One Click

by Andrea Mara

  The Plan

  What my parents didn’t know is that I used to see her around sometimes. I knew exactly who she was. She used to walk along, happy in her world, not caring about the lives she was ruining. One day I spat on the ground as she was walking towards me, hoping she’d walk in my spit. But she just looked at me like I was dirt, and walked around it.

  That’s when I decided to try the voodoo doll. One of the kids at school had told me how to do it. I needed something of hers to make it work – a piece of her hair, or some of her clothing. So that was my plan. I’d follow her and see where she lived, and find a way to get something that belonged to her. Then I’d stick pins in her eyes until she understood that it’s not okay to ruin people’s lives just because you have lipstick lips and long legs and smile more than my mother did.

  To be continued

  I read it a second time, then message the link to Cleo – maybe there’s something there that will link it to Chris, though I can’t see anything at all. Switching on the news, I pause only to block VIN on Twitter. It doesn’t do any good in the long-term, but it might annoy him to have to set up another email address. Choose your battles and take your little wins.

  Chapter 35

  When I push through the door of the café on Wednesday afternoon, Caroline is already there at a small table down the back. A man in a suit is reading a paper by the window and an elderly woman is cutting into a scone, focussing on making tiny, even slices. There are no other customers, and the girl behind the counter looks blankly at me as I walk past, then goes back to her magazine.

  Just as before, Caroline is wearing a black tailored dress, and today her glasses hang from a chain around her neck. The Dictaphone is out on the table already, and she presses the record button as I sit down. There’s a cappuccino waiting for me, still hot, though I’m a couple of minutes late.

  Caroline gets straight down to the interview. She wants to hear about the messages – to get a better sense of the kind of things VIN says. She tells me she’s started writing up the background but feels giving real examples of what VIN is sending will help readers understand just how serious it is.

  I ask her if I can see the draft about the background, and something flickers across her face. Irritation?

  She smiles then. “Absolutely. You can see it all when it’s written up – but we’ll wait until I have everything in. No point in toing and froing piecemeal, is there?”

  I nod, dismissing the little voice in my head that’s telling me to insist. It doesn’t matter whether I see it now or later, as long as I see it.

  Her pen flies over the page as I tell her about the first messages – the ones in Italy that were all about Cleo. On my phone, I click into my screenshots folder and feel a shiver across my shoulders as I see the one from the last night of our holiday – the one that made it seem like he was outside our mobile home. She squints when I hold my phone up to show her, then puts on her glasses to read it.

  “And do you think he was there?”

  “No, he couldn’t have been. Even if he was in Italy, he couldn’t have known which campsite we were in or which mobile home was ours.”

  “So then how did he know what you were doing – isn’t it remotely possible he was there? This is all good stuff by the way, this is the kind of thing the readers want to hear about.” She writes in her notebook again.

  My throat feels dry. I pick up my cup to drink, and when I put it back down it hits the side of the saucer. Some of the cappuccino spills out on the table and the spoon clatters to the floor.

  “Are you all right?” Caroline asks, concerned eyes peering at me above her glasses.

  “Yes,” I nod, reaching down to pick up the spoon. “It just got to me a bit – I’ve been avoiding thinking about that night.” I sit up straight. “But it’s better to talk about it and move on. And I’m certain he wasn’t there. He probably took a lucky guess – chances are I’d be sitting outside on the deck with a glass of wine, like I did every night.”

  She nods. “Sure, and maybe you had put something online that night.”

  I hadn’t, I’d checked the next day. But it’s easier to agree that she must be right than to face any uncomfortable alternatives. I show her some more messages on my phone, and keep talking as she writes.

  “So, I know we touched on this before,’ she says, ‘but I want to go back to it – over time, the questions about Cleo lessen, and there’s more of a focus on you and your family?”

  I nod a yes.

  “So how does that make you feel? That shift from Cleo to you and your family?”

  It takes me a moment to find the right answer, but there’s no sense of impatience from her.

  “It’s fine. I put the photo up in the first place, so I can’t complain.”

  “Really? Don’t you feel any resentment at all? You’re getting these horrible messages, and she’s just getting on with her life . . . ”

  “As she should. She didn’t bring any of this on herself. I’d be horrified if she was more directly involved – this way it lessens the guilt.”

  She makes a note. “But she’s worried for you, I presume – it must be upsetting her?”

  “I wouldn’t say she’s upset, more curious than anything. She’s like Nancy Drew, trying to solve the mystery. But no, not upset. I suppose I’m the shield, protecting her from any real emotional involvement. She’s just fixated on proving it’s that guy in New York, and other than that she gets on with her life.”

  Caroline sits back in her seat, pen to lip.

  “You know,” she says, “perhaps it would add to the story to have Cleo contribute too. Do you think she would?”

  “I don’t know. She’s not really someone who looks for the spotlight. Then again, I presume she could be anonymous too?”

