In Her Image Page 3

  I carry on swiping through the photos, smiling at the quality of them. He’s actually made me look pretty natural. After swiping through a few more, one shot in particular catches my eye. Anyone else might think it was a lovely naturally-posed shot. But I know for sure that I didn’t pose for this one.

  It’s an arty black-and-white shot of me behind the changing screen, standing in my bra and knickers, holding the bottom hem of my red and white polka dot dress, which is on a hanger, hooked over the top of the screen. I’m holding it out, as if checking for marks. I don’t remember doing it, but it’s definitely me.

  But how did he take this photo? He never came behind the screen. There’s no way I would’ve let him anywhere near me while I was changing.

  My mind starts racing ten to the dozen. Was it some sort of CCTV shot? I doubt it. The quality of the photo is far too good. It looks perfectly set up, just like his other photos. Except there was no camera there. Just a bare brick wall. I’m sure of it.

  My head’s pounding from last night’s excesses as it is, and I can’t quite figure out what this is all about. I tell myself I’m just being daft. I went to get some photos taken and I got some photos taken. Yes, he took one of me when I didn’t realise, but was that the whole point? Was he trying to get some natural shots too? Even so, taking candid photos of women in their underwear isn’t right, surely? It certainly doesn’t feel right to me.

  Maybe he’s just having a joke around. Caught you! Or perhaps it’s all about nudging me towards something else. Have you ever considered being an underwear model? Either way, I don’t feel comfortable with it.

  I decide not to bother replying to his email. My head’s not in the right place at the moment and I don’t want to say something I’ll regret. I’m not the sort of person who thrives on confrontation. I prefer to take a step back, pretend it never happened and move on.

  Sometimes that’s easier said than done, though. Seeing Kieran last night proved that point. Then again, there’s nothing wrong with needing a bit of time and space to catch your breath and move on properly, is there? I don’t think anyone could have expected me to instantly not give a shit.

  My head’s pounding and that big greasy fry-up is starting to feel even more appealing. I pull myself out of bed and get dressed, trying desperately to shake the feeling that — hangover aside — something feels very, very wrong.

  7

  By now you’ll be wondering. You might even be panicking. For you, this is just the beginning. For me, this is the midpoint. This is where we’re fully into the woods and realise we have to find our way back out. Which way we go is entirely up to you.

  I’ve been working on this for a while, you see. The first time you saw me wasn’t the first time I saw you. That morning outside the patisserie wasn’t your first morning there, and it wasn’t mine either. But how many times did you notice me? You’ve walked past me practically every day for the past fortnight and you didn’t even know it. As far as you were concerned, until I stopped you and spoke to you I wasn’t even a human being. I didn’t even have a life, a name, a personality. I was just another passing figure. A nameless, faceless form. I didn’t have a history or a future. I didn’t have troubles or triumphs. I didn’t have the slightest impact on the world. Not on your world, anyway.

  But we all walk around in our own universes, don’t we? We keep everything internalised. Everything is about us. That woman you walk past in the street lives a normal life in a normal house with a normal husband and normal kids. She’s Mrs Average. How are you to know she’s got a Nobel prize? And that old man sitting on the bench, leaning on his wobbly walking stick? Just another pensioner, eh? Goes out in the morning, buys a paper, goes home and watches shitty daytime TV while he does the crossword. Maybe pulls up a couple of cabbages from his vegetable garden. Wouldn’t think he was one of Britain’s most prolific un-caught serial killers, would you?

  You don’t think about these things. None of us do. But we are all you. And you are all of us. That huge problem in your life? We’ve got those too. The big event you’re looking forward to next week? Take a look at mine. Your impact on the world is as small or great as you want it to be, but that doesn’t diminish mine.

  Here’s a secret that’ll blow your mind: the world doesn’t revolve around you.

  You think it does, though, don’t you? If there’s one thing I’ve learned by watching you all this time, it’s that you’re self-centred. That’s not the same thing as selfish. Sure, you put money in charity tins. Of course, you occasionally let the little old lady step into the queue in front of you. Yeah, you gave up your seat on the bus for a pregnant woman. But you didn’t even think to help her off with all the shopping bags, did you? Who was the little old lady? Someone’s grandmother? Someone’s sister? And I bet giving that money to charity sure felt good. It meant you didn’t have to think about what those poor African children go through every day. Didn’t have to feel guilty. Just chuck a pound coin in the pot and it’s all forgotten. Viva Africa.

  There’s too much of it in this world.

  She always taught me that. I can almost hear her voice when I remember those words. It stuck with me, indelible on my consciousness ever since.

  She was a great woman. I thank the 1960s for having her as a teenager. If she’d grown up in the 1980s, as I did, all she would’ve known is greed, jealousy and envy. How on earth did her generation manage to lose everything they’d worked for? Why did they turn their backs on peace, love and harmony?

