Chapter 2
I don’t even think sliding down the shiny wooden bannister on my bum could get me down the hotel staircase faster than my feet are carrying me right now.
I know you might think it’s only a dick pic, lord knows I’ve had a few (never solicited) sent my way by well-meaning (I’m sure) suitors while I’ve been playing the dating game, but something about this one seems so sinister.
Not the dick in question (I didn’t look at it for long enough), more like the dick who sent me it – although, while we’re on the subject, they’re never great photos, are they?
I’m not saying I want to see them with more artistic merit (I don’t want to see them at all) but a few seconds’ thought to the lighting or the background – most notably what’s in shot, because you’re doing yourself a disservice by leaving the remote control for the TV in the frame. It really helps figure out a scale.
Anyway, I didn’t look at this one for long enough to see if it was giving ‘dead baby bird’ or ‘smart TV remote’, because I was worried that if I left it open too long it might, like, I don’t know, drain my bank account or something. Well, what little there is to drain.
I work as an assistant, for a firm of private investigators in London, and honestly the number of clients we get who are trying to track down the person or organisation who has scammed them is frankly alarming.
This is why I need to find Ben. He works for the same company, in IT, so I’m sure he’ll know what to do.
I scan the lobby, looking for directions to the bar, only to be stopped in my tracks.
‘There she is…’
Shit.
‘…our daughter who defected to the south,’ Dad continues, joking for the most part, but he’s one of those Yorkshire men of a certain age who are offended by the existence of London.
‘Hello, darling,’ Mum adds.
I head over to greet them with a smile, trying my best to mask my panic, because my mum has always been able to see right through me.
They’re both dressed in their best – Mum in a beautiful, floaty peach dress, Dad in a navy chinos and blazer combo that makes him look like he just stepped off a yacht.
‘You look gorgeous,’ Mum tells me as she kisses me on the cheek.
‘Thanks – so do you guys,’ I reply.
I notice the look on Mum’s face, almost like she’s analysing me, as she steps back.
‘Where’s your Ben?’ Dad asks me as he gives me a hug. ‘Has he seen the score?’
He says this in a way that suggests something has happened – not that I care, or would understand even if he told me.
‘I think he’s watching it in the bar,’ I reply. ‘I was just going to get him, actually.’
‘We’ll walk with you,’ Dad suggests. ‘I want to see the look on his face – his team are taking a hammering.’
‘Erm, okay, yeah,’ I reply. ‘I think it’s this way…’
‘Are you okay, darling?’ Mum asks, linking her arm with mine. ‘You seem a little flustered.’
‘Oh, no, I’m fine, just… antsy about today, I guess.’
‘Oh, I’m sure your Auntie Eleanor will be her usual cheerful self,’ she says, the sarcasm impossible to ignore.
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ I say with a snort.
Oh, how much simpler things were half an hour ago, when all I had to worry about was my wicked auntie and smug cousin.
‘You’ve got that face on, like when you were a kid, and you were convinced you’d seen a “ghostie”,’ Dad teases me with a laugh. ‘Have you seen one here at the hotel?’
More like a goolie.
‘Really, I’m fine,’ I insist – not sounding all that fine, to be honest. I really need to up my game.
‘It’s only an engagement party,’ Mum reminds me gently. ‘Not the Met Gala.’
‘Let’s wait and see how big Auntie Eleanor’s hat is, eh?’ I joke, trying to seem more like myself.
‘That one she wore to our Tina’s wedding was like a satellite dish,’ she says jokily, though it actually was like a satellite dish. Big, white and round.
‘Remember when I asked her if she got Sky Sports?’ Dad says, laughing at his own joke.
It’s been fifteen years since Mum’s cousin Tina tied the knot for the second time, but Dad is unwilling to let anyone forget his brilliant joke.
‘Liberty,’ I hear my cousin Hannah’s voice call out. ‘Hey, have you got a minute?’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll go get Ben,’ Dad reassures me.
‘Yes, we’ll see you outside – don’t worry,’ Mum adds so only I can hear.
‘Hey, Hannah,’ I say, trying to seem enthusiastic, because I don’t want her to misinterpret my stressing as disinterest in her day.
She’s in white – because of course she is.
