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38. SUMMER 2013

Catherine takes the bus to work, the simplest route from her mother’s house. It’s pragmatic, not cowardly. Stephen Brigstocke is the coward. She’d kept her phone on all night, but he hadn’t called. She sits on the bus replaying in her head her nightly confessions to her mother and wonders if any of them have filtered through. Her mother hasn’t said anything, but does she know? Does she remember? Tears come at the thought that her mother knows but doesn’t judge her. She blinks them away so she can pull down the mask she must wear to get through the day. It fits her well, no one would know it was there, and she has even got used to the way it inhibits her breathing. By the time she gets off the bus she is in her stride, marching along the stretch of road towards work like a confident woman on her way to a busy day in the office, not noticing anyone she passes. Not noticing the old man in the knitted hat who has stopped to stare at her as she sweeps past. They almost touch. He smells her as she walks by. He watches her until she disappears.

She walks into the office, unwinding her silk scarf from her throat and letting its beautiful print shiver across her chest, moving as she moves. She dumps her bag on the floor and sits down in her chair, swinging round to check who else is in, but she is the first. Odd, it’s ten o’clock. She takes out her diary, thinking there must be a meeting she’s forgotten and then she notices them. Piled up on her desk. Copies of The Perfect Stranger, spines rigid, stare back at her accusingly.

Fuck. Her hands shake as she snatches them up and shoves them in the bin under her desk. Fuck. He has been here. Thank Christ she is alone, but as she sits back in her chair and looks up she sees she is not.

Kim and Simon are watching her. Kim and Simon are standing side by side. In Kim’s hand is a copy of the book. Catherine tries to meet her eye but she avoids meeting Catherine’s. Simon walks towards her, hand held out, as if he is approaching a nervous animal. Don’t speak, let him speak first.

“Cath.” He imbues her name with his own sense of superiority.

She watches him come closer, her foot pressing down on the bin under her desk to stop her leg shaking.

“You okay if we have a quick chat?” And he sits down on the chair next to her. He has never been able to hide his feelings of rivalry. This is an opportunity he won’t pass up. Kim stands by his side.

“Thing is, Kim came to me because she didn’t know what to do.”

Kim speaks now, sounding like a nervous child: “Stephen Brigstocke came in — he brought in the books… his book.” One twitches in her hand. Catherine bites her cheek until she tastes blood.

“So the difficulty is,” Simon picks up, “Kim told me that you asked her to drop the story about Mr. Brigstocke and I wondered why you were so keen to kill it off?”

“Oh, did you. Well, it has absolutely nothing to do with you.” Her voice shakes, lacking the strength of its words.

“I think it does… I mean I wish it didn’t but… if a junior member of the team comes to me asking for advice then it becomes my business.”

“A junior member of the team? God. Who do you think you are?”

He takes the book from Kim and waves it around.

“You told Kim he was a paedophile and you asked her to track him down and then, once she’d done that, you told her to forget all about it.” He sits back in the chair, spreading his legs and thrusting them out in front so his crotch is staring up at Catherine. “I wonder why you did that?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you, Simon. Or to you, Kim,” and she glares at her. “This is a personal matter. It has nothing to do with work.”

“Well, then why did you ask me to get his address and telephone number?” Kim is on the verge of tears.

“Did you let him in here?” Catherine demands.

“Yes — reception phoned and I went down to meet him. When he told me who he was—”

Simon interrupts her. “It’s okay, Kim, I’ll handle this,” and he sends her a smile over his shoulder. “Here’s the thing. I don’t know what’s in this book, I haven’t had time to read it yet, but a man you had been investigating as a paedophile turns up here with a book he has written. And he tells Kim that you’re part of the story. That you are in this book. I mean, what is it? Some kind of confession?” And he fans the pages as if they’ll answer his question.

“I didn’t say he was a paedophile.”

“But…,” Kim stutters.

“I asked you to help me find Stephen Brigstocke’s contact details and some background on him. I asked you because I trusted you.” Now Catherine is close to tears.

“Hey, don’t take it out on Kim — she’s not the one who needs to defend herself.” And he shuffles his chair closer to Catherine’s, leaning in so close she can smell his perfume. He has succeeded in making her feel like a nervous animal. She looks around the office, but still no one else is in.

