‘Um . . .’ I don’t know what to say. I’m so flustered, I can barely answer.
Iulia takes my lack of response as a yes.
She smiles. ‘Here, let me talk you through our standard cardio workouts.’
She leans over and then starts explaining various exercise patterns. As she talks, I’m thinking about all the lines I rehearsed last night. I was going to start by asking how her morning was going, then say, ‘Do you miss working with Ren?’ Then gently ask what she meant, and soon she’d reveal what happened between them. Maybe even explain what she meant by her comment, We both know what you did to me.
‘And that’s it!’ says Iulia, standing proudly back. ‘Sound good? Let me know if you need any more help!’
She smiles, and then takes a step away. I’m just staring at her, my mouth hanging open.
This isn’t what was meant to happen.
Oh God, now is my chance. My only chance. I’ve got to think of something – quick!
‘Do you . . . D-do you know Ren Moore?’
Iulia is already halfway across the gym, and at the mention of Ren’s name, her sunny face jerks into a frown. ‘Ren? Why do you ask?’
I blink.
Why do I ask? How on earth do I answer that?
‘Oh, I just . . . I don’t know. I—’
My cheeks aren’t just prickling now. They are completely aflame – and it feels like every hair on my body is getting singed.
Iulia is still frowning. Rather than walking away though, she takes a step forward.
Oh God, think of something. Quick!
‘He’s, um . . . He’s . . . asked me out.’
Where did that come from?
My heart is thudding harder than ever, and I can’t even meet Iulia’s eye to gauge her reaction.
My voice comes out garbled. ‘AndyouusedtoworkwithhimsoI wonderedwhatyouthought.’
Oh God. This is cringe. She is never, ever going to believe that Ren wanted to go on a date with me. I can’t believe I said that.
I AM SO STUPID!
There’s a tickle of long hair across my shoulders. When I look up, Iulia is standing dangerously close. But she’s not frowning any more, her eyes are wide, and she looks like she wants to hug me.
‘Have you been yet?’
‘Um, what?’ I say, unable to meet her eye.
‘Have you been on any dates with him yet?’
‘Er, no. Not yet.’
She purses her lips, leaning forward. Her pale grey eyes are so close to mine that I can’t fully focus.
‘Good,’ she hisses. ‘Don’t.’
CHAPTER 36
Chloe
Mum still isn’t speaking to me. By not speaking, I mean she shouts at me, screams things in my direction about ‘tearaway teenagers’ occasionally, but rolls her eyes every time I try to speak to her in a normal voice. This morning, she studiously ignored me while I ate breakfast and washed up our dishes, before getting on the phone to one of her horrible friends and shouting from the other room about how I’ve been suspended and what a ‘nightmare’ I am to live with.
Seriously, I don’t even have the energy to fight her any more. If she doesn’t want to believe me, fine. If Ms Benewood won’t believe me either, then that’s her problem, not mine.
I stare at my face in the mirror. I got up, showered, and did my make-up as usual. I even almost put on my school shirt this morning before I realized with a sinking feeling that I won’t be going to school until next week.
I glance at my phone. Louise still hasn’t messaged me. I typed out a long message to her last night explaining everything: how I don’t remember sending those emails; how I’m sorry; how we went to the police. But then I deleted it, remembering what happened the last time I sent a needy message to someone.
She’d probably show it to everyone at school, and it just makes me sound like some crazed, unhinged woman.
The police officer was right. There isn’t any evidence. It also doesn’t make sense how someone I don’t know could know so much about my life to hurt me in this way. It might not even be someone I know.
It could be . . . anyone.
Who have I pissed off so much they would want to hack into my accounts?
I feel like everything in my life has become uncertain. It’s not just what’s happened – it’s me. Usually Louise giving me the silent treatment wouldn’t even bother me. I’d spend time chatting to Rachel and Ameerah. Get them on side. Then I’d be even louder and flirtier than usual with the guys in the class, making her want to come over.
