The Girl I Used to Be

by Mary Torjussen

  There it was, clear as anything. At six thirty P.M. I’d written:

  Just got to hotel. Going to have a bath and relax! Kiss Rory for me xx

  He’d replied: Will do and kisses to you from me. Hope you have a good night xx

  I’d replied: Don’t worry, I will! I’m going to order a meal and watch TV xx

  That had been my intention. That wasn’t the problem, though. Anyone can change their mind. I’d looked at the empty room, heard the sounds of people out on the terrace through the open window, and decided to go down for a drink instead of staying alone in my room. That was okay. But then at nine thirty P.M. he’d written:

  Hope you’ve had a good night. What did you watch? xx

  And there in black and white was my reply:

  I decided to read instead. Ready for sleep now. Night xxx

  I felt cold as I looked at the message I’d sent. Why had I sent that? I remember sitting chatting to David and having a good time when my phone beeped. Often when I’m out with friends, Joe will start to text and want to carry on a text conversation with me. If I’d said I’d gone down to the bar, he would’ve asked who I was with, what we were talking about . . . He wasn’t possessive or jealous, he was just interested, but often it would spoil my night out because his texts would fly in while I was trying to talk to someone. And I’d known he’d be bored and lonely in the living room while Rory slept. He loved company, loved to chat. A night on his own after a day looking after Rory wasn’t his idea of fun.

  I could have gone back to my room and chatted to him, but I hadn’t. I’d carried on drinking with someone I hardly knew. I’d even paid for his dinner. I’d chosen to do that rather than talk to my own husband.

  I thought of the photo that I’d received, the photo of me kissing David, or of David kissing me, whichever way it had happened. And I thought of the bill, the proof that I’d been for a meal with someone else when I’d said I was alone in my room. Then I realized: That was a photocopy.

  Where was the original?

  TWENTY

  THAT EVENING, JANET Boyd, the manager of the cleaning company recommended by Sophie’s mum, came round and we had a bonding session over the state of my house. She was a quiet, efficient woman and I was immediately won over.

  “We’ll sort this out for you,” she said. “Don’t worry about it. Go to work in the morning and when you come back it’ll be as good as new. If you give me a spare key now, I’ll make sure it’s left with the bill.”

  It cheered me up to hear that. It was bad enough clearing up my own mess, but everywhere I looked I could see where Joe had been over the last couple of days. Everything was half finished, half eaten, half drunk. He had great intentions, but as far as housework was concerned, he seemed to have the attention span of a gnat.

  Rory phoned me and told me about meeting his cousins; he was breathless with excitement as he told me about their adventures, and he said his dad would call me later that night.

  I worked into the night at home, then dialed out for a pizza and, feeling guilty about eating badly, took a vitamin pill. While I waited for it to arrive, I lay on the sofa just staring at the television; I couldn’t have said what was on.

  The landline rang. Startled, I jumped off the sofa and picked up the receiver.

  “Mum?” I said. She was the only person who called on the landline.

  There was silence. I said, “Hello?” but there was still no reply. I looked at the handset and saw that it was a withheld number. I sighed. It was likely to be from a claims company, trying to persuade me to claim for an accident I hadn’t had. For a second I listened for the background sounds of a call center, but there was no sound at all. Frowning, I put the phone down. Immediately it rang again. I picked it up and said, “Hello?” again, but no one answered.

  I glanced at the clock. It was after nine P.M. Surely call centers weren’t allowed to call at this time of night? Then the doorbell rang, making me jump. I looked through the peephole just to check who it was, something I rarely did when Joe was home, and saw it was just the pizza-delivery guy. I took the box into the living room and turned back to the television again, but I was no longer hungry. Despite the fact that it was still early, I wanted to sleep, so I put the pizza into the fridge, filled a glass with water, and went upstairs.

  The house felt weird without Joe or Rory in it. I stood in Rory’s room and looked at his toys, at his little wooden bed and his bookcase, overflowing with the books I remembered from my own childhood. I would have given anything to have him there then, to kiss him as he slept, to feel him wriggle and then settle under my touch. I sat for a moment on his bed and held his pillow to my face, breathing in the familiar smell, holding it close in lieu of him. When I stood to put it back and straighten his quilt, I saw that his little toy rabbit, Buffy, was still there, stuffed down between the bed and the wall. Rory had slept with that rabbit every night of his life; I thought Joe must have had a nightmare putting him to bed without him tonight.

  After I’d had a quick shower and was ready for bed, I switched on the lamps on either side of my bed and curled up under the quilt with Buffy in my arms. I called Joe but he didn’t pick up, and I guessed he’d be down at their local pub with Brendan and his dad by now, his happy mum left with all the children. I took a photo of myself holding Buffy close and sent it to Joe via text, with a message saying, Tell Rory I’m taking good care of Buffy and we can’t wait until you’re both back home. xxx

  I wasn’t expecting a reply that night. He hadn’t seen Brendan for months and they’d be talking all night. I opened my Kindle and started to read, knowing I’d be asleep within minutes.

