The Girl I Used to Be

by Mary Torjussen

  “We will. What is it now, Saturday? We’ll be back on Wednesday.”

  “Okay. I’ll miss you.” I could hear someone saying something in the background, and then Joe said, “My mum says why aren’t you on Facebook? She wanted to send you a message there but you’d disappeared.”

  “Oh,” I said, frantically trying to think up an excuse. “I was reading an article about how social media uses up too much of our time and I thought I’d get rid of it for a few weeks.”

  “Good idea. I know it’s easy to waste hours on there. I’d better go, sweetheart.”

  “Call me tonight, will you, if you get the chance? And is Rory there?”

  “He is. Hold on; I’ll call him. I love you.”

  I heard him call Rory’s name, and then my boy was on the phone to me, breathless with excitement about a game he was playing with his cousins that involved chasing and water and Nanny’s dog.

  I sat in the car for a few minutes after the call ended. I wanted to feel happy for them—I did feel happy for them—but I really missed them. I wanted to be the one running around the garden with Rory, or drinking beer and flipping burgers with my family. I started the car, feeling really sorry for myself.

  And then my phone beeped and I switched the engine off again. A new e-mail had come through to my Gmail account. I opened the app and saw a message from WatchingYou. My stomach tightened. How had he found my personal e-mail address?

  The e-mail heading was Soon.

  My fingers shook as I opened the message. At first I thought it was junk mail, the kind that usually goes automatically to my spam box, where you’re sent a link to a website and asked to enter your bank details and passwords for a prince in a kingdom far, far away. But the link in this e-mail, the only thing in the message, wasn’t to a fake bank and it wasn’t asking for a password or my life savings. It was a link to a website and it was clear from the URL that it was a site for voyeurs.

  I leaned back, unable to believe my eyes. What did it mean? And then it dawned on me. I’d closed my Facebook account; had he tried to post the photos there? And now, finding that he couldn’t, was he going to post those photos of me naked, identifiable, on that website?

  Immediately I tapped out a response, What do you want? Is it money? and waited ten minutes, my heart pounding and my mind reeling, but of course the only reply was to tell me that the e-mail address did not exist.

  I had no choice. I had to speak to the police.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Sunday, August 6

  I DECIDED TO go to the police first thing the next morning, rather than on a Saturday night. I knew they wouldn’t have time to talk to me then.

  I waited outside the police station, trying to gather my nerves, then took my phone out of my bag and looked at it again. I looked at the messages I’d sent Joe, telling him that I’d had room service. I looked at the Instagram screen with the blank messages, all from the same person. And then I looked at the e-mail with the web address of a voyeur site, and my own pathetic attempts to get in touch with this person. Clearly he’d shut down his account immediately after e-mailing me.

  It was so hard to control my anger toward David. How dare he treat me like this? No matter what had happened that night, no matter what I’d done, he had no reason to send me those messages.

  At the police station I asked to speak to a female officer. When I was asked for my name, I said I was Gemma but didn’t want to give my surname. I also didn’t want to tell the guy at the desk why I was there. He looked at my face; I knew it showed signs I’d been crying and he said that was all right, that the female officer could take details. I sat down to wait, automatically feeling I’d done something wrong just because I was there.

  Ten minutes later a woman came to the desk and ushered me into a small interview room. She introduced herself as Stella Barclay and was a bit older than me. I was nervous enough before I went in there, but that room, well, I thought I was going to have a panic attack. I think she saw that, because she fetched me a glass of water and told me to sit there and drink it and not speak until I felt better.

  “How are you feeling?” she said. “Do you feel all right to talk?”

  I nodded. “Sorry. I’m a bit nervous.”

  “That’s okay. Now, can you tell me what you’re here about?” She had a notebook and pen on the desk, and somehow it helped that she was writing it in there and not staring at me as I spoke.

  “I’m an estate agent,” I said. “I have my own office.”

  “What’s the address?” she asked.

  I hesitated. “I’d really rather not at the moment. Is that okay? I’m just looking for some advice.”

  She closed her notebook. “That’s fine. What’s troubling you?”

  I nodded. “A while ago, on the sixteenth of June, a man came in. He wanted me to show him around a few properties.”

  “He just walked in off the street? No booking?”

  “No, he’d e-mailed us about some properties. I check all the e-mails and voice mail messages and allocate the jobs between us. With the amount he was prepared to spend, I decided to take on the job myself, rather than give it to one of my staff.”

  “And do you have that e-mail address?”

  I nodded. “I do, but I’ve written to him there since and the e-mails have just bounced back.”

  She grimaced. “Go on.”

  “So I spent a few hours driving him around. He seemed fine. Very chatty. Charming.”

  I think she thought I was going to say he’d assaulted me. She became very sympathetic. “What happened then?”

  “Nothing happened. Not then. I drove back to the office and he went off somewhere after that.”

  “And then?”

