wasn’t so young any more – he was approaching middle age. I’d thought of him over the years, wondering what he’d made of himself, and now I could find out. With light fingers I picked my way through his career, his social life. Unmarried, no children. From this distance, it was safe to watch him. No one would know.
Back to business: I needed an address, the bullseye at the centre of my target. I knew where she worked, but it was her home address I was after and that was proving elusive. It was her husband who eventually spilled the beans. I read a profile of him in the business section of a newspaper. Blah, blah, blah and then: Robert Ravenscroft lives in North-west London with his son and wife, Catherine, a successful documentary film-maker. Not a whole address, but a clue. In the end it was my fingers which did the walking and found me their listing in the telephone directory. Mr R. Ravenscroft. I noted down the telephone number for future reference.
I was like a child at Christmas when my friend the printer delivered the first copies of my book. In fact Christmas had been and gone – a solitary one for me. A ready-meal of turkey for one, roast potatoes and Brussels sprouts, gravy and cranberry sauce. It smelled better than it tasted – a hint of festive spice in the air when I peeled off the cardboard lid. I had to wait until the end of January for my real Christmas, but when I took that first book out of the box I knew it had been worth waiting for. I’d used an image from one of Jonathan’s postcards on the cover. Blue sky, burning sun. Yes, it worked very well: a hot, white sun you could see even when you closed your eyes. My friend was all for sitting me down and guiding me through the process of managing orders online, but I didn’t have time for that. I was keen to get on. I reassured him that I’d mastered the Internet universe. I had no intention of waiting for orders online.
When I put that first book into a jiffy bag and wrote her address on it my hands were trembling with anticipation. I took such care, making sure I didn’t transpose any letters or numbers on the postcode, only to decide in the end that I would hand-deliver it. Hot off the press, a free gift for a very special person. To keep it a surprise I delivered it in the wee small hours when I was sure I wouldn’t be seen. There was a satisfying slap when it landed on the mat: a grenade waiting for someone to pull out the pin. I wanted her to feel its full blast when she was least expecting it, perhaps curled up on the sofa with a glass of wine in her hand. I didn’t include a note with the book. I wasn’t seeking attention for myself – it was recognition I was after. Not of me, but her. I wanted her to recognize that the woman in the book was her true self, not the one she pretended to be: the real one. I wanted to smack her in the face with the truth.
I suppose the book was like a terrier, my Jack Russell of a novel which would sniff her from her hiding place and chase her out into the open. Its sharp, pointed teeth would expose her, strip away the counterfeit selves she’d assembled. How well she’s hidden inside her long, successful marriage, her celebrated career – being a mother, too, we mustn’t forget that. Such a useful disguise. Be honest, for fuck’s sake. Own yourself. Let’s see how you live with yourself after that.
I was tired when I got home so I went to bed for a bit. I woke around lunchtime and made myself a cheese sandwich. It was a sad affair; the cheese was dry and the bread stale. I had a shelf in the larder where I still kept the preserves Nancy had made. I hadn’t touched them since she’d died, but that day I picked out a jar of onion chutney, scraped off the mould and spread chutney over the cheese. As I swallowed down the first bite of sandwich something caught at the back of my throat. I stopped chewing, using my tongue to wheedle out the alien body. It wasn’t alien though, it was part of
Back to business: I needed an address, the bullseye at the centre of my target. I knew where she worked, but it was her home address I was after and that was proving elusive. It was her husband who eventually spilled the beans. I read a profile of him in the business section of a newspaper. Blah, blah, blah and then: Robert Ravenscroft lives in North-west London with his son and wife, Catherine, a successful documentary film-maker. Not a whole address, but a clue. In the end it was my fingers which did the walking and found me their listing in the telephone directory. Mr R. Ravenscroft. I noted down the telephone number for future reference.
I was like a child at Christmas when my friend the printer delivered the first copies of my book. In fact Christmas had been and gone – a solitary one for me. A ready-meal of turkey for one, roast potatoes and Brussels sprouts, gravy and cranberry sauce. It smelled better than it tasted – a hint of festive spice in the air when I peeled off the cardboard lid. I had to wait until the end of January for my real Christmas, but when I took that first book out of the box I knew it had been worth waiting for. I’d used an image from one of Jonathan’s postcards on the cover. Blue sky, burning sun. Yes, it worked very well: a hot, white sun you could see even when you closed your eyes. My friend was all for sitting me down and guiding me through the process of managing orders online, but I didn’t have time for that. I was keen to get on. I reassured him that I’d mastered the Internet universe. I had no intention of waiting for orders online.
When I put that first book into a jiffy bag and wrote her address on it my hands were trembling with anticipation. I took such care, making sure I didn’t transpose any letters or numbers on the postcode, only to decide in the end that I would hand-deliver it. Hot off the press, a free gift for a very special person. To keep it a surprise I delivered it in the wee small hours when I was sure I wouldn’t be seen. There was a satisfying slap when it landed on the mat: a grenade waiting for someone to pull out the pin. I wanted her to feel its full blast when she was least expecting it, perhaps curled up on the sofa with a glass of wine in her hand. I didn’t include a note with the book. I wasn’t seeking attention for myself – it was recognition I was after. Not of me, but her. I wanted her to recognize that the woman in the book was her true self, not the one she pretended to be: the real one. I wanted to smack her in the face with the truth.
I suppose the book was like a terrier, my Jack Russell of a novel which would sniff her from her hiding place and chase her out into the open. Its sharp, pointed teeth would expose her, strip away the counterfeit selves she’d assembled. How well she’s hidden inside her long, successful marriage, her celebrated career – being a mother, too, we mustn’t forget that. Such a useful disguise. Be honest, for fuck’s sake. Own yourself. Let’s see how you live with yourself after that.
I was tired when I got home so I went to bed for a bit. I woke around lunchtime and made myself a cheese sandwich. It was a sad affair; the cheese was dry and the bread stale. I had a shelf in the larder where I still kept the preserves Nancy had made. I hadn’t touched them since she’d died, but that day I picked out a jar of onion chutney, scraped off the mould and spread chutney over the cheese. As I swallowed down the first bite of sandwich something caught at the back of my throat. I stopped chewing, using my tongue to wheedle out the alien body. It wasn’t alien though, it was part of
Similar Books
