Lynne doesn’t sound convinced when Alice explains on the phone that she’s not feeling well. ‘Came on overnight, did it?’ she asks. ‘This terrible cold?’
Alice coughs pathetically, then picks up the length of kitchen roll she’s laid out on the counter and noisily blows her nose. ‘My throat was all scratchy when I went to bed and when I woke up this morning … it was all I could do to get up.’ Her voice sounds feeble, even to her own ears, but in a fake rather than a convincing way. But there’s no way she’s going to work today, not after Simon dropped his bombshell last night.
‘Want me to pop round later?’ Lynne asks. ‘I could pick up some stuff from the chemist in my lunchbreak.’
‘No, no. That’s very kind but Emily’s looking after me.’
‘She’s home, is she? Not at work?’
Alice coughs again, clearing her throat for the lie. ‘She’s got a day off. She’s on her way to the corner shop right now to get me some Lemsip.’
‘Aw.’ Lynne sighs. ‘Well I’m glad someone’s looking after you. Get lots of rest, sleep and drink lots of water. Hopefully see you tomorrow.’
Alice sniffs. ‘Yes, I’m pretty sure it’s just a twenty-four-hour thing.’
There’s a pause. Lynne doesn’t believe her, she can feel it, but she doesn’t want to tell her the real reason why she’s not coming into work. Lynne would want a complete rundown of exactly what happened the night before and who said what, and she just can’t face it. Not yet.
‘Hope you feel better soon,’ Lynne says tersely. ‘Look after yourself, bye.’
Cringing, Alice sets her mobile down on the kitchen table and stands up, stretching her arms out to the side. She went straight back to work after Michael assaulted her and it’s utterly pathetic, calling in sick because she got dumped. It’s not as though she’s heartbroken – she and Simon only had two dates, three if you counted lunch, and they hadn’t even slept together, but it’s the not knowing that kept her up all night. She’d texted him back, as soon as she got out of the taxi:
I understand if you don’t want to see me again, but could you let me know why?
Seconds ticked into minutes and when he still hadn’t replied half an hour later she texted him again.
Please, just let me know why. I can take it. Was it because I had a go at you about you not texting (yes, I can see the irony there …) or is there another reason? I can’t stop thinking about how urgently we had to leave the cinema? Was it to do with that? Or the weird messages I’ve been getting? Whatever the reason I can take it, Simon.
She told herself she’d wait a full hour before contacting him again, telling herself that maybe he was dealing with whatever emergency had called him out of the cinema, but she cracked after ten minutes and rang him. Her call went straight to voicemail and she hung up. There was nothing to say that she hadn’t already said in her text.
She tried to watch TV but couldn’t concentrate. She made herself soup and toast for lunch but found she couldn’t eat more than a mouthful. She tried putting her phone in her bedroom so she wouldn’t obsessively check it but ended up pacing the room instead. She turned to Google, searching for answers:
Why did my boyfriend suddenly dump me?
Why do men blow hot and cold?
My stalker scared off my boyfriend
She read some interesting theories – that maybe her boyfriend had been feeling that something was wrong for a while, that he wasn’t ‘that into her’ or she was too keen. The last explanation rang bells. She had come across as needy with all the unanswered text messages, and then confronting him about them, but that didn’t explain why he’d suddenly decided to leave the film part way through. No matter which way Alice looks at what happened, and she’s examined it from every conceivable angle, Simon’s sudden decision to dump her had to be down to the text message he received in the cinema. Everything he’d done since they’d met – running after her with her purse, bringing her flowers, offering to speak to the police, accompanying her home after her car was scratched – suggested that he was a decent, honourable man. Had Flora threatened her in some way? Had he dumped her to protect her? It was the only theory that made sense.
She scrolls through her phone, pausing over DC Mitchell’s number, then swipes past it. She’s got nothing new to report to the police. There’s no text she can show the detective, no evidence of abuse. A slow rage builds as Alice strides around the kitchen, phone in hand. Whoever’s been stalking her has won. They got what they wanted when Simon messaged her to say it was over.
