29
It had been nearly a fortnight since the Marianne letter handover at Estilo, and sure enough, zero blowback. What a drama llama she’d been, Harriet thought, as she allowed herself to breathe out. Her confidence that nothing was coming had grown with every day.
You know what? Scott’s fiancée Marianne probably read the first few paragraphs, said oh, a bitter ex is it, skimmed the rest, and shoved it unceremoniously in a bin full of discarded till receipts and hanks of hair.
Anything was possible, in the off-world colonies that were the private lives of others. Maybe Harriet had been Scott’s reckoning, and he’d never dared to treat a woman that badly again – Marianne couldn’t reconcile him with the portrait of a belligerent man in his twenties. He’d mellowed beyond recognition. (Harriet knew this wasn’t true, from her merest brush with him, but rule nothing out.)
Maybe – whisper it – maybe Marianne was another Scott, who gave as bad as she got. Maybe a bottle of toner got spilt on the letter and Marianne was left forever wondering what the pale photographer with the plait thought she ought to know.
Maybe she simply thought Harriet was a malignant fantasist.
Maybe maybe maybe.
The point was, Harriet had done her duty to another woman when the universe sent her a test.
She hadn’t realised how much the potential consequences of her act had weighed on her until she approached her imaginary safe-by date, and her shoulders dropped by half an inch. Her years with Scott Dyer were ones she never revisited. Even when her mind wandered, she stopped herself.
Writing that letter was like drinking hemlock, or thrusting her hand into a crackling bonfire.
Hence Harriet was in an unexpectedly bouncy mood when the doorbell rang late morning Sunday, a week since Cal’s curtailed party. She ran down the stairs to answer it. The man of the house was in the shower, or he had been fifteen minutes ago according to the squeak and hiss of the water pipes that she’d overheard as she made coffee.
Her housemate was her friend now. She didn’t have to offset every pleasant interaction with Cal with: ‘but remember he’s a creep.’ That re-adjustment had floored her. In the seven days since she’d learnt the truth, every day had brought small but friendly interactions, even when they were doing boring chores.
The thing about Cal Clarke was, he was fun. She’d not realised how much she had missed fun. Whenever they chatted, he made her laugh. He managed to be always upbeat without ever being unserious. She’d put her key in the lock and find herself hoping he was home.
On the other side of the door stood a middle-aged delivery man in a flat cap with a friendly face; in the crook of his arm, a spectacular bouquet of pink and white lilies.
The lusted-after and eligible Cal seemed the more obvious flower-receiver in the home, yet he said: ‘Ms Aitch Hatley?’
‘Oh! Yes.’
Harriet never expected thanks from weddings she photographed but it was always gratifying to know she’d been appreciated. The responsibility of her job was that you knew you were creating an album they’d keep forever, bar bitter separations. She only knew of one wedding she’d covered where she learned that the ex-wife had set the album ablaze at her divorce party. (‘It’s all on a memory stick but it’s nice to do something symbolic, isn’t it?’ she’d told Harriet, when she ran into her in BrewDog.)
‘You don’t own a cat, do you?’ the courier said, while she was signing the electronic delivery receipt with the plastic wand. ‘These can be fatal to cats, you know.’
‘No cats,’ Harriet said, beaming.
Cal appeared on the stairs with damp hair, as Harriet, a slightly smug expression on her face, conveyed the huge bushel of flowers to the kitchen.
‘Woah! An admirer?’ he said.
‘A wedding thank you,’ she said. ‘I assume.’
She was proud of the Danny and Ferg gallery, now she thought about it. And they weren’t to know she was toiling under duress.
As she said it, an extraordinary alternative occurred to her.
Marianne. Harriet had never, for a moment, imagined Marianne might be grateful to her. If that emotion ever arrived, it’d be a long way off. Even then, Harriet doubted that the woman who warned you off your intended was ever very likely to be close to your affections. Harsh, but there it was.
The prospect was so peculiar and exhilarating that whoever the flowers were from, she knew she’d be slightly disappointed if it wasn’t Marianne now.
She pulled the card from the box and opened it.
Two words, in capitals, in the foreign, feminine handwriting of some anonymous florist shop assistant.
GAME ON.
Harriet blinked at it. ‘Game On’? What …? Was this a mis-delivery?
