The Dangerous Kind

by Deborah O'Connor

  ‘Usual. It’s like the more pregnant I get, the angrier he is.’

  Tasha’s boyfriend, Theo, worked nights, stacking shelves at Tesco. They lived on the outskirts of Birmingham and had been together for five years. What had begun as aggressive, controlling behaviour had soon escalated into physical abuse. Slapping and punching and then, since she’d been pregnant, kicking.

  ‘Remember what I said. When the baby comes, it can make things worse.’ Because it will make her braver, thought Jessamine. Because Theo knows the baby might give Tasha the courage to leave.

  ‘Maybe. On the other hand, it could be the making of him.’ There was a new barb in her voice. The rollercoaster stalled for a moment, held on the brink of a giant drop. ‘Monday’s my last day. The other girls are going to take me for tea. A baby shower.’ And just like that the rollercoaster tipped over the edge, the potential energy turned kinetic, as it flew and lifted, round the rails. ‘I’m going to wear this jumper dress I found on ASOS. It makes my bump look like a Christmas pudding.’

  Tasha worked as a shop assistant with New Look in the Bull Ring shopping centre.

  ‘Very festive,’ said Jessamine, and smiled at the thought of Tasha, rotund behind the till. ‘Have you talked to your midwife like we discussed?’ she asked, trying to steer the conversation back to more difficult things. Anything the women did or didn’t do was supposed to be their decision. Jessamine’s job was to provide them with options. ‘She might be able to help. If things take a turn for the worse.’

  ‘You talk nice, Jessie,’ said Tasha, after a little while. ‘Posh, but not nasty posh.’ She yawned. ‘I should go.’

  Jessamine sighed, conceding defeat. ‘Same time next week?’

  ‘Be there or be square,’ said Tasha, her favourite sign-off.

  Wednesday 14 December

  Present day

  Jessamine

  At ten a.m. Jessamine strode across the second floor of Broadcasting House and dumped her coat and bag on her desk. She could see Mick and the show’s researchers, Verity and Arshdeep, waiting for her in the meeting room. Mick clocked her arrival with a nod.

  She adjusted her blouse. It was new, bought at the weekend during a dash round John Lewis. On the hanger it had seemed perfect: a V-shaped neckline that would expose the beginnings of her collarbone, a subtle yellow-and-pink rose pattern. Now, though, she suspected the blouse was almost certainly polyester, a material that tended to work against her constant battle to keep cool. Still, it looked nice, and with her first date in months booked for lunch, she tried to convince herself that was all that mattered.

  They’d met online. His name was Robert. Good-looking in a crumpled, geography-teacher kind of way, he was recently divorced. In their online chats she’d found him to be nice, normal and occasionally funny. Not only that, he was self-sufficient: a vet with his own practice in Woking. However, the thing that had caught Jessamine’s attention right off the bat was his age. At fifty-two Robert was a good ten to twenty years younger than most of the men who contacted her through the site. It was one of the brutal rules of internet dating. A man could be fifty, sixty or even seventy and still consider himself cock of the walk, able to take his pick of females aged thirty plus. But for a woman over fifty? She’d had a conversation about it with Abigail, one of the World Service producers. After Jessamine had bemoaned her latest online horror Abigail had told her that some men referred to mature single women as the last chickens on the shelf. In other words, the chickens left in the supermarket at the end of the day that no one wants. Even though there was nothing wrong with those chickens everyone assumed that, because they were still there, they must be defective and bought a microwave lasagne instead.

  She grabbed her notebook and was about to join the team when the post guy appeared, pushing his metal trolley. He handed her an A3 padded envelope, her name written on it in black marker. She considered the handwriting and lack of postage, intrigued.

  A series of bangs echoed across the second floor. Jessamine looked up to see Mick knocking on the glass wall. Unhappy at the continued delay, he motioned to his watch and beckoned her in with a flick of his wrist. Something about the gesture, like an owner summoning his dog, made her decide to keep him waiting a little longer. Verity and Arshdeep wouldn’t mind. Besides, she wanted to see what was inside the envelope.

