* * *
• • •
Though I ran for an hour that evening it didn’t do anything to clear my mind. I came home and showered then stayed up late, sitting by the window in my living room, looking down the road at the river. Music was playing on my laptop and I’d lit a few candles as it started to get dark. The curtains were open and outside I could see the lights outlining the banks of the Mersey. In front of me, propped up on a vase of flowers, was the photo. I found a notebook and started to write down a list of everyone who was at our house that afternoon. Oliver was there, as well as a few of our other neighbors. Josh and his girlfriend at the time. They broke up shortly afterward. Sarah was there with her husband, Adam, and their children. Some of Tom’s colleagues and their wives came along for a couple of drinks. My parents were there with my sister, Fiona. She was over from Australia for a holiday. Tom’s parents had passed away a few years before; I shuddered to think how they would have reacted to my leaving their son. They really would have wanted revenge.
Who had taken the photo? I thought back to the party. I thought I was the only one taking photos that day. I remembered printing them out later that week and realizing I wasn’t in any of the shots. And when I looked at that list of people at the party, I knew that only Josh knew my address yet I thought he hadn’t arrived at the party until later in the evening; he’d been out for the day with his girlfriend and they turned up when we were all indoors. I just couldn’t remember what time they turned up, but who could I ask?
And then I realized it must have been Tom who’d sent this to me. He hadn’t taken a photo of me for years, but maybe he had that day and hadn’t shown me. I sent him a message:
Did you send me something?
He replied a few minutes later.
You woke me, Ruby. Do you mean The Goldfinch? xx
No, not that, but thanks for buying it, I replied. Something arrived today and I wondered whether it was from you.
In the post? he said. Not me, babe. I don’t know where you live. I meant to ask for your address. Can you send it over? x
I didn’t reply to that. I ripped up the photo and threw it into the bin. I tried to focus on what I’d be doing this time next year. I needed to get away, I knew that. I found a property website on my laptop and started to search for houses far away from here. I looked at places I loved to visit: Edinburgh and York, London and Brighton. It took about five minutes to realize that I couldn’t afford a thing in any of those cities. I started to make a list of cheaper places that I could go to, then started to think about whether I wanted to stay in Britain or whether I should pack up and go abroad. I could wait until my parents came home, then go off to Melbourne. Perhaps I could stay with Fiona until I got myself sorted out.
Or maybe I should go traveling. Set off with no goal in mind, just me and a backpack. The thought flashed into my mind that I struggled to carry a couple of bags of shopping home. I’d go to the gym, then. Run every day instead of just when I felt like it. Become fit. Yes, traveling sounded amazing. Then I panicked. Traveling implied I’d return: What did I have to come back to?
Dave Matthews was singing “Some Devil” from my playlist. No wonder I was feeling depressed. I’d just clicked on Bob Marley’s “Everything’s Gonna Be Alright” in an attempt to cheer myself up when the phone rang. I swore under my breath when I saw an unfamiliar mobile number. Instead of being scared of it, as I had been, I was suddenly furious.
“Hello?”
“Hello, love,” said a man with a strong local accent. “Can you fit me in tonight? I can come round to yours.”
I looked at my watch. Tonight? It was already nearly eleven o’clock.
I softened my voice. “Sure, sweetheart,” I said. “No problem. But you’re new, aren’t you? I don’t recognize your number.”
“Er, yeah.” He was clearly trying to keep his voice low and hadn’t figured on a long conversation. I wondered for a moment about his situation. Was he at home, telling his wife he was about to walk the dog? In a moment of hysteria I wondered whether he intended to bring the dog along, too. Or was he at the end of a shift at work, trying not to let his boss hear him and thinking his wife would be none the wiser if he was late home, because she’d be asleep anyway? “I haven’t been to you before.”
“I thought not!” I wished then I had some wine in front of me to give me some courage. Why had I decided not to have anything in the flat? I tried to sound welcoming. “Where did you see my number, darling? I like to keep track of these things.”
“I saw it on Sex Works,” he said. “Thought I’d give you a try.”
I looked around for my whistle, but it was on the other side of the room and I couldn’t be bothered to move. “Sorry,” I said, though I had no idea why I was apologizing. “Wrong number.”
I did my usual routine of blocking his number, then pulled my laptop toward me. It was time to see what there was on me online.
* * *
• • •
Within seconds I’d found Sex Works, with its slogan “Some women are too easy.” It was a site for escorts, though it didn’t sound as though the women left their own home, so that was a bit of a misnomer. My first name was used—and mine’s uncommon enough in women my age around here—and my age was listed as between thirty and forty. They named the area I lived in. My phone number was there with a description of myself and what I would do for money, which made my eyes nearly pop out of my head. Next to my name was a photo of a woman’s naked body. Her face was hidden in a pillow. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t anything like me, apart from her having shoulder-length dark hair.
And you know there were a few comments underneath, where they rated me. They said that I was a slut, that I wanted it but wouldn’t deliver, that I messed people around. Yet the calls had continued. What kind of review would there have to be to make someone resist making that call?
My phone started to ring again. It was from a withheld number. It gave me the creeps to think it was someone who was on that site at the same time as me, looking at that photo and my apparent wish list, and ignoring the bad reviews. Maybe it was someone who thought I should be punished for not treating the punters well. Quickly I rejected the call.
I searched on the site and eventually found an e-mail address for the webmaster. It took ten minutes; he really didn’t want to be found. I sent a short snappy e-mail promising legal action if my number wasn’t deleted immediately.
Then I copied the image next to my name and did a reverse image search on Google, but nothing showed up. I sat back, confused. The men who’d called me were the least of my worries, really. They had no idea where I lived and now that I had the whistle I could get rid of them easily. It was the person who’d posted my details that I was concerned about. Who had done that? Why would anyone do that?