There was a time when One Folgate Street seemed like a calm, serene haven. Now it doesn’t. It feels claustrophobic and mean. Like the house is angry with me.
But of course I’m just putting my own feelings onto these blank walls. It’s people who are angry with me, not the house.
That makes me think about Edward and I start to panic about the letter I gave him. What was I thinking? I send him a text. Please don’t read it. Just throw it away. With most people that would be enough to make them read it for sure, but Edward isn’t like most people.
That still doesn’t solve the problem that sooner or later I’m going to have to tell him about Simon and Saul and Nelson and the police. And there’s no way of doing that without admitting I’ve been lying to him. Even just thinking about it makes me want to cry.
I hear my mother’s voice, that thing she always said when I was caught lying as a child.
Liars shouldn’t be criers.
There was the rhyme she used to recite, too, about a little girl called Matilda who called the fire brigade so often, they didn’t believe her when there really was a fire.
For every time she shouted “Fire!”
They only answered “Little Liar!”
And therefore when her Aunt returned,
Matilda, and the House, were burned.
I got even with my mother, though. When I was fourteen I stopped eating. The doctors diagnosed anorexia but I knew I never really had an eating disorder. I was just proving that my willpower was stronger than hers. Soon the whole household was frantically worrying about my diet, my weight, my calorie intake, whether I was having a good or bad day, whether my periods had stopped or I was feeling faint or if I had pale furry hair sprouting on my arms and cheeks. Mealtimes dragged on forever, with my parents trying to cajole or bribe or bully me into swallowing just one more forkful. I was allowed to make up ever-more-outlandish diets, on the theory that if I found something I liked, I’d be more likely to eat it. For a week we all ate nothing but slices of fried apple sprinkled on avocado soup. Another time it was pear-and-watercress salad, three times a day. My father had been a distant, detached parent before but once I was ill I became his number one priority. I was sent to various private clinics where they talked about low self-esteem and the need to feel successful at something. But of course I was successful at something: not eating. I learned to smile wearily but angelically and to say I was sure they were right and that from now on I would try, really try, to think more positive thoughts about myself.
I stopped when a tough female psychologist looked me in the eye and said she knew perfectly well I was just manipulating people, and if I didn’t start eating soon it would be too late. Anorexia changes the way your brain works, apparently. You get into patterns of thought, patterns that emerge when you least expect them. Stay that way for too long and you carry those patterns for the rest of your life. Like that old wives’ tale about the wind changing when you frown.
I stopped being anorexic, but I did stay thin. People liked that, I discovered. Men in particular felt protective toward me. They thought I was fragile when actually I’m a person of iron determination.
But sometimes—when things are getting out of hand, like they are now—I remember the lovely, satisfying feeling it gave me not to eat. Knowing I was in control of my destiny after all.
I manage to resist the temptation for now. But there’s a sick, hollow feeling in my stomach whenever I think about what’s happened. These are sworn statements from some of your colleagues. How many? Who else besides Saul? I suppose it doesn’t even matter now. The news will be all around the building.
And Amanda—one of my best friends—will know that her husband had sex with me.
I email HR to say I’m ill. I need to stay away from work until I can figure out what to do.
To keep myself busy I give the house a much-needed clean. Not thinking, I leave the front door open while I deal with the rubbish. It’s only when I hear a noise behind me that I whip around, my heart in my mouth.
A tiny, skeletal face, as wide-eyed as a baby monkey, stares up at me. It’s a kitten—a little Siamese. Seeing me, it sits down on the stone floor expectantly, as if to say I’m responsible for finding its owner now.
Who are you? I ask. It only mews. Unconcerned, it allows me to pick it up. It’s all skin and bones and soft, suede-like fur. The moment it’s in my arms, it starts to purr noisily.
And what am I going to do with you? I say.
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