‘I really enjoyed your little get-together, thanks for inviting me over.’
‘It was a pleasure to have you. Both Sam and I are very excited to have a new friend in the village.’
Somehow I can’t imagine Samantha being excited about having me in close proximity to her house and husband, but I let it pass.
We enter the Heath and it’s clear Tom is planning to follow me along the whole route. I find myself annoyed by it. As nice as he is, I somehow don’t fancy his company. I feel quite possessive about my loop, as if he’s encroaching on my own, private territory. When we get to the top of the hill I turn left instead of the usual right and trot towards Parliament Hill instead of Kenwood. I feel his presence somehow would ruin the intimacy of my usual route. I want it all to myself and I don’t want him there. Just in case I bumped into the Dior Man? I question my motives, but whatever they are I feel irritated by him. He doggedly follows me, seemingly oblivious to my change of mood. Even worse, he catches up with me and wants to chat.
‘Have you heard about the poor girl who got attacked? It must have been somewhere here.’ He waves in the direction of Parliament Hill.
‘Yes, I heard, how awful.’ I pretend I’m out of breath to cut the conversation short. But he continues.
‘And it happened in the morning, when there were plenty of people around, joggers like you and me . . .’
He’s not going to get another word out of me. He waits for me to respond then adds, ‘Terrible. They should have more wardens patrolling the area.’
I nod in agreement and huff and puff theatrically to get him to shut up. But he doesn’t.
‘If you ever need a running mate, just to feel safer, do give me a shout. Sam doesn’t really jog, she’s more of a gym girl. I’d be happy to be your jogging escort . . .’ He laughs and I grunt noncommittally.
He gets the message and we jog back in silence. When we say goodbye at the top of Fitzroy Park a thought occurs to me: is he the sender of the mystery roses? Nah, I reject the idea, he would’ve mentioned it by now. The guy is a talker, he wouldn’t be able to keep schtum about it for so long.
I realize I’m really pissed off with him. I feel as if he’s intruded into my private sanctuary. At the same time I know it’s completely unreasonable to feel this way, it was just the natural gesture of a friendly neighbour. He’s a nice man, I tell myself, don’t behave as if he’s taken your favourite toy. I try to reason with myself, but I feel my bad mood has settled in for the day. Even the sight of the beautiful flowers on my kitchen table doesn’t manage to lift my mood.
But as I drive to work my thoughts go back to the anonymous gift. Were they meant for me? Most likely, as I found them on my doorstep. It couldn’t have been a wrong address blooper by Interflora because clearly they had been delivered by hand by an individual person. That leaves two questions: who are they from and what do they mean? A quick check on my iPad while I’m stuck in traffic: fifteen roses apparently mean ‘I’m sorry’. Who is sorry and what for?
The roses are forgotten as soon as I get to work. Some arsehole has parked his banger in my parking space and the security guys take ages to sort out an alternative place for my car. As soon as I settle in my office, Karen sticks her head round the door.
‘Can I have a quick word?’
‘Sure.’ I need this like a broken heel on my stiletto. ‘Come on in.’
She carefully closes the door and settles in one of the chairs on the opposite side of my desk.
‘How can I help you, Karen?’
‘It’s about JJ.’ She’s on the verge of tears. ‘He stalks me.’
I look at her in disbelief. JJ? The guy who is so stoned most of the time he doesn’t know a trailer from a camper van?
‘He stalks you. How?’
‘He keeps calling me all the time on my mobile.’
‘What does he say?’
‘Nothing. It’s just these terrifying silent calls, from a withheld number.’
‘How do you know it’s him?’
‘Oh, I know . . .’ She wipes a tear away. ‘It’s the way he stares at me all the time in the office.’
As far as I know, JJ stares mostly into space. Perhaps Karen gets into his line of vision accidentally.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I am.’ She lets out a sob. That’s all I need now.
‘What would you like me to do?’
‘I don’t know,’ she wails back.
‘OK, Karen, let me tell you what we’ll do.’ I speak softly, as if to a small child. ‘First of all, you block all withheld number calls to your number. I’m sure your mobile provider offers the service and it’s instantaneous and quite cheap. If this doesn’t help, I’ll get HR to talk to you and offer some advice. Does that sound OK to you?’
