One Click

by Andrea Mara

  LAUREN

  Chapter 44

  Oh my God. I say goodbye to Cleo and sit perfectly still, except for my hand, which is shaking, still holding the phone.

  Chris is not VIN. Cleo’s ex threw Shannon over a balcony, and they killed a man in a hit-and-run twelve years ago.

  But mostly, Chris is not VIN.

  And even though I’ve been telling Cleo it’s probably not him, I realise now how much I desperately wanted it to be. Because then it’s about her, and I’m just caught in the middle. And Chris is a real person, with a face, and a name, and an address. VIN is still faceless and nameless and who knows where.

  On cue, my phone buzzes, and the little white envelope tells me I have mail.

  Dear Lauren,

  Do you like when the house is quiet and your kids aren’t there, needing you? People like you have children to tick a box – it’s nothing more than a vanity project. Get married, have two-point-four children, buy a big house. Though it’s falling down around you, isn’t it? Those cracks in the ceiling and in the tiles in the hall – they’re only going to get bigger, you know. Like the cracks in your life – your big, fake, pretend life. It’s all going to come crashing down, Lauren. Wait and see.

  VIN

  Like a sleepwalker, I pull myself off the couch and walk to the hall. Eyes down, I search, and it doesn’t take long to find them. Two white tiles near the front door with hairline cracks through their centres. When I look closely, I can see cracks in the black tiles too. And above me, high in the vaulted ceiling, there are spider lines, snaking their way out from the light fixture, hiding in the plasterwork. Part of me wants to laugh – my troll is spotting my domestic flaws before I do. But there’s no mirth in it – it’s the kind of laugh that precedes hysteria. Like clockwork, I scroll through my photos, looking for some taken in the hall. There’s one from last month – a new-shoe photo – though I can’t see any crack. Going back further, I find another – a photo of a package on the hall table. And when I zoom in, I can see the two cracked tiles. Result. That’s how he knew.

  The glimmer of satisfaction is short-lived. What’s the point in all this? What is VIN trying to prove, and why am I still chasing clues every time he sends me something? I’m running around in circles, panicking with each email, then reassuring myself when I work it out. But for what?

  Sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, I close my eyes. The answer is immediate and blunt, and really, it’s always been there – either I stop posting photos, or stop caring that he can see them.

  My mum and Dave would say it’s obvious – stop posting. My Twitter friends would say stop caring, but it’s easier said than done. What would Cleo say? She’d shrug, and tell me it’s my call. Thanks for the help, hypothetical Cleo.

  I click in to Twitter to see what I’ve posted today – a tweet about hospital waiting lists and one about a politician. The same kind of stuff everyone tweets, nothing that gives much away. But in a sense, no matter what I write, no matter how innocuous, it says something about me – gives him clues. Maybe I need to turn the tables on him.

  I go to his Twitter account to read through his tweets. All of them are directed at me, and there’s no location given on any of them. Nothing new. No clues. I click through to Vinhorus.com then, and there’s a new post up, called And Then He Was Gone

  Still sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, I start to read.

  My mother couldn’t keep him. It wasn’t her fault, it was the Whore’s. He left, and she locked herself in her room. I sat outside her door for two days, listening to her crying, then she stopped and there was nothing. I banged on the door and she said to go away. So I knew she was okay.

  On the third morning, through the locked door, I told her I was taking money from the jar in the kitchen and going out to buy food. At the shop, I got bread and milk, but instead of turning for home, I walked to the Whore’s house. The last of three cottages at the end of the street, all white on the outside with flowers in the window-boxes, as though good people lived there. I was able to get right up to the window and look inside. Even through net curtains, I could see them. My dad was kissing her and she had her arms around his neck. Slut.

  At the corner of the house, there was a little gate leading to the side passage. Opening it, I sneaked around to the back and peeped in the kitchen window. Nobody there. The backdoor was right in front of me, inviting me in. I pulled down the handle and inched it open, then crept inside her kitchen. And what happened then? Well, you’ll have to wait and see.

  Scrunching up my eyes in the low evening light, I read it again, slowly. “Cottages with window-boxes” doesn’t tell me much – they could be anywhere. The word “shop” does though – if the sender was American, he’d say store. But then Cleo’s just told me it’s not Chris, so it’s a moot point.

  I’m reading it a third time when a knock at the front door makes me jump. Clare is on the step, hugging herself to stay warm and she launches straight into something about working from home and needing a break, then stops.

  “Lauren, what’s wrong? No offence, but you look like shit. Did something happen?”

  Pulling the door wide, I invite her in and she follows me through to the kitchen.

  Clare sits down, still hugging herself, as I switch on the kettle, then the heating.

  “Will I put on the light too, or is this a Halloween-themed idea – having tea in the dark?” she asks.

  “Very funny. Yes, please turn it on.”

  Light floods the kitchen, and we sit opposite one another at the table, wrapping our hands around our mugs of tea.

  “So,” she says. “What’s up?”

