by Karen Perry
‘You began an affair,’ he finishes the sentence for me.
‘Yes.’
I explain how when I ended it, Finn took it badly.
‘I take it he’s the one behind your photo shoot?’ Vic enquires, and when I nod my head, he murmurs, ‘Little prick,’ and there’s real feeling in his tone.
‘What I can’t figure out,’ I tell him, ‘is why he has become suspicious about Mabel.’
‘He’s only doing the maths now?’
‘Mabel was born two months prematurely. Finn doesn’t know that. To him, the calculations would add up differently.’
‘He must have found out –’
‘Yes, but how? No one else knows besides you and one other person. And she’s never even met Finn.’
I drop my head in my hands. I feel suddenly tired. Exhausted. The thought of getting up and walking back to the office feels like a Herculean feat. Talking to Vic has, on the one hand, served to calm me, but on the other hand, it’s made me feel even more isolated. This is my problem, and no one can help me with it.
‘What am I going to do?’ I ask him, staring at the swirling pattern of the carpet.
I feel his hand reach out and land on my knee.
‘From where I’m sitting, you can play it one of two ways. You can lawyer up and fight back, inform the police about that little stunt he played on you last week, take your chances in court. But there are real risks involved there. It might further inflame his anger and malice. This could, after all, be an act of desperation on his part – just a way of getting your attention. So, instead, you could try reaching out to him on a personal level. Leave the lawyers out of it. Talk to him – reason with him. Save yourself the legal fees.’
I remember the scene on the street – the way he stood there jabbing his finger in the air near my face. ‘You lied to me,’ he hissed. ‘All these years, you’ve been deceiving me. Depriving me of my own child.’
No matter how much I denied it, feigning indignation and astonishment, still he kept coming at me with an insistence that intimidated.
‘I’m frightened,’ I tell Vic, and somehow admitting it out loud seems to reinforce my fear, make it real and large. ‘I don’t want to lose my family.’
‘You won’t,’ he assures me.
But deep down I know that they’re just words – empty and hollow. With a growing sense of anger and helplessness, I realize that this is out of my control. I’m at Finn’s mercy.
Back in the office, Katie meets us as we go through the swing doors.
‘Cara, you’re needed upstairs. Heather wants a word.’
I look at Vic.
‘Maybe she’s promoting you,’ he suggests, then slaps me enthusiastically on the back. ‘Glass half-full, eh?’
Heather is the head of the radio station, and my boss. Her involvement in the show is distant and occasional, the way I like it. She is a cool, level-headed woman, a little frosty and severe. Rarely does she seek a meeting, and never at such short notice.
I have to wait outside her office for what seems an age until she is finished on a call, and during that interval I press my thumbnail to my teeth, a nervous habit, pondering my conversation with Vic and whether I ought to brief a solicitor, how on earth I am going to break the news to Jeff.
The door opens and Heather is standing there, an expectant look on her face.
‘Cara. Sorry for keeping you waiting, do come in. This won’t take long,’ she tells me, sitting in an armchair at a glass coffee table where a laptop lies open, and indicating to me to take a seat on the couch alongside.
Heather is a tall, slightly gangly person, made even taller by the two-inch heels she wears, the smart tailored suit.
‘How are you getting on?’ she asks, fixing me with her unsettling gaze.
Her face has an avian quality to it, and in the black-and-white suit she’s wearing today, she looks like a magpie. For a moment, I babble on about today’s show, as well as making some positive noises about what we have lined up for the week ahead. I’m conscious that I’m doing a sales pitch here, but I’m also thinking about the latest quarterly ratings figures from RAJAR, wondering if she’s going to bring it up. We’ve suffered a slight dip, but hardly enough for my head to roll, surely? Unless there’s some sort of reshuffle planned, I can’t tell what this could be about.
She smiles and nods in a swift, slightly dismissive way that makes me sense she’s impatient for me to finish.
And then she says, ‘How have you been, yourself, Cara?’