  Caroline hesitates, then nods. “Sure. Will you ask her?”

  I tell her I will and we get back to scrolling through screenshots on my phone. There’s a familiar nagging voice in my head warning me, reminding me not to share too much, but it’s being drowned out now by something sticky and addictive – the balm that comes from sharing the load.

  When the doorbell rings just after six, I’m surprised to find Grace, Nadine’s cleaner, on the doorstep, holding what looks like Rebecca’s black skull-print scarf.

  “Sorry to interrupt your evening, but Rebecca left this in her dad’s and I thought I’d drop it back in case she needs it,” she says, handing it over.

  “Oh you’re very good, and there was no need – Rebecca’s up and down between the two houses all the time, but thank you.”

  She nods, then opens her mouth and closes it again. There’s clearly something else she wants to say.

  “Will you come in for a quick cup of tea?” I ask on impulse. “I’ve no tea brack now, but I can rustle up a fairly good pack of Jaffa Cakes?”

  She hesitates for a moment, then steps in.

  In the kitchen, she stays standing, and while I busy myself with tea, I can almost feel the air quiver with indecisiveness.

  “So how’s everything going up in Nadine’s?” I ask, pulling out a chair for her.

  “Grand now, no complaints – well, no more than usual.” I watch her making up her mind. “Actually, there was something I wanted to tell you, only I’m not sure it’s my place.”

  My hand flies to my mouth.

  “Crap, was it Rebecca again?”

  “No, no, nothing like that.”

  “Oh, thank God!” I sit down opposite. “Sorry, that must seem very melodramatic. It’s just been a tough few weeks, and I don’t think I can take any more drama!”

  “Ah, I’m sorry to hear that, but no, Rebecca hasn’t done anything. She’s a good child – you’re lucky with your girls.”

  “God, it doesn’t feel like it sometimes, she’s been a nightmare for ages now. And despite how much time she spends slagging off Nadine –” I meet Grace’s eyes, “she’s started going over there to do her homework, because it’s warmer than he
re. Which is true, but I wonder if it’s just a way to get at me. God, sometimes I feel like she’s slipping from my grasp.” I don’t know where that came from but Grace doesn’t look surprised.

  “It’s hard for sure, and I remember it with my own daughter when her dad first put his back out and I had to go out to work. She sulked for months, but she came around eventually, and now we’re closer than ever. Kids don’t like change, and we can bend over backwards trying to fix everything, but sometimes all we can do is wait for them to come back to us.”

  Despite coming from a relative stranger, this is more reassuring than anything I’ve told myself or read in a parenting book since all of this trouble with Rebecca started.

  “And I wouldn’t worry about her spending time in Nadine’s,” Grace continues. “If you try to pull her back, she’ll want to be there even more.”

  “You’re absolutely right. I’m just so conscious of Nadine taking my place. I mean, that’s ridiculous – Rebecca can’t stand her – but that could change. And I’m supposed to want it to change, to want her to like Nadine, I know. But then I think of that and get all worried . . . it’s so bloody complicated!”

  Grace smiles. “I know it is. But listen, you’re her mother. There’s nothing in the world like the bond between mother and child. Sure, maybe there’ll come a time when she doesn’t hate Nadine and they actually become friends. But you grew her and birthed her and raised her – nothing changes that. There’s a quote I like: ‘A mother is she who can take the place of all others but whose place no one else can take.’ I think a cardinal said it. I used to think about it a lot when my daughter was younger. She came back to me, and Rebecca will come back to you – I promise.”

  There’s a lump in my throat and I take a sip of tea to compose myself.

  “You’re right,” I manage after a moment. “I need to stop panicking. And look at me, loading all my woes on to you, and you only came to drop back a scarf. And sorry, what was the other thing you wanted to say?”

  “Oh no, it was nothing at all,” she says. “Just that Dave and Nadine are looking at holidays and they might forget to tell you. What I mean is, you might be relying on them to mind the girls and they wouldn’t be here.”

  I nod slowly and thank her, though something tells me it’s not what she originally intended to say.

  “Where are they off to this time?”

  “Somewhere in Ireland, I think,” Grace says. “They need quality time together, those two. I don’t think they see each other except when they go out to dinners and parties – and sure that’s always with other people.”

  “Oh really?” I prompt.

  “Ah yeah, it’s because of work mostly, it’s not anyone’s fault. But she’s cross that he works long hours, and he’s cross that she’s often in bed asleep when he gets home. I don’t know if either of them really and truly wants it different though, you know?”

  I nod again. I think I do.

  “They must have some time together, just the two of them though – at weekends maybe, during the day?” I ask, wondering what I’d say if a client told me they were quizzing an ex-husband’s cleaner about his new relationship.

  “I’m sure they do,” she says, not sounding sure at all. “I’m there on Saturday mornings when she’s getting her hair done and he’s playing golf, but maybe they go for a nice walk together in the afternoon.”

