Page 32 of Cuckoo

‘Oh! Hi. Can I help you?’ the girl asks. She’s approaching the next desk, the one with the birthday card on it, dropping a handbag and removing her coat.

‘No, thank you, I’m fine. I had a meeting but it’s just been cancelled,’ I explain, holding my phone up randomly.

‘Right,’ she murmurs. I notice she’s looking at me curiously, narrowing her eyes as though she might recognise me. The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. I don’t know why, but something inside my head is screaming,Leave now, hurry, leave now!

‘Okay, well, better be going,’ I say, rushing out without allowing myself to fall into conversation, keeping my head down as I go. The receptionist with the magazine looks up and starts to say something to me, but I’m already past herand flying down the entry stairwell, fingertips skimming the banister in case I trip in my hurry. I bolt out of the front door. Before I know it, I’m running as fast as I can away from that building, the glossy picture of myself still in my possession, my shy smile crinkled where I clutch the photograph in one of my fists.

My legs are aching and my lungs burning before I allow myself to stop. I’m taking deep, gulping breaths, doubled over beside a bench.

‘Are you okay?’ A concerned woman approaches me and I wave her off with a flap of my hand and a few nods. She backs away looking bewildered. I don’t know if it’s the long sprint or the panic swelling in my chest that has caused this, but it’s a good few minutes before I shakily seat myself on the bench and feel my breathing start to slow. I look down at the crumpled photo in my hand and feel so many emotions that it’s blinding, my vision literally spotted with rage, fear, panic, jealousy and desire.

I squeeze my fist shut around the photograph again and order an Uber to take me home. I’m silent the entire journey.

When I get home, I sit down at the table and look at the picture one more time. It’s my face, front-on, and it’s been cropped so that almost all you can see is a passport-photo-size head shot of me, grinning stupidly. I squint hard at it, though, thinking I recognise the background. There’s crystal-blue sea and in the faraway distance, beside my right ear, I can make out the tiny, shadowed shape of a boat. I frown.

I quickly log in to my Facebook account– the real one,not the sock-puppet account– and start trawling through my photo albums. And there it is. Me, on holiday in Spain, uploaded about two years ago. In the original photograph you can see my whole outfit: I’m wearing ill-fitting cargo shorts and a plain white vest top, my pale skin bleeding into the white cotton in an ugly, touristy way. I’m on my own. I had asked someone walking past to take the photograph for me.

I’m embarrassed by it now. I barely recognise the girl in the picture. The milky skin that Noah always kisses softly looks sickly under the harsh Spanish sunlight. My comfortable beachwear is hideous. I’m embarrassed that I uploaded this to Facebook for everyone to see, so blind to my own former self. Embarrassed that I was so alone before Noah that I had to go on breaks solo, because I had nobody to ask, nobody to invite who would say yes.

I feel moisture on my hands. I’m crying. When did that start? I close my laptop and pour myself a glass of wine, but I don’t drink it because soon I’m sobbing so loudly and savagely that I’m sure my neighbours will call the police. I curl up into a ball on the sofa and I cry and scream until the cushion is sodden and my face is so red and blotchy that I barely recognise myself in the mirror. I wail like I’m in mourning and, in a way, I am. I’m humiliated, I’m lonely, I’m angry. I’m mourning my life with Noah, because without him, I’m back to being that sad, pathetic girl in the photograph.

The photograph that Lilah somehow had and stashed away in her office drawer.

I sniff, pulling myself together as the cogs in my brainbegin to work, my rational side squaring up to spar against my emotional side.How did Lilah have that photograph?

It was uploaded two years ago, which was before Noah and I started dating. So did she find it then, or did she find it later? And whythatphoto?

Did she know about him dating me from the start? Wasshestalkingme?A shiver runs down my spine at the thought.

Eventually I retreat to my bed, wine undrunk, and climb underneath the covers, closing my eyes so I can concentrate. I try to clear my mind so that I’m focused and rational, hoping some sort of explanation will come to me; one that doesn’t make me afraid of Lilah, or worse yet– afraid of Noah.

It’s clear the only place Lilah could have found the photograph is my Facebook account. That’s my fault for uploading it and having loose privacy settings. So the key questions to answer are: why was she looking me up, when was she looking me up, and why did she go to the lengths of keeping a print-out of the photo in her office?

The only reason she could have for searching for me on Facebook would be to do with Noah. We have no mutual friends, no prior relationship. Either she found out about us somehow and wanted to see who I was, or he told her about us– though that would make no sense. Unless she saw a text or something from me and researched my name?

But that doesn’t explain why she printed the photo out and kept it at work. I’m frowning, my eyes still closed, as I try to pick apart all the puzzle pieces. But after a few more hours of lying there and going over reason after possible reason, one thing is clear. The only way I’ll ever get ananswer will be to have a conversation with her and tackle this head-on.

I think back to the last time I confronted someone and feel a pit yawning in in my stomach.

It was around a decade ago, and I was eighteen. I had been saving the wages from my weekend job in a newsagent’s for two years, hoarding every penny away like a magpie. That corner shop had been my salvation, my retreat away from home, and I had taken every shift going, covered every sick colleague, done every late shift. It kept me out of the house, it kept me busy,andthey paid me.

After psyching myself up for days, I was cooking dinner. My mother sat waiting expectantly at the table. Then I took a deep breath and told her I was going to move out.

I felt the sudden stillness in the room. My shoulders tensed as I continued chopping a carrot, desperately trying to avoid looking at her despite feeling her stare burning into my back.

Then the silence was shattered by her brittle laughter. ‘Oh, Claire, darling, you almost had me there for a moment! You are a funny one, aren’t you!’ she crooned.

I kept chopping the carrot, too afraid to turn around and face her. ‘Mother, I’m so sorry but I’m not joking. I’m serious. I found a little flat and I’m eighteen and think it’s about time I got out of your hair.’

‘Nonsense! What are you on about? You don’t have any money, you can’t afford to move out!’ She laughed again, but this time I could hear the doubt behind it, her voice wavering ever so slightly.

‘I’ve been saving, Mother. From the shop.’

‘Saving?’ She spat out the word like it was arsenic. ‘Well, then it’s mine! You owe me for raising you for eighteen years. Don’t you think? Do you think it’s fair that you’ve been saving all this money while I spend mine feeding you?’

I felt my body tense. No.No.She couldn’t do that, take my money. It was my only chance of escape.

‘Mother, I’ve already spoken with the estate agent and paid the deposit, I’m sorry,’ I told her, trying to keep my voice calm and level. The silence in the room that followed this announcement lasted a beat too long.

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