Copycat

by Alex Lake

  Sarah laughed. ‘The professor was a piece of work.’

  That was an understatement. He and Jean had met when Hardy College was organizing students to volunteer in local schools. He’d asked her out and they’d gone on a couple of dates; after the last one she went back to his house – full of models and jigsaw puzzles, she told Sarah, wall to ceiling, complete, in pieces – and they kissed, despite the fact Jean was already having second thoughts.

  Then he asked me if I could meow, Jean said, and gently scratch his face. He told me to imagine I was a gentle cat who loved her owner but might bite him if he was naughty.

  And did you? Sarah asked, over a Mai-tai in a local bar.

  No! Jean said. Although I might have, for the right guy. But not for him. I made my excuses and bolted.

  ‘This one’ll be fine,’ Sarah said. ‘Unless he has a thing for dogs.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Jean said. ‘I feel so much better now. Although all I really need is someone who doesn’t care about all the baggage I bring.’

  ‘It’s not that bad,’ Sarah said.

  ‘You don’t think? Widow, two kids from her dead husband’s first marriage, infertile, no money, getting a bit on the fat side, constantly exhausted?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Sarah said. ‘But for the right guy, you’d be prepared to act like a playful but latently aggressive cat. Which has to count for something.’

  ‘Well, if you put it in those terms,’ Jean replied. ‘I’m a great catch.’

  ‘You are a great catch,’ Sarah said. ‘And not only because of your cat impersonation skills.’

  Jean stood up. ‘Could have done with someone like Sean. But Becky snapped him up. Anyway, it’s time for me to go.’

  Sarah smiled and hugged her friend. ‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘And I expect a call later with all the juicy gossip.’

  25

  Sarah woke early the following morning. She checked her phone; no message from Jean. She’d call later to find out about her blind date. Then she opened her email; some spam, but nothing else.

  Nothing from an email account set up under the name Sarah Havenant.

  It was crazy: every time she checked her email there was a moment when she felt her heart had stopped, when a little shot of adrenaline put her on alert, in case there was something new, something sinister and weird in there.

  And then, when there wasn’t, she relaxed. The fact it was a relief not to have an email from someone posing as her showed how very fucked up this had become.

  There was, however, an email from Ian Molyneux.

  Sarah – I ran Matt Landay. I think he’s in the clear. He’s been in Dubai working on some finance deal for the last three months. Anyway, I’ll keep you posted.

  She wasn’t convinced. It was conceivable that Rachel and Matt had met and married – they were part of a group who had attended liberal arts colleges in New England at the same time, and there would have been plenty of opportunities for them to meet – but it seemed ominous that six months ago Rachel Little divorced him and all this started.

  Matt could be doing this from Dubai. He was smart enough. She’d tell Ian not to cross him off the list just yet.

  She put her head back on her pillow and closed her eyes.

  Next to her, Ben stirred. He opened one eye and looked at her.

  ‘Everything OK?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Woke up early.’

  ‘I was dreaming of you,’ he said. ‘Of us.’

  ‘Oh? What were we doing?’

  His hand snaked across the bedsheets and on to her hip. He pulled her toward him then rolled on top of her.

  ‘This,’ he said.

  It was another hot day, and they were planning a trip to the beach. Ben sat by the door, pulling on his running shoes.

  ‘I’ll be back in thirty minutes,’ he said. ‘And then we can go. I’ll pack some food if you get the kids ready.’

  ‘Sure,’ Sarah said. ‘I need to run this weekend, though. Maybe tomorrow morning.’ This was part of the dance of their married lives: you run now, I run later. Quid pro quo. If he got to do an activity, then she did too. Sometimes, to make sure they were equal, she did things she didn’t really want to. He went out with the boys – which was pretty rare – and she would go out with the girls, even if she was wiped out and mainly interested in an early night.

  ‘You got it,’ he said, in his fake American accent, an accent that still sounded, after years in the US, like a Welsh cowboy. He kissed her. ‘Back soon.’

  As he left, her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, the little shot of nervousness coursing through her before she saw it was Jean.

  Went well. Sorry I didn’t call last night. Got home later than expected!

  Sarah typed a reply.

  omg. Sounds like it went really well. What happened?

  He’s nice. Cute too. I’ll tell all later. What are you guys doing today?

  Going to Crescent Beach. See you there?

  So Jean had a boyfriend. Maybe, at least. It was great news. She’d had a tough run over the years, from her over-strict parents through having to get an abortion at eighteen and then later the loss of her husband. She deserved some happiness. Sarah went to find the kids’ beach clothes with a smile on her face; things felt faintly normal, for a change, and at least someone was having some luck. Her mood – tense, anxious, low – lifted for the first time in days.

  She only hoped it would last.

  26

  Getting a seven-year-old, five-year-old and two-year-old into beach clothes – shorts and T-shirts, nothing more – should not have been this difficult. It should not have required nearly forty minutes of polite requests, desperate cajoling and finally flat-out shouting to get it done.

  How was it that Miles, who was seven and perfectly capable of dressing himself, was walking around naked half an hour after she asked him to put his clothes on?

  I can’t find them.

