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?
You gave it to me, remember? You said to phone if there was any more intimidation—
This is my personal phone. If you want to report something, you should call the front desk. I’ll give you the number. Do you have a pen?
You said you’d protect me, I say slowly.
The circumstances have changed, obviously. I’ll text you the right number to call, he says. The line goes dead.
Bastard, I hiss. I’m sobbing again, tears of impotence and shame. I go and stare at the huge red smear. I have absolutely no idea how to get it cleaned off. I know it means I’m going to have to speak to Edward now.