No. No police. How can I report this to the police when now I know exactly why it’s happened? I can’t go to the police and I can’t talk this through with anyone either. Nobody can find out about Lucy, nobody …
‘OK, whatever you think,’ she said, and I thought she looked at me rather strangely for minute, but then her face cleared and she sighed. ‘I’ve told Liv, by the way. She sends her love and sympathy. She’s furious about it, on your behalf.’
‘That’s nice of her.’ It is, but the thought of my new-found sister seeing those pictures – oh, please, don’t let her look at them – makes me feel ill.
‘Anyway, I’ve been thinking, really thinking about all this nonsense,’ Mum continued. ‘And I know you don’t want to believe anything bad about her, but honestly, love, I think it can only have been Robin. I mean, it seems such a silly, childish thing to do for a joke, and potentially really damaging too, for your career and your reputation’—she shook her head, a flash of real anger in her eyes, and it made me happy, briefly, to see that outrage, that maternal defensiveness, the lioness fighting to protect her cub—‘but there’s no way your work friends would do something so stupid, and as for your neighbours, well, they may not be true friends. They made that pretty clear …’
She rolled her eyes, then carried on.
‘But I just don’t see how they’d have time to fit cameras if they were just nipping upstairs to the loo or whatever. I mean, I don’t know anything about that sort of thing really but surely that would take a while? And I’ve seen her, remember? Robin, acting oddly in your bedroom and in your bathroom. She’s the only one with the time, here in the house on her own. It must have been her, Beth. I don’t know why; that’s the only thing. It doesn’t make sense to do something like that, but I can’t work out how it could have been anyone else.’
I thought long and hard after that. Thought about how Robin, even though she didn’t live anywhere near me, just happened to see the card I’d put up in the village shop looking for help with the kids and the housework.
Could she possibly have some connection with Lucy’s family and have known who I was all along? And yet, despite the occasional hint of slightly odd behaviour, she’s always been so … so great. So incredibly helpful, a rock, and someone the kids adore. It seems so unlikely that she’d come here with the sole purpose of trying to destroy me, and why wait so long anyway? It just didn’t seem logical to wait until I was really happy, with my mum back in my life, because who could have foretold that? She could have been waiting for years, for decades, for something like that to happen.
Could my past have been something she found out about later, though, while she was working for me? Again, so unlikely. There’s nothing in this house to link me with Lucy Allen and what happened. Nothing. No diaries, no newspaper cuttings. The only other possibility was that somebody told her. But who, and why? The only person in Cheltenham who knows about it is my dad, and she’s never even met him. And if it were me, if I discovered something that awful about my employer’s past, I’d be horrified, yes; it might even make me reluctant to work for them anymore. But would I take it upon myself to wreak some sort of revenge, to punish them for what they’d done to someone I didn’t even know, so many years before? No, of course not. No sane person would do that.
I couldn’t have this conversation with Mum, of course. Instead, I tossed the arguments back and forth in my mind for hours until my head was pounding. I thought about the other stuff too – the central heating, the accident with the trampoline, all of it. And even though it still didn’t really add up, I finally decided that the unease I’ve been feeling about Robin recently was something I could do without. I was struggling as it was, and if Mum was happy to take over Robin’s duties for now …
‘Of course, darling! I’ll even help you recruit someone new before I have to leave. You’re doing the right thing,’ she said and hugged me. I clung to her, muttering my thanks. I made the phone call immediately, knowing I’d chicken out if I waited a moment longer, but when Robin picked up, still sounding curt with me, I lost my nerve a little. I knew I should confront her about the letter, the videos, all of it. But I still wasn’t sure, was I? And frankly, I was feeling too fragile, too exhausted. And so I kept it short and to the point.
‘I’m sorry it’s such short notice, Robin, but I don’t think you’ve been very happy here recently, and it seems silly employing someone when Mum’s here now and can help me out. I’ll pay you to the end of the month, obviously. I hope you understand.’
There’d been a long silence on the other end of the phone, and then she’d simply said, ‘Fine. Say goodbye to the children for me. Bye, Beth.’