  I put them by your bed.

  Oh. Thanks, Mom.

  Then five minutes later:

  Miles! Why are you not dressed?

  I don’t have my clothes.

  I told you! They’re by your bed!

  No they aren’t! I looked.

  Then she went upstairs and there they were, right in front of him, which she pointed out to Miles.

  Oh, he said. Those clothes, with the emphasis on those, as though she had cleared up some great mystery and his inability to recognize the clothes he went to the beach in every weekend when they were right in front of his face was perfectly reasonable.

  Miles, though, was one thing. He was simply incapable; the only explanation for Faye was that she was being deliberately obstructive in an attempt not to have to go and play with her friends by the ocean, a place which, when it came time to go home, she would scream blue murder about having to leave.

  And Kim. Getting her out of the door was like trying to empty a swimming pool with a colander. A leaky colander.

  But forty minutes later it was done. Three kids, dressed and ready. Smiling and enthusiastic about a trip to the beach. The only victim was her sanity. In moments like this she wondered whether she was a particularly incompetent mother or whether her kids were particularly difficult to herd.

  Or maybe all kids were like this. If so, she shuddered at the prospects for the human race.

  ‘Hey.’ The front door opened. Ben stood there, dripping sweat. He ruffled Miles’s hair. ‘Nice job,’ he said. ‘They’re ready.’ He was holding a parcel in his hand. He handed it to Sarah. ‘This came. It’s for you. Did you pack lunch?’

  Sarah didn’t reply. She was staring at the box. It was from Amazon, addressed to her.

  She hadn’t ordered anything.

  Which meant it was a surprise gift. And right now she didn’t want any surprise gifts.

  ‘Sarah? Did you get lunch packed?’

  She looked up at Ben. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘OK. I’ll grab some stuff for sandwiches.’ He paused. �
�Are you OK?’

  ‘Fine,’ she replied.

  ‘Is there a problem? With the parcel?’ Ben glanced at the kids then took her by the elbow. ‘Come and help me with the lunch,’ he said. ‘We can talk in the kitchen.’

  When they were out of the kids’ hearing, he took the box from her hands.

  ‘What is it?’ he said. ‘What did you order?’

  ‘I didn’t order anything,’ Sarah said. ‘I don’t know what it is.’

  Ben paused; he looked at her and for a moment there was a serious, concerned expression in his eyes, but then he shrugged it away.

  ‘You probably don’t remember,’ he said. ‘I do that all the time.’

  It was an act, Sarah knew, an act designed to pretend this was not what it was going to turn out to be. To panic, to worry was to admit this was real, and Ben was not ready to take that step, not yet.

  But it was real. She knew it. She knew she had not ordered anything from Amazon and then forgotten it, and she knew Ben did not do it all the time, whatever he said to reassure her.

  ‘Are you going to open it?’ he said.

  She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to know what was in there. She wanted it never to have arrived.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘I’ll do it.’ She handed him the box and he hefted it in his hands.

  ‘Books,’ he said. ‘I think it’s books. You ordered a book and forgot. Probably some medical thing. Or maybe one of your doctor friends sent it.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Sarah said. ‘Why don’t you take a look?’

  He pressed a nail into the corner of the tape – Amazon Prime, it said – and slit it. He tugged open the cardboard flaps and reached inside.

  A layer of air-filled plastic packaging materials. Then paper. Books. Two of them.

  He pulled them out. She read the titles, and gasped.

  27

  She took them from him and stared at them.

  The title of the first one was bad enough: Coping With Depression by some MD trying to make a few extra bucks.

  The second was awful.

  Living with Bipolar: Family Strategies to Cope with a Bipolar Parent.

  She hadn’t known this was a topic to warrant a book being written about it, but it seemed it was.

  She threw the books on to the kitchen counter. She didn’t even want to look at them. There was a sheet of letter paper in the one about depression. As the book landed it fell to the floor.

  Ben picked it up. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I thought this was an invoice, but there’s a message.’ His eyes scanned it, and the serious, concerned expression came back on his face. ‘Holy shit,’ he said. ‘You better read this.’

  ‘Do I have to?’ Sarah said.

  ‘I think you should.’

  He offered it to her and she took it from his outstretched hand.

  Dear Sarah. I hope you enjoy this gift. The first step in accepting help is recognizing you need it. You know you need it, but you will not admit it to yourself. So you have taken the unusual step of sending yourself the books you need to start your journey of recovery. The contents of one of these books – the one on depression – will, as a doctor, be familiar to you, but I think a little refresher will help. The second book is a warning: if you do not start to help yourself, then this is where this might all end, which would be terrible for your family.

  Enjoy! Yours, Sarah Havenant.

  ‘Ben,’ Sarah said. ‘Ben, what is this?’

  Ben picked up her phone. He tapped on the screen.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Sarah said.

  ‘Opening the Amazon app,’ he said. ‘I want to see if this came from your account.’

  ‘It didn’t!’ Sarah said. ‘I would know if I’d ordered these books! They’re not the kind of thing I would forget!’

  ‘Let’s check.’

  ‘Do you not believe me?’ Sarah said. ‘You think I’m lying?’

