I’ve just picked up my mug of tea again but now I put it back down on the tray. I’m starting to feel alarmed.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. What’s going on?’
There’s a groan on the other end of the line.
‘Oh bloody hell, Beth. Were you pissed or something when you posted it? Look, I’m not an admin so I can’t delete it, only you can do that. But I’d advise you to do it as soon as possible, OK? Because so many people have already seen it, Beth, and commented, and … well, it’s not good. You could lose your job. What were you thinking? And who’s Daphne Blake?’
‘Lose my …?’
For a moment, two, three, I’m stunned into silence. I’ve never felt so confused in my life.
What’s she talking about?
‘And Daphne who? I’ve never heard of her. Ruth, honestly, I have no idea what this is about. What’s going on? Seriously, you’re scaring me now.’
She sighs.
‘Shit, Beth. Were you really that drunk? I’m talking about the … I can hardly bear to say this, but … the porn videos. The ones of you in your bedroom and bathroom. You posted them last night? You wrote, “a tribute to my friend, Daphne Blake”, whoever she is, and then added a link to a porn site …’
A … a WHAT?
I laugh. This is a joke. It has to be.
‘Oh come on, Ruth. Don’t be ridiculous. That’s impossible. I’ve never made a porn video in my life and there hasn’t been anything to film anyway, not since Jacob, so stop it. You’re freaking me out—’
‘It’s not sex, as such,’ she interrupts. ‘It’s a link to a video on one of those amateur porn sites. And it’s just you, on your own, naked and … and touching yourself. I couldn’t watch much of it, to be honest. But Beth, are you saying you didn’t post these pictures? That someone else did? Because they’ve been posted from your account, that’s all I know. I think you need to have a look. And then bloody delete them, for God’s sake. Look, I have to go, I’m sorry. Speak to you later.’
She ends the call abruptly and for a few seconds I stare at the phone. But now I’m not laughing anymore; shivers are running up and down my spine and a hard knot is beginning to form in my stomach.
Naked? Touching myself? Pictures of me in my bedroom and in my bathroom?
With shaking hands, I open the Facebook app. I see it immediately, just as Ruth described it: a post, ostensibly by me, the words ‘a tribute to my friend, Daphne Blake’, and a clickable link.
Daphne Blake?
Something about the name is suddenly familiar. Something is pinging in the furthest recesses of my mind but I can’t grasp it. I look at the words again and the link beneath them. And then I look underneath the post at the comments. Dozens and dozens of them.
Disgusting. How inappropriate on a doctors’ Facebook page.
Wow! Who’s this?
I think that’s the practice manager, Beth Holland. My sister had to see her once when she wanted to make a complaint.
Hey Beth, fancy a date? Looking a bit lonely in those videos.
Could do with losing a bit of weight, LOL! The doctors are always telling us to drop a few pounds, maybe they should try telling their own staff first.
What a sight! Put me off my dinner.
I stop reading, hot tears filling my eyes.
What is this? What is it?
Terrified, I click on the link and wait an interminable three, four seconds while the page loads. There’s a screenshot, a blurred image of a figure, and I swallow hard and press play. The video begins and the image comes into focus.
‘Oh God. OH MY GOD!’ I gasp, horrified.
I didn’t post this. Of course I didn’t. I’ve clearly been hacked; someone, somehow, has got into my account. But … these pictures, these videos. How? It’s me, very obviously me, standing right here in this bedroom, reflected in my full-length mirror, naked. Running my hands over my breasts, over my nipples, turning slowly to reveal my buttocks, then jiggling up and down. And then the scene changes and it’s me in the bath, in my ensuite, again seemingly caressing my body, my stomach, between my legs …
‘NO! NO!’
I’m sobbing now, flinging the phone across the room and hearing it crash against the wall.
How, HOW? I remember standing in front of the mirror a few weeks ago, studying my body, feeling fat … The bath … I remember all of it. It’s real footage but this looks so sleazy. It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t, and that’s not even the point …
‘How? How have you done it? And who the hell …!’
I’m screaming now, jumping off the bed, grabbing the ornate wooden frame of the mirror and pulling it off the wall with such force that chunks of plaster come away too. I throw it on the floor and crouch down, running my hands across the wood, into the crevices and swirls.