  That dollar sign is mighty appealing.

  It disappointed me when I found out what you were like.

  No. Not disappointed.

  Devastated.

  It was all looking so promising. Your eyes. That line of your jaw.

  Don’t kid yourself that you’re the only one. You’re not. It’s a distinctive look, but it’s not rare.

  Truth be told, I don’t remember much about her. Only snippets. Just the odd flash of a vision. But it’s enough. Enough to see the likeness. Enough for me to want to find out more. In the hope that her vision is still alive, that her hopes and ambitions for a better world didn’t die with her.

  It’s easier than people think, hope. There’s always the chance, the fleeting possibility, that it might actually happen. That’s what you live for.

  That’s what she lived for.

  So I live in hope. Hope that you might see the light. Hope that things might be different.

  Because she almost changed the world.

  And we could change it too.

  8

  The weather forecast reckons there’ll be rain today, but I can’t see it happening. Either way, I’m not going anywhere. My hangover’s still raging and the huge fried breakfast has made me feel even more tired.

  The photos have been playing on my mind ever since I got up, no matter what I’ve tried to do to distract myself. Deep down, I know there’s only one thing for it. It isn’t going to be pretty — hell, it’s going to be like throwing a lit match at a box of fireworks — but I need to call Mandy and talk it over with her. She might not be an expert in diplomacy, but she’s rarely wrong.

  She’ll know something’s wrong as soon as I call her. Although we’re close, we don’t tend to phone each other for the sake of it. There’ll be the odd text here and there, plus our weekly catch-ups at Zizi’s. That tends to do us fine. A phone call tends to mean something’s wrong.

  I bear this in mind as I call her, and try to sound as chirpy and confident as possible. That’s not easy, though. My head’s pounding and my stomach’s churning.

  ‘Morning!’ I say, as she answers the phone. ‘How’s things?’

  ‘Feels like someone’s driven a pitchfork through my head. Other than that, can’t complain. You sound bright and breezy.’

  ‘Fake it til you make it,’ I reply. ‘I’ve tried water and grease. Next on the list is sleep.’

  ‘So what’s up?’ Mandy says, cutting straight to the chase.

  ‘Not muc
h. Just wanted to say hi,’ I reply. She’ll see right through that, I know. So I jump straight in. ‘Listen, you know that photoshoot I went on yesterday? Well the guy sent some images through by email this morning. Just a few early ones so I could see how they came out. They’re good photos. Really good, actually. But one of them was a bit... Well, weird.’

  There’s a pause for a moment as Mandy takes this in. ‘What do you mean “weird”?’

  ‘I mean, like, a photo of me standing in my underwear. Behind the screen. Away from the camera.’

  ‘What, you mean like a Peeping Tom shot?’

  I swallow. ‘I guess. Something like that.’

  ‘Fucking perv,’ she says, the venom in her voice clear.

  ‘I dunno. I don’t think he is. Honestly, he was the nicest, most polite and least pervy person I’ve ever met. I don’t know what this is all about, but that’s not it. I thought maybe it was an accidental shot, and he put it there to make me think about doing underwear modelling or something. To be honest, there wasn’t anything said about not taking photos behind the screen. It was all pretty casual and friendly.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Alice. Will you listen to yourself? You don’t need to say anything about not taking photos of women getting changed. It’s common sense. What’s his name and address?’

  ‘Mandy, don’t.’ I say this a little more firmly than I usually would. It does the trick, though.

  ‘So what now?’ she asks. ‘Are you going to ring him and find out what it’s all about?’

  I sigh. ‘And say what? “Why did you take a photo of me in my underwear?”’

  ‘Yeah. Why not? You’ve got a right to know.’

  If truth be told, I don’t want to rock the boat. The rest of the photos look great. If there’s a chance of getting some modelling work, why not? Besides which, Gavin didn’t seem like the sort of person who was trying anything on. He took a hell of a lot of photos yesterday. And then I went out and drunk a hell of a lot of cocktails. I can’t even say for certain that I didn’t pose for the shot. It’s highly unlikely, but not impossible. It wouldn’t be the first time mixing alcohol with antidepressants had caused me memory blanks.

  ‘It’s probably just an innocent mistake,’ I say. ‘A misunderstanding.’

  ‘Misunderstanding my arse. He’s a man, Alice. It’s what men do.’

  ‘I dunno. He seemed fine to me. And I’ve got a pretty good built-in twat radar.’ I decide against pointing out that Mandy’s is far too sensitive and needs adjusting.

  ‘Wait. Run me through this again. You say you just randomly bumped into him in the street?’

  ‘Yeah. I’d literally just come out of the patisserie. The door hadn’t even closed behind me. So no, it wasn’t deliberate before you start that.’