And that’s when I know this has nothing to do with the ratings or the show. This is entirely about me.
‘I’m fine. Why?’
‘I heard about what happened last week.’
‘Oh God,’ I murmur, dipping my head, before mustering my courage and looking her in the eye. ‘Look, I’m sorry about that. Obviously, I’m very embarrassed that it happened, but you must understand that I had no hand in it. Someone I used to have a relationship with is lashing out at me, and has chosen public humiliation as his way of doing it.’
‘I understand,’ she says reasonably, but I can tell she’s not finished with the subject. ‘Revenge porn is happening more and more these days, unfortunately.’
The word clings to the air between us, pulsing with disapproval.
‘So long as this person – your ex – doesn’t make a habit of it.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I say coolly. ‘I’ve taken steps to address the matter. It won’t happen again.’
But even as I say the words, I feel disingenuous. What steps have I really taken, beyond confronting Finn in the street? The only thing that achieved was a legal threat in the post. And how do I know he won’t pull another similar stunt? Unpredictable at the best of times, there’s a dangerous edge to him when he’s angry, like a cornered rat ready to spring.
Heather is giving me a look that suggests she can read my doubts. ‘Are you sure about that?’ she asks softly.
She rubs her palms slowly against each other, then touches the mousepad with a manicured finger and brings the laptop to life. ‘I received this.’
She presses a key, and turns the screen towards me, fiddling with the volume so I can clearly hear the audio-clip. A crackling silence, and then I hear Finn’s voice, saying:
What are you thinking about?
His voice sounds distant, slightly muffled, as if heard from behind a door. And then I hear my own voice, saying:
I’m thinking of a party we went to once.
‘What is this?’ I ask Heather.
But she is staring at the screen, concentrating.
It was in Canary Wharf, I think. A media party of some sort – I don’t remember. Everyone was wasted. You especially.
I remember this conversation. In his bedroom. Even though the recording is muffled and indistinct, there is the occasional creak of the bed, the rustle of sheets.
Some of us went up to the top floor of the building and out on to the roof. It had a sort of terrace, surrounded by railings, but you weren’t really supposed to go out there. One of the guys who worked in the building took us up to show us the view. Do you remember?
My brain is struggling to catch up. I’m so shocked by the knowledge that he recorded this – a private, intimate conversation between us. And if he recorded that, then he must also have recorded our lovemaking. Dear God, has Heather heard that too? Is she playing me the full clip or just an edited version to spare my blushes?
‘Please,’ I say to Heather now. ‘Don’t play any more.’
But she doesn’t turn it off. She’s looking at me carefully, watching for signs on my face – of what, exactly? Recognition? Shock? Humiliation?
I know where this is going. And it’s building inside me now, a sense of growing horror at what has happened, at what he’s done. Still I have to sit and listen to it play, a fury ramping up inside me. I hear the tone of Finn’s voice, remember the lingering desire between us as he watched me dressing, his body still sprawled naked across the sheets – a
nd it all seems utterly foreign.
‘I can’t listen to any more of this,’ I tell Heather, my voice harsh and clipped with emotion.
She frowns but leans forward and stops it.
‘Where did you get this?’ I ask. My fists are so tightly clenched in my lap that I can feel my fingernails cutting into the flesh of my palms.
‘It was on a USB stick that was posted to me.’
‘I don’t know why he would do this,’ I say, trying to sound calm. ‘I don’t know why he would hurt me like this.’
‘Don’t you?’
Anger surges upwards in my throat.
‘To be quite frank, Heather, I think it’s inappropriate that you’re even confronting me about what was a private conversation that has nothing to do with –’
‘You work here, Cara. I’m your employer. This was sent to me, surely you don’t expect me to ignore it?’ Her voice has hardened, sharpness entering her tone.
