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‘What are they looking at?’ I shook my head, smiling in bafflement.

He nodded. ‘I see what you mean.’ Clunk, clunk went the cogs.

‘Maybe it’s a bad idea, but I feel such an imbecile around that sort of thing and I was hoping you might be able to guide me through it. An idiot’s guide to Facebook and however else young people “communicate” with each other.’ I tickled that word
communicate
with my fingers. ‘It’s an alien world to me.’

‘Me too,’ he said.

‘Oh well, it was only a thought.’ Bugger.

‘But my son’s on it all the bloody time.’

‘I didn’t know you had a son?’

‘Yeah. He’s eighteen. Lives with his mother, but he comes over every other weekend. He could probably help.’

That’s how it started. Sundays on the Internet with Geoff’s son. And in exchange for his expertise, I helped him out with his English essays. Geoff was delighted when his son started getting ‘A’s for his homework, although I think we’d both agree that I was the more enthusiastic student. I can’t fault his boy’s teaching though. He was extremely thorough. Fifty friends, he said. At least. And he showed me how to get them. He was a good teacher and I was the perfect pupil. At times my head felt as if it would explode with all this new information, but I was greedy for it. How on earth do you get a photograph taken in the 1990s into a laptop? How do you do it? Well, now I know. And once it’s in there, spread it around. Not only on Facebook but make sure it’s on Google too.

‘What sort of music does he like?’

I shrugged, suddenly the dunce in the class. That afternoon he sent me home with some tracks on my laptop.

Geoff was always there, he never left us alone together. He brought us cups of tea and I would bring with me jars of Nancy’s jam to have with our crumpets. It was a good arrangement and a very pleasant few weeks.

I passed with flying colours, equipped with all the tricks I needed to bring Jonathan to life again. Our son now has a future, and it feels good to hold it in our hands. This time, when he goes off on his travels, we can make sure we keep a firmer grip on his likes and dislikes, and the friends he picks up on the way. You can’t have too many friends, but it’s important he has one special one, a confidante, someone he can open up to.

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 and he hasn’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 and 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 OK 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 her 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, 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. 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.’ She glares at her. ‘This is a personal matter. It has nothing to do with work.’

‘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 OK, 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.’ Catherine is near to tears.

‘Hey, don’t take it out on Kim – she’s not the one who needs to defend herself.’ He shuffles his chair towards 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 is in.

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

‘God, you’re such a shit, Simon. 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 jeopardizes 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, then you went round to his house. He says you tried to break in and 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—’

‘Get your fucking hand off me.’

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 …’

‘OK, OK. 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, 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 came clean about it.’ 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 past 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 on 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, 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, only 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. She chose not to.

‘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. Post-natal depression. 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? 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. Then she and Nicholas had returned 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. Did he follow her 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, then a short walk 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. Even though it is safe here, she knows this safety is as fragile as a bubble.

There is a message from Simon on her voicemail. She hasn’t bothered to listen to it. Her phone rings again. Work. She ignores that too, putting it on silent, and 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-bye,’ Eileen says, ‘see you next week.’ 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 to return the call.

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

‘Catherine, hello. Thank you for calling back.’