by Andrea Mara
I shake my head. “No, just me being jittery. I got a message from the troll while you were gone and he said something about being alone, so when the door closed I thought he was somehow here.” I shake my head. “God, I’m losing it. I need to do something about this guy.”
“Well, hopefully talking to the journalist will help. Did you tell Dave about her?”
I shake my head again. “No, Jesus, he’d go nuts! He already thinks I share far too much online – talking to a journalist would be a whole new level. And he doesn’t know about VIN anyway.”
Clare doesn’t say anything.
“What?” I ask her.
“Well, it’s not my business, but don’t you think it would all go more smoothly if he hears about the article from you beforehand?”
“It’ll be anonymous, he won’t ever know about it.”
She laughs, then stops. “Sorry, I don’t mean to laugh, but come on! Is it going to say you’re a psychologist?” I nod. “And that you have two teenage daughters, live in Dublin, and have a blog?” I nod again. “And are you mentioning your marriage break-up?”
“Yeah, I decided it’s time get my head out of the sand.”
“Lauren, Dublin is small. It won’t take much to work out who it is, and even if Dave doesn’t see it himself, someone will tell him. Don’t you think?”
She’s right. Again. Oh for God’s sake, I’m going to have to tell Dave.
Chapter 33
It’s ironic that the first birthday message I get is from Cleo, the person I’ve known for the shortest time. Her WhatsApp is waiting for me when I wake up.
Hey, our cop friend back home visited Chris again. Says no proof or suggestion it’s him. But really hard to prove either way without IP address, court order etc so I’m not convinced. Any word from VIN re name Giulia? And btw, happy birthday
My eyes are still blurry with sleep as I type my reply. Actually VIN hasn’t said anything more about Giulia all week, one way or the other. I wonder what’s going on behind the scenes – does he believe me?
PS thanks for the bday wishes and how did you know? I ask, after updating her on VIN.
It’s on your Facebook, she replies.
Of course. And soon there is a flurry of birthday wishes, most indeed on Facebook, and I’m glad as I make myself a quiet coffee downstairs that the internet still cares. My real-life family members are fast asleep upstairs, and one – though I don’t know if he’s still my family – is asleep two houses away. He’s insisting on taking us out for dinner tonight to celebrate. I think it’s a little odd that we’d go out together but it’s probably good for the kids.
Caroline emails too, to ask if I’m free to meet again. I thought one meeting was enough but I realise I’m looking forward to chatting – it’s therapeutic, talking while she listens and takes notes. We agree to meet on Tuesday afternoon for Part Two.
At eleven, Ava comes down with a present for me, but we have to wait for Rebecca, she says, as it’s from both of them. Rebecca has been sleeping later and later and it’s almost impossible to get her up on school mornings, so I leave her to her Saturday lie-in, and it’s after twelve when she comes down, her newly brown hair in a curly nest around her head, her eyes blinking in the sunlight. In a stage whisper, Ava reminds her it’s my birthday, and she gives me a half-hearted hug, then rummages in the cupboard for food. Rolling her eyes, Ava gives in and presents me with my gift. They’ve got me nail varnish, a book voucher, a beautiful grey scarf, and my favourite Molton Brown Bushukan shower gel. I’m touched by how much effort they’ve gone to – I hug Ava, and Rebecca doesn’t flinch when I put my arms around her – I’ll take what I can get.
At six, Dave calls to collect us, and insists on driving so I can have a glass of wine. He’s booked a table in Firebird Pizza in Bray and when we first sit down conversation is stilted – it’s a long time since the four of us went for a meal. I can’t resist saying it’s kind of Nadine to let Dave out with us. He throws me a look, then says she’s out with her friends, and he can’t stand them. All they talk about is clean eating and spray tans, and they make him feel old, he says. The girls laugh and I find myself laughing too, and just like that, the ice is broken. We slip into family mode, and by the time our main courses arrive, part of me has forgotten we’ll be going home to separate houses. The waiter tops up my wine and then Dave orders me a birthday Mojito, and I’m enjoying letting go of the reins, not being the only one in charge. When dessert arrives, there’s a candle stuck in mine, then Dave orders me another Mojito, and I’m floating now, in a good way.
I’m only half-listening to Rebecca when she asks Dave if she can do her homework in Nadine’s sometimes – because it’s warmer there, she says, giving me a look. I’m about to say something, but decide against it. Choose your battles. Then the conversation moves on, and Rebecca looks disappointed. Ava is talking about a big basketball match she has on Tuesday, asking Dave if he can come. He says he will, and suggests we go together. I remember my meeting with Caroline then. Shit, I should have checked with the girls before agreeing.
“I just need to move a few things around – I’ve arranged to meet Caroline that afternoon. But it’s fine, I’m sure she’ll switch to Wednesday.”
“Who’s Caroline?” Dave asks.
“Oh yeah, I saw that written on the kitchen calendar – who’s Caroline?” Ava echoes.
