The Girl I Used to Be

by Mary Torjussen

  “It would be different if I could show them a picture of the man. Everything he told me was a lie—his name, address, phone number . . . If I had a photo of him it would really help. And that’s when I wondered—do you have CCTV from that night?”

  “From the twenty-third of June?” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but that’s over a month ago. We keep records for thirty-one days, and then they’re destroyed. That’s what we’re advised to do by the police. Our system’s automatically set up to delete anything after that time.”

  My mind raced. So he’d sent me the photo and the video over a month after I came back from London. He must have hoped I wouldn’t be able to find CCTV records by then.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Really I am. What he’s done is shocking. Illegal. I can understand your reluctance to get the police involved, but really I think you should.”

  “I’ll think about it.” I stood up to go. “Thanks anyway.” I picked up my bag, then remembered something. “I’m not sure you’d know about this. I paid for a meal in the restaurant here and must have forgotten to pick up the receipt. I was sent a photocopy of the receipt four weeks after I was here.”

  As soon as I heard myself say that, I knew that of course the hotel hadn’t sent it. Why would they wait four weeks to send a receipt to a guest they didn’t even know?

  She frowned. “Who sent you that?”

  “I assumed you had,” I said, feeling foolish.

  “The restaurant is a franchise,” she said. “It doesn’t belong to us. We simply rent them the space here. We have no connection to them. If someone left their receipt behind in the restaurant, we wouldn’t know anything about it. And besides, the restaurant’s open to the public. The staff wouldn’t know if you were staying here or not. We certainly wouldn’t pass on your address.”

  So he sent it to me. Why would he do that?

  I stood in silence for a moment, trying to work out what was going on.

  “I know this sounds odd,” I said, “but if the room I stayed in is empty, would I be able to have a look at it?”

  She looked a bit surprised, but clicked her mouse at the computer there on the desk and said, “Which room were you staying in?”

  “I don’t know. I’m really sorry; I can’t remember.” I frowned. “My memory’s been really bad lately.”

  She looked up, a concerned look on her face.

  “It’s just work,” I said. “I run my own business and it’s stressful at the moment.”

  “Oh, that must be tough.” She asked for my name and scrolled down the screen, searching their database. “The room’s empty, though someone’s booked into it for tonight. They’re not due in until late as they’re coming into Heathrow on an evening flight.” She picked up her keys. “Come on, I’ll show you around. You were in room 912.”

  As soon as she said that, I remembered. We went up to the ninth floor in the lift and as we came out I had a sudden jolt of memory.

  I tripped here, didn’t I? I remembered reaching out and grabbing the rail. I flushed, embarrassed at the thought of making a fool of myself. Then, as though he were here with us now, I heard David’s voice as he laughed and said, “Steady on, sweetheart.”

  Sweetheart? Sweetheart?

  We walked down the corridor toward my room. Memories were coming back, though they were of my arrival there earlier in the evening rather than later that night. I felt distinctly uneasy as we approached the room.

  The manager touched the door plate with her card, then as a green light flashed, she turned to me. “Okay?”

  I nodded reluctantly.

  She opened the door. I stood in the doorway and looked at the room. The curtains were half drawn and it was dark and cool. She flicked on the light switch and I stepped inside. It did look familiar. I saw the brown suede surround of the bed and winced.

  “Are you all right?”

  I nodded again. “It’s the same bed that was in the photo.” The bed was a divan; there was no room for anything to roll underneath it. I walked over to the bed, then turned, looking at the rest of the room. The mini bar sat underneath the desk. “I was charged for three bottles of water but I’m sure I only had two.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. You should have told us and we would have adjusted your bill.”

  “It’s not that. I’m just trying to figure out what happened. Can a mistake be made with that sort of thing?”

  “It shouldn’t happen,” she said. “It’s an automated system, but we ask the staff cleaning the room to check, too.”

  “I must have made a mistake,” I said, but I knew I hadn’t. I turned toward the door. “Thanks for showing me the room. I really appreciate it.” I stopped in the doorway and looked around the room again.

  “Everything okay?” she asked.

  There was something at the corner of my mind, nudging me about the room, that didn’t seem right, but I couldn’t work out what it was. It was clean, tidy, and neutral, just like any other hotel room. I shrugged and said, “Yes, it’s fine, thanks,” and she switched off the lights and we left the room.

  TWENTY-THREE

  IT SEEMED A long train journey home. Luckily the seat next to me was empty, so I was able to sit quietly and look out the window and think about what had happened since I was last in London. It had been good to talk to the manager, but it made me realize how alone I was now. Joe would find out straightaway if the police got involved. I really wanted to talk to Caitlin, but she was away visiting Ben, and besides, she might feel she had to tell Joe. And I couldn’t tell my mum. I shuddered. I couldn’t think how she’d react if I told her.

  I drove back home from the station feeling so weary. I was desperate to know what David was up to, but frightened, too. Part of me thought of telling Joe, of calling him while he was safely in Ireland and just telling him everything. It wasn’t the kind of thing I should tell him over the phone, but how could I do it face-to-face? My throat burned as I thought of the video where I’d said I wouldn’t have married him. I couldn’t let him hear that. I was so ashamed of myself. Everyone loses their patience with their partner from time to time, but I wouldn’t normally talk like that about him.