  We both grin at that. There’s no way Nadine goes for a nice walk anywhere on Saturday afternoons.

  “I’ll tell you when they spend time together,” Grace continues, lowering her voice “– when there’s someone else around to see. Then they’re the perfect couple, in each other’s pockets. God, I’ll be struck down for saying things like this.”

  I shake my head. “Oh listen, I’m having a crappy time at the moment, and this chat has given me just the lift I need – nobody will strike you down for that.”

  There’s silence for a moment as she sips her tea, tucking a strand of greying hair behind her ear.

  There’s no doubt she still has something she wants to say, and I wonder if I stay quiet will it spur her to fill the silence, but it’s a nice kind of silence. Companionable, not awkward.

  And in the end, it’s broken by Ava rushing down the stairs to see if dinner is ready, prompting Grace to take her leave.

  “It’s lovely to hear the sound of family,” she says as she heads down the steps. “It can be very quiet up in Nadine’s.”

  And as I close the door, I think about that, and wonder if it’s time to stop focusing on what’s going on up the road and appreciate what I have here.

  Chapter 36

  Jesus Christ, I know he’s here to talk about himself, but this is excruciating. Jonathan doesn’t notice when my eyes slip to the clock on the wall behind him – he’s mid-flow, ranting about his ex-wife again. This is my job, I remind myself, digging my nails into my palms as he drones on.

  “Towards the end, she tried harder to hide the affair, but the damage was done. I knew everything about him, her plans, where they met – everything.”

  Now I’m interested again.

  “Tell me about that – how did you know her plans?”

  He sits back in the chair and folds his arms, his face creasing into a smile.

  “Ah, I can’t tell you that, Dr Elliot. Then you’d know all my spying secrets. It might be counterproductive.”

  Smug. And baiting me.

  “I think it would help you to get everything off your chest. Did you sneak a look at her phone?”

  He laughs. “Come on. She was stupid but not that stupid. She had a PIN on it, and she never let the bloody thing out of her sight either. No, I was smarter than that.”

  “You listened in to her conversations?” I think about Marcus and Cleo. “Or maybe you had a webcam set up?”

  “Jesus, you’re hardcore. Is that what you used to do, before your husband walked out?” He holds his hands up. “Sorry, too far. But no, I didn’t have a webcam. I traded on her stupidity and her big mouth. So to speak.”

  It makes no sense at all, and I’m more curious than I’d like to let on, but he doesn’t seem ready to do anything more than skirt around it. I’ll leave it for now. His need to show off will win out eventually.

  “And did she catch you – the thing you did to find out her plans?”

  He stops, as though he hasn’t considered this at all until now.

  “No, actually, she never did find out. I kind of wish she did. It’s too late now.”

  He sounds wistful, almost sad.

  “I’m sure you could still tell her – have you been in contact with her recently?”

  The sad look is still there and when he speaks he’s almost whispering.

  “No, not recently.”

  Lucky Sorcha, I think, then check myself.

  “Well, it’s probably for the best until you reach a place where you feel more at ease with the break-up.”

  He looks up at me. “Is that how it is for you?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Are you at ease with your break-up? Or do you sometimes dream of stabbing your husband?”

  My mouth opens but I can’t think of a thing to say.

  “Jesus, chill, Dr Elliot. It’s a joke. I wouldn’t stab anyone.” He pauses, then grins. “Too messy.”

  My head is pounding by the time I get home, and all I want to do is lie on the couch, but my mother rings just as I’m walking through the front door. She fills me in on her latest bridge-club drama and her friend’s daughter’s new job (A dog-walker! Imagine, she says, how is that even a job?). The girls aren’t home yet and I curl up on the couch with the phone on speaker so that I don’t have to hold it so close to my throbbing head.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks, eventually realising she’s done all the talking and I’ve said almost nothing at all.

  “Ah, I just have a headache. Work stuff. And Rebecca’s giving me headaches too.”

  She’s not interested in my work problems, but
immediately wants to know what’s wrong with Rebecca. I tell her about a new top I bought her at the weekend, a treat because she seems so down. She’d worn it to the cinema on Saturday night, but then on Sunday morning I found it stuffed in the bathroom bin. I went to her room to ask her about it but, as soon as I held up the top, she burst into tears and shouted at me to get out. Later on she came downstairs and gave me an awkward sideways hug of an apology, but when I tried to ask her about the top, she clammed up. I left it hanging on a kitchen chair but later, when I was pouring potato peels into the kitchen bin, I spotted it. Under eggshells and teabags, definitely irretrievable this time.

  My mother is horrified by the story and says she’d never have put up with that kind of behaviour from me, missing the point completely.

  “But, Mum, it’s totally out of character. She’s clearly upset.”

  “Just because your parents split up doesn’t give you an excuse to throw good clothes in the bin,” says my mother, and my head aches even more. “For goodness sake, your father died and you never carried on like this.”