Page 23 of The Friend Request

Inside me there’s a shift from fear to anger.

I’ve spent days ignoring him. Days tiptoeing around my house with a locked phone, a sick stomach, and a smile stapled to my face, cooking dinners I can’t taste, laughing at jokes I can’t hear, making the bed with shaking hands and checking the window latch twice before I can sleep. I’ve been patient. I’ve been careful. I’ve been the good, quiet, obedient version of myself that everyone seems to want me to be – the wife who smiles, the mother who copes, the woman who swallows her terror and gets on with the school run.

I’m done being quiet.

I open the message and type a reply before I can talk myself out of it. My thumbs move fast, fuelled by something hot and reckless that I know I’ll regret later but can’t stop now.

No, we don’t. Leave me and my family alone. I’m not interested in you.

I read it back. Every word is deliberate. Every word is chosen for the record – because that’s what this is now, a record, a trail of evidence that shows I said no, clearly and in writing, in case this ever gets worse and I need to prove I wasn’t willing. I press send. The message turns blue. Delivered.

I drop the phone on the duvet, press my palms against my eyes, and breathe.

It’s done. I’ve said what needed saying, and now I wait. Whatever comes next is out of my control, which is terrifying, but at least I’ve put it in writing. At least I’ve drawn the line in ink instead of sand.

The message is read almost immediately. The two blue ticks appear within seconds, and I stare at them, waiting for the reply, waiting for the anger, the threat, the photograph landing in Alex’s inbox.

Nothing comes.

The ticks stay blue. The screen stays still. No typing indicator, no response, no eruption. Just silence, clean and absolute, and I don’t know whether to feel relieved or more frightened than before.

I get up, shower, dress, dry my hair, and put on enough make-up to look like a woman who slept last night. Today is Olivia’s parents’ day at school – the one they hold twice a year where you sit in a plastic chair and talk to each of her teachers for five minutes and pretend you understand what ‘working at expected standard with emerging greater depth’ actually means. I promised her I’d be there. Alex can’t make it because of a meeting he couldn’t move, so it’s just me, sitting in a room full of other parents and teachers under fluorescent lighting, giving the social performance school events demand.

I can do that. I’ve been performing all week. What’s another afternoon?

Olivia and I drive to school together. She’s nervous about her maths feedback – ‘Mr Adebayo said my fractions are inconsistent, which basically means rubbish, doesn’t it?’ – and I tell her it doesn’t, and that inconsistent just means she’s good on some days and less good on others, and that everyone has days like that. She stares at me as if I’ve said something unexpectedly wise and says, ‘Even you?’ and I say, ‘Especially me,’ and she laughs, and for thirty seconds I feel like a real mother instead of a woman impersonating one.

We arrive at half twelve. The school hall has been set up with tables arranged in a horseshoe, each one labelled with a subject and a teacher’s name. There are parents milling about with lanyards, paper cups of tea, and the dazed expression of adults who have entered a building designed for children. I sign in, collect my schedule, and sit on one of the plastic chairs along the wall to wait for our first slot.

I check my phone.

The message is still read. No reply. But as I watch, the typing indicator appears at the bottom of the conversation – three small dots, pulsing in a row, telling me Ross is writing something.

My breath catches.

The dots pulse for five seconds. Ten. Then they vanish.

I stare at the screen. The conversation looks exactly the same as it did before – my message in blue, his silence underneath it – but those dots were there, and now they’re gone, and the absence of them is worse than anything he could have typed, because it means he started and stopped. He had something to say and chose not to say it. Or he’s choosing his words, waiting.

‘Mrs Stiller?’

I glance up. A woman with a lanyard and a clipboard is smiling at me from behind one of the tables. Olivia’s English teacher. Mrs Calloway, or Galloway, or something with a double L – I’ve met her twice and I still can’t remember.

‘That’s me,’ I say, standing. ‘Sorry. Miles away.’

I sit. Mrs Whatever-her-name-is opens a folder and starts talking about Olivia’s reading comprehension, her creative writing, her ability to analyse character motivation in a year eight text, and I nod and smile and say, ‘That’s great, that’s really good,’ at what I hope are the right moments. The whole time my phone is in my coat pocket on the chair behind me and I can feel it there, pulling at me, dragging my attention backwards like a hand on my collar.

Is he typing again? Has he replied? Has he sent the photographs to Alex while I’m sitting here talking about Olivia’s use of embedded clauses?

‘Kim?’

I blink. Mrs Galloway – it is Galloway, I can see it on her lanyard now – is looking at me with polite concern.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘What was that?’

‘I was asking whether Olivia reads much at home. She’s mentioned a few books she’s been enjoying, and I just wanted to check she’s got access to⁠—’

‘Yes. She reads all the time. She’s always got a book on the go.’ I smile, and the smile feels tight and wrong, a plaster on wet skin. ‘Sorry, it’s been a long morning.’