. I had to calm down. Needed to calm down.

  ‘But Mummy … ’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I told him and tried a smile, ‘it’s all OK. Everything is going to be fine. You all ready, sweetheart? C’mon, let’s go.’

  He shook his head and pointed to the window, his face pale, his eyes round. I followed his gaze. For a moment I was confused. My car was parked right in front of our house, but that wasn’t my car, was it? And then, as the image registered, I realised it was, in fact, my car. I gave a shocked gasp and hurried outside towards it.

  ‘Mummy, wait … ’

  In black spray paint, along the side of my car, someone had written the words, ‘I hope it was worth it’. And all four tyres were flat. Slashed. Dramatically slashed, hacked at. Someone had really gone at them, as if wanting me to see how much they’d tried to rip my tyres open.

  Sam was now at the side of me and I could hear him panting.

  ‘You go inside, Sam.’

  He was staring at the car and I mentally cursed myself for letting him see it.

  ‘What does it mean, Mummy?’ he asked. ‘Was what worth it? What is it talking about?’

  I looked along the desolate street. An older couple were in the house to the right of us, tourists who’d arrived a couple of days earlier, but the other side was empty until the next holiday makers came. It would slowly begin to get busier as half term approached, but this particular week was quiet.

  ‘Get inside,’ I told Sam. ‘Quick. C’mon now, you get inside.’

  ‘But Mum, who did that, and what does it mean?’

  ‘Inside,’ I told him, and he stared back at me, his eyes intense, a look of complete horror on his face.

  ‘It was Toby, wasn’t it?’ he whispered.

  ‘What? Sam, let’s go inside, I’ll call … ’

  ‘He came here in the night and did this because I put Miss Gleason’s pen in his drawer.’ He turned back to the car. ‘He said that he knew it was me. He said he’d get me. That’s what it means –’ he pointed to the graffiti ‘– that’s what it’s talking about. It means was Miss Gleason’s pen worth it.’

  My face must have looked shocked, surprised at how he’d come to this conclusion, and because I didn’t immediately reassure and deny his suggestion, he started screaming. A loud terrified wail.

  ‘It’s not Toby,’ I told him, but it was useless, he was gone. Lost in his own anxiety and panic. I grabbed his shoulders, bent down so my face was level with his. ‘Sammy, listen to me, it’s not Toby. This was someone who hates me, not you. It’s my fault this happened, d’you hear me? It’s all my fault.’

  My hands were sweaty as I took him back inside. I tried to make soothing comments, to reassure him, but I was struggling. Once Sam got himself worked up he was hard to get through to. I got him inside and closed the door, locked it. My mind was scattering over things that I had to do, new problems that now needed to be addressed.

  ‘He’s going to kill me!’ Sam was hysterical, the words getting caught in his throat. ‘He said he had a knife and now he’ll stab me. He’ll slash me.’

  I held him tight, rocked him until his sobbing eventually subsided.

  ‘Look at me,’ I told him when he was calmer, now regretting everything to do with that stupid pen. ‘This was not Toby. No one is going to kill you, no one is going to stab you. This was a silly woman I think, someone that I know, and it was just a joke. A stupid prank that’s gone wrong. I’m going to talk to her today and make sure she doesn’t do it again.’

  ‘Who is it?’ His face was puffy, two bright red dots on his cheeks, the rest of his complexion white. I shook my head.

  ‘No one for you to worry about. Just a silly, stupid woman who thinks by doing this she’s being funny.’ I tried a smile. ‘Now, how about we take a day off?’

  He was silent for a moment, then did something I’d not seen him do in years, not since he was a toddler and then again when Will first left us. He closed his eyes and started sucking his thumb.

  ‘Sam,’ I said, ‘please don’t do that.’ I went to pull his thumb out of his mouth, but he jerked his hand away – he could be quite strong when he wanted to. ‘You’re a bit old for that now,’ I told him. ‘Only babies suck their thumb.’

  He stared at me, his eyes defiant, tears still wet on his eyelashes.

