JEN
It’s the thought of murder that keeps me going. With each step, each thwack of my foot on the ground, I’m closer to killing her. The knife strapped to my arm rubs against my skin, chafing it raw, but I endure the pain. I know it will all be worth it. As we run, I’m tempted to stop, take out the knife and plunge it into her, slashing her across the throat just as she’s shown me. But I know I have to wait until the right moment, until we reach a section of the Heath not covered by CCTV.
As I run I think of the irony of the situation. I was supposed to be here for Laurence – he had been the original target. At the end of our talk in the café earlier I’d asked him whether he still ran. Yes, he said; in fact, he was going to go for a jog on the Heath as soon as he finished work. Of course, I didn’t tell him anything of my plan. As I sat there opposite him I felt ashamed of the overwhelming sense of misdirected hatred that I’d had towards him. I realised too that, at one point, I would have done it. I would have killed him. I would have enjoyed plunging the knife into him in revenge for what I thought he’d done to me, what I thought he’d done to Bex.
At the end of our chat I stood up and took him in my arms. He was a little taken aback, but when he realised that all I wanted was a hug, he let himself be enveloped. I’d missed the muskiness of his smell. I whispered in his ear a quiet thank you for telling me the truth. I told him again that I believed him. I said that he was a good and kind man. And I asked him whether we could be friends. I had to choke back tears when he replied that yes, he’d like that very much.
When he left, I sat back down and opened the internet on my phone. I tapped in my own name, followed by the words ‘Basel’ and ‘Switzerland’. As I waited for the page to load I fantasised about what life would have been like if we’d made the move – I pictured us living in a charming flat in the old town and walking hand in hand by the Rhine. But none of that had happened, of course. After the split, and my breakdown, I had remained in London under the care of Bex, while Laurence had suggested one of his colleagues start up the new office in Switzerland. I’d heard he couldn’t face it.
A few seconds later the headline ‘BEING JEN HUNTER: AM I HEADING FOR PASTURES NEW?’ flashed up on my screen and I read the opening paragraph.
James popped a big question last week. No, not that one! (Even though, if you’re reading this, James, the answer would be a big ‘yes.’) He asked me whether I’d like to move with him to Switzerland. The land of ski chalets, fluffy snow, snazzy watches, bank vaults hidden under pavements, and endless bowls of melted cheese. How could a girl refuse? He wants to open a branch of his architectural practice in Basel. I thought long and hard about it for all of two seconds before I screamed, ‘Of course!’ After all, who wouldn’t want to swap tramping across Hampstead Heath for hiking on the Hausstock?
I cringed when I read the words. No wonder I used to get a bagful of hate mail after the appearance of each column if that’s the kind of crap I churned out. But then I felt so stupid. I’d been too blind to see what had been literally staring me in the face. My own words from ‘Being Jen Hunter’ in which I’d talked about the prospect of a move to Switzerland. It was all there in black and white.
The only thing I’m worried about is Henry, my cat. But I can’t leave her behind. She’s coming with me.
Of course, there are things I’ll miss. Cocktails at The Connaught. The delights of Net-A-Porter. And my girlfriends. I’ll miss them the most. But we can catch up on FaceTime. And Basel’s not that far from London. I can imagine jumping on a flight on a Friday night and spending the weekend with one of my best friends. As soon as we see each other, we’ll start chatting like nothing has changed.
Before the column had come out I remember feeling reluctant to talk to Bex about my possible move to Switzerland. I was nervous about her reaction and hadn’t been sure how to broach the subject with her. Finally, on the day the column was published, I couldn’t avoid it any more. I called her and asked whether she’d read my latest. She told me that she hadn’t. I hesitated for a moment before I plucked up courage and told her of the plan. She went quiet, and I thought the line had gone dead. I said her name and asked her how she felt. She replied in an upbeat tone, said that it seemed like a great idea and that she couldn’t wait to visit me in Basel. ‘It sounds wonderful, like a whole new life,’ she said.
The week after that my cat, Henry, disappeared. Then Bex had led me to the place where she’d died.