Her voice had cracked as she mentioned the children and I wondered if she was crying, and whether I’d made a terrible mistake, but it was too late. And now, as I pull into the surgery car park, clamber out of the Audi and slowly, reluctantly, make my way across the road and into the building, I try to put Robin out of my mind. Today, my focus has to be on keeping my job because if I lose it, if they don’t believe that making and posting those videos was nothing to do with me, what then? How will I get another job with that disgrace hanging over me? What will Jacob do? He might actually try for full custody of the kids, and that … well, that doesn’t bear thinking about. I swallow a sob as I push open the door to my office, hang my coat up, run a brush through my hair, and dab on some lip balm. And then I take a deep breath and go and face the music.
An hour later, I’m back in my office, tears running down my face. I haven’t been sacked; instead, I’ve been told to take some time off work – a month or so. They’re still going to pay me too, and they told me it’s to help me, to give me a break, but it still feels like a punishment.
‘We’ve become increasingly concerned about your mental health, Beth,’ Gabby said gently. ‘After that worrying letter, and now these videos …’
She paused and exchanged meaningful glances with Dr Andrews and Dr Wilson, who were also sitting at the big round table in the doctors’ meeting room. The room was warm and the sickly smell of too much furniture polish mixed with coffee from the pot sitting inches away from me was not helping my still present nausea.
‘The good news is that we haven’t heard anything else from the newspaper reporter who got in touch with Gabby so hopefully that worry’s gone away at least. But the problem is, we don’t know how many of our patients saw those … well, those images,’ Dr Wilson said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He’s young – in his early thirties – but dresses like a sixty-year-old, all tweed jackets and white shirts always buttoned to the neck, even on the warmest of days. Today the jacket is brown and his neatly knotted, skinny tie is red. He looks like Mr Bean.
‘But I think we can assume from the … the, erm, volume of replies and reactions that it was many hundreds,’ he continued. ‘And we know your role isn’t patient-facing, but even so … we just feel it’s better for everyone if you keep a low profile for a while.’
I gave a little nod, my eyes fixed on a puddle of coffee on the table, trying desperately not to cry. I tried, when the meeting first began, to explain again that I’d known nothing about the post or the videos, that somebody, somehow, must have hidden cameras in my home and hacked my Facebook account, that the first I knew of the pictures was when Ruth phoned me.
‘So you found these cameras then?’ Dr Andrews asked, frowning and rubbing his untidy grey beard.
‘Well … no. I searched everywhere but I couldn’t find anything. I’m getting a specialist company in this week to do a proper sweep …’
My voice tailed off as the three doctors exchanged sceptical looks.
What’s the point? They don’t believe me and I don’t really blame them. It sounds crazy. I sound crazy.
I gave up after that, and let them deliver their verdict. I was, they’d decided, clearly having some sort of mental health crisis and my time off would be deemed sick leave.
‘Try to get your drinking und
er control, Beth,’ Gabby said. ‘If you feel counselling might help we can organise that for you, OK? But above all, just take some time for you. You’ve been through some big life changes in the past couple of years – your divorce, your dad going into a home, your mum coming back into your life. It’s all just caught up with you, that’s all. It’ll all be fine, and we’re here if you need us.’
Somehow, I managed to get back to my own room before the floodgates opened. Now, I sit here and cry for a good ten minutes, feeling wretched.
I love my job; I don’t want to take a month of sick leave. Who’s going to run things here? And what if they decide not to let me come back at all?
The thought of having to leave altogether brings a fresh rush of tears, and when I eventually pull myself together it’s after nine. Feeling unable to face anyone, and knowing the waiting room will, by now, be full of patients, I gather my belongings and slip out the rear fire door, then make my way down the alleyway that runs along the side of the surgery building. As I cross the road I hear someone calling my name, and turn to see Nadia gesturing at me from her usual doorway.
Oh, no. Not now.
But now she’s waving at me too and I don’t have the heart to ignore her. Horribly conscious that my face is still red and tear-stained, I make my way over and attempt a smile.