“I told everyone we were having a meeting, so they’ve gone to the canteen.”

“God, you’re such a shit. You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you. You could have done this in the meeting room but no — you want everyone to know about this fucking charade.”

“Cath, Cath — you’re the one who’s created this situation. You’re not being honest with us and that worries me — it jeopardises the reputation of the whole team.”

“What? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Mr. Brigstocke came here because he was frightened. You used Kim to get his address and telephone number and then you went round to his house. He says you tried to break in and then left threatening messages on his answer machine.” He leans in even closer. She is cornered. She must get away. She picks up her bag, but Simon puts his hand on her arm.

“Cath, come on, we need to talk about this…”

“Get your fucking hand off me.” And he backs off raising both hands, one holding the book, in surrender.

“He is the one stalking me — that’s why I went to his house. To talk to him… he is the one who is threatening me….”

“Okay, okay. And why is he doing that? I mean, what’s he threatening you with?”

She is deafened by the sound of blood pumping in her ears.

“It’s private. Can’t you get that through your fucking head?”

“Listen, just try to stay calm.”

“Don’t you fucking tell me to stay calm. You have no right to ask me anything about it and I’m not—” She is about to cry and she will not do that.

“You’re clearly very upset. Whatever it is you’re covering up, I’m sure it would be better if you just came clean about it.” Then he touches her again. She snatches the book out of his hand, and throws it. It hits him in the face. She stares, fascinated by the burning red on his cheek and the beads of blood which appear from a cut on the side of his nose. Both of them are too shocked to speak. Kim is the only one to move, grabbing some tissues and thrusting them at Simon.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says as he dabs at his nose and she hears the threat in his words. His eyes flick over her shoulder and she turns to see they have an audience — small but appreciative. Her colleagues watch through a glass partition. She is the show — a one-woman show. They are shocked, but they pity her too as they sip their coffees. She has humiliated herself. Simon waits for an apology.

“You fucking asked for it,” she says as she walks out, feeling the eyes on her but refusing to meet them. She takes the lift down and imagines them all rushing to Simon. God she looked crazy. She’s really lost it. She walks passed security and out through the glass doors. She keeps walking until she reaches the bus stop. She has no idea how long it takes the bus to come, two minutes? Twenty? And when it does she barely remembers getting onto it, swiping her Oyster card, sitting down and staring from the window at streets that are grey and nondescript.

SUMMER 1993

When was the first time she saw him? Was Robert there or had he already left? Did she notice Jonathan when she, Robert, and Nicholas were still a threesome? She thinks not. When Robert was there she hadn’t even known Jonathan existed. And what was her first impression when she did see him? Youth, carelessness — he was carefree and she wasn’t. His dark hair, tanned skin, long limbs. He was watching her and Nicholas. They were in a café near the beach. It was the day Robert left. She was trying to get Nicholas to eat his tea: one more mouthful and then he could have an ice cream, just one more mouthful of rice then we can both have an ice cream. She was on the verge of tears, hating herself for not coping for one fucking day without her husband.

“Make the most of it,” Robert had said. “It’s pissing down in London.” And he’d smiled and she’d tried to smile back but she couldn’t. She didn’t cry either although she felt like it. She didn’t want to make a scene or push Robert into making a choice: which was more important, work or her? She could have done that. She knows she would have won. But she didn’t.

“We’ll come home with you,” she’d tried instead.

“Don’t be silly — why would you want to do that? It’s beautiful here. The hotel’s paid for, just enjoy it. No cooking, no washing, a beautiful beach.” Yes, there was a beach, there was the sea, the sun was shining, but she didn’t want to be there on her own. Postnatal depression. But five years on? She hadn’t owned up to it. She was lucky, that’s what everyone told her. She was lucky.

