‘Well, no. God, poor Beth. It’s all so embarrassing for her, and when I heard yesterday the docs had decided to send her home, well … has she got to the bottom of it yet, the video?’
‘Well, this is the thing.’ Mum’s lowered her voice and I take a step closer to the kitchen door, straining to hear.
Mum’s not stupid. Of course she’s worked out that I lied to her about the true situation with Jacob and the children. Why did I do that? Why?
‘She had a man in this morning from some electronic bug-sweeping company,’ she’s saying. ‘And apparently he found absolutely nothing. No cameras. And do you know what, Ruth? I really hate to say this, but I’m starting to think all this hidden camera stuff is all in her mind. She’s so confused at the moment, and I’m now wondering if she filmed herself, and posted it herself too. All these allegations she’s making, they just don’t make any sense, you know? And did you know she’s fired Robin over it all? They’ve had a few fallings out recently and she thinks it might be her idea of revenge. I thought that might be the case too, at first, but now I’m suddenly changing my mind. I think it might be a sort of attention thing, a cry for help. I mean, it makes sense when you think about it. All the pages the link was posted on, they all belong to people she wants attention from, don’t they? Or people she’s not on great terms with. Jacob, her friend Brenda …’
‘NO! NO!’
I burst into the room, horrified. They’re standing at the patio doors and they whirl around, both with shocked, guilty looks on their faces.
‘Darling …’ Mum says, eyes wide. She takes a step towards me but I’m still shouting and she shrinks back again.
‘THAT IS NOT TRUE! I DID NOT FILM THOSE PICTURES MYSELF. WHY ON EARTH …? I MEAN, EVEN IF I DID, WHY WOULD I POST THEM TO THE SURGERY PAGE? THAT’S RIDICULOUS!’
‘Beth, calm down!’ Ruth is moving towards me now, hand outstretched, but I can’t seem to help myself.
‘I DON’T KNOW WHY THERE AREN’T ANY CAMERAS. IT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE TO ME EITHER, BUT IT WASN’T ME, OK? IT WASN’T, AND I DON’T KNOW HOW YOU COULD EVEN …’
And then, quite suddenly, all the rage dissipates and I look at their stunned, worried faces and burst into tears.
‘I’m sorry … I’m so sorry … Ruth, Mum … I shouldn’t have lost my temper. I’m sorry …’
Ruth takes another step towards me and wraps her arms around me, pulling me close, and I let her. She’s wearing a soft, fluffy jumper today, baby pink, and I bury my face in her shoulder.
‘It’s all right, it’s all right, let it out, that’s it. Of course we believe you, don’t we, Alice? My poor Beth. It’s all going to be OK, I promise you,’ she murmurs, and I stand there for a long time, crying, her palm making soothing circles on my back. When I eventually stop weeping and look up, Mum’s standing next to us with a box of tissues. Wordlessly, she offers me one and I take it, nodding my thanks. I wipe my eyes and blow my nose loudly.
‘I sound like a seal,’ I say, and that makes us all laugh, just a little.
‘I’m so sorry, darling. I shouldn’t have said any of that. I’m just trying to make sense of it, and you know how worried I’ve been about you. But Ruth’s right, of course we believe you. Forgive me?’
I hesitate, just for a minute, then nod. She’s just as confused as I am about all this, isn’t she? I think, and I can’t blame her for speculating.
‘Of course I forgive you, Mum.’
‘Thank goodness. Look, come and sit down,’ she says, and I do. Ruth pulls out the stool next to me and sits down too.
‘I need to get back in a minute,’ she says. ‘I just wanted to zoom out in my lunchbreak and see if you were OK. Gabby told me about what happened yesterday and I didn’t want to just call; it seemed too impersonal. Deborah was going to come too, but, well …’
She shrugs awkwardly, and I wonder again about Deborah, but Ruth’s still talking.
‘Anyway, do you really think it was Robin? You’ve actually fired her? Why would she do such a horrible thing though? I don’t understand.’