  For such a large package the contents were slight. She pulled out a thin sheaf of papers, held together with an elastic band, and a small black diary. The sheaf had a handwritten note paper-clipped to the first page.

  Jessamine,

  As promised, here is everything I have on the disappearance of my friend Cassie. It’s not much but hopefully you and your team will find it interesting. I’ve also enclosed Cassie’s pocket diary. Please help if you can.

  Yours, Marnie Clarke

  Her contact details were written in the top right-hand corner.

  Marnie. The woman who’d accosted her in the snow.

  Jessamine spread the papers on the desk. At the top of the pile was a selection of news articles taken from local papers. The story, it seemed, had not been considered interesting enough for the nationals to pick up. They detailed the circumstances surrounding Cassie Scolari’s disappearance. Jessamine skim-read the largest of the bunch. Dated four weeks earlier, it was written in the standard lifted-from-a-misper-press-release language journalists tended to use when the police suspected a person had taken their own life or run away.

  APPEAL FOR HELP IN FINDING MISSING WOMAN

  Police have appealed for help as they try to find a Loughton woman who has been missing since Friday. Cassie Scolari, 29, disappeared on her way home from work on the afternoon of Friday, 11 November. Last seen heading towards Embankment Tube station in central London, Mrs Scolari had told colleagues she had to leave early in order to take care of a family emergency but she never arrived home. Cassie is described as being of slim build, 5 feet 1 inch tall and has blonde shoulder-length hair. Officers are concerned for her welfare and have asked anyone with information to contact Loughton police station.

  It might have been twelve years since she’d been in a newsroom but Jessamine could still read between the lines. The police knew something about Cassie Scolari they weren’t saying, probably about her mental health. They clearly didn’t believe it was likely she’d been murdered.

  The article was dominated by a colour photograph of Cassie. In it her blonde hair was shorter than it had been in the one Marnie had shown her and parted in the middle, the right section tucked behind her ear. Her features were small, brown eyes framed by fair, almost translucent brows.

  She put the articles to one side and examined the remaining papers: a series of CCTV images taken from a missing-persons website and the small black diary. Odd. How and why had Marnie come to have the diary in her possession? It could be a key piece of evidence. She must know that, surely. A skim through the weeks directly before Cassie’s disappearance produced nothing of note. Doctor’s appointments, parents’ evening at her son’s school, a friend’s birthday. Going back further, to the start of the year, the only thing she saw of interest was a random address, 42 Colombia Street, Rochester, with a question mark next to it. She checked 11 November, the date Cassie had gone missing. The entry was blank, except for a single capital letter M with another question mark. M for Marnie?

  She picked up the CCTV images and studied each in turn. A red circle picked out the figure of a woman leaving a building next to the Vaudeville Theatre on the Strand. Cassie. She was wearing a dark pea-coat, her hair tied back in a ponytail. Jessamine flicked through the next two pictures. They captured Cassie walking down the street past H&M, a shoulder bag clutched to her side. The next shot had her on the other side of the road, passing Superdrug, then turning left into Villiers Street. The last set of images showed her walking past a burger joint called Five Guys.

  She looked again at the diary. There was something about the address she’d seen – 42 Colombia Street – that jarred. />
  Another knock on the meeting-room wall. She looked up to see Mick, hands on hips, mouthing angrily at her through the glass.

  Jessamine took her time replacing the file inside the envelope. Then, making sure to keep a leisurely pace, she went to join him and the rest of the team.

  Sarah

  Canary Wharf. The start of the school holidays. Sarah ran a finger across the fan of ties arranged on the display table. A rainbow of silk, the selection ran from deep burgundy to the palest of pinks. Was he a tie man? If so, which colour would suit him best?