Did she flirt with him then? When she noticed him looking, did she flirt? Did she do something with her eyes that sent him a signal? She gave in to Nicholas and bought him an ice cream before he’d finished his rice. She had a beer. And the young man, whose name she didn’t know yet, had smiled and she’d smiled back and that little connection had given her a boost. And then she and Nicholas went back to the hotel. He wanted to be carried, and the beer had softened her, so she picked him up even though he was too heavy and she was already carrying the beach bag with their wet towels and toys and a litre of water and her book. She remembered walking away from the café and imagining the attractive stranger watching her from behind and her being conscious of how she looked from behind. Did he follow her back to the hotel? He told her later that he was going that way anyway….

The bus pulls in and she opens her eyes, worried she’s missed her stop. But it’s the next one, and then a short walk back to her mother’s flat. It is her only place of refuge now.

When she walks in, the carer is there and her mother is watching television, the volume turned higher than usual so she can hear it above the sound of the vacuum cleaner. Catherine would like to turn round and walk straight out again but she has nowhere else to go. It is safe here but she knows this safety is as fragile as a bubble.

There is already a message from Simon on her voice mail but she hasn’t bothered to listen to it. Her phone rings again. Work. She ignores that too, putting it on silent, then switching herself to cruise control: kissing her mum and saying hello to Eileen the carer; making a pot of tea and sitting down; closing her eyes and allowing the mash of noise in the flat to wash through her. When she opens her eyes again, Eileen is wearing her coat and putting on her outdoor shoes. The flat is quiet, the television switched off.

“Bye then,” Eileen says, “see you next week,” and she is out of the door before Catherine can reply. Her mother is fast asleep. She pictures herself and her mother side by side, both asleep, the before and after, although Catherine wonders whether she will actually make it to where her mother is now. She stands up and goes into the bedroom.

She checks her phone. Two more messages. She listens to them: the one from Simon and then two from a woman in human resources. She sits on the bed and calls her back.

“Hello, it’s Catherine Ravenscroft for Sarah Fincham.” She waits, hoping that she will be “in a meeting” and that she won’t have to speak to her.

“Catherine, hello. Thank you for calling back.”

Catherine says nothing.

“I understand there was an incident in the office today.”

Still she says nothing.

“Simon has said that he doesn’t want to make a formal complaint but we are obliged to record that you physically attacked him. It will have to go on your file although, as I say, Simon isn’t pushing for any further action.”

“I see.” Catherine hears her mother stirring, the television going on again.

“And there will have to be an investigation into the allegations made by a Mr. Stephen Brigstocke. They are serious. I’m sure you understand that. Is there anything you’d like to say at this stage?”

“No.”

“Well. I’m going to sign you off work for a week — a week to start with. Just for now.” She waits. “Catherine? Are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“I understand you’ve been under pressure. That you have felt under pressure with work…”

“It’s not work — I haven’t been under pressure at work. I’ll take some leave…”

“No, there’s no need for that. Save your leave — I’ll sign you off sick.”

HR-speak for you’re a fucking nutcase.

“I think we should talk again in a week when you’ve had time to gather yourself. Then we can discuss next steps.”

Silence.

“I wonder whether it might be helpful for you to talk to someone about managing your anger. I’m sure they could come up with some useful coping mechanisms. We could help with that — pay for counselling — someone independent of course, and confidential. How does that sound?”

“Fine, that sounds fine.” Catherine chokes on the words.

“We could offer four sessions, then after that, if you wanted to continue, you would have to meet the cost yourself. Catherine?”

“Yes, yes. Okay,” is all she can manage.

“Bye now,” and the woman hangs up. Catherine lies back on the bed. It is out of control. Everything is out of her control, it is sweeping her away and she closes her eyes and gives in to it.

SUMMER 1993

It was eight o’ clock when Nick was tucked up and asleep, but Catherine wasn’t ready for bed. She had fooled Nicholas into thinking it was dark by closing the shutters in his room, but from her window she could see it was still light outside — too early yet for the Spanish, just a few Northern Europeans in the bar opposite. She put on a denim skirt and a vest and tied up her hair. She looked okay. Her skin had a light tan, and she thought, what a waste, Robert not here to enjoy this peace with her. She took her book, cigarettes, and key and went downstairs. The girl in reception promised she would keep an eye out in case Nicholas appeared, but Catherine knew he wouldn’t. Once asleep he stayed asleep.