  ‘OK,’ I said, and took him back into my embrace and stroked his hair. ‘OK.’

  Two hours later and my mother had arrived. I’d put a bed sheet over the car to hide the spray paint and Sam was playing on his Xbox and eating a family pack of crisps. He was still intermittently sucking his thumb, but I decided to let it go. He would stop, he just needed the comfort now and I couldn’t blame him.

  We were in the kitchen, my mother making tea and me pacing. I couldn’t settle, couldn’t stop my heart from hammering. I’d told John that Sam had the beginnings of a stomach bug, and as it had come on rapidly I’d no time to organise child care. He was sympathetic, but I got the clear undertone that I had twenty-four hours. I needed to be back in work the next day.

  ‘You should be calling the police,’ my mother said, ‘not the garage. Have they got the wrong person?’ She put the cups down on the table. ‘What does it mean, “worth it”? Was what worth it? What’ve you been doing?’

  I shook my head, and then, after a moment, passed the letter to her from Ashley Simmons. I watched her face blanch as she read it.

  My mother looked at me. She put the letter down and took off her glasses, an appalled look on her face.

  ‘I know who it is,’ I told her, ‘it’s one of the mothers from school. She thinks I’m having an affair with her husband.’

  She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I’m not!’ I told her. ‘Of course I’m not. It’s all a misunderstanding that’s got out of hand.’

  She pulled out a chair, sitting heavily, shaking her head, rubbing her hand over her mouth as she had done when my father first got ill.

  ‘Stop it!’ I hissed. ‘I’m not having an affair. This woman’s just trying to prove something. She’s a daft cow who thinks she can do anything, but I’ll call the police. This is criminal damage. I can press charges.’

  ‘An affair? Who with?’

  ‘There is no affair!’ I took a deep breath. ‘It’s all nonsense. I said something and she got the wrong idea and it’s her friend who’s sent that letter. She’s working for Will and it’s all just … ’

  ‘So you think it’s a woman,’ my mother began, ‘some woman from school who you think did that to your car and she’s friends with –’ she looked at the letter ‘– Ashley Simmons, who is now Will’s solicitor?’

  I nodded, and my mother put her hand over her mouth again, rubbing it back and forth. ‘Oh Ruth.’

  ‘It’s a misunderstanding,’ I said. ‘It’s all a misunderstanding.’

  ‘Oh Ruth,’ my mother said, ‘what are you—’

  ‘I’m putting a stop to it,’ I interrupted her, and picked up the solicitor’s letter. ‘You don’t need to worry. I’m putting a stop to all of it. It ends today.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Later that morning, I was feeling faint. I spent an age firstly explaining it all to my mother, and then on the phone with the police, again, filing an incident report. I told them everything, accused Janine, and they asked for witnesses. Evidence. When I said I had none and answered that I wasn’t in any immediate danger, they advised it would be investigate
d. I was told to wait, given the number of Victim Support and was told to speak to the officers when they came to the house to view the damage, but it wasn’t good enough. I was furious and couldn’t sit still. Which led me to be somewhere I hadn’t been in years: Carlisle city centre on a weekday.

  People surrounded me, pushing past, arms filled with carrier bags. Mothers with prams, groups of students boisterously laughing and shouting, huge rucksacks on their backs, swallowing up space as they came towards me. Swarms of people moved in every direction. Too close and too loud. The sky was wide open, a flat expanse above me, and as I squirmed through the packed city below its vastness reminded me why the centre was horrendous.

  The invasion of space was why I never ventured in – the sensory overload, the sheer volume of people. This was why I avoided crowded areas, and all the while, at the back of my mind, was a voice whispering about the very real fear of terrorist attacks. Replaying images of vans being driven through crowds just like this, of bombs hidden in the bins of pedestrian zones, of men with guns rapidly firing through the throng. I walked and checked my exits, my route to safety should I need it.

