CHAPTER 3
Stalker
God, it feels good to be in your house.
I want to move around your stuff and run my fingers through the same materials that you have touched. To be this close to you when you finally know I am watching you.
It’s different now, there’s a shift.
I stand on your landing, a large space that opens up wide against a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking your garden.
Behind me, the stairs drop back down, and to my left, they sweep upwards to the second floor.
The floor above me isn’t that interesting, there are only two rooms up there that hold no secrets.
No, this floor is where the action is. The party carries on below, and people mill around the manicured garden.
Do you know all these people, really? Little shrubs and rose bushes line your house while trees billow in the breeze at the end of the long garden.
Festoon lights line the edge of your property, highlighting you as you stand alone.
In a sea of movement and happiness, you’re a pillar of stillness and frustration.
I can’t see it, but I imagine your brows dipping to create thick worry lines down the centre of your forehead, your bottom lip sucked between your teeth.
My chest aches to watch your fingers worry at your hemline.
You look up at a tall Black woman, Jude, who strides towards you, and suddenly you’re a different version of yourself. Shoulders up, head high. She leans in and whispers something. You nod and then you’re putting on the mask, the worry of where I am slipping away.
Your head tilts back, a smile so bright it draws the attention of others. A group forms around you both, conversation flowing rapidly.
My fingers press against the window, the gloves connecting to the glass with a rubber squeak. I push my thumb down hard, blocking my view of your face. Leaning in until my knuckle aches and you disappear under my thumb.
I wipe the saliva that pools in the corner of my mouth.
“I’m coming for you,” I say, the words leaving a sticky residue on your perfectly clear windows.
Stepping into the shadows, I try a few doors until I find yours, the room opening up bigger than I imagined.
It’s on the right side of the house, with a balcony that overlooks the west side of your garden.
It’s decorated straight out of a magazine: cool, minimal and tediously expensive.
I touch it all: your dresser where you line your perfume bottles, your pillow, soft and silk.
Your mirror, where the material of my gloves creates a stress-inducing noise.
I’m here for a reason but the jolts of excitement distract me. I jump on your bed, my bare feet leaving crinkles in the covers. I try on your clothes and finger your lingerie. When you return, drunk and sloppy, you’ll know I’ve been in here and I hope it terrifies you.
The envelope is weighty in my hands as I sit on the edge of your bed. I run my tongue over the ridges in my teeth.
“How exciting.” I chose a thick cardstock and worked on my penmanship for a while to get the details right in this letter. Turning, I pop it under your pillow for you to find, placing a gentle kiss on the top of it before I do.
“And now to mingle,” I say, leaving the door open for dramatic effect.
It’s astonishing how little people pay attention to you if you look busy at a party.
Keep a glass in your hand, that’s a must, it prevents any staff from addressing you.
Next, you have to keep moving with a determined look in your eye.
As though you’re in the process of going from A to B.
Finally, smile; God, smile. Father taught me that early on: everyone is charmed by a smile, no matter how dead.
I stick to the edges of the party. The call was nothing, the letter will be the real kicker but that will come soon.
See, I can wait.
It takes me a while to find you. You’ve moved away from your social group in the garden, and you now stand near the display marquee, your form partially covered by its shadow.
If I was a betting man, I’d say you were hiding.
I sit close enough to two young women; their conversation acts as a cover as I blend in.
My thumb swipes methodically over the phone screen; a slouch-glazed look makes me appear distracted.
“I heard he proposed on a boat on the coast of Italy,” one of the women says, her voice jumping with a staccato energy. You’re the centre of attention here and I know you love it.
“God, she’s so lucky,” the other says and I turn my head away, keeping my eyes down. There it is: luck. Was it luck or careful planning?
“She is, isn’t she?” The words are out before I have a chance to stop them.
The women turn to me, their faces open and receptive rather than repulsed. I fix my expression to match theirs.
“Did you know she met him randomly while out, and it was love at first sight? God, I wish my Jonathon would have me as a kept lady,” the slimmer of the two says, her nose sharp and her eyes heavily lined.
“Would you enjoy that, not working?” I shouldn’t be talking, but it helps me blend in, I suppose.
The thin one nods but the woman with a mass of auburn curls speaks. “Of course, never to lift a finger, that would be a dream,” she says.
I move my eyes to you, standing alone at your party. Are you happy?
“It was the only time I ever felt sane, when I was off from work with Theo,” the thin one says.
You twist your glass so the contents swirl slightly. Who are you waiting for?
“The balance is too hard,” Curls chimes in. “At home, I’m managing the kids, and at work, the kids are my colleagues.”
You shift forward, dipping your head slightly. Are you nervous?
“Some people luck out. I think I’d get bored,” the thin one adds.
There’s that word again: luck.
Luck, luck, luck. Who controls who gets that and who takes it away?
“Do you think she deserves it?” My chest burns.
The two women turn to me. There’s a shift from jovial conversation to something darker. Thin widens her eyes, Curls diverts hers.
I rise from my seat before they can answer, moving down the patio steps.
When I look up, you’re no longer alone. A man with broad shoulders and an impeccable blue suit meanders down the cobble path towards you.
You don’t smile, you simply raise your eyes in acknowledgement.
Your mouth moves fast, your hand running over the rim of your glass.
The bottom of your skirt shifts as you sway your hips slightly.
He steps closer to you, his hand placed on your shoulder. Gentle.
Interesting. I move across the lawn, weaving through the people with eyes on you. You nod; he’s reassuring you, then.
Is there more to it? The excitement in my belly says there is. If you’re sleeping with him then that will be perfect. Your destruction would be too easy.
I stop as you wipe your face, just under your right eye. You’re crying. A pulsing presses out of my shoulder blades, the slow ripples of energy. This is something I can use. Against all my plans, I down the glass of champagne I’ve been nursing.
I can use this.
A sense crawls up the back of my neck, opposing the heat pushing through the bodies from the cooking display beneath the marquee. Someone’s watching. I turn, eyes landing on the two women I spoke to earlier, their bodies drawn together, watching me as they exchange words.
My cue to leave.
I place my glass on the floor, not bothering to find a suitable home for it.
Lifting my head and offering a polite smile to the women, I head to your house, moving through it quickly.
The night will come to an end soon, it’s getting late, so leaving early is best. But I’ve got more than I bargained for here, Ella.
Thank you for letting me into your home.