  By the time I reached my house I was so exhausted I didn’t know what to do with myself. I opened the front door and stopped dead.

  The house smelled different; there was an artificial lemony smell that would have had Joe reaching for his inhaler if he’d been here. And then I saw my spare key and a bill on the dresser in the hall and remembered the cleaners had been.

  I walked from room to room, opening windows to get rid of the smell but admiring how lovely it looked. The house was polished and cleaned to a much higher standard than Joe or I did it. The kitchen was spotless, the dishwasher emptied. In the bedrooms the drawers were tidied and clean laundry had been put away.

  I wanted to marry those women. I glanced at the receipt and blanched. I’d asked them to do whatever it took and they had, but it had cost me. When I looked around at the scrubbed kitchen, the spotless living room, and the vases on the windowsills full of flowers from the garden, though, I knew they were worth every penny.

  My phone pinged with a message from Joe. He’d sent a photo that his brother had taken of Joe on a sun lounger with a glass of beer and a huge plate of sandwiches, with his mother in the background playing tennis with Rory. How’re things? We’re missing you. Can’t wait to see you again.

  I couldn’t wait, either.

  * * *

  * * *

  AFTER LOCKING UP the house and making a quick snack, I went straight up to bed. It was so lovely to see the house clean and tidy, like being given a huge present. I got under the freshly laundered quilt determined to have an early night and called Joe and Rory from my bed. Rory was in bed, too, as he told me all the things he’d been up to. It seemed strange to be going to bed at the same time as my three-year-ol
d son, but it felt wonderful, too, to think of a long night’s sleep. I switched the lamps on, though the room wasn’t yet dark, then settled into bed with my Kindle. I sent Lucy a text to say that I should be okay to work in the morning, set my alarm for seven A.M., and soon I was asleep.

  I woke in the early hours with a terrific jolt. My heart banged and for a moment I didn’t know where I was. It wasn’t a dream; it was as though a memory had come back to me when I was asleep.

  I remembered then that I’d switched the lamps on in the hotel room before I went down to the bar, so that the room would be lit when I came back. I could remember it clearly. Each lamp was on a built-in bedside table, either side of the bed, and had a little silver chain that I’d pulled to switch them on. I could actually remember that physical act of reaching over and pulling each chain. One of them stuck a bit and I had to hold the lamp steady so that I could pull the chain sharply. The main light switch next to the door only controlled the overhead light. I’d noticed that again when I was shown the room the day before.

  When I woke in the hotel bed that morning in June, with a crashing hangover and a thirst worse than I’d ever had before, those lamps were switched off. I hadn’t done that. I would never do that. It was the one thing I couldn’t help. I just can’t sleep in the dark, no matter where I am. It was something Joe and Rory had had to get used to, though of course I’d never told Rory why.

  I looked around my room. The two bedside lamps were lit and the door to the en suite was ajar; I always left the light above the mirror switched on there. On the landing outside my room the light was permanently on at night, even though I slept with my door shut tight when Rory was away from home.

  It was the way it always was. It was the way it had to be.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Saturday, August 5

  BACK AT WORK the next morning, it was hard to keep up the pretense that everything was all right.

  “You look tired,” said Rachel as soon as she arrived. “Was everything okay with your mum?”

  For a second or two I wondered what she was talking about, then I remembered the lie I’d told the day before. “I’m fine, thanks. She’s okay.”

  I saw her give me a sidelong look but I ignored her, busying myself at my computer. She came over to my desk and I thought for a second she was going to ask more questions, but she just said, “Can you add Mr. and Mrs. Hudson to the viewing requests? I’ve put their details in the system.”

  I just started to answer when my phone vibrated in my handbag in my desk drawer. “Sorry,” I said. “I need to check it’s not Joe.”

  She went back to her desk and I took out my phone.

  My heart sank. On the screen was an Instagram message from WatchingYou. I closed my eyes for a second. That name was so apt. I struggled to think about anything else.

  I glanced over at Rachel. “Won’t be a minute.” I touched the Allow button.

  Our Internet connection was always pretty slow, and it seemed to take seconds for the photo to download onto my phone. I held my breath. Slowly, almost a pixel at a time, the full photo was revealed.

  I was lying on the hotel bed again and this time I was completely naked. There wasn’t even a sheet or blanket to cover me. There was no expression on my face; I wasn’t smiling or frowning, just staring straight at the person taking the photo.

  As I looked at it in disbelief, it disappeared from view and immediately another message came up, causing the phone to vibrate again.

  It was a screenshot of my Facebook page, just as it was when I saw it earlier that day. Within a couple of seconds, that, too, had disappeared.

  * * *

  * * *

  I SLAMMED THE phone into my drawer.

  “What’s up?” asked Brian. He came over to my desk. “Gemma, are you all right?”

