“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh my God.” I hang up and, utterly powerless, wait.
In the dim light of the garden, the muffled alarm blaring on, I let the sounds of my awoken street wash over me: dogs bark frantically, back doors open and slam closed, windows slam shut, and concerned voices opine beyond distinct earshot.
Blue pulsing lights finally appear, flickering all the way through the house, from front door to the deepest garden.
Hands firmly over ears, I run back inside the house to the front door and swing it wide to reveal two police officers, one male, one female. I hope my embarrassment is palpable but their expressions do not soften at my wan smile.
Beyond them I see figures in lit doorways along the street, arms folded. I try to block them from my mind for now.
“Ma’am, is it okay for us to come in?” the male officer asks. It’s respectful but I get the feeling it’s not really a question.
I press into the Farrow & Ball paneling and let them pass, closing the door behind them without a second glance back at the street.
I watch as the female officer flicks on the hall light and disarmsthe alarm. They must have a special code. It stops instantly, a heavy buzzing replacing it in my ears.
They both turn to me, waiting for me to speak, the silence oppressive.
“It’s new. This is the first night I’ve used it,” I say preemptively. I can’t tell them I woke up standing in my own kitchen. “I just…I came downstairs to get a glass of water and I forgot it was there and…I’m so, so sorry—this is such a waste of your time. I tried to call them but—”
The female officer gestures for me to stop with a warm smile, the male officer seeming less impressed. “That’s fine, ma’am,” she reassures me. “We just need to see some ID.”
I feel my expression slacken.
“Er, I’m sorry? What? Why?”
“Because the property’s alarm was triggered and not turned off in time. And we have found you in the property, ma’am. We need to check your ID to make sure you’re the homeowner,” she explains.
The officer behind her straightens, seemingly irritated by my surprise at being questioned.
“You do have ID in the house, don’t you?” she asks, more as a social cue than anything else.
I pause a little too long.
“Yes. Yes, of course—I’ll just go get it,” I answer quickly, my eyes flitting between them, strangely uneasy about leaving two strangers alone in my hallway. “Just one second.”
Upstairs, I rifle through my filing cabinet for my driver’s license, my hands trembling, my shame excruciating.
Maybe they’ll be right somehow that I’m not who I think I am and will need to leave.
After the divorce, I’ve tasted what it’s like to be invisible: a table for one, a room for one; and now that there is no one else here to corroborate my existence—I need physical proof that I am me.
I find the license, its holographic sheen prismatic in the lamplight. I hustle back down to the hall, the officers breaking off their private conversation as I reappear.
I hand over my DVLA license to the female officer, and again she gives me that pointedly patient smile as she angles it to the light and checks the photo, glancing back up at me and down again a fewtimes to confirm a match. My hair is longer postdivorce, my IVF hormone water-weight long gone. She seems satisfied and is about to hand back the card when she stops and frowns. She passes the ID to her partner, who looks up, puzzled.
“What’s your name, madam?” he asks without ceremony.
“Francesca Green,” I answer, but as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I know I have said the wrong thing.
“That’s not the name on this card,” he retorts.
My stomach drops.
“Um, no, but I mean the first name is the same, right. I’m clearly the same person. It’s just the card I got issued after I got married, and now I’m divorced, and I’ve gone back to my maiden name. Green.”
“Yes. The homeowner’s name, according to the alarm company, is Green, but it’s not the name on this card, ma’am.” The female officer straightens, the male officer taking over now. “We need to see somevalidID with amatching nameon it or I’m afraid we’re going to have to escort you from the property.”
