Rory cancelled our date. He sent a message saying he had some work in Glasgow for the next few days, so working long days and a tiring commute meant he wasn’t going to be good company. He said he was sorry and he would see me soon. I read his text as I raced home in the afternoon after I’d met Andrea at the museum. I was relieved. I was not ready to be going on a date, and I had too much else to worry about.
I shoved my phone back in my pocket and kept walking, hunched down in my coat. When I arrived at the cottage, Eva was standing in the window of her house, looking out and she waved. I raised a hand to wave back and then, on a whim, decided to go in.
She answered the door, looking worried.
‘Are you all right, Liebchen?’ she said. ‘You’re …’ She waved her hand in front of her face, telling me my make-up was a mess.
I shook my head. ‘I think it’s Mandy from the Haven,’ I said.
‘Who is?’ Eva looked bewildered.
‘Who’s been doing all the horrible things to us.’
Without saying a word, Eva bustled me inside and shut the door behind me. I heard her slide the chain across and I was glad.
‘Tell me everything,’ she said.
So I explained about Mandy being rude and unpleasant to me, and seeing what I thought was a photograph of Jem on her computer screen.
‘I don’t trust myself any more though,’ I said. ‘I was sure it was Jem I could see on her screen. But when she showed me, it was a photograph of her niece.’ I groaned. ‘But I keep thinking perhaps she had two tabs open on her screen and just showed me what she wanted me to see.’ It sounded ridiculous to my own ears but Eva was nodding like she understood. ‘The thing I keep asking myself, is why she would have a picture of Jem?’
‘That’s the question,’ Eva said.
‘She knows who I am.’ Eva looked alarmed and I nodded. ‘Andrea told me.’
‘Do you think she has an axe to grind?’
I shrugged. ‘Maybe. I wondered if she had some connection to one of the women Alistair assaulted? Andrea wouldn’t tell me, but it’s possible.’
‘Have you looked her up?’ Eva asked.
‘Looked Mandy up?’
‘Online.’
I blinked at her. ‘No, I’ve not.’
‘Maybe we should take a look?’
I reached into my bag and took out my phone.
‘Google her,’ Eva said. ‘What’s her surname?’
‘Leavis.’ I typed it in.
There were a few profiles. A dog groomer from Norfolk. And a pouty 20-something from Indiana.
‘Nothing,’ I said, disappointed.
‘What about the Haven? Does it have a page on there? She might be following it.’
I was impressed with Eva’s knowledge of social media. I told her so.
‘I’m old, Tess, not dead.’
That was me told, then. I searched for the Haven and found its website and then, as Eva had suggested, its Facebook profile.
And there, right at the top of its followers list, was Amanda Leavis. I hadn’t even thought that Mandy would be a nickname.
I clicked on to her profile and waited for it to load.
‘She’s single,’ I told Eva. ‘Born in 1985.’
‘Spring chicken,’ Eva muttered. ‘What’s the matter?’
With shaking hands I turned my phone so she could see it properly. Because Mandy had shared a post that had Jem’s face on it.
‘What is this?’ Eva said. ‘Jemima isn’t missing.’
It was one of those appeals, that you see all the time online, saying ‘missing’ along the top in red type. Beneath it was Jem’s school photo – the one I’d seen Mandy looking at – and under that it said Jemima Robertson was missing. Jemima Robertson.
‘Mandy didn’t post this,’ Eva pointed out. ‘It’s anonymous. Perhaps she isn’t the person behind these pranks after all.’
I looked up at the ceiling, thinking hard. This was all so horrible. ‘This isn’t an appeal, it’s a threat,’ I said, my voice quiet and squeaky.
‘You need to call the police.’
But I was a step ahead. I was already dialling the non-emergency number, even though it felt like an emergency.
A bored-sounding man answered my call. I tried to explain but there was so much to say and I kept getting my words muddled up.
‘There’s a fake missing appeal online?’ he said. ‘But your daughter isn’t missing?’
‘She’s at school.’ I was confident that if Jem wasn’t there, the school would have phoned, and I liked the idea of her being safely in a lesson.
There was a pause at the end of the phone. ‘So what’s the problem?’ the man said.
‘It’s a threat,’ I said, frustrated.
‘Sounds more like a practical joke to me.’
I wanted to scream but I didn’t. I patiently spelled my name for the man and Jem’s name, and explained that she went by Blyth even though her surname was Robertson. He said he would pass it on to the right department. Then I hung up and looked at Eva in despair.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ I said.
She reached out and took my phone from me. ‘Go and put the kettle on,’ she said. ‘I’ll have a think.’
I checked my watch, thinking Jem would be leaving school soon. I thought I’d go and meet her, because I didn’t want her to walk home by herself.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ve got time for a quick cuppa.’
I made tea and when I came back through to the living room, Eva was holding my phone at arm’s length, looking pale and worried.
‘What?’ I said, my stomach dropping as I saw her expression. ‘Is there something else?’
She handed me the phone. On the Haven’s page was a post – added by someone calling themselves User413. It had an old corporate photograph of me, from my LinkedIn page, which I’d taken down months ago, alongside a newer pic, snapped as I walked along the street by the beach, my phone clasped to my ear.
In shock I dropped the phone and it bounced on the carpet. I bent down to pick it up, and my legs gave way, so I sank onto the floor and stayed there instead.
Eva shifted along the sofa so she was next to me and put a comforting hand on my back. ‘I know,’ she said.
I forced myself to look at the post again. ‘Tess Blyth, legal adviser at the Haven, North Berwick is the wife of rapist Alistair Robertson, who stood by him in court and blamed his VICTIMS for his abuse,’ I read out loud, before letting out a small moan.