  She picked one in a silvery grey and rubbed her thumb and forefinger against the material. She wanted the first gift she bought him to be special, something he’d keep for the rest of his life. She replaced the tie. It was too generic. Besides, everything in this shop cost a fortune. Her budget was forty quid. Earnings from the odd times she’d babysat for the McMurrays’ kid, Isla, in flat 201. By her reckoning that meant she could stretch to nothing more than two pairs of the socks currently on sale by the till.

  ‘Why are we even in here?’ This from Sarah’s best friend, Paris. ‘I mean, who are we Christmas shopping for anyway?’ Paris considered a mannequin in a tweed suit, a spotted handkerchief poking out of its breast pocket. ‘Your granddad?’

  Last night, asking Paris to come with her had seemed like a good idea. Sarah had figured that finding a gift would be simple, quickly dispatched at the start of their retail expedition, leaving them free to have lunch, wander around TopShop and see a film. Now, though, Sarah realised that choosing the right present would take time. Possibly all day. She was already fretting that she wouldn’t be able to find anything. Trying to do this and pacify a bored Paris was only going to make things more stressful.

  Maybe she should get him a photo album. Or a notebook.

  ‘Let’s go to Paperchase.’

  ‘Okay, but be quick.’ Paris got out her phone and started scrolling through her newsfeed. ‘I’m hungry.’

  Inside Paperchase Sarah left Paris by the Christmas decorations and went to the back of the shop, the shelves of photo albums. He’d yet to broach the subject of them meeting up in person. Sarah was glad, she didn’t feel ready, but it meant she’d have to send his gift in the post. The only problem was she didn’t know where he lived. The gift would be a good excuse to ask for his address.

  She picked up the plainest option. The black canvas was simple and understated. Would he like it or would he prefer one patterned with coloured stripes? Again, she felt a rising sense of panic.

  She looked over to where Paris was now busy Instagramming a reindeer tree ornament. Her plaited hair swished low on the back of her leather jacket, the ends tapering to a dry, bleached yellow. As with most things in life, Sarah’s instinct was to ask her best friend’s opinion. She usually told her everything so she knew she could be trusted. But every time she began to confide in Paris she chickened out. Probably because she knew her friend would say the same as anyone else looking in on her new relationship from the outside. Paris would warn her, tell her to be careful, say that he might not be everything he seemed. The internet was full of creeps and paedos.

  Sarah didn’t want to hear it. She’d already considered this and more. When he’d first made contact back in October, she’d told him to leave her alone. She was young, not stupid. But he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He’d kept messaging her, telling her things, confiding in her about stuff he said he’d never told anyone. Gradually, over time, he’d managed to make her see things differently.

  She examined the photo album’s cardboard back. She was good at art and planned to take it for GCSE next year. She could customise the card with the swirling faces, leaves and tiny letters she liked to draw on her school files. Then she’d fill in the shapes with an explosion of colour. It would look cool, but would he like it or think it silly, childish even?

  It was horrible, not knowing. Sarah tried to comfort herself with the fact that it was early days. Soon, things like choosing a gift or deciding what to cook him for dinner would be second nature.

  Sarah hugged the photo album to her chest. She could populate the first few pages with snaps of herself, and the blank remainder would be like a symbol of the future and all the pictures they would take together.

  The edges of the photo album began to cut into her forearms. She hugged it tighter.

  Jessamine

  The production meeting came to a close and, after gathering their things, Verity and Arshdeep left the room. Jessamine was about to do the same but Mick stopped her.

  ‘I heard something,’ he said, motioning for her to sit down. ‘This morning. It’s just a rumour.’

  ‘Sounds serious.’

  ‘They’re going to put the show under review.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘We’ve been on air eleven years.’ He ran his hand through his hair and scratched at a spot just above his ear. ‘The phrase “refreshing the brand” was used.’

  ‘Bugger.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Mick.

  ‘Who did you hear it from?’

  ‘Amanda in Scheduling.’

  ‘Should we put together a proposal, some new ideas, head them off at the pass?’

  Mick shook his head. ‘Best sit tight. It might blow over.’