The few seconds where it dawned on her that this wasn’t a gesture of affection, but one of hostility, was sufficiently sickening that she knew her sender had got his money’s worth. It would’ve been queasily intimidating no matter what, but her opening that card eagerly was the real coup de grâce.
‘Who’s it from, then?’ Cal said.
‘Couple from last week,’ Harriet said, concealing her shakiness, stuffing the card into her jeans pocket.
‘The Goths?’
‘What?’
‘In Whitby?’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘You must’ve smashed it.’
‘Mmm-hmmm.’
Harriet’s heart was clanging like a kid bashing a cymbal. WAIT: Scott had her address? HOW? Think, think … Was it him? It had to be him.
The doorbell went again.
‘These’ll be my flowers,’ Cal said, and Harriet forced a smile.
The kitchen was suddenly full of Mr and Mrs Clarke Senior, and Harriet remembered Cal had mentioned his parents were coming to take him out for lunch, as a delayed birthday visit.
‘Hello, you must be Harriet!’ said a grey-haired, sixty-something man, a scaled-up version of Cal, with a fleshier nose and broader build. Actually, he shared a jawline with this father, but she could see Cal’s features more closely resembled his slight, fair mother. (She was reminded of a Lorna complaint about vapid Facebook comments: ‘Child looks like both of its parents shocker.’)
‘I’m Andrew and this is Sandie, it’s lovely to meet you.’
‘Nice to meet you too.’
‘I’ve heard a lot about you!’
He looked excessively delighted to meet Harriet, as if the discovery of a woman in his son’s kitchen was the treasure of the Sierra Madre. He was one of those men who wore lashings of an expensive, spicy aftershave, its scent now filling the room and eclipsing the lilies. Good.
‘That makes me sound weird, Dad,’ Cal said, grimacing. ‘Harriet, he’s not heard a lot about you, he’s heard a few things about you. An appropriate amount about you.’
Harriet smiled.
How did Scott Dyer have her address?!
‘You’re a photographer, Cal says. A really talented one.’
Whether this was hyperbole or not, Harriet didn’t know, but accepted it with gratitude.
‘Thank you, that’s very kind. Only a wedding photographer. I don’t win awards. Well maybe wedding industry ones, occasionally.’ Her brain was flying autopilot, operating her mouth.
Game On. What did that mean?
‘Fabulous. If our daughter ever gets her act together you can do hers. Might be waiting longer on this one though, he can’t make up his mind even when the Motown band is tuning up and vol au vents are being heated through,’ he said, nodding towards his son.
Cal checked his watch and said: ‘A new record.’
Cal’s dad continued dazzling a smile at her and Harriet wondered if he’d mistaken her for a girlfriend in the ascendant, such was the torrent of attention and positivity. She felt a little shy, in fact.
What if he turned up here?
‘We’re taking boy wonder out for lunch, would you like to come?’
‘Dad …’ Cal said in the background. ‘Let Harriet enjoy her weekend …’
‘Only pub grub, our treat. Sandie and I would love for you to join us, wouldn’t we, Sandie?’
Cal’s mum, who seemed a woman of fewer words than her husband, said: ‘Yes! Do come, Harriet.’
‘Come on, what else do you have in for lunch?’ Cal’s dad said, looking towards the fridge, as if Harriet might throw it open to reveal a cartoon turkey, with paper frills on its legs.
‘Um, nothing but … I don’t want to intrude on your family occasion! Thank you, though,’ Harriet said.
She sensed the fact she was being given no choice, and although she was sure it was well intended, it felt slightly suffocating. That said, being home alone with the flowers didn’t appeal either.
‘You’re not intruding on anything!’
‘Dad,’ Cal hissed, and said ‘Sorry,’ to Harriet.
‘Really, you three should be able to talk family shop,’ she said, and Andrew made dissenting sounds.
‘No no – not at all. I’m bored of family shop, haha. It’s agreed then, our treat,’ he said, ‘I’ll drive if you give me directions then, Calvin.’
Harriet opened and closed her mouth in realisation she’d been completely railroaded. She sensed Cal sag in defeat at this turn of events, which she understood: it changed the nature of it, with her spectating. She felt culpable and yet powerless. Had she known this invitation was remotely likely she could’ve prepared a watertight excuse. She’d not thought renting a room from their son would give her status as anything other than a person of passing, minimal interest. Clearly Cal had got his sociable gene from somewhere.