  “It’s this stuff with the messages again. I’ve just found out it’s not the person we thought it was, so I’m back to square one. He seems to know so much about me, but then when I check it’s usually because I’ve posted some picture or detail online. I’m going around in circles and it’s exhausting.”

  I stop and wait for her to tell me to get off the bloody internet, but she doesn’t.

  “So do you think that’s it – he’s finding everything from what you post online? Was there ever anything that couldn’t be explained away?”

  I take a sip of tea and try to remember.

  “It’s hard to say. Like, he mentioned a shower gel I got as a birthday present, and when I looked, I found it in the corner of one photo, but I’m not convinced he could have worked out what it was. And he knew where the girls go to school.”

  She raises her eyebrows at that.

  “I’d never put up photos of them in uniform but, as Cleo said, maybe there was a jumper on a chair with a crest showing. I guess if you go far enough back through anyone’s photos, you can piece stuff together . . . ”

  “Right,” Clare says, in her wonderfully pragmatic way, and without even knowing what’s coming next I’m glad she’s here.

  I have a sudden image of her at work, dealing with a big IT crisis, rolling up her sleeves and putting everyone at ease with a single “Right”.

  “It sounds like he’s gleaning everything from photos and blog posts and tweets – he could be miles away, couldn’t he? Is there anything you absolutely cannot explain away? Anything that shows he can’t be some faraway randomer?”

  “Kind of . . . last Wednesday I fell asleep on the couch after work, and I woke to a message asking me if I enjoyed my nap.” I lower my voice to hide the shake.

  “Okay. And could you have said anything online about being tired or looking forward to a sleep – could it have been a lucky guess?”

  I shake my head. “Not online, but I had told my mother I needed to sleep. On the phone, I mean. I wondered then if maybe he’d hacked my phone, so I got a new phone and a new number.”

  I look up, expecting disbelief or ridicule, but she just nods.

  “Good idea.”

  “And I should feel safe but I don’t. I’m only guessing he tapped my phone, or maybe hoping, because that’s easier than thinking he was
outside my house looking in while I slept.” Imagining it sends a shiver across my chest and down into the pit of my stomach.

  “Well,” she says gently, “whether he listened to your call or looked through the window, isn’t it time you went to the Guards?”

  “You see, we did – the police in New York were dealing with it, because Cleo was certain it was this guy Chris. But as of her phone-call ten minutes ago, I know it’s not. And I get the feeling in some perverse way she’s glad it’s not Chris. But now I’m left with this mess on my hands, and yeah, I do need to go to the Guards.” I let out a deep sigh. “It’s sounds so obvious but when you’re actually faced with doing it, it’s daunting.”

  She reaches a hand across the table. “I’m sure Dave would go with you?”

  Dave. Oh God, he’d get on his high horse about this. No doubt he’d come with me to report it, but he’d get far too much ‘I told you so’ ammunition out of it.

  Clare reads my mind. “Or your mum?”

  “My mum would be completely baffled by the whole thing, or she’d think we’re all going to be murdered in our beds. No, I need to keep my mum out of this.”

  “Right,” Clare says, draining her tea and pushing back her chair. “Where are the girls?”

  “At basketball, then going straight to Dave’s. It’s Nadine’s birthday so they’re celebrating with a broccoli quiche or something.” I catch her eye. “I’m joking. It’s probably a really nice sugar-free butter-free cake.”

  “Well then, get your coat and I’ll get mine and meet you out front in two minutes. I’ll drive. And put a bit of blusher on. You don’t want to scare the Guards.”

  “You’re hilarious, Clare,” I tell her, leaning down to rummage in my handbag for nothing at all, as my eyes fill up with tears.

  Chapter 45

  There’s an unmistakable lightness to Thursday morning and even the knowledge that Jonathan is my first appointment can’t dispel it. I just wish I’d gone to the Guards sooner instead of waiting for Cleo to prove it was Chris. They took a statement and asked me to send on copies of the emails and some screenshots of the tweets, and details of the new blog. They said they might need my laptop and phone for forensic analysis but they’ll let me know. It could take months to investigate, they said, especially if the servers and sites are outside of Ireland, but they took the whole thing a lot more seriously than I expected, and as I walked back down the steps of the Garda Station, linking arms with Clare, I felt better than I had done in weeks.

  All of this is rumbling through my head when Jonathan ambles into my office.

  “Dr Elliot, you look well. Sleeping better?”

  I search his face for amusement or guile, but there’s nothing disingenuous in his expression. Sitting down, he folds his arms and stretches out his legs.

  “How are you, Jonathan, how have things been this week?” I ask, coming around to sit opposite.

  “Good. I think our sessions are really helping.”

  The words are innocuous but I don’t trust him. Our eyes meet. I’m right.

  “You were telling me last week about your ex-wife, and how you were able to spy on her. Do you want to talk about that some more?”