But even if I was in school right now, I know I couldn’t do that. It’s like I’m numb.
I look down at my thumb and pick at a hangnail. It tears, and a few blobs of red trickle down onto my palm.
What am I doing?
Sliding my phone into my lap, I send a single WhatsApp message to Louise.
Chloe We need to talk.
* * *
We arrange to meet by the cafe in the high street after school. For some reason, I can’t stop plucking at the hem of my loose jumper. The cold air is making my teeth tremble, and I’m just wearing jeans and trainers. I haven’t bothered putting any makeup on, so I feel like half my face has been wiped away. I stare at the floor. It doesn’t matter; it’s fine.
When I look up, I see Louise coming towards me, and my body jolts. It’s not just Louise. She’s bought the whole gang. Ameerah, Rachel.
My bare face makes me want to hide.
Louise lets out a low sigh, her cat-like eyes narrowing. ‘Whatever you have to say to me, you can say in front of everyone.’
I lift my chin up. Take a deep breath.
‘OK – I know what’s happened to you, and I’m so sorry about that.’ It takes all my concentration to stop my voice trembling. ‘But I don’t lie—’
How can you say that? You don’t know you didn’t get with Jerome.
‘I didn’t get with Jerome. I’ve been with Tom most of the year, and besides, I would never betray a friend’s trust like that. And I never sent those photos. Do you really think I’d do something like that?’
The reaction isn’t quite what I was expecting. On any other day, the girls would be throwing Louise filthy looks, or at least looking unsure.
Instead, Rachel lets out a sigh, and Ameerah rolls her eyes.
‘Oh pur-lease give it a rest,’ says Louise with a snort. ‘We all know the truth. We’ve seen it.’
‘What have you seen? Have you even spoken to Jerome?’
Louise shrugs. ‘Of course I have.’
‘And?’
‘He denies it too. Well done – you’ve got him to stick to a consistent story.’
‘But you have no proof – it’s a bloody rumour that you know isn’t true!’
Ameerah’s cheeks have developed two pale spots of pink while we’ve been talking. But now, she’s tapping on her phone and shoves the screen under my nose.
‘Is this enough proof for you?’
On the phone, there’s a screenshot of an Instagram conversation between me and someone else. When I peer closer, I can see the familiar small icon of my profile picture, along with the name Jerome Femi.
Chlo03 Last night was amazing, thank you so much.
Jerome_F I had an amazing time, but don’t tell Louise. She’ll be pissed.
And then there’s me sending a zipped-mouth emoji.
It’s so ridiculous that I almost burst out laughing.
‘These messages are so fake. Do you really think I’d say something like that?’
‘A girl from Jerome’s school sent them to me. She thought I should know,’ says Louise, lifting her chin.
‘But which girl? Did you check her account? Did she have any mutual friends? It’s probably not even a real account! Someone’s probably made up that message. Cut it together in photoshop.’
But I can see I’m losing them. The girls don’t look irritated any more. Their faces are widening with a mixture of horror and pity.
&nbs
p; ‘Seriously, I’m not . . . It sounds ridiculous, but—’ I splutter.
Louise shakes her head.
‘Stop, Chloe,’ she says quietly. ‘You’re embarrassing yourself.’
CHAPTER 37
Amber
At lunch, all the kids in the younger years are sitting in groups around me chatting, while I sit on a bench by myself and eat my sandwiches. My brain is still whirring from what Iulia said to me at the gym this morning.
I can vividly imagine everything she told me in hushed whispered tones. Her starting personal training at the gym for the first time, meeting Ren and instantly hitting it off. Why wouldn’t they? He’s so nice, with his easy smile. And when he lifts his arm up, you can see the shadow of muscle running beneath his T-shirt.
I picture Iulia and Ren getting closer as they worked together each day. Them giggling on walks home; his eyes sparkling in the twilight. When it gets late, them grabbing a hot chocolate before the coffee shop closes; him walking her home, wrapping his arm around her shoulder.
