One Click

by Andrea Mara

  A waitress rushes past, slowing down just long enough to deposit an espresso in front of Cleo.

  “So yeah, my mom and I are close, and she really misses me now I’m here, but it’s not forever – when I’m done travelling, I’ll be home.”

  She looks wistful for a moment, and I wonder if she’s as cool about everything as she seems.

  “You said you know who VIN is,” I say, feeling bad for changing the subject. “If it’s not Marcus, who is it?”

  “Right. Well, when I Skyped my mom last week, she told me that Shannon’s brother Chris had been out at her house. Like actually banging on the door, yelling, looking for me. She had no idea who he was at first, but eventually put the pieces together. He’d been drinking, she said, and it was hard to make sense of it, but basically he’s been looking for me for months because apparently he wants to confront me about Shannon’s death.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wait, because Marcus broke up with Shannon to be with you, it was your fault that she jumped?”

  “Yep. At first he blamed Marcus but then, awkwardly, Marcus went and got himself killed, so Chris needed a new enemy and I guess I was next in line.”

  The waitress comes over to clear my cup and asks if she can get me anything else. I order more coffee. This conversation isn’t going to end any time soon.

  “And how did that make you feel?” I find myself asking Cleo, slipping into therapist mode.

  “I guess I should feel bad. But, honestly, I don’t. Of course I feel sorry that she died, that she was depressed, that she had no help. But I can’t take responsibility for another person’s actions. I didn’t know her, I never met her.”

  I’m nodding, and inside I’m marvelling at what is either enormous strength of character or a huge lack of empathy. She’s right, of course – allowing herself to be eaten up with guilt for something over which she had no control would be pointless – but I don’t know many who wouldn’t be affected in some way. Perhaps she’s just very good at hiding it.

  “And how did it end – that night at your mother’s house?”

  “She called the cops and they took him away. They let him off with a caution but he’s not allowed to go anywhere near her. So, yeah, I wonder if he’s the one sending the messages?”

  “What did you say his name is?”

  “Chris.”

  “And his surname?”

  “O’Regan.”

  “O’Regan! I wonder if the ‘O R’ in @Vin_H_O_Rus is short for O’Regan? Can you think of any other link between Chris and the username @Vin_H_O_Rus?”

  She shakes her head. “No, but then I know very little about him.”

  “If it’s him, why would he be asking me your name? He already knows your name.”

  “Because he doesn’t know for sure it’s me in the photo – he’s only met me once. He’s trying to confirm it’s me.”

  Some of it fits, but I’m not convinced. The messages sound closer to home than some guy in New York.

  “But the messages don’t sound American,” I tell her.

  “Sure, but we all speak English, and it sounds pretty much the same when it’s written down. If the person is really looking for me and not you, it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  She has a point. I ask what the next steps are.

  “Could you send me some screenshots and the link to some of the tweets?” she says. “And maybe don’t bother blocking VIN any more – it’s pointless anyway, and it’ll be easier to trace him if we have all the tweets. I’ll forward everything to a detective back home – he was my contact after Marcus’s arrest and he also spoke to my mom a few days after Chris went out to her, so he’s a good starting point. I don’t know if they investigate stuff like this, but it’s worth trying.”

  “And did your mother tell Chris you’re here in Dublin?”

  “God, no. She stood on the doorstep, trying to calm him down, sympathising about his sister, and deflecting from me. But he kept roaring that he wanted to know where I was, insisting that she tell him. So she called the cops.”

  I have to concede it’s starting to make more sense now. And perhaps the only reason I didn’t hear anything American in VIN’s messages is because I wasn’t looking for it. I click into my phone to pull up some of my screenshots and send them on to Cleo.

  “I guess even if Chris did recognise you in the photo, he thinks you’re in Italy – there’s no reason for him to consider Dublin, is there?”

  “Exactly,” says Cleo, picking up her phone when my messages arrive. “And you’re the only link. Which unfortunately means he’s going to keep bugging you, I guess . . . sorry about that.”

  I hold up my hands. “No, please, as I’ve said many times this is entirely my fault. Jesus, even my kids warned me about putting up the photo. And I’m a bloody psychologist! I should have known better.”

  Cleo smiles then. “Don’t beat yourself up. I let a madman move into my apartment. I think I win the ‘who’s the biggest idiot’ competition.” She points to my hand. “I see you’re still wearing your ring. If I was a psychologist, I’d be thinking it means you’re not ready to move on.”

  I’m about to explain again, but I stop, and twist the ring off my finger.

  “You know what, you’re probably right,” I tell her, dropping it carefully into the zipped pocket in my handbag. My finger looks naked, and I can’t decide if what I’m feeling is unease or freedom – perhaps a bit of both.

  We chat about other things then – how Dublin compares to Brooklyn, how Irishmen differ from Americans, and the crap tips Cleo earns at work. And then I need to leave for Ava’s basketball match. She stays put when I get up to go and, as I head back out into city-centre bustle, I’m half hoping that it’s over, and I’ll never see Cleo again.

  Chapter 17

  Before I even reach my car, there’s a new VIN tweet, as though he senses we were talking about him.