  “Really, Dr Elliot? Is that relevant to our therapy?” But he’s smiling and I know he wants to show me how smart he is.

  “I think you need to get everything out if you’re really going to move past this. What did you do?”

  He leans forward and lowers his voice. “I didn’t have to do much at all. She told me everything herself, so to speak.”

  He sits back, smug.

  “She told you? About her affair?”

  “You could say that.”

  Oh, for God’s sake.

  “Go on?”

  “She joined a closed Facebook group called Trophy Wives, for women with more time and money than sense. That’s not actually their definition but it describes it perfectly. And, Jesus, you should see some of the stuff they post in there – it’s like a window into a girls’ night out, except they don’t know anyone is watching.” He licks his lips. “It’s ironic really because, if anything, I was the trophy husband. I was the one with the mid-level job and the loaded wife. But she didn’t like that – she liked the idea of being a kept woman and didn’t want people to know it was Daddy’s money, not hubby’s. You know?”

  I nod and pretend to take a note.

  “So yeah, Sorcha kept them all up to date on her affair – when she was meeting him, how she felt about him . . . some of them were egging her on, telling her to leave me. Sluts.”

  I sit up straighter.

  “But how did you know what she posted?”

  “Because I was there too,” he says matter-of-factly, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I saw it as a suggested group in my own Facebook feed, so I set up a fake profile with a woman’s name and requested to join. They don’t pay any attention – as long as you’re a woman, you’re in.”

  Oh my God. So he knew everything she was doing, and she had no idea. A familiar chill flicks across my skin.

  “The gas thing is,” he says, leaning in again as though he’s sharing a bit of harmless gossip, “she’s gone now and I’m still there. Still listening.”

  “She left the group when your marriage broke up?”

  “Let’s just say her account is dormant.”

  His fish-eyes are fixed on my face, a half-smile on his lips, and I know he’s waiting for more, waiting for me to ask him something else.

  “Jonathan, do you think it’s healthy to stay on in that group under a fake profile? Wouldn’t it be better to make a clean break?”

  His face changes and he looks confused. “But they’re my friends now. Why would I leave?”

  There are dozens of Facebook groups called Trophy Wives or with the words Trophy Wife in the name and, without knowing his fake profile, working out which one is Jonathan’s is impossible. After ten minutes, I’m lost in a world of women who want to marry older, wealthy men. Most of them are US-based and I wonder if Jonathan made it all up, but then there’s no reason why Sorcha’s group wouldn’t be American.

  Engrossed in my laptop screen, I don’t hear Ava come into the kitchen until she’s right beside me.

  “Here,” she says, holding out her phone. “Gran wants to talk to you – she couldn’t get you on your own phone. She sounds cross.” She whispers the last bit.

  Oh, here we go.

  “Hi, Mum, how’re you?”

  “Why won’t you answer your phone – I thought you were dead!”

  My mother generally thinks people are dead if they don’t pick up after two rings.

  “Sorry, I forgot it in the car when I came in from work – I’ll pick it up in a bit or send one of the girls out.”

  “Your brand-new phone? For something you’re so attached to, you’re very careless, normally you can’t let it out of your hand for a second.”

  Nice two-pronged attack there, thanks, Mum.

  “Well the car’s right outside and it’s locked,” I tell her, scrolling through more Trophy Wife groups. “And this street isn’t exactly a hotbed for thieves.”

  “You should get a landline. It’s not a good idea to rely on mobile phones. What if someone broke in and your mobile wouldn’t work?”

  “Mum, why would a landline be any more reliable than a mobile?” I ask but, even as I say it, I know I’m being unreasonable. Possibly the most annoying thing of all about my mother is that she is sometimes right.

  After a twenty-minute rundown of all her neighbours’ ailments and what the priest said about gambling last Sunday, I say goodbye and get back to the trophy-wife research. Changing tack, I try googling Sorcha Oliver but nothing comes up – maybe she never took Jonathan’s surname. I look again at the members in one of the larger Trophy Wives groups in my search. The names are all distinctly American, and the profile pictures mostly show beautiful young women, but some show couples, and others babies. One is a picture of a teacup
with a love-heart on it, and another is a gerbera daisy. Could one of them be Jonathan? I click into the teacup but her privacy settings are high, and I can only see her cover photo and name. The gerbera daisy is equally private, as are most of the others I try. And suddenly it strikes me that any of them could be Jonathan, or any middle-aged man getting his kicks from joining a women-only group. The beauty and the fatal flaw of the internet – being anyone you want to be.

  I switch to Twitter, and search for LillGalwayGirl first. My face is hot, but she’ll never know I did it. I study the familiar photo I’ve known for years, then take a look at her most recent tweets: a chat with two book bloggers, and disdain for last night’s episode of a BBC crime drama. Oh for God’s sake, what am I doing? I know Lill. You can’t converse with someone online for years without knowing them, and nobody keeps up a fake persona for that length of time.

  “What are you doing, Mum?”

  Rebecca’s voice startles me.