  ‘If it doesn’t?’

  ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’

  Jessamine started to leave but again he stopped her. ‘New blouse?’

  She tugged it straight and nodded.

  He smiled appreciatively. ‘It suits you.’

  ‘No,’ she said, pushing past him. ‘You don’t get to say things like that. Not any more.’

  *

  Jessamine tried to put any worries about the show’s future out of her head as she took the lift downstairs, then went out onto Langham Place. Her date was at one o’clock at the Riding House Café.

  She’d chosen it partly for convenience – it was a five-minute walk from Broadcasting House – and partly because she thought it would make a good first-date location: quiet enough for them to chat without shouting but with enough hustle and bustle to mask any dips in conversation.

  Inside the maître d’ seemed to look right through her. Jessamine remembered something else Abigail had said in her dating talk of doom. She’d told her about an experiment Sainsbury’s had tried in which they’d let someone in a gorilla suit walk around the fruit aisles for an hour. It was designed to demonstrate how hard it was to get customers to notice and buy a new product. As people went through the tills, they were asked if they’d seen anything unusual during their visit. No one mentioned the gorilla. It was as though it had been invisible. Women over forty, like themselves, Abigail had explained, were like that gorilla. It was as though they didn’t exist.

  Jessamine moved closer, until she was just inches from the maître d’. Next time he looked up he had no choice but to see her.

  He tapped her name into a computer and smiled. ‘The other person is already here.’

  Jessamine straightened her blouse, tucked her hair behind her ears and followed him to the table.

  When she’d first entered the online-matchmaking fray, she’d approached every encounter with a nervous excitement she hadn’t felt since she was a teenager. It had almost certainly been the novelty of it, and that, back then, she still had a naive belief in the power of a computer algorithm to find her someone compatible, or, at the very least, a man with whom she could spend an afternoon at the pub without dying of boredom, halitosis fumes or both. But then, as she’d become more au fait with the reality of internet dating, that the men she met rarely corresponded with either their profile pictures or their purported personalities, the butterflies in her stomach had been replaced by the kind of pragmatic optimism more usually reserved for the moment you decided to order an exotic-sounding dish in a restaurant. You weren’t expecting much from the meal but just this once you’d give the pineapple-infused halibut a try.

  It took Robert a few s
econds to notice her. Holding clear-rimmed glasses against his forehead, he was squinting at the drinks menu, which was pressed close to his face. In a navy jumper and jeans he had brown hair, silvery at the temples, and kind eyes. He was just as attractive as the pictures on his profile, perhaps even better-looking. Handsome, even. Things were looking up.

  ‘Robert?’

  He dropped the glasses back to the bridge of his nose. ‘Jessamine?’

  Jessamine was sure she saw him press his lips together: an involuntary flicker of resignation or, worse, disappointment? But it was such a tiny movement and it was there and gone so quickly that maybe she’d imagined it. He got up and she thought he was going to kiss her but then he offered his hand.

  She shook it firmly and they sat down.

  ‘So.’

  ‘So.’

  He poured her some water and they stared at each other for a few seconds.

  ‘You said you work near here?’ he said eventually.

  She nodded. ‘The BBC.’ She took a sip of water. ‘Radio.’ In their online chats he’d never mentioned her show, even once he knew her full name, which meant he was probably oblivious to her job. Jessamine planned to keep it like that, for the time being anyway. ‘And you’re a vet?’

  ‘I am.’

  They’d covered all this online but she found that the first meeting with a person was often like this. Repeating the information seemed to work as an ice-breaker for a stretch of ice that had already been smashed and refrozen. All you had to do to break up the new, thinner layer was tap gently in a few key places.

  His gaze drifted to somewhere behind where she sat. She couldn’t be sure if he was trying to get the waiter’s attention or if something more interesting had caught his eye.

  All this uncertainty. All this wondering if someone liked you and if you liked them. Sometimes she felt her life would have been simpler if she’d just carried on having an affair. If it was easier to be the other woman.