‘Oh Ruth. I just don’t know. But she did have the most access, the most time …’
Even as I say it, the Robin thing still isn’t ringing quite true. There’s something just not right about it being her, even if she did have the best opportunity.
Unless maybe Mike paid her to do it? She can’t be very well off, and maybe she needed the money …
That makes more sense again suddenly, and I remind myself to get his number from Mum. And then I think about the face at the window again and a shiver runs down my back.
‘Or maybe someone broke in,’ I say lamely. ‘Someone who wanted to … to mess with me.’
That is still a possibility, but I can’t explain any further without telling them about Lucy, and now they’re both looking at me with sceptical expressions.
‘But why would anyone want to do that?’ Ruth says. ‘I can understand you suspecting Robin – I mean, you’ve had a few issues with her – but why would anyone else want to hurt you like this? What have you ever done to anyone? That doesn’t make sense, sweetheart.’
She says the words soothingly, like a mother trying to calm a child having a tantrum, and I give up. There’s no point in having this conversation, not with either of them, not when I can’t tell them what I really think’s going on here. And anyway, Ruth’s looking at her watch now, jumping off her stool, and saying she’s going to be late for afternoon surgery and that she’ll call me soon.
‘Rest, OK? Make the most of this time to yourself. You look knackered.’
She gives me another hug and then she’s gone. Mum kisses my cheek and tells me to go and relax and she’ll bring me some lunch shortly – fresh mushroom soup and sourdough bread that she picked up on the way home from yoga. I thank her and wander aimlessly back upstairs and into my room, where I stand by the window gazing down at the quiet street, at my neat paved driveway, flanked on either side by Brenda’s and Barbara’s. I think about them, the two women I thought were my friends, and feel a little wave of sadness. I remember the early days, just after we’d all moved in, the way we hit it off immediately and how lucky I’d felt to have neighbours like them. And then I remember something else, something which strikes me with such force that I gasp. Something I’d totally forgotten about.
I take a deep, jagged breath.
It would have been easy for Brenda or Barbara to nip in and install those cameras after all. To remove them again too. All they’d have to do is watch the house and make sure it was empty while they did it. Because what I’ve suddenly remembered is that back at the beginning, back when we first became friends, we all decided it made sense, as we lived next door to each other, to exchange door keys, just for emergencies. We’ve never needed to use them, and so I’d forgotten all about it. In fact, I’m not even sure where their keys are now – probably in one of the kitchen drawers. But the fact remains: I have keys to both Brenda and Barbara’s houses.
And, more importantly, they have keys to mine.
Chapter 30
I dreamed about Jacob last night. He was here, in my bedroom, and he had a tool kit with him. He was over there by the mirror, screwing something into the wooden frame. I called out to ask what he was doing, but he didn’t hear me.
I woke with a start, in a panic, jumping out of bed and running to the mirror to check, but of course there was nothing there; there was no tiny camera blinking at me. It was just a dream. And yet, as I crawled back under the duvet, I began to wonder again. Did I have this all wrong? The fact that I’d now remembered that Barbara and Brenda have keys to my house seemed to have blown everything open again. My trust in everyone except, probably, my mother and Ruth, was trickling away. Was it so ludicrous to think that Jacob might have been involved in this? I’d already wondered if he’d written the anonymous letter, and he was always popping up and down to the kids’ bedrooms when he was here – Crystal too, on occasion. Could it have been him, or her, who’d fitt
ed those cameras? He’d seemed so furious, so disgusted, about the video, but what if he had a grand plan? What if they were scheming all along to take the kids away from me permanently? To make me seem like an unfit parent would surely strengthen their case hugely. But the thought that this misery, this hell I’m going through, could have been brought about by Jacob, the man with whom I spent so many happy years, the man I still, until recently, had such a good relationship with, made me feel ill. And Crystal is a barrister, for goodness’ sake. She wouldn’t, would she? Somehow, I convinced myself I was being ridiculous and fell back into a fitful sleep. But now, as I spread butter on a slice of toast in the quiet kitchen – Mum’s already gone out for a walk – the doubts are sneaking back, wriggling their way into my thoughts even as I try to bar them entry.