A lacy, floaty dress with dainty heels and a necklace so delicate I can barely tell it’s there.
Very demure, very bridal. Oh, and Auntie Eleanor is here too, lurking just behind her, and yep, her hat is massive.
A big yellow thing with feathers – like a bird has landed on her head and she hasn’t noticed yet.
‘Oh, hi,’ I add as I spot her, trying not to sigh or let my face fall in any detectable way.
‘Love the dress,’ Hannah says in a voice that betrays her. ‘Very… bold.’
‘Ah, this old thing?’ I joke awkwardly. ‘Thanks.’
‘Well, we appreciate you making the trip,’ Auntie Eleanor says. ‘Leeds must feel very… provincial now, compared to London.’
‘I love coming home,’ I insist. ‘Just to breathe the cleaner air, have a cup of Yorkshire Tea made with Yorkshire water.’
I say this in a jokey way but it’s true. You get the best cups of tea in Yorkshire, I reckon.
‘Were you planning on wearing, like, a jacket or a shawl or something?’ Hannah asks me.
I frown, confused.
‘Erm… no,’ I reply. ‘It’s going to be 28 degrees today. Don’t worry, I’ve got SPF on.’
My attempts to lighten the mood are futile.
‘It’s not that,’ Hannah says. ‘It’s just… you do have a tendency to, sort of, erm, pull the focus.’
My eyebrows shoot up. I quickly force them back down.
‘I do?’ I check.
‘You upstaged Baby David at his christening,’ Auntie Eleanor reminds me.
‘I fainted,’ I point out.
‘How was he ever going to compete with that?’ she replies, missing the point entirely.
‘And then there’s your interesting job – it’s all anyone wants to talk about,’ Hannah adds.
‘Okay, well, I will avoid making small talk at all costs, and I can’t imagine my bare shoulders will do much damage to proceedings but, if there’s an issue, I’ll go grab a jacket – how about that?’ I suggest, holding my tongue.
‘And make me look like the bad guy?’ Hannah replies, unimpressed.
I don’t know why Hannah thinks I live to upstage her (although my guess would be insecurities, because we all have those).
Sometimes it’s rational, I suppose, like when she thinks me talking about my job overshadows hers, but that’s only because people understand her job, as a primary school teacher, because we all went to school, whereas the idea of a private investigator fascinates people – because everyone loves a nosy and gossip.
Other times it’s crackers beyond comprehension – like me ‘outdoing her’ in our GSCEs, even though I sat mine years before she sat hers.
I promise you, I did it to get into uni, not so I could dunk on her in the near future.
‘Anyway, isn’t it party time?’ I check. ‘Let’s go, hmm?’
‘Right, yes, I don’t want you making late for my own party,’ Hannah replies – the implication being it’s me who is making her late.
I hang a few paces behind them, not wanting to arrive with them, lest it be considered a hostile manoeuvre.
Outside, I skirt around the edges of the marquee, finally spotting Ben with an almost empty pint glass in his hand.
‘It’s afternoon somewhere,’ he says, noticing the look on my face.
‘Oh, I don’t care about that,’ I insist.
‘Good, because your mum and dad are bringing me another,’ he replies. ‘I told them to get you a cocktail.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply, practically flinching at the first syllable of the last word.
‘What’s up?’ he asks, sucking his cheek in on one side, rolling his eyes.
‘I got a text,’ I tell him.
‘You have a friend,’ he jokes. ‘Well done you.’
‘No, it wasn’t from a friend – although they did seem to know my name,’ I reply. ‘It was… it was a photo.’
‘Okay?’ he replies. He doesn’t sound all that interested, to be honest.
‘A photo of… someone,’ I continue.
‘Who?’ he replies. ‘Come on, Liberty, I’m not in the mood for trying to decode your girl talk today.’
‘Not a who – a what,’ I continue, letting that remark go for now. ‘A dick pic.’
I mouth the last three words.
‘Oh, yeah, and who is sending you dick pics?’ he asks, almost like he’s teasing me, like we’re a couple of mates.
I glance down at the ground, only to clock the trainers on his feet. God, they look dumb, but I’ve got bigger fish to fry.
I frown at him. He laughs it off.
‘It sounds like a scam. Probably a virus,’ he replies.