  I was just on the brink of sleep when my phone gave a loud beep, making me jerk back to consciousness. Thinking it was Joe replying to my text, I reached over to grab my phone, hoping he’d sent a photo back.

  He hadn’t.

  On my screen was another Instagram message. As soon as I saw the name my stomach sank. WatchingYou. Again it said the person messaging would only know I’d seen their request if I chose Allow.

  I sat up in bed and stared at the screen, my stomach tight with panic. I held my breath as I selected Allow. I couldn’t not see the message.

  An image appeared on my screen. It was a photo of me, lying on a bed. My eyes were shut and I looked as though I was asleep.

  I had a sheet wrapped loosely around my waist and legs and I was wearing no clothes—nothing at all.

  * * *

  * * *

  I THINK THE photo must have been on my screen for about five seconds before it disappeared. All that was left was WatchingYou and Photo Unavailable.

  My hands started to shake. When had that photo been taken? It wasn’t my bed at home, I knew that. We have a white wrought-iron bedstead and the bed in the photo was completely different.

  And then I knew. I think I knew right from the moment I saw it, really, but had tried not to believe it. I lay back down on the bed and buried my face in the pillow. It was the hotel room I’d stayed in while I was in London, I was sure of it. It had had a brown suede headboard, and I knew the one in the photo was the same.

  I had no memory of that photo being taken. How much had I drunk? How much would I had to have drunk to expose myself to another man? Fidelity was so important to Joe and me. We’d both been burned by people in the past; it was the one thing we agreed on.

  Once that’s happened, the relationship’s over anyway, whether the other person knows or not, Joe had said, and I had agreed.

  Did this mean my marriage was over?

  The thought of that whipped me into action. I wasn’t going to let my marriage die without putting up a fight. I needed to go down there. I needed to go back to that hotel room and see what I could remember.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Friday, August 4

  THE NEXT DAY I was at work early. I’d been awake most of the ni
ght worrying about what was going on. Everything that had happened kept rolling around my head. The photocopy of the receipt. The photo of David kissing me. The video of me saying horrible things about Joe. And now the naked photo. I felt like screaming.

  I’d called Lucy at eight A.M.

  “Lucy, it’s me, Gemma. I need to ask a huge favor. Are you free today?”

  “Do you want me to come in? I can ask my mum to have Maisie after school. I can be there by ten if that’s any good.”

  “Would you? That would be great. Brian will be in, but Sophie’s off today and I don’t want to leave Rachel on her own with sales.”

  She agreed to that and sure enough she was there just after ten, ready to start the day.

  “I’ve got to go back home,” I told them once everyone was in. “My mum’s got a hospital appointment so I said I’d go with her. I’d forgotten all about it.”

  “Back to the Wirral?” asked Rachel. “Which hospital?”

  Rachel and I had grown up in the same town, though I hadn’t known her as I was eight years older and we’d gone to different schools. When she’d come for an interview six months ago I’d read her application form and recognized the school she’d gone to. We’d talked for a while about the area. She’d gone to university in Liverpool but I’d been desperate to leave, and only went back on occasional visits.

  “Arrowe Park.” I couldn’t think of another one offhand.

  “Do you know that area, Rachel?” asked Lucy.

  Rachel nodded. “We’re both from New Brighton.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that. Did you know each other before you started work here?”

  “No,” I said. “Obviously I’m older and we went to different schools.”

  “Do you go back often?” she asked Rachel. “Are your mum and dad still there?”

  “No, my mum . . .” All of a sudden her face was bright red and she looked as though she was going to cry. “My mum died a few months ago.”

  “It wasn’t long after Rachel’s mum died that she came to work down here,” I said to Lucy. I didn’t want Rachel to have to say anything about it if she didn’t want to. “It’s still so recent.” I looked at Rachel sympathetically. “It must have been really tough.”

  “It was.” She met my eye, looking proud and vulnerable at the same time. “Nobody knows what it’s like.”

  Lucy made a move as though she was going to hug her, but Rachel dashed off to the cloakroom.

  “What about her dad?” Lucy asked in a low voice.

  “Her mum and dad divorced and he’s living abroad with his new wife now,” I whispered. “He’s in New Zealand, I think. She doesn’t see him.”

  Lucy winced. “I don’t know how a parent could do that. Poor Rachel, she’s only in her twenties.”

  I nodded. “She told me at the interview. I don’t think she was going to say anything, but when we were chatting afterward, I asked her what it was like living at home when she was a student. She told me she had been a caregiver to her mum, who’d died a couple of months before.” I thought of Rachel that day. She was so young, only twenty-four, and was all dressed up in a business suit and heels, and I could tell she was frightened of breaking down. My heart had ached for her then, having to cope without her parents. She was a great fit for the job and I offered it to her there and then. I felt really guilty now that I hadn’t talked to her more about her family life, but she was so reserved that it had never seemed appropriate. “I have to go, Lucy. Will you make sure she’s okay?”

  She nodded. “Don’t worry, you can go now. I’ll deal with it.”

  I called good-bye to the others and left, feeling guilty that I’d lied to them about where I was going. Once I was in my car, on my way to the railway station, however, I forgot about them immediately. I had a job to do.