I don’t want this to be anything to do with Jacob, I think, as I pull out a stool and sit down, flicking the TV on to catch the end of BBC Breakfast.
I don’t want it to be anything to do with anyone I know because how do I move on from that?
I’m starting to think it doesn’t even matter who’s behind it all. The damage is done, and all I can do now is hope things turn around, hope that whoever is trying to hurt me feels they’ve done enough now, finally. Hope that those pictures, which may have had tens of thousands of views by now for all I know, will eventually be taken down. Hope that I’ll be allowed to go back to work. Hope that this nightmare will soon be over.
For now, I have this period off work, unwanted though it may be. I need to be constructive with it, use it to clean up the mess I’ve found myself in. I haven’t seen Dad since the pictures went online, and while I’m almost certain the care home staff won’t have told him, won’t have shared the juicy news that his daughter’s naked body is out there on the internet for anyone to ogle, I can’t be sure that one of his friends hasn’t seen them, or one of his care home buddy’s relatives. The thought of him hearing about it and then, horror of horrors, taking a look for himself, petrifies me. I’ve spoken to him on the phone over the past few days, just briefly, telling him I’ll be in soon and that everything’s been a bit hectic, and he’s given me no indication that he knows anything’s amiss. Even so, nerves are beginning to flutter in my stomach as I get into the car to drive to Holly Tree.
When I walk into reception, Anya is arranging some flowers in the big vase that sits on the round table in the centre of the entrance lobby. I can smell the fragrance from several feet away; it’s a heady mix of lilies, freesias, and irises, sweet and powdery.
‘Mrs Holland!’
She sees me and smiles. Her official title here is Client Liaison Manager, which always makes me think of a bank, but she’s charming and excellent at her job, a reassuring link between anxious relatives and clinical staff.
‘Hi, Anya. Just popping in to see Dad. Look, I’m so sorry about … well, you know. I’m still trying to work out what happened.’
I can feel myself blushing but she’s grimacing, moving closer, and putting a sympathetic hand on my arm.
‘Don’t worry, honestly. We’ve all taken pictures we regret, but to be hacked …’
She’s keeping her voice low, glancing over at the desk where Ben, the head receptionist, is chatting to a well-dressed couple and pointing to something in a colourful brochure.
‘But I didn’t …’ I begin, then give up. What’s the point?
‘Anya, do you think …? I hardly dare ask, but do you think Dad …?
She’s shaking her head.
‘It’s lucky we’re staffed twenty-four-seven, to be honest. I think the night crew spotted the post on our Facebook page pretty quickly and deleted it before too many people saw it. We haven’t had any comeback at all, as far as I know. There’s a possibility, of course, that some of our residents know, but nobody’s said anything. So I think you might be in the clear, as far as John goes, fortunately.’
I want to kiss her but instead I thank her fervently, apologise again, and go and find Dad. He’s sitting by the window in the bar, clearly engrossed in some programme that’s playing on the little digital radio that’s sitting on the table in front of him. I pause in the doorway for a moment, watching him. He looks content, and I feel a rush of gratitude; I’m so thankful that he’s still here, that he’s well and safe and happy. As I cross the room towards him though, I see out of the corner of my eye heads turning and eyes following me; I hear a little snigger and my throat tightens. Do they know then, some of them at least, despite what Anya said? Or is this my paranoia taking over again? It’s just natural curiosity to look round to see who’s getting a visitor – nothing more than that, I tell myself. But the snigger has bothered me and the thought that the eyes following me now have also lingered on images of my unclothed body turns my stomach.
I sit down opposite Dad and swallow hard. He looks up, squints, and smiles his crooked smile.
‘Hello, love. Mished your face.’
‘Missed you too, Dad. You look well.’
