by Allan, Gilli
‘Same initials. So?’ Her continuing incomprehension must have shown in her expression. Fran looked momentarily exasperated, as if Dory should be keeping up.
‘When I initially decided to try to find Dan, the only way I could think of was through Friends Reunited or Facebook. But I had no joy.’ Fran explained. ‘Then I had a brainwave. I started sending emails to made-up addresses. One of the possibilities I came up with was db@. I sent multiple versions, adding all the server names I could think of.’ Wiping a finger under her wet, make-up smudged eyes, Fran looked up, then quickly away again. Dory’s horror must be showing on her face. ‘I got a reply to one of them saying I’d found him,’ she continued in a low voice. ‘He was my Dan Brown.’
‘Oh, Fran!’ Dory clutched her head in disbelief. ‘How could you be so …? The man could be anyone! From Donald … Buck to … Dionysus Barrenboim!’
There was an edge of hysteria to Fran’s answering giggle. ‘I knew that! I was cautious, but I thought it had to be him. He said he still has a photograph of me …’
‘Did you ever see this photo?’
A blush stained her sister’s cheeks. ‘No, no.’
‘You wanted it to be him so much you convinced yourself. Face facts, even if it is the same guy, he’s not going to be the young man you remember. He could be fat and …’ Dory sighed. ‘So what happened? What changed?’
‘It was exciting to begin with. But it was harmless. I wasn’t hurting anyone. It was just a flirtation. Then …’ She paused and drew breath. ‘He … began to make more explicit suggestions. He became demanding, pressurising me about when and where we were going to meet. I’ll admit I was tempted.’ Fran lowered her eyes to her hands. Ironic, Dory thought, that she was twisting her wedding band and engagement ring back and forth. ‘But I kept putting him off. Then he sent me the link to this appalling website.’ Her lips clamped tightly together.
‘Appalling in what way? If it’s paedophilia, you should report it.’
‘No. Nothing like that. He wouldn’t be interested in me, would he? But the images were so horrific.’ Fran had raised her head again. ‘I didn’t know you could get onto websites like that almost by accident, without some kind of subscription?’
‘Websites that are apparently free and make their money through advertising and pop-ups. Did you notice adverts? Other links?’
‘I suppose there were, for magazines and videos, as well as fetish clothes and sex toys.’
‘I get it. It’s an S&M site?’
‘Yes.’ Fran’s voice dropped to a whisper, her eyes sliding away from her sister’s as if she were responsible. ‘And he’s sent me more since then. I just want him to stop. I’ve told him. But he keeps on bombarding me with all this repulsive stuff.’
Dory drooped her head onto her hand and rubbed her forehead. She noticed, inconsequentially, that neither of them had drunk their coffee. Both had a tell-tale skim on the surface of the liquid.
‘Even though I don’t approve, I suppose I can imagine the buzz of virtual flirting with strangers. What I can’t understand is if it upsets you so much, why do you continue to talk to him? Why do you open the images he sends you?’
‘Because he won’t stop. And once the email is there in my inbox …’
‘There’s no rule that says you have to open every email. Do you read all your spam as well? The ones offering Nice Russian Girls or Penis Enlargement?’
‘Course not. Though I hardly ever get anything like that. But if there’s something from db, I have to know.’
‘Have you thought of blocking him?’
‘I don’t know how to do that. Anyway …’ Fran glanced away out of the window, unwilling, it seemed, to hold her gaze. ‘I’m frightened he knows where I live. That’s why I reacted like I did today.’ Her voice had grown wobbly again. ‘Suddenly there was this creep, staring at me, with a big hard-on, and his initials were DB. I just freaked.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Fran! How could it be the same bloke? The chances are miniscule. You know that really, don’t you? Dermot was the model on the first day of term last year! You weren’t already emailing DB then, were you?’
Fran shook her head.
‘For him, or even Dominic Barnes, for God’s sake, to be your mystery correspondent, would be a completely off-the-wall coincidence, like a plot device in a trashy novel!’