  ‘I believe you. I just want to check.’ He handed her the phone. ‘Here. Log in.’

  She shrugged and typed in her username and password. He wasn’t going to find what he was looking for, but it would at least put a stop to this line of enquiry.

  She tapped on her orders, and watched as a new screen came up.

  And there it was. Ordered two days ago at 4.37 p.m. Coping with Depression and Living with Bipolar: Family Strategies to Cope with a Bipolar Parent, both sent from her account to her.

  Her expression must have given her away, because when he spoke there was a worried urgency in Ben’s voice.

  ‘Sarah?’ he said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘They’re there,’ she muttered, finding it hard to believe her eyes. ‘They were ordered from my account.’

  ‘Then …’ Ben paused ‘… then you ordered them.’

  ‘Or someone else with access to my Amazon account,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘There is no one,’ Sarah said, and looked up at him. ‘Other than you.’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘And I don’t even know your Amazon password. I have my own.’

  ‘Which only leaves me,’ Sarah said. ‘And I didn’t do it.’

  ‘Then it’s somebody else who has your password. Or guessed it. It’s not too obvious, is it? Like MilesFayeKim?’

  ‘It’s RedFrontDoor,’ Sarah replied. ‘Because we have a red front door. Which I don’t think is too obvious, is it?’

  Ben shook his head. ‘Probably not.’

  ‘I don’t know who this could be,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s driving me mad.’

  ‘That’s one question,’ Ben said. ‘The other is why? Why these books?’ He put his hands on her shoulders and looked straight into her eyes. ‘Are you OK, Sarah? Is someone trying to send a message to you by sending these?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Sarah said. ‘But I don’t know what message. I’m fine. I’m totally fine.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I am. There’s nothing wrong, Ben. I promise.’

  From the look on his face, she did not think he was convinced.

  28

  She will have them by now. The books will be in her possession and she will be asking herself what they mean and who sent them, but she will not get answers.

  She is floundering. Sinking. Lost. A fish on a hook, thrashing about.

  She is not able to work it out for herself and she will not be told. Will not be given them for nothing.

  Not yet.

  Eventually she will, of course. Or this would all be pointless. It would also be no fun, but fun is a secondary consideration. The fact it is fun is a bonus. When she finds out who is doing this and why she will choke on her disbelief, but her terror is only part of the goal. It is nice to have, but not necessary.

  And when she finally understands, she will understand one other thing as well.

  She will understand that it is too late for her to do anything about it.

  29

  ‘OK,’ Ben said. ‘Time to go. Car’s all packed.’

  Sarah moved the mouse and clicked on her Amazon account. ‘Hold on,’ she said. ‘I need a few minutes.’

  ‘The kids are in the car and quiet,’ Ben said. ‘Which might not last, especially if we sit in the driveway for half an hour waiting for you.’

  ‘I won’t be half an hour!’ Sarah said. ‘I told you, I’ll be a few minutes!’

  ‘Can’t it wait until we get back from the beach?’

  Sarah closed her eyes and fought the rising anger. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It can’t.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing. Give me a few minutes and I’ll be done.’

  ‘Sarah,’ Ben said. ‘It’s not—’

  ‘Can you not hear me?’ Sarah said, her voice rising into a shout. ‘For fuck’s sake, Ben! I told you I need some time to do this and then we can leave.’

  Ben stared at her in silence. His mouth was a thin line. He nodded slowly, as though realizing something for the first time, and then turned and left.

  S
arah went back to the screen. She felt bad, but this was important.

  At least, she had thought it was. Now, though, after she’d screamed and sworn at her husband, it seemed less urgent.

  But it was all she had. It was the only thing she could do to get control of the situation.

  She needed to change her passwords. Email, Amazon, eBay, bank account, everything. Next was the credit card that had been used to buy the books. She would delete it from her Amazon account, and then she would cancel her Facebook account.

  They were all going. The whole digital mess was on its way out. From now on she was buying things in shops and communicating face-to-face or by phone. Email was unavoidable, but she would tell everyone that whenever they got an email from her making any kind of arrangement – picking up kids, play dates, party invites – they were to call and check with her, verbal confirmation required.

  It might not be perfect, but it was a start, which was why she had been so annoyed by Ben trying to stop her.

  It took longer than she expected, and it was twenty minutes before she was done. She shut down the computer and grabbed her hat and sunglasses from the kitchen counter. She pictured herself getting in the passenger seat of the car and turning to the kids.

  Sorry! she’d say, her voice bright. Mommy had to do an important job. But how about we all get ice creams when we get to the beach?

  And then she’d look at Ben and he’d still be mad at her, but she’d put a hand on his thigh – high on his thigh so he understood the promise she was giving that she’d make it up to him later on – and say sorry to him too, and that would re-establish contact and it’d all be OK, ready for a fun day at the beach.

  She closed the front door behind her and walked on to the porch.

  She stopped.

  There was only one car in the driveway. Ben’s Camry.

  Her car was gone. The SUV they used when they needed to travel as a family – for instance, when they went to the beach – was not there.

  He’d gone without her.

  She grabbed her phone and called him.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’