‘Hi, Nadia. Are you OK? What can I do for you?’
She’s squinting up at me, one hand shielding her face from the sun that’s suddenly decided to make an appearance. Her eyes are watery and blood-shot in the clear morning light.
‘Are you OK?’ she asks. ‘You look as if you’ve been crying.’
The concern in her voice almost makes the tears start again, but I swallow hard, refusing to release them.
‘I’m fine. Just a few issues at home so I’m taking some time off, just a few weeks. Nothing major, don’t worry.’
She stares at me, looking almost as sceptical as my colleagues did earlier, but she lets it go.
‘Right, well I just wanted to give you your books back. I’ve finished them and I know you said to give them away or to charity but it seems a shame. They’re in such nice condition and I’ve taken care of them. Look.’
She holds out a plastic bag. The books are neatly stacked inside and I want to tell her to keep them, that I don’t care about books right now, that I don’t have time for this, that I need to get home, need to curl up in a frightened ball somewhere and lick my wounds like a dog, but I can’t. I can’t be mean to this poor old lady, sitting here on her little pile of cardboard in her stale-smelling clothes. Instead, I force a smile and take the bag from her.
‘Well, thank you. And I’m so glad you enjoyed them. As I said, I’ll be off for a few weeks now, but I’ll sort some more out for you for when I come back to work. If you’re still here, that is. Do you think you will be?’
She nods.
‘No plans to move on. I like it here. Town is nice, people are nice, hostel is clean. For now, anyway.’
‘Good,’ I say, and realise I mean it. I’ve got used to seeing her out here and I enjoy our little chats. I’d miss her if she went.
‘Well, bye for now, Nadia. Take care of yourself, OK? See you soon.’
She raises a hand encased in a grey wool fingerless glove.
‘See you, Beth. Hope you sort it out, whatever it is.’
‘I will. Bye.’
But as I walk to the car, I suddenly feel more alone, more scared, than I have in a very long time. I have no idea how to ‘sort this out’. None. Because I don’t even know what this is. I’ve got rid of Robin, but I still don’t know if she truly has anything to do with it, and I feel another little shiver of doubt. Was it her, really?
My life’s falling apart, I think. And I have absolutely no idea who’s responsible.
Chapter 29
‘Nothing, Mrs Holland. Nothing at all,’ says the man.
He bends down, snaps his little black case shut, and straightens up again.
‘So I’ll be off then. You’ll receive an invoice by email in the next day or so. Thanks again for the tea.’
I see him out, shut the front door, then lean my forehead against it for a minute, my mind racing.
How? How can there be nothing? This is … this is ludicrous.
He’d turned up a couple of hours earlier and I’d shown him up to the bedroom. It had been tempting to have the entire house swept for bugs and cameras but the cost would have been eye-watering, and after yesterday, and my paranoia that this ‘sick leave’ I’m now on might end up being something more permanent, I’m too scared to deplete my bank account any further than is absolutely necessary.
‘I think it’s just my room and the ensuite,’ I explained. ‘Video cameras of some sort. I took both rooms apart, but I couldn’t find anything. I know they can be really tiny these days though, and I didn’t really know what I was looking for, so …’
He nodded. He was a small, wiry man in a short-sleeved black shirt with Bugsweepers in yellow embroidery on the breast pocket.
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Holland. If there’s anything here, I’ll find it. Don’t you worry about that.’
He hadn’t asked any more questions, for which I was grateful. Discretion’s probably a big part of a job like his, I thought, tuning out as he started talking about radiofrequency detectors and infrared scanners. I didn’t care how he was going to do it, I just wanted it done, and so I went back downstairs and left him to it. But when he finally emerged, he told me the room was clean.
‘All safe, you’ll be glad to hear,’ he said, and I thought I heard a note of disappointment in his voice.
Now I feel more confused than ever.
How could he have found nothing? There were, very obviously, cameras in my bedroom at some point. And now there aren’t. So what does that mean? That someone fitted them, then took them away again?