‘Or Dickens.’
‘He’s the exception which proves the rule.’
‘Honestly, Dory, I wasn’t thinking straight. I’ve been so overwrought by it all. All my life I’ve always known what to do, but now …’ Fran drew a shaky breath.
‘So …’ Dory wanted to sound calm and reassuring. ‘There must be a reason why you think DB knows your address?’
‘He said it in his last email. I know where you live.’
‘But when your computer was reformatted last year, a new operating system was installed. I explained it to you. To cut down on spam we opted for a new router that randomises your ISP.’ The sorry-for-herself expression had vanished from her sister’s face, replaced by bafflement.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘When your computer crashed because of that virus, and you asked for my help? I might be good, but I couldn’t sort it out. We got a computer technician in, remember?’
‘Course I remember. It’s the jargon that foxes me.’
‘What I’m saying is that your postal address can’t be traced through your ISP.’
‘I didn’t even know that was possible.’ Her voice had grown thready.
‘So buck up, he’s bluffing. How can he find you? Unless … You don’t use your married name?’
‘The email address is in my maiden name, Fran Seymour.’
‘So, it’s very long odds that he could track you down, even if he is the real Dan Brown and guesses you still live in the Strouley area.’
‘But,’ Fran bit her lip. ‘I might have given away my address inadvertently.’
‘You might? Why don’t you know?’
Dory was losing the struggle to remain reassuring. She heard herself coming across like a bad-tempered schoolmistress.
Fran looked peeved. ‘I can’t remember everything I’ve said.’
‘Surely you’d know if you gave him your address?’
‘Course I didn’t give it to him deliberately, postcode and all. But I think I might have mentioned the village, maybe the Rectory. I can’t recall.’
‘Haven’t you reread the emails in your sent folder?’ Dory had known Fran’s command of the computer was limited, but that was before Peter had raised his worries with her. Given the length of time Fran apparently spent on it these days, she’d assumed her command of email, at the very least, would be fluent. Now she wondered.
‘No, they’re not there. I don’t save them.’
‘OK. What about his emails?
‘I delete them. I’m frightened of Peter finding them.’
Dory sighed. ‘Are you certain that both lots aren’t sitting in the delete folder?’ ‘I’m not a complete idiot!’
Dory made a decision. ‘Look, I’ll come round. I think I need to check it out myself. You might have left more on the system than you think. I can run a data recovery system. Is Peter going to be there all weekend?’
‘He’s playing golf on Sunday.’
‘Call me when he’s out,’ she said briskly. ‘I’ll come over and have a look. If nothing else, I can put a block on DB’s emails.’ There was a part of Dory that was almost enjoying this confirmation of Fran’s idiocy. She’d always known her sister had a tendency to be frivolous and flirty, and she’d had cause to be aggravated by her juvenile obsessions. But this took the biscuit! Her sister was being cyber-stalked and she’d brought it on herself. Peter didn’t deserve this. He was an attractive, intelligent man, good-tempered and liberal. But his liberality towards his wife had done her no good. ‘Maybe you’ve just too much time on your hands, Fran.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’ Fran re
sponded, bristling.
‘If you were busier, had more to occupy you, you might not have got yourself into this scrape.’ ‘What are you saying?
‘I’d have thought it was obvious. You should probably be going out to work, tire yourself out a bit. You wouldn’t have the energy.’
‘Oh, thanks! You think I need to be worn out during the day to make sure I sleep through the night? Like some recalcitrant toddler!’
‘Your words!’
‘And what particular job had you in mind that would be so exhausting I’d stop noticing how bloody boring my life is? Shelf filling at Tesco is about all I’m qualified for. Why don’t I volunteer for the night shift? That should keep me out of trouble!’
‘You’re overreacting …’
‘Oh am I, Mrs Smug I’ve-never-made-a–mistake-in-my-life career woman? You’ve always looked down on me. You’ve always had this snotty, holier-than-thou attitude!’
‘Where’s this come from?’
