Chapter 11
FAYE
This man has caused me a lot of harm, and I need answers.
I step into the café and scan the faces. Luckily Jason uses a photo of himself as his profile picture, so I find him quickly. He’s sitting at a small table at the back of the open space. He gives me an awkward wave and I nod before heading to the counter to order a cappuccino.
He stands when I approach the table with my coffee, offering me a hand to shake. “You must be Faye. My sister loved your books when we were kids.”
I clock his age. Early thirties, I think. He’s attractive, with dark brown eyes and black hair, but dresses very outdoorsy, a battered old backpack slumped at his feet.
I quickly shake his hand, then sit. “Thanks for agreeing to meet me.”
He has trouble meeting my gaze and I can immediately tell that he feels guilty for what he did. But is that guilt for posting the photo, or for editing it?
“No problem. I just hope I can help,” he says.
“Did you also read my books as a child?” I ask. “Have you been following them all these years?”
“Umm, I must admit, they’re not really my thing.” He shrugs with an uneasy grin.
I can’t help but smile at his brutal honesty, that is if he’s telling the truth.
“And you didn’t recognise me that day?”
He shakes his head. “Sorry, no. I’m sorry about all this,” he says. “I only wanted to make sure you were safe. And… are you… okay?”
I bristle at this, sensing the familiar patronising tone coming on. “Perfectly. I’m here, aren’t I?” My gaze trails over to the window where people walk past with their dogs, and kids run along with ice cream cones gripped by tiny fingers.
He grimaces before saying, “I did go up to you, but you ran away. I quickly snapped a few photos to share on social media, to see if anyone could help identify you and make sure you were all right.”
“What happened when you approached…? What did I say?”
“Nothing,” he says. “You ignored me and ran down the street.”
“And it was near Seeley Moor?” My mind goes back to Tina from the pub saying she had seen me up there.
“Yes.”
“Can I see the other pictures?”
“Sure.” He taps the phone screen before handing it to me. “There’s five in total if you swipe.” He leans back in his chair. “I would have used my SLR but I didn’t have time to get it out of my bag.”
I want to take my time, even though his eyes are making me self-conscious.
I zoom in on every detail. The fact that these photos even exist blows my theory that the original was photoshopped or made with AI.
There’s no way he would have gone to the trouble to make five or six images perfect and I can’t find any obvious signs of editing when I zoom in.
The lighting is the same in every single one.
My body is in motion, which would be even harder to fake.
“Can you forward these to me?” I ask, handing him the phone.
“Yes, of course.”
“And then I’d appreciate it if you deleted them.
” I lower my chin, levelling my gaze at him.
“I understand why you did this, and I don’t believe your intentions were unkind.
But I think you can appreciate that these images are not ones I would ever want the internet to see.
You have put me in an extremely vulnerable position. ”
His olive skin turns grey. “I deleted the original once I knew you were okay.”
I shake my head. “Too late. It exists everywhere now.”
“Sorry. I really was—”
“I know.” I sigh. “Can you send me the photos?”
Jason nods before tapping the screen. A moment later, my phone chimes and I check my Twitter notifications to find all the photos ready to download.
“Okay, and now I’d like to see you delete the photos from your camera roll.”
Jason angles the phone so that I can see them. One by one, he taps delete, and a weight lifts from my chest once it’s done.
“That’s a relief,” I say.
Jason stares down at his Americano.
“What time of day was it?” I ask.
“About 6:30 a.m. I’d been out on the moors taking photos of the sunrise. I decided to walk home.”
“Did you see any visible injuries?”
“It was hard to tell. I thought I saw some blood on the back of your head,” he says. “But it didn’t really show up much in the photos.”
My hands instinctively reach to the back of my head, groping my scalp. There’s nothing. No cut. No bump.
“Are you sure?” I ask again. “About the blood?”
He taps his finger against the mug handle. “You know, I can’t be completely sure. But that’s my recollection. You were dirty, confused and I thought I saw blood. That’s why I was worried.”
“Okay,” I say.
Jason wipes sweat from his forehead. “Look, I could do with going back to work. But you can always DM me if you have any more questions.”
I nod. “All right. Thank you for meeting with me today. I appreciate it.”
There’s a flush of red on Jason’s cheeks as his guilt eases.
He trips over his feet as he leaves the café.
I watch, my stomach in knots and adrenaline flooding through my veins.
Caffeine will only make it worse, but I still finish the cappuccino before leaving.
And then I wander down Whitby pier in the cool sunshine.
This place reminds me of summers with my younger cousins, making sandcastles with them and watching them do cartwheels until they were dizzy.
I can taste the candyfloss and stroke the soft fabric of my Nirvana t-shirt that Mum told me “did me no favours”.
Those memories will fall away eventually. Will it be tomorrow? Or in six years? Ten years?
I sit on a bench and touch the back of my skull. If that was me out on the moor, where’s the injury to the back of my head?
I load up the photos and zoom in over and over. This whole thing is getting stranger and stranger.
After a few minutes of staring at my phone, I find myself dialling a number I haven’t called in about eight months.
“Faye,” Scott says. “It’s good to hear your voice.”
He’s charming. Of course he is. That’s why I married him. That’s why I moved to London with him. A place where I never felt at home but lived for over ten years. And I must admit, it’s good to hear his voice too. Familiar. Easy.
“Have I always been…” I trail off.
“What?”
“Stubborn.”
“Stubborn? You? Somewhere between a mule and a donkey, I’d say.” His mocking voice softens when I don’t respond. “Faye. Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I whisper. It’s not convincing.
He pauses, and then says, “Well, you’re certainly determined.”
“That’s one way of putting it, I guess.” A small smile plays on my lips.
“It’s admirable, Faye. Do you remember when Penny was a newborn and you were spending all your spare energy on writing book two, or book three, I think it was.”
I remember those years well. The exhaustion. The belief I’d never have the creative energy to write another book again.
“Nothing was going to stop you. Although, sometimes you don’t know when to let things go, it’s true.” I wince at the perfectly aimed jibe.
“Right.”
“I saw the photo,” he says. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” As I say the words, I wish they were true.
“Honestly, if you need anything…”
“I know,” I say.
My body fills with warmth before I remember every shitty thing he ever did, including his assistant, and the baby they made in the process. I close my eyes and sigh.
“I should go. But thanks for that.”
“Okay.”
Impulsively, I add. “I found my birth mother’s name and address.”
“Seriously? That’s great. I hope you see it through, Faye.”
I let out a snorting laugh. “What makes you think I wouldn’t?”
“Oh, just an inkling.”
“You think I’m flaky?”
“No,” he says. “But I know how much you avoid anything to do with your adoption and your birth mother. Maybe now is the time to face it full on.”
I sigh. “I think you’re right.”
“You know, I was right more often than you think.”
“Hmm,” I say.
“Shit, I have to go it’s—”
“Her?” I snap. “Or is it the baby?”
“Let it go, Faye,” he warns. After a pause he adds, “We’ve been through this. Let’s not leave things on bad terms. I’m glad you called today.”
But I’m lost in the past now. The pain stabbing me again as if it was yesterday. Finding out about the affair was one thing, but the baby…
“Bye, Scott,” I say, trying to soften the edge to my voice and failing. Then I hang up before he can say anything else. “Smarmy git,” I say to myself, reminding myself never to call him again.
I fish out the envelope from my handbag and stare at my maiden name. I stand, and I try to find the strength I know I possess.
It’s now or never.