The Girl I Used to Be

by Mary Torjussen

  “I need to go out for a bit,” I said. “You’re in charge, Rachel, okay? I won’t be long. Call if you need anything.”

  I had no doubt that as soon as my car had left our car park, Sophie would be at the shop buying magazines and sweets for their leisurely afternoon, and I found I didn’t really care. All I could think about was getting hold of David and asking him what he thought he was doing.

  * * *

  * * *

  AS I DROVE I thought of what I’d say to him. Would he answer me? Would he deny all knowledge? My stomach clenched at the thought of a confrontation, but I needed to know who’d taken the photo. He’d been with a group of other men when I first met him, but would they have taken a photo of us together? Why would they do that? And had he been at the hotel with them or was it merely casual chat? I just couldn’t remember. I hadn’t known them. He hadn’t introduced us or even mentioned them; once he turned to talk to me, his focus was on me.

  I’d always prided myself on my memory. Before we had Rory, Joe and I used to go to The Crown every Thursday night for a pub quiz and he’d laugh as I would remember the most ridiculous facts, things I’d heard once, years before. It was a curse as well as a blessing, of course; some things I really didn’t want to remember and I had no choice, so I’d had to learn to block them out. Yet I couldn’t remember parts of that night as well as I could remember others from years ago. I was more tired now, though. Maybe that was it.

  As I drove to David’s house, I remembered that he had said he worked for Barford’s on the outskirts of Chester. Just then my phone rang. I saw that it was Rachel and parked in a lay-by to speak to her. She had a quick question about a sale I was involved with and just before she hung up, I asked, “Are you busy?”

  “No, apart from that query it’s fine. Do you want me to do something?”

  “Remember that client who came in a couple of weeks ago? David Sanderson. I took him to view the apartments down by the river. Can you call his details up for me, please?”

  I could hear the click of her mouse as she searched the database.

  “Just a second,” she said. “Oh, I think I remember him. Nice-looking guy?”

  I winced. “I suppose. Dark-haired. Tall.”

  “Just a minute, the system’s slow,” she said. “I think I have him now. Do you want his number?”

  “No, I’ve got that. Which company did he work for?”

  “It says here he works for Barford’s.”

  I nodded. That was the name I’d remembered. “Did he give their address?”

  “No.” She was curious now and I could have kicked myself. “Why do you need his work address?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’m just trying to get hold of him. Did he give a number for Barford’s?”

  She read it out. “Is there anything I can do, Gemma? Where are you?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be back in an hour.” I clicked the phone off before she could ask any more questions. I knew she and Sophie would be talking about me now, wondering what I was up to.

  My call went straight through to a recorded message. “You are through to Thompson and Sons. All of our offices are closed today. Please call back between nine A.M. and five P.M. Monday to Friday.”

  I stared at the phone and back down at my notepad. He’d said he worked for Barford’s, but this company was called Thompson’s. I looked them up online. They were a building company, and yes, their number was the same as the one he’d given us.

  I checked Google, found the real number for Barford’s and called them. Luckily someone was on duty there and answered my call. Nobody by the name of David Sanderson was on the staff list.

  FIFTEEN

  THE STREET DAVID had said he lived in was a cul-de-sac, arching around a pretty piece of land planted with trees and flowers. The houses were double fronted, with smart gates and bright, well-tended gardens. I stopped just short of the house and looked around carefully. I thought of what David had said about not being ready to live in a house, preferring an apartment instead. These were family houses, exactly the opposite of what he’d wanted.

  There was a red Toyota parked outside the garage and I realized I didn’t know which car David had driven when he came to see us. I have CCTV installed in our small private car park, ever since someone had parked there and scratched my car; I took out my notepad and wrote Check CCTV so that I wouldn’t forget.

  My stomach tightened as I rang the doorbell. I didn’t know what I would say to him. What could I say? For a moment I thought of leaving, of running back to my car and going back to work, but then a figure appeared through the colored glass of the porch door and I found I couldn’t move.

  A woman of about my age opened the door and immediately I panicked. Was she married to David? How was I going to ask him about the photo if she was there?

  She glanced up and down the road as though wondering why I was there and whether I was selling something. “Hello?”

  I pulled myself together and smiled reassuringly at her. “I’m looking for David Sanderson,” I said. “Is he at home?”

  She frowned. “Who?”

  “David Sanderson.”

  “He doesn’t live here,” she said. “I’ve never heard of him.”

  For a second I wondered whether she was lying, but then she leaned into the hallway and shouted, “Neville!” A few seconds later, a man appeared. He was about my height, fair-haired and stocky. “This woman wants to find someone called David Sanderson. Do you know him?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry, never heard of him.”

  “He gave me this address,” I said weakly. “He said he lived here.”

  They looked at each other, clearly puzzled. “We’ve been here for more than ten years,” said the woman. “And we know all our neighbors. There’s no one in this cul-de-sac with that name, I’m afraid.”