  “A week later, I was in London at a training conference. I was staying in a hotel in Covent Garden and went down to the bar for a drink in the evening. And I bumped into the same man again. It was completely coincidental. We had a meal together. A nice conversation.”

  “And then? Did something happen?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.” I looked up into the officer’s eyes and saw nothing but kindness there. I knew she was used to hearing a hell of a lot worse than I was going to tell her. “But since that night, I keep being sent things. Photos. A video.”

  “Can I see them?”

  I shook my head again.

  “Honestly, Gemma, you wouldn’t believe the things we see. There’s really no need to worry.”

  “It’s not that. He’s using Instagram and withdrawing the messages immediately afterward.”

  “So they’re not there now? How’s he doing that?”

  I showed her Instagram on my phone. “All you can see now is the names he used and the fact that the message has been withdrawn. And he sent a screenshot of my Facebook page, too. I’ve got rid of Facebook now. I deactivated it as soon as he sent that screenshot. And yesterday I received an e-mail. I know it’s from him.”

  “What does it say?”

  “Nothing. There’s just a link there to a voyeur website.” I opened his e-mail on my phone. “Look.” I passed it to her and when I saw the expression on her face, I felt my eyes prickle with tears. “I think he’s going to post my photos to the site.”

  “Have you opened this link?”

  I shook my head. “I was worried in case it contained a virus.”

  “You’re right not to open any attachment he sends you,” she said. “Unfortunately, this is a real site. If you do want to look at it, just type in the address manually, though, rather than clicking on the link he gave you.”

  I couldn’t imagine wanting to look at it, but agreed that was what I’d do.

  “But how is it legal for a website to show photos like that?”

  She said patiently, “Well, no one can police the Internet. If they’ve set up
a site in another country then they have to abide by their laws, even though the site can be viewed anywhere in the world. You can imagine the problems it’s caused us. But you can usually get a photo pulled down off a site if you make a complaint; most webmasters will do that. They’re not usually after a lot of aggravation, and if you ask, they’ll oblige. You can also ask Google to prevent a page appearing in their search results if you were nude or shown in a sexual act, so anyone searching for images of you online wouldn’t see the images of you naked. They’ll do that as long as the act was intended to be private and you didn’t consent to the photo being publicly available.” It was clear she was used to reciting this. “The most important thing, though, is to ask the webmaster to remove the image from the site as soon as you see it.” She must have noticed the stricken look on my face. “If you see it,” she added hastily.

  “But if someone sees it before me,” I said, “the damage is done then, isn’t it?”

  She nodded sympathetically. “We’ll do as much damage limitation as we can. Don’t forget to delete all your social media—Twitter, LinkedIn, that sort of thing. Don’t give him a platform for posting images that your friends could see.”

  “I’ve done that already. I did it as soon as he sent the screenshot of my Facebook page. But what about Instagram? Should I delete my account?”

  “I would. I’d cut off all the ways he can reach you.”

  I did it there and then. She asked more questions about David, and I told her how I’d called the numbers he’d given me, and discovered he didn’t work for Barford’s or live at the address he’d given us. I was getting more and more agitated as I told her everything I knew.

  “Look, he’s given you a false name,” she said. “When he came to your office, he knew in advance that he was going to do something. Whether he knew exactly what, who can say now? But he created a fake e-mail address to book an appointment before even seeing you. I don’t think he was targeting you at that point. You have a number of staff. Any one of them could have become his victim.”

  I shuddered at the thought of the other women in the office being put in this position.

  “So you need to increase your precautions,” she said. “And speak to the other estate agents in your area. No house visits with anyone unless they’ve shown photo ID. I’ll get our community police officers onto it, too.” She looked at me sympathetically. “So when you had a meal with him, you didn’t get an inkling anything was wrong with him? No red flags?”

  “No, nothing jarred at all. He was really nice. Great company. I drank far too much, though, and had a terrible hangover the next day.” I grimaced. “I don’t usually drink more than a glass or two. I have a three-year-old son and I have to keep my wits about me. But that night I was away from home and I drank more than I usually did.”

  “Do you remember going to bed?”

  “I remember going down the corridor to my room. I remember stumbling.” I winced. “I’m mortified now, just thinking about it.”

  “And was David with you then, do you remember?”

  “Yes. Yes, he was. He pulled me upright.”

  “And did you invite him into your room?”

  “No,” I said. “I wouldn’t do that. I’m married. Happily married.”

  All the while I was insisting on this, the thought was there, though. How did he take a photo of me on my bed? Had I really invited him into my room?

  “Do you remember brushing your teeth that night? Washing your face? Or did you decide not to bother?”

  I stared at her uncertainly. “I can’t remember. I’m sure I did. I always do—it’s automatic, isn’t it?”

  “But can you remember doing it?”

  No matter how hard I tried to remember, I just couldn’t. I shook my head.