‘From being your sister for thirty odd years! OK, so I’ve made a mistake, but at least it sprang from the fact that I feel things deeply! I’m engaged with life, I have passion. Whereas you …!’
‘Just because I don’t join every cause that’s going … just because I don’t wallow in my own emotions … doesn’t mean I don’t feel!’
‘I had to show my feelings. I had to fight for Mum and Dad’s attention after you arrived.’
‘What?’
‘You were always their pet. And when you started to grow up, surprise, surprise, you were the cleverest too. “Ooh, have you heard about our brilliant daughter, the scientist”!’
‘But they were just as proud of you. Proud of their daughter the artist. If it hadn’t been for …’ Dory paused, pondering the wisdom of engaging with Fran in an examination of childhood resentments.
‘Hadn’t been for what?’
‘It was you who put me off going into art.’
‘If you’d been really determined you wouldn’t have allowed me to influence you.’
‘I was only fifteen! I looked up to you.’
‘It was Mum and Dad just as much as me.’
‘Only because you told them I wasn’t good enough. You know what they were like. Anything for a quiet life.’ And maybe she took after them, Dory now speculated. She’d allowed herself to be convinced that one artist in the family was enough, that her GCSE results clearly pointed the way she should go. ‘Anyway, I very much doubt I am cleverer than you,’ she continued, surprised by the exposure of such raw feelings on an old subject. ‘I just followed a different educational discipline. Everything that happened after that was just chance.’
‘Oh, and how many exam passes did you get? How many did I get?’
‘That was nothing to do with cleverness. It was to do with self-discipline and motivation. You found what you were good at and enjoyed, and couldn’t be bothered with anything else.’
‘OK, so I have zero self-discipline and zero motivation. Any other insults you want to throw at me while we’re at it?’
‘You brought the subject up!’
Perhaps now, in a Starbucks in Nailsbridge, was the time to get a few things out in the open? ‘If you really want to know my opinion, I think you’re lazy. You could have completed your degree. You could have had a career as an artist or an illustrator. But you landed a man who could afford to keep you, and you were too indolent to bother.’
‘How dare you! I dropped out of college because I was pregnant, as you very well know. I was fully occupied bringing up Melanie.’
‘Oh, come off it. How many years did she honestly need you full-time? Five? What have you been doing for the last fourteen?’
‘Five! You expected me to go out to work when Mel was five?’
‘Of course I didn’t expect it. I am just saying that having one child shouldn’t peg your feet to the floor for the rest of your life!’
‘Of course, you’re the expert on parenting! You were too fond of money and pleasing yourself to even consider settling down and having a family. You knew from looking at me that children get in the way of having any kind of life. You can’t jet off whenever you feel like it if you’re a parent.’
‘I’m sorry if my lifestyle has offended you so much, but what is your point?’
‘You were too selfish to have children, but you somehow think you have the right to lecture me!’
‘Fran?’ Was this subject on some kind of cosmic loop? Attack was the best form of defence. ‘Can you explain how being childless is selfish? I’ve never been able to get my head around that one. In my book, it’s selfish to have a baby if you intend to carry on living a hedonistic lifestyle. But the choice not to procreate injures no one, does it? Not in an overpopulated world where there isn’t enough food and water to go round.’
‘We don’t live in the third world.’
‘Even in England, there’s not enough suitable land to meet the demand for new housing, as you’re always reminding me. Our countryside is already under threat. Do we want even more people? More houses? Or perhaps you want a debate on the UK economy and whether the government’s projected fiscal targets are dependent on a policy of population replacement or population growth?’
‘Oh, shut up! Stop being so bloody superior! I’m just fed up with you looking down at me. Christ! Everything in life has come so easy for you. Even something as basic as weight. I’ve always struggled, pretending that I didn’t care about being a size 16. Then it took a year of slimming clubs and calorie counting for me to get to a size 12. And I still live on lettuce and crisp bread to maintain it! You’ve been slim all your adult life until a few years ago. And when you did start to gain weight it was because you’d got a condition, hypo something or other …’
‘Thyroidism.’
