Chapter 6 Light Stalking
Light Stalking
The flyer smells of his cologne.
It’s important not to become too weird once you’re living alone. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to make a first impression; Ben knew all my idiosyncrasies, all my flaws, but he came to know them gradually. It’s important to remember not to become yourself too quickly.
He asked me out. Didn’t he?
He could be gay.
He could be another cheater.
Back at home, I check the kitchen door again before heading upstairs to unpack my home office equipment in the spare room.
I need to get back in the job-seeking game if I want to stick to my timeline.
I have enough saved for another six months of unemployed security.
If I don’t have money coming in by then, I’ll be in trouble. I need my new life up and running.
I’m attaching the legs back onto my desk when my phone pings in my pocket:
Great to meet you just now and welcome.
Treasure that flyer. It meant the world to me
for the short time I had it. Matt
I can’t suppress a grin. And then my phone pings again.
Oh, and let me know about coffee?
I’m WFH most days. Matt
Thoughts of my ex-husband and his affair flash through my mind, and I instantly feel sick.
But Matt isn’t Ben; Matt is simply a nice local dad, being friendly. I save his number, then look for him on WhatsApp. Where I find his circle photo, which is an artistic shot of an architectural building. Beside it, his full name is now visible: Matthew Whitby.
I twist on the final desk leg, turn the desk up the correct way, and angle it pleasingly under the back window.
The view into the surrounding gardens is beautiful: oaks, acacias, climbing roses, apple trees, birdhouses, ponds, and other water features, all presided over by the backs of countless expensive homes.
I open my laptop and sit, browsing my newest emails. There’s a response from this morning to my latest application. I click and it fills the screen, my eyes flashing over it picking out the key words: “unfortunately” and “overqualified.”
My bright mood fades, a stoic resignation slipping in, accompanied by a twist of anger. How do you get back on the ladder if they won’t even let you use the bottom rungs?
But I have a pact with myself: two new applications for every refusal. So I get started.
Once my new emails are sent, I finally allow myself to Google Matt. And there he is on Facebook.
Sweet Jesus. Matt at university: rowing, rugby, tennis, smiling and sweaty.
I dive deeper into tagged photos.
Uni parties.
Facebook unexpectedly dries up after his early twenties.
I move to LinkedIn.
He’s an architect.
I scroll back through his social-media accounts for more information: his life, his family.
Let’s face it—I am looking for signs of his partner. But there is nothing personal on Instagram. There are a few photos of him at his desk, and an official shot of him at a design awards dinner, a charity gala. But there is no other half in any photo I can see. And certainly no baby.
I go back to the awards shot. He stands there, tall and solid in a tailored suit, a lethal-looking glass trophy in his hand and a ludicrously handsome smile crinkling his eyes. Then my eye catches something in the photo, or rather the absence of something.
He’s not wearing a wedding ring.
—
The front doorbell chimes and I sit up sharply, snapped out of my deep dive. I need to stop getting lost online like this, slipping into rabbit holes and letting the hours slip through my fingers like sand. It is past 5 p.m.
Unemployment is dangerous; the time somehow dissolves, days vanish.
A knock follows the chime and I race downstairs to open the front door right as the visitor is turning to leave.
It’s a very tall, very intense-looking deliveryman, his hair long and loose, his striking eyebrows fixed in concern.
He turns back to me, clearly annoyed at having had to wait so long for an answer, a small, important-looking package in his hands.
“Oh, I haven’t ordered anything,” I comment, as if he cares.
Then a flicker of joy bursts inside me at the thought that one of my old friends back in the Cotswolds might have sent me a housewarming gift. The deliveryman immediately shatters that illusion.
“You happy to accept someone else’s package?”
It takes me a moment to come down from my excitement.
“Oh, okay, for who?”
“Twenty-one.” He points across the road at a butter-yellow front door.
“Sure, no problem,” I say, careful not to sound too disappointed.
He pops the stiff package into my hands. “Right. Name?” he demands, then looks up suspiciously when I do not immediately answer.
“My name? It’s Frankie Green,” I answer; he taps an approximation of that into his device. It blips.
“Done. They’re never in,” he mutters with a shake of his head. He clearly has a wellspring of opinions on that. “Packages every day and she’s never there.” He clicks his tongue sharply, pockets his device, and marches away.
I push the door closed with my foot and place the Jiffy envelope carefully on the hall table. It rattles as I do so.
I look down at it.
“What are you?”
Interest piqued, I scan it for a sender address, a clue to its contents, but there is none, and it is addressed to a Mary Lamb.