She doesn’t believe this is really happening, that he likes her too. Against the outline of the moonlight, he leans down to kiss her . . .
But that’s where my fantasy stops.
I can’t imagine the rest of what she told me. Him calling her a slut, making her cry. The constant calls and messages. Him turning up at her house – her father going out and shouting at him to go away.
I blink several times in the direction of the gym.
If she’d told me this about anyone else, I would never want to speak to them again. But there’s something about her story that unnerves me, and not because of Ren.
Just . . . something doesn’t feel right.
I tap open Ren’s Instagram page instinctively. There are loads of girls commenting on his pictures, probably hundreds in total. Why would he want to behave like that to Iulia? Why would he need to, when so many girls adore him?
The dates on Jemma’s story also don’t quite add up. When I overheard Maisie in that computer room, I don’t actually even know if she was the right Maisie, or if she was talking about Jerome instead. But Iulia’s story is the one that makes me think. And at the start of the year too. I didn’t get the exact date out of her, but she said this all happened when they began their course in September. It just seems so wrong.
There’s a peal of laughter from a group of kids nearby, but I tune it out. I’m probably just making excuses for Ren. I don’t know him – not really. How do I know what he’s capable of? Everyone else is probably right, and I’ve just been duped. Maybe when he smiled, he was just trying to manipulate me, make me become one of his girls like Jemma, Maisie and Iulia.
I’m scrolling through Ren’s Instagram feed aimlessly, flicking through the September dates. I have all his pictures memorized; I know I’m not going to find anything. When Iulia said ‘September’, I almost put my head in my hands right there because I know there are no tagged photos then. Only a few snaps of him and his friends, and one photo of him lifting weights in the mirror topless.
I sigh.
On autopilot, I click through to a few of his close friends. I end up on Ansh’s Instagram page, skimming through September, when I find my eye caught by a photo posted on 2 September. It’s a photo I know well because it has Ren in it, but it’s not one I’ve ever paid attention to before – he’s at the back, and you can’t even really make out his face. Ansh, Ren, Iulia and a clutch of the other trainee personal instructors are lined up against the backdrop of the gym, grinning at the camera.
First-year trainees! he’s written in the caption, with a flexing-bicep emoji and the hashtag #firstdayfirstlifts.
I squint at the screen. I’m sure college started in September. That’s when Iulia will have first seen Ren in the gym.
I click through to the local college and start reading all their course details. Soon I find their PT one and skip to the page about placements.
The first month of study will involve classroom-based work.
Physical placements and assessments in gyms for first- and second-year PTs will take place in the first term, which runs from October until mid-December.
I tap at the screen. Ren wears the same uniform and does the same course as Ansh and Iulia. If the course didn’t start until October, then they wouldn’t have met as personal trainers in September. And, as far as I can see, there would have been no reason for him or Iulia to start doing their placements early.
I stare at the screen for a full minute, while a group of Year Seven girls run past, giggling. This is getting ridiculous. I need to find out whether any of these girls have got the wrong guy. What more can I do? I’m already looking at every profile I can find online. I’ve spoken to Ansh, Iulia . . .
I clutch my head in my hands and tap on Ren’s most recent Instagram story. I only look at his stories every other day, so he doesn’t somehow find out how often I look at his profile. They’re not useful, anyway – just usually clips of him working out.
This one is the same – images of him tensing in the mirror, smiling at the screen. But in the mirror reflection, I can see WhatsApp messages flashing across his screen.
I bite my lip. Wait a minute . . . There is a way to find out. To really know the truth.
I could message him.
Tapping open WhatsApp, I type in Ren Moore, and his saved contact immediately comes up. Swallowing a dry lump in my throat, I type Hey and then click send before I have a chance to think about what I’m doing.
Then I stare at my message. Delivered but unread. Two grey ticks.