I jump as my mobile phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s the solicitor I called as soon as I got home yesterday to ask for advice on how to get the porn site to remove the video. It’s not straightforward, apparently. Obviously, the first step is to contact the site and ask, nicely, if they can take it down, but they don’t have to oblige.
‘They probably get a lot of takedown requests, and if a video’s popular they may well ignore them,’ she said. ‘But if you can actually speak to a human being and make an eloquent case, well, you never know. Humanise it. Make them empathise with you. They may well have a partner and children themselves, so try to make them see how embarrassing it all is for you, how the video was made without your consent, how it may even affect your job, that sort of thing. You need to make that contact yourself. If that doesn’t work, come back to me and we’ll see what else we can do.’
I’d forced myself to go back to the website immediately but found no contact phone number, just an email address. I’d spent the next hour composing a heartfelt email, but when by this morning there was still no reply I was too anxious to wait any longer. I left a message with Anna Reid, the solicitor, begging her to do something, anything. It was going to be more money I couldn’t afford to spend, but there was no way I could live with knowing that video was still out there. We had to get it taken down; we simply had to.
‘I’d wait a bit longer before giving up, Beth,’ she says now. She has a lovely voice, calm, warm, reassuring. I’ve never met her – I found her on Google yesterday – but I’m picturing a soft bun, tendrils falling around her face, and a crisp white shirt.
‘It’s been less than a day and they may not check their emails regularly. But if we don’t hear anything after, say, a week, then I’ll put the pressure on a bit. If they still ignore us, or point-blank refuse to remove the footage, we can suggest some alternatives. We can ask them to blur your face, maybe. That might be a good compromise. It’s a tricky one, but don’t despair, all right?’
I thank her and end the call, but I am close to despair. Mum’s gone to a yoga class in the local W.I. Hall, and the children are, of course, s
till at Jacob’s. The house seems so quiet, so sad, that I almost can’t bear it. I know I need to keep busy or I’m just going to collapse in a messy sobbing heap, and so I try to focus on some housework. I flick a duster around the living room and wipe down the kitchen surfaces. But there’s a buzzing in my head, a fuzziness, and I can’t seem to organise my thoughts. Images of tiny vanishing video cameras flash through my mind; I know I barely slept last night and wonder if I’m starting to hallucinate. I go upstairs and lie down on Eloise’s bed, then remember my room is safe again so get up and go to my own bed instead. I’m just drifting off when I get a text from Mum telling me she’s nipping to the shop on the way home and asking if I need anything.
Cameras all gone now, I assume?
she adds, and I tap out a reply.
No cameras to be found! I’m so confused. Not sure what’s going on. Robin (if it was her) removed them again, maybe? Having a little nap. See you later xx
I do fall asleep then, too exhausted to even crawl under the duvet. I wake with a start an hour or so later, feeling cold and woozy. It’s lunchtime and I’m thirsty, my lips cracked and dry, so I make myself get up and walk stiffly down the stairs. But when I get to the hall I pause. I can hear voices in the kitchen. It’s Mum, and it sounds as if she’s chatting to … Ruth?
Yes, it’s Ruth. What’s she doing here?
‘She’s not in a good way at all,’ Mum’s saying. ‘I’m so worried, Ruth. I went out this morning to give her some space, you know? I don’t want her to think I’m watching her all the time. But I think she needs medication, at the very least. She’s all over the place, and now Jacob doesn’t even trust her with the children. He’s taken them to stay with him. Did you know that?’
‘Gosh … no, I didn’t! That’s awful. Poor Beth,’ Ruth says.
Out in the hall, I’m squirming.
They’re talking about me. Oh shit …
‘Oh, please don’t say anything,’ Mum says. ‘She’s so upset about it and she’s trying to hide it. I’d hate for her to think we’ve been gossiping about it. She tried to pass it off as Jacob having some holiday and wanting to spend some of it with the kids while they’re on Easter break, but it was pretty obvious what was going on. I think he was really angry about that awful video. I mean, I don’t blame him I suppose …’
The Happy Family Page 20