  There was a strong smell of coffee and a biting wind that seemed to cut right though the pedestrian zone as if it were in a wind tunnel. Hallege Solicitors & Co. was just out of the centre, on a street alongside dentists and a vet. I’d had to catch a bus into the city, and as I walked from the bus station to her office I mentally prepared my speech. My palms sweated and I tried to keep calm.

  I had a plan and it involved appealing to Ashley.

  Will had said that she was convinced of my inability to look after my son. He said she thought the same as him, virtually working for free because of her beliefs, and I planned to prove her wrong.

  I’d show her what Janine had done to my car. I’d a picture of it on my phone and was banking on the fact that she didn’t know it had been done. Then I planned to tell her how Sam had found my car first, I’d tell her of his distress and, as one mother to another, hope that she would sympathise.

  And then I’d tell her about Will, about what he was really like. His affair, the way he abandoned us, the way he forced Sam onto the rugby pitch at the weekend resulting in a panic attack at A & E. And finally, I’d explain what really happened with Rob. How he’d lied to me, got me drunk and initiated the whole thing. As Janine’s friend, she must know what he was like. That he was sending Janine insane, making her do irrational and mad things. Sending me cupcakes and threatening letters. They weren’t the actions of someone of sound mind.

  As I made my way through the city streets, staring down at my feet on the cobblestones so I wouldn’t have to acknowledge where I was, I almost convinced myself that she might actually want to represent me after we’d talked. She’d see I was a reasonable person, she’d see that Janine was deranged and she’d understand exactly what type of father Will was. But when I eventually got to her office, sweating and slightly panicked, I was told that Ashley wasn’t in. She only worked three days a week, and Thursday wasn’t one of them.

  ‘But she sent me this letter,’ I said, and held up the envelope for the receptionist to see, ‘she sent me this very personal, very distressing letter. It’s postmarked yesterday, so she knew I’d be receiving it today. And she advised my ex-husband of what to do today, when I called him, so she was pretty confident that I’d react to this letter.’

  The receptionist smiled, gave a sympathetic shrug. ‘Shall I see if anyone else can help? Although if it is one of Mrs Simmons’ cases, you would have to speak with her, but let me just see if anyone is aware of it, Mrs … ?’

  ‘Clarkson,’ I said, ‘Ruth Clarkson. It’s about the custody of my son.’

  She nodded and pointed to the row of chairs in front of her desk, a small waiting area, not dissimilar to a dentists.

  A water cooler by the side of a small coffee table, certificates and posters decorating the wall. Leaflets advertising the services they offered. I felt tears prick my eyes. I walked over to the far wall, pretending to look at the framed photographs as I waited.

  She wasn’t in.

  She’d arranged for me to receive that letter on a day when she knew she wouldn’t be in the office. When she knew I wouldn’t be able to contact her. I wiped my eyes. I wasn’t sure if the tears were due to the anxiety I’d had to endure on my journey here, what felt like such a personal attack from Ashley – she must have guided Will on what to say and do – or the sheer rage I felt.

  I stared blindly at the photographs of the staff. She looked to be a senior member, why would she be taking on such a case? Why help Will? What did it have to do with her? Why would she get so involved?

  Below was a group of photographs of a fundraising event. ‘Over five hundred raised!’ The staff were in fancy dress, at some kind of day out. I stared at their faces, smiles and expressions of delight as they did what looked like an old-fashioned sports day. A sack race, running with eggs and spoons, tied together in a three-legged race, and wondered how people had fun like this. How such wild abandonment could be an undertaking in anyone’s life when mine was filled with the complete opposite, and there she was. One of three people dressed up in hunting regalia. The old-fashioned type, bright red jackets, white breeches and what looked like a pantomime horse of sorts on the bottom half of the costume to make them appear as if they were riding. Other members of the team were cheering at the side of her; perhaps they were meant to be jockeys and not huntsmen? Perhaps this was the final race of the staff sports day?

  Her face was pure delight under her helmet, a broad smile as she undertook whatever ridiculous task was being performed. I reached for my phone.

  I managed to take six pictures before the receptionist came back.