‘No, but –’
‘Listen to me now. I know you well enough, and I know that you’re a capable woman who likes to remain in control. But sometimes situations can get on top of us.’ She takes a breath, considers her next statement, then says, ‘There has been some talk about your behaviour recently.’
‘What talk?’ I demand, and I can feel my face flushing. My mind jumps instantly to Derek, that snake in the grass.
‘It seems you’ve been behaving erratically. That you’ve been late for work, that you’ve turned up smelling of booze –’
‘Oh, come on! Seriously? That only happened once.’
‘Are you sure about that? Your work hours are your own affair, Cara – no one has to clock in and clock out. But you’ve been absent from the office a lot, lately. And yes, I know a lot of your meetings take place off-site, but still. There is a general sense that your mind has not been on the job.’
I am staring at her fiercely but I don’t open my mouth. Anything I say in my defence will sound weak and pleading and false. We both know there’s some truth in what she’s saying.
‘I heard what happened to you in August. I heard how you got caught up in that awful attack,’ she says.
‘I don’t see how that’s relevant.’
‘You’ve been through a traumatic event. Perhaps you need to stop and take some time to consider that.’
I frown in disbelief.
‘Are you suspending me?’
‘I’m suggesting that you take some time off. A couple of weeks, perhaps. Rest, get your head together. Talk to a professional.’
She’s winding up the conversation, and I’m helpless to change things.
‘What about the show?’ I ask, a last feeble attempt to stave off this unwanted hiatus.
‘Let Derek manage it. He’s hungry and arrogant. And he’s been snapping at your heels for long enough. Let him have a go – see what kind of job he makes of it. My guess is he’ll have a greater sense of respect for you after he’s had to carry the can on his own for a while.’
Her response is sympathetic but firm, and she gets to her feet, signalling the meeting is over.
Before I leave, I ask if I can have the USB stick. I don’t like the thought of it staying here, my words being replayed for whoever she might deem fit to listen. Even though she’s probably made a copy already.
‘No, I’m going to hang on to it, Cara,’ she says crisply. Raising a hand to ward off my objection, she continues, ‘It was sent to me, after all.’
‘And there was really nothing with it? No note?’
She frowns and returns to her desk, picks up a small brown padded envelope, peers at it.
‘Just these letters written on the flap,’ she tells me. ‘YCF.’
It comes over me like a second skin tightening around my own. Cold rage.
Your Closest Friend.
The words dart around my brain, lacerating every corner, propelling me out the door. I barely hear Katie’s voice calling after me as I grab my coat and bag and flee the office. I’m so caught up in this shaking fury that the next thing I remember, I’m on the Tube, holding on to the pole, resting my forehead against it, inhaling the metallic smell of it, the vibrations from the tracks travelling up into my skull.
I must have got off at Victoria and changed to the District Line, but I have no recollection of it. Later I will be shown CCTV footage of myself walking along the tiled passageway of that station – footage taken at different angles from security cameras perched high up on the walls. It is so strange, looking at that woman, her bag slung over one shoulder, walking not too slowly, not too fast, her eyes set on somewhere in the distance. From the set of her features, there’s no telling what she’s thinking about: what to have for dinner that night, whether to book those theatre tickets, how to handle that problem in work. I certainly don’t look like I’m being propelled by rage. I don’t look driven by any kind of emotion.
Records show that I tapped out my Oyster card in Parsons Green station at 16.43. Daylight would have been fading then – it was mid-November, sunset taking place shortly after four. Then I walked through the underpass and crossed the road. I remember this bit.
I am stepping out without looking both ways, and a cyclist whizzes past me in a blur of bright orange, shouting at me, ‘Watch where you’re going, bitch!’ He is wearing sporty sunglasses that give the impression of an angry wasp glaring back at me. My heart is thumping, and it almost rouses me from my sense of purpose, shakes me awake. But instead, fatefully, I plough on.