As I looked at the post, the number of comments underneath was going up and up. People leaving shocked emojis. Others saying they would never use the Haven now and commenting that I was being paid from taxpayers’ money, conveniently ignoring the fact that my work at the Haven was voluntary.
‘She just gets to live her life, while the women he abused are suffering,’ one poster said. ‘It’s not right.’
Bile filled my mouth and I took a deep breath, jabbing at the phone to shut the screen. ‘It’s never going to go away,’ I said. ‘Never.’ Eva stroked my hair and I leaned against her legs, like a child. I was going to have to resign. I could see that. I would go in tomorrow morning and speak to Lorna, the centre manager, I thought. Apologize for all the trouble I’d caused. I didn’t want to leave, but how could I stay now?
Feeling wretched, I wrapped up in my coat, pulled my scarf up over my chin and my hat down over my brows, and headed off to meet Jem from school. She was gratifyingly pleased to see me – she was nervy too, though she pretended she wasn’t. She talked about her history project and said she and Cassie were planning to go back to the museum the next day to do some final bits of research.
Now the clocks had changed, it was almost dark by the time I got home. Jem needed a wee so she took my keys and ran ahead to let herself in while hating how jumpy I was, I hurried along behind her. I saw Jem run up the path and into the house and heard the door close. Everywhere was shadowy and still, and I longed for the long evenings of summer. They seemed very far away.
Suddenly someone loomed out of the darkness at me, right outside our house, and I shrieked.
The person yelped in fright. ‘God, sorry, Tess, it’s me.’
‘Lorna?’
A car went past, lighting up the pavement and I saw it was indeed Lorna from the Haven, her hair hidden under a woolly hat. I laughed, the kind of laugh that comes from nerves, not humour. ‘I’m sorry to react like that, I wasn’t expecting anyone to be outside the house.’
‘Sorry,’ she said again. ‘I should have phoned.’
‘I know why you’re here,’ I said. ‘I was going to come and see you tomorrow.’
‘Could we go inside, do you think?’
Feeling unsettled and uncomfortable, I led the way up the path and inside, noting the now familiar blue glow of the CCTV doorbell.
I offered to take Lorna’s coat but she shook her head.
‘No thanks,’ she said. ‘I won’t keep you.’ She looked terribly worried and her expression made my stomach churn. ‘There was a post on our social media,’ she began.
I nodded. ‘I saw it.’
‘We’ve taken it down now,’ Lorna assured me. ‘But it was shared quite widely before we got to it.’
I sat down heavily even though Lorna was still standing. ‘Shit.’
‘I know.’ She sounded sympathetic but I knew what she wanted to hear.
‘Consider this my resignation,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry to bring all this to your door.’
Lorna shook her head. ‘I’m afraid I won’t accept your resignation.’
I stared at her. ‘What?’
‘I am going to have to ask you to take some time off,’ she said. ‘Just while we work out a way to get through this. But I don’t need you to resign.’
Not yet, I thought. But I was grateful she hadn’t sacked me outright.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ she said. ‘You know all of us at the Haven are very fond of you, don’t you?’
That was rich. ‘Does Mandy know …’ I began.
‘I’ll tell all the staff tomorrow,’ Lorna said.
I opened my mouth to say that this was all Mandy’s fault and then shut it again. I had no proof of anything.
‘Thank you,’ I said politely. I let her out and then I sat back down, still wearing my coat.
‘Fuck you, Alistair,’ I hissed under my breath so Jem, who was thumping about upstairs, wouldn’t hear. ‘Fuck you.’
I sat there for a minute or two, and then I dragged myself upright again and took my coat off.
‘Jem,’ I called upstairs. ‘I’m going to start dinner.’
‘Be there in a minute,’ she shouted.
My phone rang.
‘What now?’ I whispered, looking at the screen. It was Rory. I almost cancelled the call, but then desperate to hear a friendly voice, I answered it instead.
‘Hello,’ he said, sounding pleased I’d answered. His cheery tone lifted my spirits, the tiniest amount. ‘I thought it was going to go to voicemail.’
‘Couldn’t find my phone,’ I lied. ‘Where are you?’
‘Just leaving Glasgow. Thought I’d say hello.’
‘Hello,’ I said, much more cheerfully than I felt.
‘Are you all right? You sound a bit stressed.’
Clearly I wasn’t as good an actress as I thought. ‘It’s been a crappy day.’
‘Tell me why.’
I paused. Should I tell him the truth?
‘Tess?’
‘I’m still here,’ I said. ‘Rory, have you heard of the television presenter Alistair Robertson?’
‘Yes,’ he said. He sounded far away, because he was driving, I supposed. ‘Not seen him on telly for a while, though.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘He went to prison.’
‘Right,’ Rory said. ‘What’s that got to do with your crappy day?’
I took a breath, readying myself to tell him, then changed my mind the very next instant. It seemed he was the only person in this town who didn’t know the truth but I wanted to keep it that way as long as I could. ‘I thought I saw him, that’s all.’ I laughed. ‘In the McDonald’s drive-through, would you believe? And then I thought I saw …’ I searched my mind desperately for another infamous celebrity – anyone would do. ‘Margaret Thatcher in Tesco. And Saddam Hussein walking on the beach.’ I forced myself to laugh. ‘I’m clearly losing my marbles.’
Rory was silent.
‘Rory?’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Traffic. Can I call you tomorrow?’
A car horn sounded down the phone and I jumped. ‘Of course, sorry for distracting you.’
‘Bye, Tess.’
‘Bye,’ I said. But he’d already gone.