London, 2017
I see it out of the corner of my eye as I take another sip of champagne.
A flash. I’m sure I didn’t imagine it this time.
For as long as I can remember, I have hated having my photo taken. I’m not sure why. I didn’t even want a photographer at my wedding, not that Ben seemed to mind. There was just one little photo of our big day, taken by a stranger on the street outside the registry office. In some places in the world people believe that having your photo taken steals a part of your soul. My fears don’t stretch quite that far, but I do worry that a camera can capture something in me that I would rather remained hidden.
I try to listen to the conversation I am pretending to take part in, and I see it again, the flash of a camera phone. If I was in any doubt before, the sight of the person holding it confirms my suspicions. Jennifer Jones stares in my direction; she has the audacity to smile. I don’t know what to do. I look around wildly in search of some form of assistance.
Just like Alicia, she should not be here.
I don’t just despise Jennifer Jones, I hate her, and everyone like her; disgorging all my secrets, one by one, forming a tower of truths I would rather nobody else could see. My secrets are my own, and I don’t like them being shared. I look around again, and then, perhaps because of everything that is happening in my private life, or perhaps because I’ve consumed far more alcohol than was wise this evening, I decide to deal with the matter myself and march across the courtyard.
“How dare you come here tonight,” I spit at her.
She laughs in my face. “I’m just doing my job. If you’re looking for someone to blame, try the woman who tipped me off about you. You were set up by someone you know and it’s the easiest money I’ve ever made!”
Her words wind me. “Who?”
“What’s it worth?”
“It’s worth me not smashing my glass in your face.” For a moment I think I might mean it, but she doesn’t look worried at all. If anything, the whole exchange seems to delight her.
“I thought I saw her here earlier,” she says, looking over my shoulder.
Her.
“Who?” I look around the room, expecting to see Alicia in her line of vision.
“She wouldn’t tell me her name. She looked a bit like you, dressed like you too. Same hair, trench coat, dark glasses, red lipstick. A little older than you are. Ringing any bells?” She’s describing the stalker. This proves it, that everything that has happened is all connected. The woman pretending to be me was having an affair with my husband, it was her red lipstick I found under the bed, and she used my laptop to send emails calling herself Maggie to frame me.
“Of course, a journalist needs more than one source, and I needed photographic evidence, but luckily Jack was only too happy to help, taking selfies of the two of you together in your dressing room and sending them to me.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
“Are you quite all right? You’ve turned very pale. You’re not going to throw up, are you? That would ruin the video…”
I look and see her phone still tilted up in my direction. “You’re filming this?”
“I’m afraid so, honey. They’re making redundancies at TBN again, and a journo’s gotta do what a journo’s gotta do to survive in this business nowadays. It’s not personal.”
It is personal.
I grab the phone out of her clawlike hand and throw it onto the stone floor, then I smash the face of it with the heel of my red shoe. Quite an audience gathers around us, including the director, who has summoned security.
“I guess you won’t be filing a story about me tonight after all.”
As she is led towards the exit, she turns to look over her shoulder, still smiling. “Oh, I already filed a piece about you tonight. I had a tip-off to visit your home address this afternoon, and I got it all. It will go live in an hour or so. I’d say it’s the showbiz scoop of the month, but I might be biased. Either way, it’s a killer of a story.”
She disappears into the crowd of faces all staring in my direction.