I leave an hour later feeling lighter and ignoring what I’m sure are fresh stares as I depart. He doesn’t know, I’m sure of that, and if some of the other residents do, then all I can do is hope they’ve got the decency to continue to keep it to themselves. Dad was in good form. He’s feeling stronger every day and happily swallowed the lies I told him about taking some time off work because I have annual leave to use up, and about Jacob taking the children off my hands for a while to give me a proper break.
‘You desherve it, love,’ he slurred, and squeezed my hand, his wrinkled fingers soft as tissue-paper. I kissed him and nodded, and told him I was going to make the most of it, almost starting to believe it myself. As I drive home though, I start to worry again. Mum gave me a number for Mike last night and calling him is next on my to-do list.
‘I mean, I’m not sure how much good it’s going to do,’ she said doubtfully as she scribbled the number on the back of an envelope and pushed it across the table to me.
‘I know you think you saw him all over the place but honestly, I’m a hundred per cent sure he went back to Cornwall before I even got here, love. He’s got nothing to do with those silly pictures, mark my words.’
I told her she was probably right, that calling him was just a box-ticking exercise, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense to me that it was Mike I kept seeing, that he is involved, that he somehow found out about my past while working for Mum and is now working for Lucy Allen’s family, helping them wreak revenge. But how? How did he do it all?
Whoever he got to help him, he could have given them the camera equipment and instructions on exactly what to do with it, couldn’t he? I think. I saw him – thought I saw him – with Robin first, didn’t I? And then chatting to Barbara and Brenda outside, and then at the surgery? What if he offered them all money to mess with me, to tamper with my central heating and the trampoline, to write that letter to Gabby? Between all of them, how easy it would have been! Robin with her daily access to the house, Brenda and Barbara with their keys …
I cross the roundabout onto Prestbury High Street and consider Deborah, who doesn’t have a key to my house.
But she could easily have nipped into my office when I was in a meeting and taken my keys from my bag. There’s a key cutting place just a few doors down, for goodness’ sake. She could have made copies in minutes and put them back before I’d even noticed they’d gone. All she’d have to do is call my house phone from her mobile, and if Robin or Mum didn’t pick up, she’d know the coast was clear … I mean, it would be risky, but still …
My mind is racing as I indicate right to turn into The Acre. My heart’s racing too, and I sit in the car for a minute after I’ve parked, my hands gripping the steering wheel, trying to calm myself. I wonder if I really have stumbled on a possibility here or if all this is just wild, nonsensical speculation. Am I really starting to believe that a complete stranger was able to convince my closest friends and colleagues to turn on me, en masse? Would I do that to them, if
the tables were turned, even if vast sums of money were offered? Of course I wouldn’t. So why am I even entertaining these thoughts? It’s ludicrous, I know that, and as I finally get out of the car and go into the house, I’m talking myself out of it again, discarding the ridiculous scenario I’ve just dreamed up. OK, I’m still going to call Mike. But there’s some other explanation; there must be.
I just don’t know what it is yet.
Mum’s back and is pottering around the kitchen, a mixing bowl and bag of flour on the counter.
‘Making biscuits,’ she said happily. ‘Nice woman at yoga the other day gave me a recipe. Pistachio and cranberry. We can have one with our afternoon tea later.’
‘Lovely,’ I say, then, ‘I’m going upstairs for a bit. Call me if you need anything, OK?’
She shoos me out of the room, telling me to go and rest, and I head upstairs and close my bedroom door firmly. I find the envelope with Mike’s details on it and sit down at my little desk, wanting to feel business-like and in control for this call, even though my mouth is dry and my hands are tingling as I dial the number.
‘Mike Langton, hello?’
‘Mike … erm … hello, this is Beth Holland. Alice Armstrong’s daughter, in Cheltenham …’
Five minutes later I end the call and stare at the phone, not sure how I’m feeling. Mike Langton was, I’m pretty sure, telling the truth. He sounded bemused, baffled even, when I asked him why he’d been hanging around town after Mum had dispensed with his services.
‘I’m looking at my diary right now and I promise you, Beth, that the last time I was in Cheltenham was Thursday and Friday the fifth and sixth of March,’ he said.
The Happy Family Page 21