‘Heard anything more from Kristina?’ asked Cal’s mum, after they got into the Clarkes’ huge off-roader.
Cal, in the front passenger seat, swung a sidelong look at Harriet on the back seat, and widened his eyes, which she presumed to convey: don’t mention the visit.
‘Nope, thank God. Mutual friends tell me she mainly puts up Instagram Stories of lifting kettle bells in Sweaty Betty leggings and clinking espresso Martinis with Kanye’s ‘Stronger’ playing.’
‘I wish I understood a word of that,’ his mum chuckled, and Cal said, eyes back on the road: ‘Be glad you don’t, Mum.’
On the way into the city, Clarke family chat keeping the other occupants of the car occupied, Harriet messaged Lorna.
I’ve had a bouquet with a note saying GAME ON. That is 100% Scott’s sense of ‘humour’. I guess he’s seen the letter. How did he get my address, is what’s panicking me?
Ugh. I wasn’t going to say, but I sussed that he knew about the letter, because he’s blocked me
Harriet felt her stomach drop through her pelvis.
Blocked YOU? Why would he do that?
He must’ve worked out where you got the information to contact Marianne from, I guess? Or be battening down all hatches. I only know as when I checked back, he’d disappeared, and so I looked him up on The Dive account. And there he still was. Don’t fret too much, H – he’s waving his guns because he can’t really do anything. As you say, he can’t write to your fiancé. Sit tight and don’t panic. It’s what he wants. Xx
Harriet thanked Lorna, while knowing the very fact she had changed her tune was a terrible sign. Lorna wasn’t going to kick Harriet when she was down: the letter had been sent and the shots had been fired. There was nothing to do but reassure Harriet, and hope for the best. It was the advice-giving equivalent of moving from reflective tabards, dire warnings, hard hats and clear instructions about handrails, to simply lighting a scented candle and handing you a glass of wine.
Game On.
Harriet had priced Marianne betraying her into the policy, she’d declared it more likely than not. Marianne would be under Scott’s thumb, as she once was. It still hurt. No matter how many times she’d said this good turn wouldn’t deserve or provoke another, it was a lot to get her head round. Marianne had read those words and rejected them. At a deep level, Harriet had been convinced her truth would out.
Harriet rationalised, rehearsed, the mental equivalent of rubbing worry beads: what did she have in this world she cared about? Her friends: who knew the deal with Scott. Her work: unless he got hold of a list of her upcoming bookings, which would require hacking her laptop, hard to see how he could destroy that. Property: no, she had a rented back bedroom in Meanwood. A love life? Hahaha. Revenge porn: he had no material to work with, so that was out, unless he was any good at making deep fakes.
Maybe, trying to unnerve her was all he had. Maybe again. All her previous maybes had been wrong.
By the time they parked up in town, she’d figured out how Scott could have found out where she lived. She’d invoiced Danny and Fergus both by email and with a hard copy that had her address on it. There’s no way they’d suspect foul play from the world’s best, best man, so all he’d have to do is call them and say, hey, Marianne borrowed a lipstick or found a scarf that belonged to their wedding photographer, and would they know where he should post it? Danny and Fergus had told her they were only doing a ‘mini moon’ before a lavish winter trip, so they’d be at home to look the paperwork out. She could contact them and confirm that was what had happened, in an innocuous way, if she needed to know for sure.
Call her a coward, she wasn’t sure she wanted to. If it wasn’t Danny and Fergus, she was out of alternative possibilities.
Should she tell Cal? She looked at the back of his dark-blond head. He’d said she should’ve warned him about Jon, except she didn’t know Jon required a warning. She absolutely did know that Scott required one, but not the sort where he was likely to turn up in person. Jon had mistaken Cal for Harriet’s boyfriend, but she didn’t see how Scott would make the same error – and even if he did, what could he do?
And what was she supposed to say to Cal? ‘I might’ve stirred something up with another ex who might also be a threat, in ways I can’t predict’?
It was both pointless and unfair to ask Cal to feel agitation at something so vague; it was burdening him without any constructive purpose. She shouldn’t do it. Yet the painfully obvious threat still remained.
It wasn’t going to stop at the flowers.