She looks at her phone again and scrolls through her Facebook messages until she finds the one from Ann Friend.
I hope you’re happy, she types back. He’s split up with me because of you. You won. Well done.
Her thumb hovers over the send button. Should she send it or not? If they reply they might say something that gives her a clue to their identity. But what if they don’t? She doesn’t think she could bear the smugness of their silence.
She deletes the message. Her stalker has only won if she lets them. If she gives up. She didn’t fight for her marriage when Peter told her he was seeing someone else. She let him walk away. She didn’t have the energy, or the inclination, to work out why he’d cheated on her. There was a conversation to be had about what had gone wrong in their marriage but she didn’t want to pick over the bones of their relationship so, rather than find closure, she chose to shut down emotionally instead. But this is different. This isn’t about infidelity or a failure to communicate. It’s about control, and she’s going to take it back.
Why, Alice asks herself, head in hands, did she never think to ask Simon his surname? She had so many opportunities – in the cafe, over dinner and during their many text marathons. How had it never come up? Or maybe it had? She can vaguely remember asking him his surname, so why doesn’t she know it? He must have changed the subject or distracted her with a joke.
She types Simon Insurance Bristol into Google and looks at the results. There’s a Simon James, a Simon Lancaster, a Simon Perkins and a Simon Kelly but they’re mostly company owners or in very senior roles and, more importantly, they’re not the Simon she’s looking for.
She enters a new search Insurance Company Bristol and raises her eyebrows as she scrolls through the results. One hundred, there are exactly one hundred insurance companies listed in Bristol. She’d had a half-baked idea that there might be thirty, forty tops, and she could spend the day ringing them to ask if they employed a Simon. But a hundred? She’d have to book time off work to get through them all. And that’s assuming a receptionist would share employee information with a complete stranger. If anyone rang her at work to ask who she employed she’d tell them that was confidential and give them short shrift.
She texts her daughter: Emily, if you were trying to track someone down on the internet where would you look? I’ve already googled Simon + insurance companies in Bristol but there are a hundred results. How can I narrow it down?
A few seconds later her phone pings with a response: WHAT … ARE … YOU … DOING … THAT … FOR?
Alice texts back: I’m trying to find out who sent me the weird text messages on Facebook and scratched my car and I can’t do that unless Simon talks to me.
So ring him.
I can’t. He won’t answer my calls.
Why? What have you done?
Nothing as far as I know. He dumped me last night.
There’s a pause then: Oh, sorry to hear that, Mum. I know you liked him.
So? How do I track him down?
You don’t. You let it go.
What about the weird Facebook messages?
Have you had any new ones?
Not since he dumped me.
Well then. Forget about it, Mum. He’s obviously got a psycho ex-girlfriend – and you don’t want to be a part of that. If anything else happens, contact the police.
Do you think anything else will happen?
NO! Now step away from Google and forget about that loser. You’re getting obsessed.
But Alice can’t step away from Google. She has to find out the truth, or at least try.
She searches her brain for the tiniest sliver of information that will aid her. She doesn’t know Simon’s surname or where he works but he did tell her he lives in a three-bedroom house in St George’s. But surprise, surprise, he didn’t mention the name of the street. What else? He was engaged to a woman called Flora, an actress.
Alice tries imdb.com. That’s where all actors and actresses seem to be registered. If she can’t find Simon then maybe contacting Flora is her next best bet. A few results are returned but the women are either too old or too young. Maybe Flora isn’t successful enough to be on IMDb or, like a lot of people in the profession, she’s got a different stage name. Alice searches Facebook next, looking for Floras in Bristol and dozens of tiny Flora profile photos fill her screen.
She discounts any that are too old or too young to match the woman she’s looking for, then clicks on the first possible match and hits the message button.
Hello, my name is Alice Fletcher. Are you an actress and were you ever engaged to someone called Simon? If so I need to talk to you. Please message me back.
‘Urgh.’ She runs her hands over her face as she copies and pastes the message into the next profile. It’s going to take her hours to contact them all. It’s almost as though Simon deliberately withheld any facts that would help her track him down. But why? What was he trying to hide?