A camera. There must be a hidden camera, a tiny one, there must be, but where and who. Who?
I can’t find anything, nothing. I look frantically around the room but I can’t see anywhere else that could hide a camera either, not one that could take shots of me from that angle. The panic is building now and I’m panting like a dog on a hot day, gasping for air.
The bathroom. Check the bathroom.
I stumble into the ensuite, looking at the bath, thinking about how the footage seemed to have been shot from directly in front of me but slightly above. I look at the bathroom cabinet on the wall opposite, painted an innocent mint green.
There. It must be there.
I run my hands over the wooden door as I did with the mirror, again finding nothing, then wrench it open, grabbing bottles and tubes and packets of headache tablets, flinging them onto the floor until the cabinet is empty and the shelves are smooth and bare, and still I’ve found nothing, nothing at all.
‘Darling! What’s going on? What’s wrong?’
I spin around, my breathing laboured and my chest tight. Mum’s standing in the bathroom doorway, staring wide-eyed at the mess, at the broken glass, and at the shampoo oozing out of an upended bottle onto the black and white floor tiles.
‘Oh, Mum …’
My voice cracks and the tears come again. She takes two careful steps towards me and opens her arms. I stagger into her embrace.
‘Darling, what is it? It’s OK. Whatever it is, we can sort it, OK?’
She’s murmuring into my hair, arms wrapped tightly around my waist, and I bury my face in her neck. Suddenly I’m five again, falling over in the back garden and running to my mummy to kiss it better, and for a moment, just a moment, I feel a wave of pure happiness. And then reality comes crashing back and I think about all the patients, hundreds of them maybe, who’ve seen that footage, that horrendous, humiliating footage. My naked flesh on display, out there on a porn site. Oh my God, a porn site. I start to panic again.
‘Mum … Oh Mum, something terrible’s happened.’
I take a step back, out of her arms, and I tell her. She listens, her concerned frown turning slowly into a look of horror.
‘But I don’t understand. How did someone get pictures of you, here in your own house? And it’s on the internet? Can’t you do anything? Beth, this is awful. Who would do such a thing?’
‘I don’t know, Mum. I just don’t know.’
Why didn’t I delete the post immediately? I think suddenly. I push past her and grab my phone and, hands shaking, delete it all. Then I sink onto the bed. My legs feel weak and my mind is racing. Mum’s still hovering, watching me uncertainly.
‘Mum, I’m OK, it’s OK, it’s gone,’ I say. ‘You go on down. I won’t be long.’
She hesitates, then nods.
‘Well, if you’re sure. I’ll put the kettle on again. You look like you need a strong coffee.’
‘Something like that,’ I say, and try to smile. She smiles back and leaves the room but I feel sick. Yes, I’ve deleted the Facebook post, but the video’s still out there, isn’t it? Still on that disgusting website, still there for anyone to see. How
the hell do I get it taken down? Do I go to the police? A solicitor? I don’t know. I need to look it up. I’ve just picked up my phone again, wondering what on earth to type into Google, when the phone starts to ring. Jacob.
Oh no, please. Not now.
‘Good morning!’
I try to sound upbeat, cheery, but I’ve barely got the words out before I have to move the phone away from my ear. He’s bellowing.
‘JESUS CHRIST, BETH. WHAT’S GOING ON? WHAT ARE YOU PLAYING AT? I’VE ONLY GOT A LINK TO A FRIGGING PORN SITE ON MY COMPANY FACEBOOK PAGE.’
My heart almost stops beating.
What? It’s on another page? Jacob’s landscape gardening company page? Oh shit, shit …
‘It’s not … I didn’t …’ I stutter, but he’s still yelling.
‘PICTURES OF YOU, BETH. A FORTY-YEAR-OLD MOTHER. WHAT IN BUGGERING HELL WERE YOU THINKING? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU? AND WHO’S DAPHNE BLOODY BLAKE?’
‘Jacob, listen, please …’
‘CHRIST, I MEAN I COULDN’T EVEN WATCH IT … WHAT POSSESSED YOU, SERIOUSLY? ARE YOU THAT DESPERATE FOR ATTENTION?’