‘Should I show someone at work?’ I check. ‘Maybe Tom – or I could ask Erica?’
‘No,’ he replies quickly. ‘Just delete it. It can’t do anything, it’s only a photo, probably designed to get you to engage with the sender, so don’t. Delete it, block the number – I’ll do it for you. Give me your phone. Then we can get on with having a nice day, okay?’
I puff air from my cheeks, trying to make myself a little lighter, to trick my body into relaxing.
‘You’re right, you’re right,’ I reply. ‘Not about us having a nice day, because, y’know, we’re here, but about me deleting it and forgetting it.
Sorry for overreacting. I think I’ve just heard so many horror stories at work, of people opening an email, then suddenly losing tens of thousands of pounds… ’
‘You don’t have tens of thousands of pounds,’ he jokes. ‘So you’re good.’
‘Right, I’m deleting it now,’ I announce, unlocking my phone.
‘Let me do it for you,’ Ben says.
‘That’s okay,’ I reply. ‘I’m a big girl.’
‘Okay, but I don’t want my girlfriend looking at another man’s penis, so let me do it,’ he insists.
I don’t point out to him that he’s always looking at other men’s penises, if his search history is anything to go by. Not that I check up on him – if you have to check up on someone, you shouldn’t be with them – but I had to use his laptop recently and that autofill can be a bitch.
‘I’ve already seen it,’ I remind him. ‘And I’m going to delete it anyway. I won’t even open it again, I’ll just delete the message thread.’
‘Right, okay, good idea,’ he replies.
I appreciate him being – what? – gentlemanly and gallant, defending my honour or whatever – but it’s a bit much, and so out of character. I’m a big girl, I can take care of my own dick pics. Well, now that I’m getting over the initial panic and violation, anyway.
‘I’ll delete it, we’ll go to the party, and I’ll never think of it again,’ I say, clicking into the app like I’m simply checking the weather or something.
I swipe the message thread to the side, without opening it, first to block the sender and then finally to delete the messages, never to be seen again.
‘There – done,’ I announce.
‘Good,’ Ben replies. ‘Because your mum and dad will be here with our drinks in a minute, so if we could stop talking about dicks…’
‘A great idea,’ I say, relaxing more and more by the second, but then I hit it, the stumbling block, the brick wall that’s going to block me from actually relaxing.
‘One more thing, actually,’ I tell him, taking out my phone from my bag again, clicking into my photos because I’ve just remembered something. ‘It autosaves images I receive to my camera roll, so I need to delete the offending photo from there as well.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Ben says quickly, insistently, but it’s too late.
Is that…? It is! It’s not the penis in the small version of the photo that catches my eye, it’s the watch, that distinct, one-of-a-kind orange watch face with the crackled pattern through it.
I open the photo properly. It’s on the wrist of the person holding the duvet up to proudly display their bang-average penis – yes, I’ve seen better and, yes, I’ve seen this one before.
It’s Ben’s. That’s his penis, his watch, and now that I’m looking closely, that’s the duvet cover we have on our bed at home, so this has to have been taken very, very recently.
And sent to someone else – someone who felt the need to send it to me, to show me what Ben has been up to behind my back, I guess.
I look up at him. His face is ghostly pale.
He knows that I know.
‘Liberty—’
‘Right, here we go,’ Dad’s voice booms behind us. ‘Drinks for everyone.’
I quickly lock my phone screen so no one can see what I’m looking at – not that I opted in to looking in the first place.
‘Brilliant, thanks,’ Ben replies. ‘So, what do you think of the match so far?’
Ben pats my dad on the back, almost ushering him away from us, and my dad is always happy to talk footie so he follows Ben’s lead.
Oh, that’s so low, such a dirty trick, using my dad as a human shield. Then again, isn’t that exactly the sort of behaviour you would expect from the kind of man who sends pictures of his knob to other people, behind his girlfriend’s back?
I notice Hannah out of the corner of my eye, greeting guests, and I remember what she said about me allegedly stealing the attention, so I need to keep a lid on my rage, to get through this party, but the second it’s over, and we’re back in the relative privacy of our hotel room, we’ll get into it.
But for now… I’m going to have to smile, make small talk, and pretend everything is fine.
Even though everything definitely is not.