She sat at a table on the terrace bar overlooking the beach. A waiter brought her smoked almonds and fresh anchovies and she ordered a small carafe of white wine. She waited until it arrived before she lit her cigarette, then inhaled with relish and realised that she was relaxed. Maybe it would be okay after all. She looked at the sea. Small waves licked at the sand. A few people were still on the beach: families, Spanish she guessed, and a smattering of couples waiting to watch the sun set. And then she noticed him.

He had a beer and was smoking. He was wearing a T-shirt, pale green. He turned and looked at her and she was embarrassed that he’d caught her staring at him. Why was she staring at him? Because he stood out. Because he was the only one with his back to the sea, the only one not interested in watching the sun make an exhibition of itself. He was looking up towards the promenade and when he looked at Catherine she smiled, even though he hadn’t smiled at her. She wasn’t flirting, it was instinctive. She hadn’t wanted to appear unfriendly. She was on holiday. So she’d smiled. He didn’t smile back and that made him seem older. And it made her feel self-conscious, knowing that he knew she was alone.

She reached for the nuts, trying to look casual, carrying on reading, but her fingers dipped into the oily anchovies instead and she had to look up and find a napkin before smearing grease all over her book and the wineglass. And she saw he was still looking at her, and then he raised his bottle of beer and almost smiled, but she pretended not to notice and wiped at her fingers with the napkin, then stabbed at an anchovy with a cocktail stick. She checked the time. Eight forty-five, fifteen more minutes and then she’d go up.

A flash of light caught her eye. A flash from his camera. A photo taken, but not of the beautiful salmon-coloured sun. The camera was pointing at her. And she remembers being ashamed of her assumption that he’d taken a photograph of her. It was the promenade he wanted to capture, with the pink sun reflected on the buildings. And he was below her so it would have been an odd angle to photograph her from. With his prominent zoom lens. An expensive camera for such a young man. She pulled her skirt down, trying to force it to reach her knees, and crossed her legs and it reminded her of a scene from a film, and she wondered whether to uncross them again, but thought better of it. What was the matter with her?

She remembers her discomfort. She wasn’t used to being out on her own anymore. She wasn’t used to being looked at like that. She didn’t know how to be. And she didn’t know that the photograph he’d just taken would find its way into her home years later and be thrown in her face by her husband. A triangle of lace and darkness, of hair and skin and shadows. She didn’t know that then, but she does remember the feeling his attention gave her. It made her nervous, but it excited her too, she has to admit that. She felt excited. And what she forces herself to remember too is that as she sat on the terrace, with a glass of wine and an anchovy on a stick, she thought of being in bed alone later and touching herself and that it would be that boy she would fantasise about. She punishes herself with that memory and how her thoughts of having sex with a stranger were interrupted by a phone call. It was her husband, the waiter said. He was on the phone in reception. She picked up her things, left her wine unfinished, and followed the waiter back into the hotel.

When she was on the phone to Robert, she saw him walk through the entrance of the hotel and her heart flipped in anxiety, not excitement. He walked through reception, right past her. She remembers wondering whether they would stop him, but they didn’t. He had an expensive camera round his neck. And he had a nice face. She turned away, concentrating on Robert, telling him she missed him. He told her he loved her, which he did then. She loved him too. Does she love him now? She won’t think about that, not yet, she can’t. That’s not the point of this remembering. She remembers blowing a kiss into the receiver before putting it down. When she turned around she saw him sitting on a stool at the bar, looking directly at her, two drinks in front of him. His bag was on the next-door stool, and still looking at her, he removed it and put it on the floor. And then he smiled. Finally. Right at her.

“When did you get home?”

Catherine opens her eyes and looks at her mother.

“A little while ago.”

“Did they let you out early then?” Her mother smiles and Catherine wonders for a moment whether she thinks she’s been let out early from school, but that can’t be. She’s not that far gone yet.

“I finished what I needed to do.”

“Have you got another of your headaches, love?” Tears spring to Catherine’s eyes. Her mother knows and doesn’t know but it doesn’t matter because she knows what Catherine needs. She needs to be cared for without being interrogated. She needs someone to trust that she isn’t a terrible human being without having to tell them — without having to explain anything.