  The man agreed. “Sorry. You must have the wrong address.”

  They looked so earnest and honest that I didn’t feel I could start quizzing them further, so I thanked them and went back to my car. I drove out of the cul-de-sac and back onto the main road, and then parked my car. I opened Facebook. There were quite a few men with the same name, but those with photos clearly weren’t him and those without lived in other countries. I checked Twitter and he wasn’t there, either.

  He’d said he was in sales. Surely he’d be on LinkedIn? I checked, but the only David Sandersons there were clearly not the man I’d met. I entered his name into Google, but it was quite a common name and even though I scrolled through page after page, I couldn’t find anything about him at all. I sat back and closed my eyes, trying desperately to think. His phone number had rung out; it was impossible to leave a voice mail. My e-mails to him weren’t answered. He didn’t live at that address and he didn’t work where he said he had, that much was clear.

  Just then my phone pinged in my hand, startling me. It was an Instagram message. I only use Instagram with a few people, and on the screen it said the message was from someone I don’t follow. I looked at the sender’s name; it was WatchingYou. There was a little cartoon figure next to the name, rather than a photo. I frowned and clicked on the message.

  There didn’t seem to be anything there at first. I was just about to switch off my phone when a video appeared.

  It was a video of me.

  * * *

  * * *

  WHEN I HEARD my own voice, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure I would have married him if I’d known.” My cheeks were pink and a glance at my eyes made it clear I was drunk. “It’s not that he’s lazy,” I heard. My tone was confidential, as though I were telling a secret, and my voice was husky. “Well, he is lazy sometimes!” On the video I laughed, just a bit too loud, and covered my mouth to stop myself. “God, he’s so lazy at times.” I sounded irritated now, rather th
an fond. “It’s just that when he said he’d stay at home with Rory, I didn’t think he meant forever! I just wish . . .” My voice became pensive then. “I just wish I’d been able to stay at home, too. Instead of him. I wish I’d had that chance.” I looked up at the person I was speaking to. “You only get one chance, don’t you?”

  On the screen I picked up my glass of wine and drank some. A little wine smile appeared around my mouth. I said, “What?” and then laughed, using a napkin to wipe it away.

  The person I was speaking to said something then. In the car I strained to hear it, but I couldn’t. On the screen I replied, “Well, that’s what he wants. And he wants to try for another baby now. I’m just worried that he’ll never go back to work.” Again, the other person spoke. I could see my own face in the video, drunkenly focusing on what was being said. Then I said, “I don’t know. I just don’t know if I would marry him again, knowing what it would be like.”

  The video stopped there, frozen with my face in a grimace, my glass in my hand.

  * * *

  * * *

  I STARED DOWN at the screen, my mind whirring. What on earth was this? I had no memory of saying it to anyone. I hadn’t even thought it, or not for a while, anyway, and only then in a temper. I wanted to play it again but now the list of messages I’d received appeared and next to WatchingYou it said Video Unavailable.

  I scrolled through the messages. The last one I’d had, prior to this, was one I’d had from Caitlin the other day. She’d sent me some photos of toys and clothes that she wanted my opinion on for Rory’s birthday. Those photos were still there.

  I swiped the Instagram app so that it disappeared from my screen, then reopened it. I could still see that WatchingYou had sent me a video, but that it was unavailable.

  I felt like I was about to hyperventilate. Where was the message? Who had sent it to me?

  And then I realized. In the video I was wearing that dress I’d worn in London, the night I had a meal with David. Although most of the video showed just my face, there was a moment when I picked up my glass where I’d seen a flash of a dark green shoulder strap. One strap must have slipped down my arm—it was always doing that—and it had almost looked like I was naked.

  * * *

  * * *

  I DROVE SLOWLY back to Chester, my mind racing. When I got back into the office, all was quiet. A couple was leaving as I entered, their hands full of brochures. I forced myself to smile at them, to ask them whether they’d gotten what they’d come for, and they promised they’d be in touch when they’d looked through the house details. All the time I was thinking about the video, the way I appeared. Drunk. Flirty. Betraying my husband without a second thought.

  Brian was on the phone; it sounded as though he was talking to a tenant about rent that was overdue. I looked at him, knowing I should ask him what was going on, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything else but my own fears. He gave me a thumbs-up so I let it go. I knew he’d manage without my input.

  Rachel was typing on her computer and Sophie was washing up some cups in the kitchen. I took a bottle of water from the fridge, found some painkillers in my drawer, and sank into my office chair.

  “You look tired,” said Rachel. “Is everything okay?” I didn’t know where to start. I looked over at her, just dying to confide in someone. She smiled at me. “Rory okay?”

  Rory was about the only thing that was okay, I thought. I wondered what Rachel would say if I said, Yes, actually, he’s fine, but everything else seems to be going wrong. I pictured her face if I told her what was actually going on and I thought it would only be a matter of seconds before she told Sophie.