I go past the coffee shop and the estate agents, and round the corner on to Ackmar Road. My phone starts ringing, but I don’t answer it, don’t even look to see who is calling. Everything is impacting on me – the hurts of the day and the weeks that have gone before this – all of it building inside me. I think of Finn and how I had loved him, and how it had all come to nothing. But then I have loved before and felt the pointlessness of it – right back to my own mother. Perhaps all love is a waste of time and energy and feelings. It feels like all my life I have loved where I shouldn’t. Like I am finally beginning to see how misplaced my affections have been over the years, putting my faith in the wrong people, acting on false impulses. Perhaps the only real pure love I have is with Mabel. I cannot allow it to be threatened – I will do anything to protect it, regardless of my own personal cost.
I stand under the high arch of the portico and ring the doorbell. There’s a brass knocker in the shape of a fox, and when he doesn’t answer I hammer with that, so hard the door rattles in the frame. I know he’s in there. I can sense it. The anger inside me is nearing a crescendo, and when he fails to answer, I find the key where I know it’s hidden, and let myself in.
There’s a radio playing in the kitchen. Apart from that, there are no sounds. I walk through the hallway purposefully. I don’t even call out his name. Later, I will wonder why I was so silent. It’s almost as if I knew what was coming.
The living room is empty, as is the kitchen, two empty mugs on the counter, coffee rings staining the marble surface, an empty bottle of whiskey. The rooms at the back of the house are dimly lit, but the front of the house is already darkened.
I don’t feel afraid. I’m too full of rage to allow any other emotions in. The stairs creak underfoot, and I have a moment of unexpected calm, the sudden feeling that I can still get a handle on things. This crisis can be resolved. It won’t be easy, but it will still be possible. This strange pragmatism comes to me, even as I push open the bedroom door and see him there, the metallic odour of blood rushing at me.
A small cry comes from my throat. It echoes in this empty, cavernous space.
And it is empty. For even though he’s lying there in the bed in front of me, I know that he isn’t really there at all. Not any more.
His body lies on the bed, naked, one leg slung over the side, his head disappearing under the pillows. Some trick of the mind makes me think I can see the rise and fall of his breathing, like he’s just asleep.
I know he is not sleeping. The l
ivid wounds across his ankles, his wrists, testify to that, the veins emptied into the mattress.
Gingerly, I remove the pillow from his head, and see his face, his eyes closed fast, a grey cast to his skin. Nausea surges, as if all my internal organs have suddenly come alive and are rushing up towards my mouth. The pillow falls to the floor. And then I do what I can’t possibly explain. I turn from him, flee the room, my footfall thumping down the stairs. And then I’m outside the house, gulping in great lungfuls of air, clutching my bag to my side as I run down the little path to the street, the gate clanging behind me, and I don’t stop running until I’m back on the platform, my heart hammering away in my chest, watching the oncoming train with widened eyes, as if staring into those rushing headlights will erase what I have seen.
20.
Amy
‘What are you doing here?’
There is frost in the night air, and the grunt and chortle of a DHL van shifting gears and turning the corner of the street.
‘I needed someone to talk to,’ I begin, and watch the confusion gathering in his face. ‘About Cara.’
He lets go of the door only to shove his hands into his pockets, not to let me in. Suspicion is etched into his features, emanating from the stiff pose, drawing him up to his full height, which is a good deal taller than me, seeing as how he’s standing on the step. From the way he’s looking at me, I can tell how dishevelled I must appear. For the past two nights, I’ve been sleeping on a park bench in Lavender Gardens, waking every hour or so to wander down the road and stare up at her building, hopeful of a sign.
Behind him, from somewhere in the recesses of the house, music plays – some syncopated jazz, the blare and wheedle of a trumpet.
‘What about her?’ he asks.
‘We had a fight.’
I keep my voice flat, raise a hand to my face so he can see me wipe away the tear.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he replies, his hands jiggling in his pockets with impatience or irritation.
‘It was about you.’
‘Me?’ The word snaps out into the darkness. I see his breath misting on the cold air, then swiftly disappearing.