‘And the drugs made the weight fall off again. How jammy was that?’
‘A bit of an over-simplification. And I can’t be held responsible for my body shape! It wasn’t a deliberate act of spite. It was just the randomness of fate. I inherited Dad’s genes and you inherited Mum’s. What can I say? You’re much more shapely and feminine than I am, you’ve always been proud of your cleavage.’ Dory looked down at herself and, with an attempted laugh, added, ‘Would you rather be straight up and down like me?’
Fran was shaking her head.
‘I’m angry, Dory. Don’t you dare patronise me!’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘It’s typical of our relationship. The minute I have a worry or a grievance, you belittle it and say it’s nothing.’
‘I’m not belittling you, I’m reassuring you.’
‘It’s like … everything you are, and everything you do, has always been applauded by family and friends. Everything I do, because I haven’t had a career and don’t have your London gloss, is somehow less worthy, less admirable.’
‘Come off it!’ Sitting here, in her old combats and faded green T-shirt now splattered with ink, Dory wondered about her ‘London gloss’. The only concession to dressing up a bit had been the bangles she’d put on this morning. But maybe her sister had always felt they were in competition. ‘You seem to be suggesting I’ve had some kind of charmed life while you’ve been worn down by domestic servitude! In fact, all your life you’ve done exactly as you pleased. Whereas I …’ Little did Fran know how constrained she’d felt, how manoeuvred to fit other people’s expectations. Her education and career decisions weren’t even the whole story, but it was one she’d no intention of getting into with her sister now. Which of them had been the most hard done-by, was a competition too far. She squared her shoulders. ‘For the most part I was working 9 to 5 as a back-room technician,’ Dory continued, ‘while simultaneously looking after the home, the shopping, the cooking, the washing, and the ironing. The fact you have some kind of inferiority complex is not my fault. All I said, which you took as a criticism, was that having Mel needn’t have put a permanent block on your ambitions.’
‘Do you really think I wouldn’t ha
ve liked a career in art? That I wouldn’t have jumped at the chance of a job in illustration if I’d had the confidence? But I never did have the confidence. It’s all computers now. We hardly learnt anything to do with computers at college. The ones we did tinker about on are about as relevant today as eight-millimetre film.’ Fran’s voice had become cracked and husky again. Her eyes glittered. ‘Anyway, we live in the West Country. Aren’t all the jobs in London? How on earth would I even go about looking for a job? I haven’t the first clue. Who’d want someone my age, no experience, no up-to-date expertise?’
Was Fran rationalising, Dory wondered. Were the tear-filled eyes a sign of real emotion or just a moment of superficial self-pity?
‘Look, you don’t really want a job. That’s fine. If it’s not necessary for you to go out to work, why bother? Only don’t criticise me for having built a business with Malcolm that I enjoyed being a part of, and that made money.’
They lapsed into an uneasy silence. Dory looked down at her coffee mug.
‘These have gone cold. D’you want another? A sandwich, or a wrap …?
Fran shook her head. ‘I can’t even remember how we got onto this subject.’
‘You said you were bored … “bloody bored” … with your life. I suggested you had too much time to dwell on things. Old boyfriends, for example.’ They looked at one another for a long moment. Fran was pale, and her make-up was smeared blotchily around pink-rimmed eyes. Dory’s throat constricted – the sense of regret, lodged hard and heavy in her chest, began to swell. ‘I never realised you were so jealous, Fran. But look at me. I don’t have a child. My relationship’s broken. I’m no longer half-owner of a business. Instead, I’m working in an under-resourced and over-stretched department of the NHS. And I’m living in rented accommodation. What’s to envy?’
‘You’re free,’ Fran said, swallowing hard.
‘I am now, but when I was with Malcolm I was just as committed to the relationship as if we’d been married,’ Dory responded. ‘Sadly, he wasn’t.’
Her sister nodded, but Dory wondered if she were convinced. Fran had always seemed to believe that living together offered a carefree hedonism disallowed to the married.