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Still, there’s no point in converting the bed back into a couch at this time of night, and I go over to the walk-in closet in the corner, changing out of my work suit and blouse, and putting on some gray pajama bottoms and a pink t-shirt before I make myself a quick stir-fry. I sit cross-legged on the bed and eat, with the TV on in the background, while I survey the mess that is my apartment.
What I really need are some bookshelves. I’m an avid reader, and have never thrown away a book in my life, as a result of which, I’m inundated. The problem is, space. I don’t have much of it. But I suppose I might be able to squeeze something in underneath the window… if I can find some shelving to fit.
Once I’ve finished eating, I waste thirty minutes looking for a tape measure, and then write down the length of the space beneath the window, before going onto my laptop and taking over two hours to find something that will fit… just. The only problem is, it won’t be delivered for two weeks, and while it’s still a fantastic solution to my book storage problem, it’s not much help for this weekend.
I suppose the best answer will be to stack the books there in the meantime. Apart from anything else, it’ll stop me from using them as glorified end tables, like I’m doing now with my glass of wine. And it’ll mean that, if Cole decides to come up here, at least he won’t be falling over piles of books.
I’m not in the mood for starting that now, though. I’m tired, and once I’ve washed the dishes, leaving them to drain, I check the door’s locked and turn out the lights, getting into bed and pulling up the covers. It would be easy to be haunted by that photograph, but I refuse to think about it. Instead, I snuggle down and I let my mind drift off to thoughts of next weekend and an evening spent gazing into Cole’s eyes.
I’m feeling rather pleased with myself today.
It’s only Wednesday and, because Lucian said I could go home earlier than usual last night to make up for staying late on Monday, I got a lot of the books moved, and my apartment already looks tidier. There’s still a little more to do, but I’m feeling confident I’ll achieve it now.
I’m just finishing a letter for Lucian when my phone beeps and although it’s the middle of the day and I should probably leave it, I check it anyway, taking it from my bag, just as it beeps twice more.
My fingers shake as I study the screen. There are three attachments this time… photographs of me again. I can tell from what I’m wearing that they were taken yesterday morning. One is as I’m getting off of the bus, the next is me walking to the office and the third, and perhaps most spooky of all, is of me, inside the elevator, taken from the foyer, just as the doors are closing. Whoever took them, it seems they were following me. But how could I not have noticed?
“Livia?” I jump, dropping my phone as I realize Lucian is standing in his doorway, and I turn to look at him. He frowns. “Is everything okay? You’ve gone very pale.”
“I’m fine.”
He steps forward. “Are you sure?” he says. “You don’t seem fine.”
I hesitate, my hand over my phone, and then I decide I might as well show him. At least one of the photographs was taken inside the office building, so maybe there’s something he can do.
“It’s just… I’ve been sent these pictures.”
He perches on the edge of my desk as I hand him my phone and he swipes to the left, studying them before he looks down at me.
“It seems you have an admirer,” he says, smiling.
“This doesn’t feel like something an admirer would do.” Not the kind of admirer I want, anyway. This feels intrusive, like the person who’s sent them has invaded my personal space. “What’s really odd is that I had one of these pictures sent to me on Monday, and I blocked the person’s number… so how are they able to send more?”
“Maybe they’re using a different phone.”
“But why? If someone was doing this as a joke, or because they liked me, and for some reason thought it was a good idea, then surely they’d stop once they realized I’d blocked their number. They wouldn’t go out and get a new phone and start all over again… would they?”
He stands, putting my phone on the desk, and folds his arms across his chest. “I don’t know,” he says. “And in any case, I’m not sure there’s very much I can do about it. This is your personal phone, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” He knows I’m not entitled to a company one.
“And the photographs were all taken in public places?”
“Except that last one. That was taken in the elevator, downstairs.”
“Yes, but the company doesn’t own the elevators, Livia. There are several offices within this building. The foyer and elevators aren’t owned by us and what happens there isn’t our responsibility.”
He sounds quite reasonable, and a lot less sympathetic than I’d hoped. He’s probably worried I’m going to sue the company, or something, but that doesn’t help me. It also doesn’t feel very good to know he’s more concerned with the business and its reputation than with my welfare.
“Maybe I should report it to the police…”
“The police?” He raises his voice slightly and then coughs, putting his hands on my desk and leaning over so he can whisper, “Why on earth would you want to go to the police?”
“Because this feels like – I don’t know – like stalking, or something.”
He smiles, shaking his head. “You’ve been watching too much television, Livia.”
That’s not fair. I hardly watch television at all. “You don’t think the police would be able to help?”
