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“Did you ever notice her lying about other things? That seems to be something else people say about her—that she didn’t always tell the truth.”
“Who does, yeah?” He leans back, more relaxed now. “Though I did notice she’d say these stupid things sometimes. Like, Simon told me she’d almost been a model—some top agency had been desperate to sign her but she’d decided modeling wasn’t for her. Yeah, right—she was saving herself for a career as a PA in a water supplies company instead. Anyway, she told me a local photographer had approached her once in the street, but he seemed a bit pervy so she hadn’t done anything about it. And it got me thinking: Which version was the real one? Like, sometimes she just exaggerated a little bit for effect and sometimes she went all the way and created this whole fantasy world for herself.
“Mind you,” he adds, “to hear me talk to retailers, you’d probably think I’ve already got a million-pound turnover. Fake it till you make it, right?” He finishes his champagne. “Hey, let’s not talk about her anymore. Let’s get a bottle and talk about you. Has anyone told you you’ve got really beautiful eyes?”
“Thank you,” I say, already sliding off my stool. “I’ve got to be somewhere else, but I do appreciate you meeting me.”
“What?” He pretends to be shocked. “Going already? Who are you meeting? Is it your boyfriend? We’ve only just started. Come on, sit down. We’ll get cocktails, yeah?”
“No, really—”
“It’s the least you can do. I’ve made time for you, you owe me now. Let’s have a proper drink.” He’s smiling, but there’s a hardness and a desperation behind the eyes. An aging lothario trying to bolster his fading self-esteem with sexual conquests.
“No, really,” I repeat firmly. As I leave the bar he’s already scanning the room, looking for someone else to hit on.
THEN: EMMA
They say with alcoholics there’s a moment where you finally hit rock bottom. Nobody can tell you when it’s time to quit, nobody can persuade you. You have to get to that place by yourself and recognize it for what it is and then, only then, do you have a chance of turning things around.
I’ve reached that place. Blaming Saul was at best a stopgap. There’s no doubt he deserves it—he’s been letching after girls in the office behind Amanda’s back for ages; everyone knows what kind of person he is and it’s time someone stopped him—but on the other hand I have to face up to the fact that I let him get me drunk, I let him do what he did. After Simon’s neediness and his constant, annoying adoration it was actually refreshing just to be wanted for selfish uncomplicated sex. But that doesn’t change the fact that what I did was stupid.
I have to change. I have to start being someone who sees things clearly. Not a victim.
Carol once told me that most people put all their energies into trying to change other people when the only person you can really change is yourself, and even that’s incredibly difficult. I see what she means now. I think I’m ready to be someone different from the person who let all this shit happen to her.
I look for the card with Carol’s number on it, meaning to call her, but I can’t find it. It beats me how anything can go missing in One Folgate Street but it seems to happen all the time, everything from laundry to a bottle of perfume I could have sworn was in the bathroom. I no longer have the energy to track them down.
The kitten, though, I can’t ignore. Despite the children’s posters there haven’t been any calls about him—I’ve established he’s a boy now—while for his part he wanders around One Folgate Street as if he owns the place. He needs a name. Of course I think of calling him Cat, after the stray in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, but then I have a better idea. I’m like Cat here, a no-name slob. We belong to nobody and nobody belongs to us.
Slob it is. I go down to the corner shop and buy him some cat food and other supplies.
When I get back there’s someone outside the house. A kid on a bike. For a moment I think he must be here about Slob. Then I realize it’s the same kid who swore at me after the bail hearing.
He grins and unhooks a bucket from his handlebars. No, not a bucket: a tin of paint, already open. He plants both feet on the ground, straddling the bike, and hurls the contents straight at the house, at the pristine pale stone, just missing me. A red gouge, like a giant bleeding gash, appears across One Folgate Street’s front. The tin clatters to the ground and rolls away, still spiraling red.
Know where you live now, bitch, he shouts in my face as he pedals off.
My hands are shaking as I get out my phone and find the number DI Clarke gave me. It’s me, Emma, I gabble. You said to call you if it happened again and it has. He just threw paint all over the front of the house—
Emma Matthews, he says. It’s almost like he’s repeating my name for the benefit of other people in the room. Why are you calling this number?