‘JACOB! CAN YOU SHUT UP FOR ONE MINUTE AND LET ME SPEAK?’ I scream down the phone at him, and finally he stops shouting, his breathing heavy and angry in my ear.
‘Jacob, listen.’
I take a breath, wondering how on earth to explain something I don’t even understand myself.
‘It wasn’t me. I mean, the footage is obviously me, and I’m … just so ashamed, so mortified, but I didn’t shoot those pictures, and I certainly didn’t post them. I’ve obviously been hacked. And I don’t know who Daphne Blake is. I don’t know how it’s happened, Jacob. Somebody must have put hidden cameras in my bedroom and bathroom. I don’t know who or how. I’ve searched everywhere and I can’t find anything, but you have to believe me, all of this is nothing to do with me. I would never … The link was posted on the surgery Facebook page too, Jacob. It’s a nightmare, and I just don’t know, I just don’t know …’
Hot tears are flowing down my cheeks again. There’s a long silence on the line, then he says: ‘What the fuck?’
‘Jacob, I—’
‘Beth, you’re making no sense. You’re telling me that someone, what, broke into your house, fitted hidden cameras and then recorded video of you naked and put it on a porn site? Seriously? Why would anyone do something like that? And who? That is just ridiculous.’
‘I know,’ I say helplessly. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous. But it’s what’s happened, OK? Maybe not someone breaking in, I don’t know; we haven’t had a break-in. Maybe it’s someone I know, someone who’s been in the house. Maybe someone did it for a joke, and obviously it’s not funny; it’s horrendous, but—’
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’
He sounds so scornful, so full of contempt, that I actually wince, as if he’s just punched me in the stomach.
‘Jacob, I’m telling you the truth …’
He isn’t listening.
‘I’ve deleted the post, OK? And now we’ve just got to hope that the kids and their friends never get to see those videos, haven’t we?’
‘Oh God, Jacob. You have to believe me. I don’t know—’
‘Well, I don’t know anything anymore. I don’t know you anymore, that’s for sure. All I know is that you’ve been acting so fucking weird recently that I’m now seriously worried about the kids’ welfare. I’m picking them up from their sleepovers later and then they’re staying with me, Beth. I’ll come round later and pick up some of their stuff, but I’m not bringing them home. I’ll take a couple of weeks off work and you need to sort yourself out, OK? This can’t go on. Get your shit together, Beth. Act like a proper mother, or they’ll be living with me permanently, OK?’
‘Jacob, no! Please, let’s talk about this—’
But the line’s gone dead. I stare at the handset for a moment, horrified, then fling it on the bed and start to sob.
Not the children, please …
BRRRR.
The phone’s ringing again. This time the display says Holly Tree, and my hand’s already started to shake as I accept the call.
‘Mrs Holland? It’s Anya, at Holly Tree. I just need to ask, did you post something on our Facebook page? Some … well, footage?’
And the calls keep on coming.
‘Mrs Holland? It’s Rachel from Pitt Lane Primary School …’
‘Is that Beth? Hi, my name’s Sarah and I work with Brenda Welch, you know, your next-door neighbour, at Evolution boutique in Suffolk Road? She’s just checked the shop’s Facebook page …’
I try to explain it to all of them, denying any knowledge, telling them someone’s clearly hacked my account, apologising anyway, and begging them not to click on the link, to delete the posts. When the calls finally stop I’m exhausted, limp, but I stay in my room, ignoring Mum’s pleas to come downstairs and have something to eat. I can’t bear it. I have visions of Jacob, and Finley and Eloise’s teachers (and oh God, my dad, could my dad have seen it?), and Brenda and her staff, and everyone else, all watching that video, seeing me like that, naked and exposed. I have to find out what’s happened here, I have to, so I search the room again, every little bit of it this time. I search the bathroom too, running my hands increasingly frantically over every inch of the walls, the pictures, the furniture, and still I find nothing, nothing. I slump to the floor and sit for a long time after that, my head in my hands, my nails clawing at my scalp.