  Ah. You still think ignoring me is going to work. It’s like watching a tiny bird ignoring a giant cat. Why are you holding out?

  Is “holding out” an Americanism? It’s hard to be objective now. I take a screenshot, and another tweet comes through.

  Maybe it’s because you’re so caught up in your own little life and your little blog? If your blog is a reflection of your life, I would suggest ending it right now. Your life I mean, not just the blog. Ha!

  Before I have time to screenshot, the next one arrives.

  Seriously though. Why do you think anyone wants to see your photos? I looked through last night. Photos mediocre at best. AT BEST. Some are very poor. Aren’t you embarrassed to share them?

  They keep coming.

  Take my advice and keep your overnight oats pics to yourself. The world is not interested in what you had for breakfast.

  Then a final one that makes me freeze as I slide into the driver seat of the car.

  And the posts about your scrawny, spotty daughters. WHO CARES?

  My face feels hot and my stomach lurches as I start the engine. It takes another minute to slow my breathing. The tweets mean nothing unless I give them power – I just need to keep ignoring.

  Gripping the steering wheel, I pull out into traffic.

  By the time the girls say goodnight and go to their rooms, I’m exhausted, and the book I was planning to read lies unopened on the couch beside me. The high ceilings and huge bay windows that were so appealing when we bought the house make the room feel cold now. I need company.

  I pour a glass of wine and click into Twitter – there’s a widespread conversation about a talk-show guest who was rude to his host and, although I didn’t see it, I join in and soon get a sense of what’s going on. Molly spots that I’m there and says hi – she’s just back from holidays so has been offline. Catherine joins in too, and AnnaRose says I seem off form and asks if I’m okay. And suddenly, although it’s a terrible idea, I can’t keep bottling it up any more, and I’m telling them about VIN.

>   At first, the consensus is to ignore. Then Molly searches for the VIN tweets, and I can almost hear the collective intake of breath when she tells the others to look too. The responses fly in, swift and sympathetic. Most people tell me it’s horrible, and to keep ignoring. Lill isn’t sure. She reckons there’s a lot to be said for standing up to trolls – why not share the tweets and show I don’t care? I’m not convinced but there is something in what she says – if only the lure of sympathy. The debate rolls back and forth; Molly says he doesn’t sound Irish, and Catherine wonders if it’s Leon from last year. I wonder if VIN is reading, and relishing the attention. Perhaps it’s time to change the subject – I tell them I’ll think about it and ask Molly about her holiday.

  Sure enough, a few minutes later, VIN tweets me again.

  I enjoyed that – listening to your pals get their knickers in a twist. The self-importance dripping from the screen.

  Then another:

  Share or don’t share, I’m not going away. And as you sit with your glass of wine, isn’t it nice to have me keeping a close eye on you?

  Icy pinpricks break out across my skin. My eyes go to the uncovered windows – long black slits to the outside world, like eyes, but for someone looking in. For a moment, I sit there, staring, willing myself to get up, but my legs don’t listen. The window frame creaks, making me jump. It’s the wind. It’s just the wind. It’s enough to pull me out of my paralysis – I get up and cross the room. My hand is shaking as I reach out to pull one curtain across, then the other.

  Walking back to the couch, I realise I’ve been holding my breath. The room feels instantly warmer and safer and I’m wondering what I was thinking, sitting here with the curtains wide open. And then I start to feel silly. Of course there’s nobody out there. VIN doesn’t know where I live. VIN is more than likely Chris who is behind a screen in his New York apartment, not looking through my South Dublin windows.

  I tap into the tweets I sent earlier. I had mentioned having switched on the TV too late to catch the chat show, and I’d posted a photo of my half-full glass. So obviously I’m sitting on my couch drinking wine. I’m an idiot. And I’m glad Dave doesn’t know what happened – it proves every point he’s ever made about social media. I need to be more careful.

  Chapter 18

  A black cloud hovers over me on the drive to work, dense and unclear. Rebecca was in a horrible mood leaving for school this morning, but Mondays aren’t her strong point – especially September Mondays. It was frustrating, not worrying – not the stuff that makes up black clouds. Traffic is horrendous all the way to the city centre and I run my mind’s eye over my work diary, wondering if I’ll make my 9 o’clock appointment. Then I see what’s wrong. Jonathan Oliver is my first client. It’s part of the job to deal with all kinds of people – from mildly irritating to truly despicable – but in all my years of practising, I’ve never met someone who makes me uneasy the way Jonathan does.

  With a sigh, I turn into the clinic car park.

  Susan is in before me, putting post into pigeon-holes. The coffee machine in the kitchenette is broken, she tells me, so she’s going out to the café next door – would I like her to bring me a coffee? I try to hand her a fiver but she won’t take it.

  “Brian’s in a fouler,” she says under her breath. “You’re going to need all the coffee you can get. My treat.”

  “Oh. Thanks for that. But what’s up with Brian?”

  “The new behaviour analyst is gone.”

  “Who?”