  I knew that the only people I really trusted were Joe and Caitlin. The only people I wanted to talk to were the ones who mustn’t know what was going on.

  SIXTEEN

  I LET EVERYONE at the office leave a few minutes early, saying I would be okay to lock up. I put the Closed sign on the door and put the latch down, then went through to the back and made sure the door to the small backyard was locked, too. When I was certain I was the only person in the office and nobody else could get in, I sat back at my desk and downloaded the CCTV footage for the car park.

  I own the tiny car park behind the office. Because of the security systems in place, we have to lock up and leave via the front door, then go round the corner into the car park. There was room for only six cars and the spaces were clearly marked. After the incident last year when my car was damaged, I’d installed a cheap CCTV camera to record vehicles entering and leaving the car park. I wondered whether David had parked there when he’d come into the office. I couldn’t remember whether I’d asked him when we drove off where he’d parked.

  I set the CCTV to play. The grainy screen hurt my eyes right from the beginning. I tried to remember what time he’d come in, but decided to put it to run from eight A.M., just in case he’d arrived early and gone for coffee.

  Nothing happened at all until eight thirty, when I arrived at the office.

  On the screen I could see my car enter the empty car park at the back of our office. I watched myself get out of my car, lock it with my key fob, then leave the car park, turning in the direction of the office. Fifteen minutes later Rachel drove in and neatly reversed into the space next to mine. She sat in the car for a few minutes—I couldn’t see what she was doing but guessed she was checking her makeup or on her phone—and then she jumped out and waved at someone on the street. I assumed that was Sophie; they usually arrived at about the same time. Two minutes later, Brian’s car entered the car park. He parked nearest to the exit, as he tended to come and go all day.

  Nothing happened for the next couple of hours. Then at ten thirty I saw myself walk into view, throw my bag into the backseat of my car, and drive off. It was clear that David hadn’t parked there.

  I closed down the CCTV and thought about what to do. My office is on a corner, with the car park behind it. We’re opposite a restaurant and I know they don’t have cameras there. On the other side of the road is a charity bookshop—no cameras there, either. However, if you walk farther up the street to the end of the block, there is a small shop that sells newspapers and groceries. The owner and manager, Michael, was a guy I’d known for a few years through our local small business association. I guessed he’d have a CCTV system because of the problem he’d had with shoplifters at times.

  I locked up the office and walked down the street to Michael’s shop. I had to wait awhile behind people who were picking up groceries, then asked the assistant if Michael was free. When she called him, he came out of his office at the back of the shop and beckoned me over.

  “Are your CCTV cameras working?” I asked. I explained that I was concerned about a client of ours but didn’t say anything more than that. I said I wanted to see whether he could see him onscreen, as I wanted to go to the police about him. Michael raised his eyebrows at that, but ushered me into his office and switched on his machine.

  “When did you want to check?”

  “June sixteenth,” I said.

  Immediately he stopped. “I’m sorry, Gemma, but we only store them for a week. It’s an old system and we store them on rewritable disks. Every week I erase everything and start again. There’s no point in us keeping it any longer if there hasn’t been any trouble. What’s he been up to?”

  I hesitated. I didn’t want to tell him the full story, obviously, but I needed him to understand why I wanted to check.

  “We had someone come in who was a bit odd,” I said. “He freaked me out a bit. I checked out his contact details and he was lying about who he was. I wanted to see whether I could find a picture of him.”

  “I don’t blame you. Remember Suzy Lamplugh?”

  I winced. Suzy Lamplugh was an estate agent in London who took a client to view a property and was never seen again. It was discovered later that the client had given a false name when
he’d made the appointment. I was only too aware of her whenever I thought of David. The responsibility I had to my staff, sending them into empty properties with people we didn’t know, was huge. I decided that the next day I’d tell the staff they had to ask for official ID before showing a client any properties. I’d make them take a photocopy of it, so that at least if something happened, the police would know who was responsible.

  “That’s why I need to know who he is,” I said. “I need to protect my staff.”

  And protect myself, too.

  SEVENTEEN

  Monday, July 31

  THE NEXT MORNING I woke with a start. I thought someone had held me by the shoulder and hip and had turned me over in my bed. It was the strangest sensation, as though I could still feel hands gripping me tightly and then letting me go as I landed facedown on the bed. I couldn’t resist, could only do what the hands were making me do. My heart thumped and I gasped.

  I opened my eyes and saw that the room was light; it was nearly time to get up. “Joe?” I touched his shoulder, but he grunted and moved away. “Joe, did you move me, just then?”

  “Eh?” Slowly he wakened and turned over to face me. “What?”

  “Did you turn me over in bed?”

  He looked bemused. “I was asleep, Gem. I didn’t do anything.”

  “That was really weird. Are you sure?”

  He closed his eyes. “You must have been dreaming, honey,” he said. “I was nowhere near you.”

  My heart was pounding still from the sensation of being moved, and I lay on my side, away from Joe, and tried to calm myself. It was a dream; it had to have been.