I need to get the room swept. That’s what they call it, isn’t it? I think. I look it up and find a bug-sweeping service based in west London, a company that can send someone up here as soon as Tuesday. It’s going to cost me hundreds of pounds but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything right now other than stopping this, whatever it is. Stopping it and getting my children back. My brain is whirring. The name Daphne Blake is still niggling me. Something about it is triggering some distant memory but it’s still too faint, too vague, just a whisper, and I push my fists into my eye sockets, trying to make myself think, think. Who would do this? Who?
The face outside the lounge window floats back into my mind. Could whoever that was have been here before, have broken in somehow and planted the cameras? And then I think about Mike, the private detective, and I wonder about him too. Was it him, hanging around long after he should have been, after all? Was it him talking to my friends, pretending to be a runner, a gardener, a plumber, or was that all, as I’d finally started to believe, in my imagination? Does he know about my past, about what I did, and is he trying to punish me for it for some reason, or is that all in my head too? Although, if I didn’t imagine it, could he have somehow got in here? Tiny hidden cameras are probably part of a private detective’s arsenal, after all, aren’t they? And yet there’s been no sign of a break in, nothing at all to indicate that someone’s been in my house uninvited. But is it possible? Because someone’s been in here; that’s abundantly clear. And if it wasn’t a stranger, then that means it’s someone I know, and that doesn’t bear thinking about.
With a shudder, my face flushing, and sweat running down my spine, I go back to the porn site page and make myself watch the video footage again, properly this time, trying to pinpoint when each segment was filmed. The first appeared to be the Saturday after that Friday night when Barbara and Brenda came round for dinner, the night Mum bought me the new top that was far too small. I remember being upset that following evening, remember standing in front of the mirror naked after going up to bed, remember scrutinising my body. All the other footage is more recent: me in the bath on several different occasions, me pulling off my clothes in the bedroom, clearly drunk, and collapsing on the bed, legs splayed, showing the camera everything. There’s more, but I can’t watch it.
My stomach contracts and hot waves of shame and humiliation wash over me. I have to get this footage removed, somehow, but now all I can think about is who, who … Faces start to race through my brain, faces and dates and horrible possibilities. I
think about the day Mum first came back, the day I spent the morning up on Cleeve Hill with Ruth and Deborah, and about how they knocked on the door on their way home wanting to use the loo. I think about Deborah rushing upstairs to use the bathroom, and taking ages, much longer than normal. Deborah, who’s been acting so oddly in recent days, with no real explanation. And then I remember the night before that, when Brenda and Barbara came round, when we were still friends, when we got drunk on cava, when I wouldn’t have noticed at all if one of them had nipped upstairs for a few minutes, when it wouldn’t even have occurred to me to be concerned. And then I think about the night a few days later when Mum took us out for pizza, and Barbara asked if she could slip into the house to look for her glasses, and how I happily said yes and let her come in here alone. Brenda and Barbara, who’ve now drifted away, who’ve cut me off.
Could Mike have persuaded one of them, one of my friends, to hide cameras in my home for him? But wouldn’t they have told me if someone had asked them to do something like that? Why would they agree? Why would any of them do something so vile, so cruel? They’ve all had the opportunity, the access to my home, it’s true. But … really? Why would any of those women, women I love and respect, treat me like that? I’ve never exchanged so much as a cross word with any of them. It doesn’t make sense; it just doesn’t make sense …
And then I think about Robin. I think about the times I’ve suspected her of rooting through my stuff, the rearranged cosmetics in my bedroom, the time Mum saw her nosing in my bathroom cabinet. If Mike had approached her, maybe, just maybe. And then, of course, there’s Mum.
My stomach lurches and I sit there and think about Mum for a long time. About how, wonderful though it’s been to have her back in my life, it’s only been since she returned that everything’s begun to fall apart. And about how, as far as access goes, she’s the one who’s had the free run of my house recently, the one who’s been in it alone for hours every day while I’m at work and the kids are at school. I’d be an idiot if I didn’t consider her being behind this, wouldn’t I? But … no. Ridiculous. Why on earth would she want to hurt me like this? She’s done everything, everything she can to show me how sorry she is for leaving all those years ago; she’s shown me nothing but love. She looked almost as horrified as I felt when I told her what had happened today. Whoever this is, it’s not Mum. But who, then? Who?
The Happy Family Page 18