  “Oh yes, you didn’t even meet her. She started during your holidays, then called in sick for the last two weeks, and now she’s handed in her notice. So we’re short-staffed again, and he has to find someone else. Fouler.” She nods towards his office.

  I can hear his voice coming through the wall; it sounds like he’s on the phone. His door handle starts to turn down and I dart for my own office. It’s enough to start my day with a cross teenager, I don’t need a cranky boss too.

  Susan knocks ten minutes later with a cappuccino, and lets me know in a lowered voice that Jonathan is outside. “He’s so good-looking!” she mouths.

  “You are insane,” I mouth back, and signal to her to give me five minutes.

  Two minutes later, he walks in without knocking, and carefully closes the door behind him.

  I walk around my desk and take a seat in the centre of the room, indicating for him to take the one opposite me. He takes the one beside it instead, which is marginally nearer to me. Maybe he didn’t understand my gesture, or maybe he’s being defiant. I can’t always read him. He’s grinning at me, arms folded, knees splayed.

  I shift back in my chair.

  “So, Doc, how are you?” Before I can answer, he sits up straight and points at my left hand. “Oh! The ring is gone, I see. Trouble with the hubby? Has he run off with someone younger? We’re more alike than you thought, aren’t we, Doctor Elliot?”

  Shit. I clasp my hands and force a smile.

  “Now, Jonathan, you know this is about you, not me.”

  “But I think it’s relevant. I mean if you’re going through a marriage break-up, maybe you’re not in the right frame of mind to help me get through mine. Right?”

  I see the escape hatch and I jump at it.

  “Absolutely – I should have thought of that myself. I’ll suggest another psychologist for you – someone here at Steps to Wellness so you won’t have to change clinic.”

  He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “I take it back! I’ll stick with you, thanks, Doctor Elliot – none of the others are as pretty.” He tilts his head and looks me up and down.

  Dear Jesus, in any other profession I’d walk out at this point.

  I push my chair back an inch.

  “Jonathan, if we are to continue with these sessions, I need you to take them seriously. It’s not about me, it’s about helping you get through your break-up. Have you been thinking about Sorcha in the last few days?”

  He lets out a big sigh, as though I’ve just asked him to turn himself inside out and tap-dance across the table.

  “Fine, let’s talk about me. Yes, I thought about Sorcha and, yes, I drank too much and, yes, I bought a two-thousand-euro suit at the weekend, as part of some kind of midlife crisis. Does that sum it up?”

  I’m about to reply, but he jumps in again.

  “I saw you actually.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “In the city centre on Saturday – walking along Grafton Street, in your weekend gear. You looked nice. I like the sexy-secretary thing you have going on here, but the weekend jeans thing kind of suited you too.” He pauses to look me up and down again. “Seeing you out of uniform was like seeing you naked in a way.”

  “Jonathan!” I stand up now, and take a step back. “We can’t continue like this.”

  His hands fly to his face, covering it completely, and he says nothing for a moment, then starts to rock gently back and forth. The silence is broken by what sounds like a muffled sob. Surely he’s not crying?

  “Jonathan?”

  He’s still rocking, and I’m sure now he’s crying.

  “Jonathan?” I try again. With anyone else, I would instinctively reach out a hand to comfort, but not here, not with him.

  It feels like forever before he parts his hands and looks at me, but it’s probably only ten or fifteen seconds.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers eventually. “God, what am I like? And I’m sorry for what I said, I shouldn’t have.”

  Sitting back down opposite him, I give him a moment to collect himself before I speak.

  “That’s okay. If you need to cry, let it out.”

  He nods, and I pass him a box of tissues.

  “I think I might go now, though I know our time’s not up,” he says, and although I’m sorry for him, I’m relieved.

  “Absolutely. Let’s pencil something in for next week and start again.”

  I usher him out, then shut the door and collapse back down on the
big leather chair behind my desk. Jesus, that was tough going. I know I should relish the difficult cases and learn from them, but I could do without Jonathan.

  On autopilot, I pick up my mobile. There’s a little envelope showing me I have new mail in my blog email account. I pull down the notification.

  The subject is “Gotcha” and the sender is VIN.

  Dear Lauren,

  I thought I’d say hello on email now too. Twitter is so limiting, isn’t it? I have so much more to say to you. About your “photography and lifestyle” blog and your mind-numbing life. By the way, that photo you posted of your new trainers – I thought your legs looked a little chunky? Letting yourself go? Not shifting those holiday pounds?

  Speaking of which, I’m still waiting to hear back about your American friend in Venice. Believe me when I say I’m patient.

  Yours always,

  VIN

  Slumping against the back of the chair, my hands drop to my sides and I close my eyes for a moment. I need to stay calm. If it is Chris, it looks like Cleo’s detective contact hasn’t been to see him yet. But this email makes it even easier to prove it’s him. So it’s actually a good thing. It doesn’t feel like a good thing though. I can hear Dave’s voice in my head: Why do you have your email address on your blog? Because that’s what people do. And until today, I’ve never had anything other than kind feedback about my photos. Maybe I should delete the email address. But then VIN already has it, so what’s the point?