‘Yes,’ she says, dabbing her eyes with a crumpled tissue. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’ I smile warmly and check the time on my iPhone. She gets the message, lifts her large frame off the chair and backs towards the door. When she’s out of the room I let out an exasperated sigh. All I need in the middle of this mess is a bunch of bickering kids.
I get home late, open a bottle of Argentinian Malbec and heat up an M&S ready meal. As I wait for the microwave to ping I look at the roses sitting in the vase on the kitchen table. I’d love to know who they are from, but I have other things to think about now. In between today’s meetings and emails at work I realized I’ve developed an addiction to my Heath experiences. My reaction to Tom’s friendly imposition this morning has convinced me there is a problem that I need to address. The truth is, I can’t stop thinking about the Dior Man. I’m quite positive he has nothing to do with the rape on the Heath. I refuse to add the assault to the equation. There are enough conflicting elements in it already, without complicating it any further. The facts, as I see them, are 1) I love running on the Heath, it’s a place that restores my mind and soul, and I will not give it up; 2) I’m addicted to the Dior Man and he is connected to the Heath; 3) The scenario I myself have created can’t go on in its present form.
Halfway through the bottle of Malbec I have a solution. I need to de-cloak the Dior Man, demystify the situation, break the obsession created by the fact I don’t know who he is. I need to speak to him, get to know him. Once he stops being a stranger, the sexual frisson will dissipate and the whole thing will fizzle out, sink into oblivion. I go to bed with a clear plan.
Eleven Days Earlier
I’m awake at the crack of dawn, throw my running clothes on and am out of the house by 7 a.m. I quietly negotiate with Wispa, begging her not to bark, and pray I don’t bump into Tom this morning. That would ruin everything. We run down Fitzroy Park, exhilarated by the clarity of the day. The air is fresh, the birds are chirping and trilling, their different songs complementing each other in the trees. I reach the Heath without even breaking sweat. And off we go up the hill, then right, following my usual route. I don’t even know if I’ll see the Dior Man this morning, but I have the whole speech ready in my mind.
We run noiselessly through the dark woods and suddenly there he is, right in front of me, running from the opposite direction. I stop and he slows down. Wispa barks sharply and I say it’s OK and tell her to wait. It’s strange to hear my voice. He’s stopped and is looking at me, a question and a challenge in his eyes. I feel my speech evaporating as I look at him. I desperately try to recall the words, but they are all gone. There are no words left in my mind, no thoughts, just a primal instinct that drives me forward as I approach him, brush against his arm as I go past him and get off the path, into a dense thicket that opens up into a tiny clearing, a small patch of grass and moss, where bluebells probably grow in the spring. I pause for a second and then I hear him following me. I go deeper into the clearing, then stop and turn. He’s right behind me, watching me, motionless. He’s so close I can see the droplets of sweat on his forehead. I reach out and touch his chest, feeling his heartbeat under my hand. I slowly slide his T-shirt
up, over his arms and head, and he doesn’t protest. His chest, almost hairless, shines with sweat. With my hand I follow the delicate line of soft golden hair down from his belly button to the top of his running shorts, grotesquely stretched by his erection, then grab the waistband elastic and pull them down. He stands in front of me, naked but for his running shoes, beautiful and motionless like a Greek statue. I drop to my knees and take his cock in my mouth, my hands on his small, muscular buttocks. His masculine smell hits me as I savour its texture, hard and smooth, feeling the saltiness of sweat on my tongue. I pick up my pace and dig my fingernails into the skin of his buttocks. He lets out a loud moan and pushes me off him. I fall on my back and he’s right on top of me, tearing off my T-shirt, pulling my pants down. He enters me roughly and I’m ready for him, pulling him in, ploughing the skin on his back with my fingernails. His face hovers above mine, his pupils dilated, his mouth wet, but our lips don’t touch, there’s no space for the softness of a kiss in our embrace. We fuck greedily and hard, and I can feel my mouth going numb and cold, the rest of my body on fire. I come first with a cry I try to stifle but can’t; he’s a few seconds behind. He rolls off me and we both lie on the cool, damp moss, panting, unable to move. Then he slowly gets up and gathers his clothes and I keep my eyes shut, silently praying, please don’t speak, don’t say a word, don’t break the magic of the moment. When I open my eyes, he’s gone. I feel cold and there’s a sharp stick digging into my thigh. I stand up shakily and put my clothes on, run my fingers through my tangled hair, getting bits of moss out of them. I push my way through the bushes onto the path and see Wispa, lying in the middle of it, her hazel eyes following me attentively.