  I couldn’t answer. All I could think of was how I would feel if someone put that photo of me on Facebook for all my friends to see. For my mum and dad to see. For Joe to see.

  “You’re shaking,” said Rachel. “What’s the matter?”

  I shook my head. “It’s okay. It’s just . . .”

  They looked at me expectantly, but I couldn’t think of a thing to say. What could I say? And I remembered they were friends with me on Facebook, too. I took my phone from my drawer. “Just give me a few minutes, will you?” I went out the back door to the car park and checked Facebook. I breathed a sigh of relief. The photo wasn’t there. Quickly I looked through all the notifications; there was nothing unusual there. I deactivated my account. I started to come back into the office but then went back outside and deactivated my Twitter and LinkedIn accounts, too. I hesitated over the Instagram account. I didn’t know what to do; should I get rid of it and have him find another way of getting in touch? I hovered over the screen, trying to work out what to do, but then Brian called my name, asking again whether I was okay, and I slid the phone back in my pocket. I’d decide later.

  When I went back to my desk, Rachel went to the fridge and took out a bottle of water. She passed it to me but didn’t say anything. I was grateful for that; I couldn’t tell her why I’d reacted so badly. My head thumped and I realized I was stupid to take it all on myself.

  “Rachel,” I said suddenly, “will you take over the meeting?”

  “Me?” She looked dumbfounded.

  “It will be a good experience for you. You could stand in for me then, whenever I’m off work.”

  She blushed, and I could tell she was feeling proud. “Yes, of course.” She called over to the others, “We’ll have our meeting in ten minutes.”

  She sat at my desk with me and I went through the viewing requests. I talked her through the order in which we should work, then suggested who should take which lead. She photocopied the documents and made quick notes.

  “Okay, everyone,” I said, when all of my staff were gathered around the table. “Apologies for the late start. From now on Rachel’s going to be in charge of these meetings. Rachel, it’s over to you.”

  I sat back and drank my bottle of water. I could hear Rachel reviewing activities from the day before and setting targets for the day with the staff, but all I could think about was the messages I’d received.

  I’ve never, ever had a photo taken like that before. I’ve always thought that women who send men intimate photos of themselves were crazy; those pictures could appear anywhere, long after the relationship finished. I couldn’t imagine how drunk I must have been to let someone do that. My stomach curled up in fear at the thought of it appearing on Facebook. I was so glad I’d deactivated my account, even though I knew some of my friends would question why. I’d have to think of some reason; I’d been on there for years.

  I don’t know how I did it, but I kept my face expressionless throughout the meeting, and all the while I was thinking, I need to tell the police.

  As soon as the meeting ended, I thanked Rachel and quickly went back to my desk. I took my phone out of my desk drawer and looked at it again. The contents of both messages had gone. Disappeared into thin air. All that remained was the name WatchingYou and the notification for each: Photo Unavailable.

  And then I realized, of course, I could send a message back. I hadn’t thought of that before, because the actual messages had disappeared. I clicked on the Message button and typed, What is it you want?

  I turned the sound on my phone up high and put it into my desk drawer. My heart still racing, I tried to work, though I was alert for the ringtone all morning.

  There was no reply.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  JOE CALLED LATER on in the afternoon. I was in the middle of speaking to a couple of first-time buyers and had to ignore his call. He didn’t leave a voice mail, just a text that said All OK; he knew how I panicked if he called and I couldn’t get to the phone, in case something was wrong with Rory. When I left the office I sat in my car and thought I’d
call him then instead of waiting until I got home.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” he said, and my heart softened.

  “I’ve really missed you.” I could hear my voice wobble.

  He laughed. “I’ve missed you, too. It’s been great seeing Brendan, though. And hey, guess what? He’s planning to move back over here.”

  “To Ireland? Really? With Sarah?”

  “Of course with Sarah! All of them. They want to come back to the old country.”

  “Sarah’s not Irish.”

  “I know, but since her mum and dad emigrated to Spain when they retired, she’s not got the ties in England anymore.”

  My heart sank. I knew the pressure would be on me now.

  “So, I’ve been okay,” I said, in a passive-aggressive attempt to stave off the inevitable discussion about moving to Ireland.

  “Sorry, Gem! It isn’t that I’d forgotten you. I just wanted to tell you the news about Brendan. So what have you been up to? How are you feeling?”

  “Oh, okay. It’s been busy here.”

  “You poor thing. Make sure you get an early night.”

  My mind flashed to the night before when I’d woken at midnight to remember the lamps in the hotel room. I’d hardly slept afterward, my mind racing about what was going on. “I will,” I said.

  “Anything interesting happen?”

  I was silent for a moment. How on earth could I begin to tell him I thought I was being blackmailed? “Oh, not much,” I said instead, and scrabbled around for something I’d done that I could tell him about. There wasn’t anything. “Just sorting out the house.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie. It was a bit of a mess before I left, wasn’t it? We were in a rush.”

  I knew it was grossly unfair but there was no way I was going to admit to the cleaning service. Not yet at any rate. I reckoned that was worth a good few months of ammunition.

  “So you’ll be back in a couple of days?” I asked.