  TWENTY-TWO

  IT WAS LIKE a repeat of the day six weeks earlier, when I’d taken the train from Chester to London. The train to Euston was just as crowded and I was squashed alongside a mother with two children. Those children wriggled more than any child I’d known. Looking at the mother read a book to them, watching them cling on to her arms so she could hardly turn the page, made me long for Rory. I needed to see him.

  I sent Joe a text. Missing you both. Are you having a good time? Take a photo of Rory for me, will you? xx

  Immediately he responded. Miss you too. Just about to go out with Brendan. Mum’s minding the kids. She’s taken them into town and then to a café for lunch. Will send a photo later. xx

  I looked at my watch. I wouldn’t be back home until seven P.M. or so. I’d call his mum when the children were in bed. I didn’t want to disturb her while she was having some time alone with the children. I tried to quell the thought that I seemed to be the only person who wasn’t having time alone with Rory.

  Tears pricking my eyes, I sent another message: Is Rory OK? Is he happy? Did he sleep last night? xx

  In a few seconds my phone vibrated. Happy? He’s ecstatic. Have to run, talk tonight xx

  I closed my eyes and thought of Rory running around with his older cousins. Joe was right; Rory would be in his element.

  And then I thought of Joe’s face if he knew what had happened to me in London. Panic raced through me at the thought of his expression if he saw that photo from last night. I couldn’t let that happen.

  * * *

  * * *

  FROM EUSTON I went straight to the hotel, walking down Tottenham Court Road again just as I had weeks before. This time my mood was different. I knew that whatever happened today, I was going to have to do something with the information I had. I knew I should talk to the police, but then Joe would hear about it. That was inevitable. I’d do anything to avoid that.

  The hotel reception was busy when I got there. I hovered by the entrance, then decided to look into the bar before speaking to the receptionist on duty.

  The bar was open to the public. There was no table service, just one huge mahogany bar lining one wall. I looked to see whether there were any staff I recognized but couldn’t see anyone and, besides, they wouldn’t have recognized me, anyway. There must have been a couple of hundred people crammed into the bar when I was last there; there was no reason why they should remember me.

  Today there was plenty of space, with small groups of businesspeople and tourists dotted around the room. I ordered an orange juice and sat at a table by the wall. I remembered that night I’d come downstairs to see whether there was anyone I knew. I’d already bought a couple of drinks by the time I saw Liam, and I remembered trying to hide away from him. I wished now I’d talked to him, stood with his colleagues and listened to them brag about sales, rather than get drunk with David. What was I thinking?

  When I finished my drink I walked over to the restaurant, which was on the other side of the hotel’s reception area. I stood in the doorway and looked in. I thought I could remember where I’d sat but realized I wasn’t too sure. I frowned. How could I not remember that? Clients could come into the office and I’d remember which house I’d sold them and for what price even several years later. How could I not remember which table I’d sat at just six weeks ago?

  I picked up a menu from a vacant table next to me and read it. It was as though I hadn’t seen it before. I could see the meals on the receipt, the chicken and the steak. I couldn’t remember which I’d eaten and which David had had. I felt like ordering both just to see if I could remember when I saw them, but the thought of seeing them made me feel sick.

  I left the restaurant and waited at the reception desk until the receptionist was free.

  “Please may I have a word with your manager in private?” I asked.

  She raised her eyebrows but went through a door at the back of the reception and came out a few minutes later with a woman with an elegant silver pixie cut and a harassed look on her face. She greeted me and ushered me into
a small office to the side of the reception desk.

  “How can I help you?”

  “I’ve got an unusual request, I’m afraid. I wondered whether it would be possible to view your CCTV. I stayed here a while ago and I need to identify a man I had dinner with.”

  She looked surprised. “Identify him?”

  I swallowed. I couldn’t think of any way around this. “I thought I knew who he was, but it seems I don’t.”

  She looked completely confused by now.

  “I was here for a training conference on the twenty-fourth of June,” I said. “I stayed here the night of the twenty-third and I bumped into a man I knew from home. I’m an estate agent and he’s a client.” I hesitated. My face was burning. “And I think something happened that night. I think he was in my room.”

  “Without your permission?”

  “The thing is I was very drunk. I don’t usually drink much but I was really, really drunk. I felt terrible the next day.”

  She winced. “And you think he came back to your room afterward? Were you hurt?”

  “No, not hurt. I just had a hangover the next day. It’s just . . .” Suddenly I wanted to tell her. I wanted to tell someone. I was sick to death of having these thoughts racing around my head. “He sent me photos,” I said quickly. “I need to contact him to tell him to delete them.”

  “Photos?” She saw my face then, and understood. “Incriminating photos?”

  I nodded, humiliated. “I was naked.”

  “And you didn’t consent to that?”

  “God, no,” I said. “I can’t even remember him taking them.”

  She looked horrified. “You know he’s broken the law? You should go to the police.”

  “I can’t. I can’t do that.”

  She glanced down at my wedding ring. “They can be discreet, you know.”