I’m about to say she’s a friend from work but, actually, this is as good an opportunity as I’ll get to tell him the truth. Clare is right, he’s going to find out one way or another.
“She’s a journalist with IrishNewsOnline.ie and she’s writing about internet trolls. She’s interviewing me for it.”
Dave’s mouth falls open. “Are you serious? You’re going to talk about Leon? Lauren, I really don’t think you should. Just let it lie – he’s gone now anyway.”
Ava and Rebecca are listening intently.
“Well, I don’t know if he’s gone. I’m getting tweets and emails from an anonymous account called VIN. And there’s a chance it’s Leon.”
Dave pushes back his chair and folds his arms. “All the more reason to leave it, for God’s sake. Why do you do these things? Why on earth would you speak to a journalist about your personal life?”
My arms are folded now too, and the girls exchange looks. I keep my voice even.
“It’s cathartic. It helps to let it all out.”
“But everyone will read it! You can’t do this. Will there be pictures? Will you be mentioning the girls?”
“Relax, it’s anonymous. Well, probably anonymous.”
“What does that mean?” he asks, his voice going up a notch.
I never noticed before how squeaky he gets when he’s cross.
“Caroline’s editor wants me to be named, though I’m not sure yet. I’ll see how I feel when it’s written.”
Dave scratches his head, and looks at me like I’ve just told him I’m moving to Goa to find myself.
“But how do you know she won’t just use your name anyway, whether you like it or not? She has all your details now – what’s to stop her?”
I look at him, then over at the girls. Ava’s eyebrows go up in a ‘he’s got a point’ way. Rebecca is half-smiling, enjoying the drama.
“I met up with her, and I trust her. It’s grand – relax!”
It’s the “relax” that does it. He gets up from the table, throws down his napkin, and storms off towards the front door of the restaurant. It’s not at all funny but suddenly I burst out laughing, and then the girls are laughing too. There are tears streaming down my face, and the waiter is giving us a curious look, but it’s like a dam has burst and I can’t stop.
A minute later, Dave is back. He’s forgotten his keys. He sits down, and mutters that he’ll still drive us home, and something about not leaving the girls stranded just because their mother has lost her mind. Ava and Rebecca exchange an eye-roll and Ava winks at me, and all of a sudden, I think I might cry.
&n
bsp; Curled up on the couch once the girls go to bed, I pick up my phone. There are lots more birthday wishes on Twitter and Instagram, plus a pointed comment from Rebecca on a bathroom-mirror selfie I posted before we went out.
What happened to “I rarely post selfies”, Mum? she’d written and, though it’s a dig, part of me is happy to hear from her on any medium.
Dave messages to say he’s sorry for the way my birthday dinner ended, but he still thinks I need my head examined. I reply that it’s lucky I’m a shrink so, and put my phone screen-down on the coffee table. It beeps again a minute later and I turn it over to see what Dave is saying now, but it’s an email from VIN.
Happy Birthday, Lauren. Mmmm. You smell nice. Molton Brown Bushukan. It suits you.
I stare at the message, reading it over and over. My skin crawls with imaginary ants and I swipe at my arms, trying to wipe them away. How could he know what shower gel I used? Has he been in the house? Is it someone who knows the girls?
Upstairs, Rebecca is asleep but Ava is still awake. I ask her if she bumped into anyone when she was buying the presents and she says she didn’t. She’s confused and asks me why, but I need to go back downstairs and message Cleo.
Cleo’s response is as laid-back as ever – she says I probably posted about my presents online. I know I didn’t, but I go through my photos anyway, then go back to tell her so.
It’s probably in the corner of some picture somewhere if you look, she replies.
I go back through the photos, and then I see it. It’s in the photo I put on Instagram while I was getting ready in the bathroom – at the very edge of the mirror reflection, you can just about make out the bottle of gold-coloured liquid. Even when I zoom in, it’s difficult to read the label, and half of the name is completely out of sight. Is it enough for someone to work out what it is? I’m not sure. But I don’t want to think about alternatives.
Chapter 34
My laptop clock shows 14:13, and a familiar sick feeling sets in as I wait for Jonathan’s knock. It’s two weeks since he’s been in, and I can’t stop thinking about his parting shot – when he called me or his ex-wife a bitch. Surely he meant Sorcha? We made some real progress that day, but now my stomach is a ball of anxiety again. Notes of Brian’s faux-concern about self-care ring in my ears and I make a mental note yet again to book a session with the therapist we use for clinic staff.
The knock comes and I greet him with what I hope is a neutral and professional hello – he looks well and seems at ease. Instead of the tailored suit he normally wears, he’s in jeans and a check shirt. The casual look softens him and, as we get started, there’s no hint of the aggression I saw two weeks ago.
He starts to talk about feeling less angry now when he thinks about Sorcha’s new relationship, and about making changes at home – he went shopping at the weekend for paintings to take the place of the ones she took when she left. He goes into lots of detail about one painting of a rowboat emerging from the sea and seems quite taken with it. He wonders if he’s the rowboat, coming out of the drowning feeling he’s been experiencing. Then he smiles, looking almost shy, and says he should leave the analysis up to me. I’m about to reply when my phone rings in my bag. I reach to stop it ringing.