And I sit there for the rest of lunch, closing and reopening the chat, waiting for him to see it.
CHAPTER 38
Chloe
Later that afternoon, I’m crouched over the laptop in my room, wrapped up tightly in a duvet cocoon, staring down at the bright blue screen with the lights off and curtains drawn.
I feel like I’m unravelling.
I’ve spent all afternoon sitting in this one spot, scrolling numbly through every Instagram feed I can think of. Mine. Louise’s. Tom’s. Jerome’s. I’m scrolling through the photos from the party, skimming the tags for names beginning with J, but he’s not coming up. I can’t find his face anywhere.
I’m not even sure what I’m looking for. Some kind of hint as to who has done this?
I’ve also been reading about it online. Cyberstalking. That’s what it’s called when someone starts impersonating you or hacking your accounts online.
There’s a freshly formed scab on my thumb, which I nibble away at so it spurts fresh globs of blood.
From what I’ve read about UK law on stalking, the accused’s behaviour must cause the victim ‘serious alarm or distress that has a substantial adverse effect on their usual day-to-day activities’.
I think back to the police officer saying there wasn’t enough evidence to look into it. He was bloody wrong. It is a crime.
A hot-water bottle is wound so tightly in my duvet that sweat beads on my brow. The beginnings of a heat rash prickle my forearm, but I ignore it.
How can I prove this is happening to me?
Mum. The teachers. Louise. Everyone at school. No one believes me. I don’t even know who’s doing this. There’s absolutely no proof of anything.
And there’s no way to find out.
If only there was some way I could take a look at the phone of whoever is doing this or get into their computer. I would know what is going on for sure. Then the police would have to do something. At the very least, the school, Mum and Louise would have to believe me.
My eyes feel scratchy and tired as I stare at the monitor. On the bed, my phone lights up with a few messages from Tom, but I let them flicker across the screen.
I don’t want to speak to anyone.
I think back to the moment at the party that I’ve pushed to the back of my mind. J’s hot, thick hands running over my body. The cold feeling of helplessness in my stomach. But I didn’t know J. He didn’t know me. He just
wanted the power over me, but not me really; he didn’t care that much. He barely even looked at me. To him, I could have been any girl.
As I’m clicking through my own page, I see the photo I posted of me and Tom. This is exactly when it all started happening, isn’t it – when I uploaded this picture. The person who did this didn’t assault me, blind drunk, at a party. The person who did this knows more about me than J ever did; he actually cared about seeing this photo of me and Tom. It can’t have been J. It must be someone who saw this photo.
I scroll down to the comments. I blocked Sven’s Instagram page, but his latest comment is still there, etched below the line.
Sven_247 Who is he?
Hovering over Sven’s Instagram page, I click the three-dots icon and, with trembling fingers, select Unblock this user.
My stomach flutters as his page pops up. Immediately I can see all his photos again.
I’m surprised by how good-looking he is. In my mind, he had become some kind of creep, but his page is filled with pictures of his broad, handsome smile. Photos with friends, ones of him on holiday or by the beach. For a second, I’m caught by a black and white image of him tensing with rippling muscles, the hollows of his dark cheekbones strikingly defined.
In the comments, there are loads of messages from girls. He’s responded to a few of them with winks and kissing-face emojis. Who are these girls? Would he really cyberstalk me when he gets so much attention already?
I click through to a couple of the girls’ profiles. Weird. They each have just one or two photos and only follow Sven.
Are these . . . fake accounts?
They must be. No one has an Instagram account and only follows one person.
The queasy feeling is slowly returning in my stomach. If he has set these girls’ profiles up, then what else could he have done? He was annoyed, wasn’t he, when I got back with Tom . . .
But he wasn’t just annoyed. He was livid.
My fingertips fidget in front of the screen. For the first time, I’m beginning to feel sure. It must be him behind this. It all makes sense. He got annoyed, wanted to sabotage my life.
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