‘Good girl,’ I say to her, patting her head. ‘You’re such a good girl.’ I’m grateful to her that she hasn’t run away. I walk back home slowly with my dog by my heel, quiet and content, refusing to let the demons I’ve unleashed into my thoughts.
The work meeting in Soho drags itself on well into the lunch break and by the time I’m back in my car driving to the office it’s nearly 2 p.m. It’s been a busy morning and I haven’t had time to think about the Dior Man. Just as well. I need to consciously block the flashes of memory as I find them too distracting to go about work. As I enter the flow of Marylebone Road I turn on the air-con and the radio in the car. It picks up the pre-set for BBC London 94.5 and I listen to Robert Elms going on enthusiastically about some derelict building in East London. I like the man, not only because he dislikes the Beatles almost as much as I do. If I recall correctly he said they are ‘either childlike and simple or leaden and pompous’ and they shouldn’t be above criticism. I couldn’t agree more. Then the 2 p.m. news comes on and I nearly run into the car in front when I hear the first news item. There’s been another rape on the Heath. I turn up the volume and listen, frozen in disbelief. A woman has been assaulted and badly beaten sometime this morning. She’s in a critical condition in hospital. DCI Jones of Camden CID comes on.
‘At present we are not linking the two recent incidents on the Heath,’ she says, ‘but we are appealing to witnesses to come forward. Something which may seem unimportant on its own may be crucial to the investigation so please do come forward no matter how insignificant you think the information might be.’ She adds that the police presence in the area has been increased and anyone who sees anyone acting suspiciously should call the police on 999.
I tune out the rest of the news and try to think calmly about what I’ve just heard. There’s been another rape and there are no witnesses. The woman is in hospital, probably too traumatized to describe the attacker. And there are no suspects. Otherwise they would have given a description, some sort of indication who might have done it. DCI Jones said they are not linking the two incidents. Perhaps she doesn’t want to create panic with the notion of a serial rapist. But why should two different rapists be better than a serial one? Whatever she says, something tells me both rapes have been done by the same man. And he’s getting more violent.
I grab my phone and text Bell while I’m waiting at the traffic lights, looking out for cameras that might catch me breaking the law. I know she’ll be worried and I have to let her know I’m OK. She texts me back almost straight away, thanking me for checking in. Good old Bell. I get a warm feeling thinking that there is someone who cares whether I’m fine. I remember the moment, many years ago, when I realized that being single means there is no one who gives a damn whether you are OK or not. You might just as well drop dead and no one would notice. Friends tend to flock around you when you’re successful and happy, but when something goes wrong, forget it, you are on your own. I sometimes get annoyed with Bell for clucking about me like a mother hen, but I know she is the closest to a family I’ll ever get.
As I enter the flyover and gather speed, my thoughts go back to the Heath. I was there this morning, probably more or less at the same time another woman got badly hurt. I cast back in my memory to the hazy moments after my encounter with the Dior Man, but I’m pretty sure I haven’t seen or heard anything that may help the police. And I’m absolutely positive the Dior Man has nothing to do with the rape. In other words – I justify my own cowardice – there is no reason for me to contact the police. What would I say to them, anyway?
It’s been a long day at work and by the time I get home I’m exhausted. I’m just about to unlock my front door when my mobile rings. It’s Bell. I talk to her while saying hi to Wispa and putting my Sainsbury’s bag on the kitchen counter.
‘I’ve now booked my tickets to Vancouver to see Candice,’ says Bell.