  “Think about those moments before you first went into your room,” she said. “You were walking down the corridor. How would you normally open the door to the hotel room, do you remember? With a card?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It was one of those contactless cards that you hold next to a metal plate on the door. It was a white card, no markings on it. The room number was on a little envelope.”

  “And later on Friday night, when you were going back to your room . . . do you remember opening the door then? Putting the card next to the door?”

  I closed my eyes and tried to remember, but I couldn’t. I shook my head, frustrated with myself. “I don’t know. I must have done.”

  “What about your clothes? What were you wearing?”

  I described my green silk dress.

  “And when you woke up the next morning, what were you wearing?”

  I frowned. “I was wearing my underwear. Bra and knickers.”

  She was quiet for a while then, before she said, “Were they the same that you’d worn the night before?”

  I stared at her. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, when you arrived at the hotel, did you change before going downstairs?”

  I nodded. “It was a really hot day, so I had a shower and changed my clothes.”

  “And do you remember which underwear you put on after your shower?”

  I thought hard. “Yes, I can remember. I’d bought it when we were in Italy last summer. It’s black silk. I always wore that set with my green dress.”

  She leaned forward. “Gemma, when you woke up, can you remember which underwear you were wearing then? Was it the same set?”

  I closed my eyes, panic coursing through me.

  She spoke gently and I knew she was used to coaxing hidden truths from women in situations like mine. “What did you do when you first got up? Did you go into the bathroom?”

  “I went into the bathroom,” I said. “I was sick. It was the drink.”

  “And did you look in the mirror? What color was your underwear?”

  I felt the blood drain from my face as I remembered seeing my reflection in the mirror as I dashed over to the toilet. My face had been pale and sweaty. The mirror was about three square feet, placed at waist height. In my mind’s eye I could see myself as I passed through the room. My underwear was white.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Sunday, August 6

  AS SOON AS I got home I raced upstairs to find the underwear I’d been wearing the night I’d had dinner with David in London. I’d come home and tipped all of my clothes from my overnight bag into the laundry basket on the landing. That was empty now, thanks to the cleaners, and all of the clothes there had been washed and put back into drawers. I searched my bedroom looking for the set, but knew I wouldn’t find it.

  I checked the utility room, hoping against hope that they would be there, left in the dryer by mistake, but no, all was spotless, not a thing out of place.

  “You told me that you were naked in those photos,” Stella had said. “So your underwear was obviously off at one point. This sort of man often likes to keep something. A kind of trophy. I wonder whether he took it with him and put your other set on you so that you wouldn’t notice.”

  Or so that I would notice. So that I’d remember one day, later, after he’d gone.

  I sat at the dining table and tried to control my breathing. I couldn’t let myself think about this. I just couldn’t.

  All of a sudden I was overwhelmed with the desire to talk to Joe. I sent him a text to ask if he was free, but I didn’t get a reply. I could phone their house, of course, but guessed his mum would answer and I just couldn’t bear to talk to her now. She’d know something was wrong and she really, really mustn’t find out what I’d done.

  What had I done, though? I just couldn’t remember a thing. Something had happened and I was being punished for it. I thought again of those photos appearing on social media and sites for voyeurs and just wanted to collapse in a heap.

  I picked up my laptop and opened Chrome in Incognito mode. There was no way I w
anted Joe to see this. I typed in the address of the site. As soon as I saw the content I started to cry.

  The whole site was devoted to images and videos of women who were unaware they were being recorded. It showed them in the shower, in the street, asleep in bed. There were unsuspecting women on crowded trains, unaware that some creep was holding a camera up their skirt. There were even women on the toilet, completely oblivious to the fact that they were being filmed. I clicked on link after link, feeling more sick by the minute. Most pictures had a stream of comments underneath, congratulating the bastards who’d filmed these women. I felt dirty just reading those messages. There were Like buttons, too; any idea I’d had that this was a niche market was quickly quashed by the sheer number of people who liked these photos.

  Tears pricked my eyes as I realized that could be me on there. Next time I looked, there could be comments next to my photo, telling other men what they’d like to do to me. And it was no comfort to think the men I knew wouldn’t go on there, wouldn’t dream of looking at photos taken by a hidden camera in a woman’s bathroom; I knew these things had ways of getting out.

  It didn’t take long to get a full grasp of what the site was about, and then I started to look for someone to e-mail. There were thousands of photos posted there since the date I was in London, and I couldn’t face looking at them all. I wanted to ask someone what I could do if I found a photo of myself there, but try as I might, I just couldn’t find any contact details. I suppose that on a normal site the owners are keen to be identified with it, whereas here they weren’t. Then I realized that there was a Report button next to each of the photos and videos. Perhaps I could leave a message that way?

  Still in Incognito mode, I created a new e-mail address for myself, using a fictitious name, then reported one of the posts:

  Hi, I need to talk to someone about privacy and can’t find an e-mail address. Someone is threatening to post explicit photos of me on this site. Obviously I don’t give permission for that. If I see a photo of myself and report it, will it be taken down? Thanks.