Switching off the phone, I look up to apologise. But Jonathan’s face has changed – the smile is gone.
“Someone more important than me? Am I not worth your full attention?”
The sudden transformation catches me off guard and it takes a beat to find an answer.
“Sorry, I thought I had my phone on silent. I am absolutely here to listen to you.”
He slumps in his seat and folds his arms. Petulant Fish-eye is back.
“Who was it?” he asks.
“Don’t worry about that – let’s just get back to you. Talk to me about the rowboat again.”
“Fuck the rowboat.”
“Tell me why you’re angry now.”
“You’re just like her, only half-listening to me. So quick to jump up and answer your phone. Sorcha was like that. And now I know they were calls from him.”
Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.
“So she was seeing him before you split up?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s staring into the distance, his eyes glassy and his cheeks flecked pink and white.
“Do you want to tell me about that – how you found out?”
“It was her phone. She never paid any attention to it, then all of a sudden she was rushing every time it beeped, shielding it when I was nearby.”
I nod.
“So then I started to follow her.”
I sit up straighter.
“I followed her one night when she said she was going out with two of her friends. I asked her who she was meeting, and her face gave everything away.” He’s looking off into the distance again, as though not conscious of me at all. “She stuttered, then came up with two names. Said she’d met them at the gym.” He looks back at me. “Who meets friends in the gym?”
I nod again, and make a note.
“So I followed her. She drove to Howth and I drove a bit behind. I watched when she went into a restaurant on the West Pier. A few minutes later I followed her in – I couldn’t see her at first, but then I spotted her in a corner. With him. I didn’t go over, I just left. And smashed my fist into the windscreen of her car when I walked past. It didn’t break, but my hand was bruised for weeks.”
He’s looking at me, waiting for some kind of response. I write notes, buying time.
“And did you confront her that night?”
He shakes his head. “No. I needed to plan. And to move some things around.”
“What kind of things?” I’m genuinely curious.
“Well . . . let’s say money, mostly. She’s the one with the money, and the house was in her name too, so I had to deal with that.”
It’s clear he’s holding something back
“How do you mean ‘deal with that’?”
He smiles, showing all his teeth, and suddenly I’m thinking of sharks.
“By being smarter than she is. Like a rowboat emerging from the sea.”
Then he starts to laugh at his own joke, a joke I don’t understand at all, and I’m glad it’s five to three and I can call an end to our session, and look forward to six whole days free of Jonathan Oliver.
My peace is short-lived, interrupted by an email from VIN just after the news starts at nine that night.
Oh Lauren, is this your life now, slumped in front of the TV like the couch potato you really are? What would your Instagram followers think if they could see you? They can’t see the real you, but remember, I am watching you.
I’m not falling for it this time. I had just tweeted that I’m looking forward to collapsing on the couch after a long day – he’s throwing my own information back at me. But something sticks out. I am watching you. That’s what Leon used to say. Something shifts in my memory then – a night just like this one, about a year ago, when I told Dave I’d see if Clare could ask someone from work to look into Leon’s account. Dave had said he had a friend in IT who might trace Leon’s IP address for us. But he never came back on it, and the messages stopped soon after.
I hit Dave’s number.
“Hey, what’s up?” he says as soon as he answers, his voice low, almost whispering. I can just about hear the TV in the background.
“Why are you talking so quietly?” I ask.
“Nadine’s asleep, I don’t want to wake her.”
At quarter past nine? I wonder if she does that every night. There’s something about that – Dave sitting on his own watching TV there and me sitting on my own here.
“Is everything okay?” he asks.
“Yes, it’s about those messages I mentioned when we were out on Saturday – the ones from VIN. I’m wondering again if VIN is actually Leon, and I wanted to ask you what happened with your friend who was going to trace the messages for me that time?”
A pause.
“Remember, you said you had a friend who’d be able to trace the IP address and find out where Leon was. Back when I was going to ask Clare for help?”
“Oh yeah, I forgot about that. When the messages stopped, I didn’t bother asking him again.”
“Could you chase it up now?”
“But there’s no point, Leon is gone.”
“Yes,” I say, injecting patience I’m not feeling, “but Leon and VIN might be the same person. Proving the messages come from the same IP address would be something – even if we still don’t know who it is or where they’re physically located.”
“I’ll ask, but it’s a long shot – the guy has kind of moved out of IT now.”
“Right, well, see what you can do – I can ask Clare if needed.”
Dave says goodbye, and I go into Leon’s Twitter account to see if I can spot any similarities to VIN’s. There’s nothing though – the account is still there, but he’s deleted all his tweets. I try VIN’s then, and again nothing jumps out – his only tweets are to me, and there are no other details. Just the link to the website. I click into it, and realise there’s a new blog post.