‘Oh, great.’ I pour myself a glass of Malbec and go to lie down on the sitting-room sofa. ‘When?’
‘On Thursday.’
‘Wow, that’s soon.’
‘I know, but I found a really cheap last-minute flight with some charter company, and I thought, why not? Candice can take some time off, so we’ll have a long weekend together.’
‘Hope you’ll have a great time.’ It’s a long way to go for a weekend. I think back to a couple of disastrous trips to America Bell made to meet her Internet girlfriends.
‘I will. This time it’s for real, Anna.’
‘I hope so, babe, you really deserve it.’
‘I know, I’m so excited. And a bit scared.’
‘It will be fine,’ I reassure her, although I’m not entirely convinced Bell’s Internet quest for intercontinental love is the best way forward. But à chacun son goût, as the French say. Who am I to disagree?
Once I finish talking to her, I remain on the sofa thinking of my own tastes, and what Bell would have to say about them. I haven’t got the guts to tell her about the Dior Man, because I know she’d be horrified. Not because she’d find it shocking – she’s done plenty of shocking things herself – but because she’d think I’m putting myself in danger. I catch myself thinking about it in the present tense and it worries me a bit. Perhaps I should start going to counselling.
Wispa barks suddenly and I hear a man’s voice in my house. I jump up, grabbing my phone, ready to dial 999. Wispa’s bark changes its pitch and becomes friendlier. I venture out of the sitting room into the hallway. My front door is wide open and there’s a young man standing in the doorway, swaying slightly. It’s Alden.
‘Anna!’ He waves a bottle of Lidl’s-own Putinoff vodka at me. ‘Sorry to barge in like this . . .’ He slurs his words as he steps into my hallway.
‘How did you get in?’
‘How . . .’ he says, looking around as if he’s lost something. ‘I believe the door was open.’
Shit, I must’ve left it open, distracted by Bell’s phone call. I go past Alden to shut it. He reeks of booze.
‘Anna,’ he tries to catch my arm and kiss me, ‘Anna, Anna, Anna, lovely Anna.’
‘Alden, you’re pissed.’ I gently push him away.
‘I know.’ He sinks down to the floor and starts crying.
Great, that’s all I need, a drunk kid crying on my hallway floor.
&
nbsp; ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask him as I go to the kitchen, pour a glass of water from the tap and come back to the hallway.
‘Tina’s left me,’ he wails, a big snot hanging from his nose. I remember Tina is his girlfriend, the musician. ‘She’s fucking that wanker from the band.’
He takes a swig of vodka and when I offer him water he pushes my hand away clumsily. The glass slides out of my hand and shatters on the floor. There’s water everywhere, but Alden doesn’t even notice. He takes another swig, then closes his eyes. Two minutes later he’s snoring. And I think he may have pissed himself, although I’m hoping it’s just water. I collect the largest pieces of broken glass and go back to the kitchen.
I have to get rid of him. I have absolutely no intention of babysitting a drunken kid going through heartbreak. I pick up my mobile and dial Tom’s number. He answers immediately and I explain the situation. He says he’s on his way and there’s a knock on my door five minutes later.
‘Tom.’ I open the door for him. ‘Thank you so much for coming to the rescue. I really don’t know what to do with him.’
Tom smiles his perfect-teeth smile and instantly the situation seems to be under control. Maybe I do need a man in my life, after all. Should I call James, see how he’s doing? Nah . . .
‘Don’t worry, Anna, we’ll sort it in no time.’ Tom looks down at Alden, who’s curled up on my floor, sound asleep.
‘His girlfriend’s left him, apparently.’
‘Quite some time ago. He’s been deluding himself he can get her back. Poor kid.’
‘Oh, I thought she dumped him today.’
‘No, it’s been going on for a while.’ Tom looks at Alden, who is snoring peacefully. ‘He just needs to sleep it off. I’ve got keys to his flat – the kids go there to water his cat and feed his plants when he’s away on shoots.’ I laugh at his feeble joke because I’m grateful. He lifts Alden off the floor, holding him under his arms. Alden’s head lolls back, but then he opens his eyes and mumbles something.
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