  ‘No, afraid no one can help with this one,’ she said as she came back in. ‘It’s a particular case of Mrs Simmons. Shall I tell her you called in? Do you want to make an appointment for next week?’

  I turned back to her. ‘That fundraising event?’ I asked. ‘Looks like fun.’

  Her face broke into a wide smile. ‘Oh, we do it every year. It’s amazing, the company donates the money and we get to run about like loons! It’s great fun, great team building.’

  I nodded. Great team building. Ashley was part of a team, a professional team. A team that victimised single mothers and took their sons from them. Did the rest of the company know what she was doing?

  ‘Next Wednesday any good?’ the receptionist was clicking at something on a computer screen. ‘She’s got a free slot in the afternoon.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘No.’ I went to the door. ‘I’ve realised it was a mistake. Mrs Simmons can’t help me, she’s acting on behalf of my husband. For free I think. Maybe you should tell the rest of your “team”. Tell them that Mrs Simmons would rather work for free, for a complete wanker, than hear about the truth.’ The receptionist turned quickly as I said that word. She shouted a name. ‘She’s victimising me,’ I went on, ‘discriminating against me.’ I opened the door before whoever she’d called came over. ‘Tell that to your team, that you’re all working with a bigot.’

  I went out into the street, the wind cold against my face. My tears had left my cheeks damp and the icy air bit into them. Walking towards the bus station I checked the pictures I’d taken. Two were useless but the other four were good. I found the clearest one and cropped it. Took out the pantomime horse, the cheering crowd to the side of her, so that all that was visible was Ashley’s face underneath the riding cap and the red lapels of her riding jacket.

  ‘Hello.’ John was surprised to see me. ‘Did you manage to get someone?’

  I nodded. ‘Only for this morning though I’m afraid,’ I told him. ‘I just came in to check emails, get a few notes on the residential, see what I can sort from home.’

  He nodded. Working from home as a school secretary was laughable, but John bought it. Proved how little he knew about what I actually did, and how much I did. No one really knew the extent of m
y job, and as I waited for the computer to boot up, it hit home.

  The registers had been left, piles of letters, notes and envelopes from the parents were stacked on my desk. Post-it Notes with tasks by other members of staff had been pinned to my computer, pinned to the telephone. As if I were personal secretary to each and every one of them. They had no idea just how much I did, how much they all depended on me. Normally I would’ve undertaken those jobs without thinking, but now I noticed there was no ‘please’ on any of them, no ‘thank you’. I peeled one off that had been stuck to my computer screen.

  Twenty copies of student packing list letter.

  It was from Julie, the teaching assistant. I only knew because I recognised her handwriting. They didn’t even bother to sign their name. I screwed it up into a tight little ball and threw it into the bin.

  My office was quiet; it was late morning. I had half an hour before the lunch bell. Half an hour and I had to be out of there.

  I wondered if I was really going to do it.

  The idea came to me when I was waiting in her office. I suddenly realised that if Ashley was helping Will, someone she didn’t know, in order to hurt me, then of course she’d be the kind of woman that would think it was acceptable to do that to my car. She would know all about Janine, what she did to Eve, what Janine’s daughter had done to Zara, Eve’s daughter.

  Ashley would know all about Rob – she must – and despite knowing all of that, she wouldn’t talk to me. She’d purposely chosen for me to get that letter on a day that she’d be out of her office. She knew exactly what she was doing. This persecution was no accident.

  I brought up the files and went into the database. Ashley had a boy at the school, Max, and with very little effort I brought up everything I needed. The rest of it was easier than I thought. I had no idea it was so simple, but a quick search told me it was effortless to hide what computer you were on, you just needed to hide something called an IP address and within thirty seconds I was downloading the software needed. Another quick search and I had a whole list of animal activist groups. It took me a while to find the aggressive type of group I was looking for, one that wasn’t too organised, that was more for thugs than anything else, but after a while I found one. Lots of rants, lots of aggression. Perfect. A very vocal and proactive forum. I created a new Gmail account and signed up within a matter of minutes. I was now anonymous and untraceable.