  ‘Hey, I didn’t say a thing. Only asking.’ I can almost visualise her raising her hands in the air in mock surrender. ‘And what, he randomly asked you if you fancied doing some modelling?’

  ‘No, he apologised profusely for me dropping my pastry, went inside and bought me another one.’

  ‘Then asked you if you fancied doing some modelling?’

  I sigh. ‘Something like that. Look, it wasn’t weird or anything. Yeah, alright, it wasn’t an everyday conversation, but it’s not like he followed me down the street and forced me to talk to him. Besides which, I called him. Not the other way round.’

  ‘And what did he say? You didn’t give him any personal details, did you?’

  ‘No, nothing. Apart from my email address.’

  ‘Which has your name in it, right?’

  ‘Yeah, but come on. Alice Jefferson isn’t exactly a unique name, is it? And anyway, you’re overreacting. He’s a photographer, not a serial killer.’

  ‘He’s a perv, though,’ Mandy replies, before realising she shouldn’t have. ‘And what do you know about him?’

  ‘His name. Where he works. The fact he’s had a relationship breakup recently.’

  ‘He told you that?’ She sounds like a detective who’s uncovered a clue.

  ‘Yeah, but don’t go getting all excited. He mentioned it in passing. It was his excuse for walking around with his head in the clouds. And before you ask, no. He didn’t come on to me, he didn’t ask if I had a boyfriend and he didn’t try to tease any sort of information out of me. So no, it’s not jealousy or revenge.’

  Mandy is silent for a moment. When she speaks, she speaks quietly. ‘I didn’t say it was, Alice. I was only asking, and you got defensive over it.’ There’s a pause before she speaks again. ‘You’re worried, aren’t you?’

  9

  It’s Tuesday morning. I flaked out after speaking to Mandy on Sunday and went straight to bed. I woke up about eight-thirty that evening, thirsty and needing the toilet. I knew I should eat, so I made myself cheese on toast and went straight back to bed.

  It’s taking me longer to deal with hangovers the older I get. Mixing alcohol with my pills doesn’t help, either. I always seem to end up with a day or two of feeling mentally shitty. They say drinking alcohol with anti-depressants isn’t advisable at all, so I’m definitely not doing myself any favours with the amount I’ve been drinking recently.

  Yesterday was better. Mondays tend to be dire work-wise. Everyone’s in a foul mood and nothing seems to go right. As Mondays go, though, it wasn’t bad at all. I left work with a smile on my face, feeling better about the world. The incident at the weekend had more or less vanished from my mind.

  It put me in a great frame of mind for today, too. The Tuesday morning was bright and crisp — my favourite part of winter. I don’t mind the cold one bit as long as it’s still sunny, with that biting chill in the air that makes everything seem much more positive.

  The office is quieter than usual. Sandra’s on holiday, seeing her family in Germany as she does every year in early December. Stefan is on a training course in Derby and Khurram is flitting backwards and forwards between delivering staff appraisals and performance reports, and nipping off for a cheeky cigarette at every given opportunity.

  I’m completely on my own when the email comes through.

  I try not to make a habit of using my mobile at work, but there’s no-one around at the moment so I don’t see the harm in it.

  It’s an email from Gavin. This time there’s no subject line.

  I open the email, my heart starting to skip a little as I’m reminded of all the weirdness at the weekend. It seems to take an age to load, the little spiral in the middle of the screen spinning and turning, trying to tell me that it’s loading.

  When the pictures finally load, it takes me a moment to digest what I’m seeing. The first photo shows me leaving work last night. I recognise the bobble hat, scarf and coat immediately, but it takes a couple of seconds before my brain can accept that it’s a photo of me. I’m in full focus, clearly walking quickly as the background and everything else is blurred. But why the hell has Gavin been taking photos of me leaving work?

  I swipe the screen and move on to the next photo. I recognise the surroundings straight away. It’s Zizi’s Bar. The reed-effect backdrop to the bar and the neon pineapples are a dead giveaway. But the focus of the shot is on me and Mandy sitting at the bar. It only shows our backs, but it’s clear as day that it’s us.

  I swallow and blink as I try to take in what I’m seeing. What the hell’s going on?

  My head starts to spin and my hands are shaking. I hear the phone clatter on my desk as I drop it, and I start to get the sensation of an electrical buzzing in my brain. It’s one I know immediately. I didn’t take my fluoxetine this morning. A shrill, piercing tone starts to become apparent in my ears and I squeeze my eyes shut to try and force it out.

  I walk over to the water dispenser and pour myself three glasses in succession, throwing each one down my gullet and swallowing, the ice cold water mixing with large air bubbles, making my chest hurt for a few seconds.

  I sit back down and go to reach for my phone, but I don’t think I want to look any fu
rther.

  It takes me a minute or two, but eventually I pick the phone up again and swipe the screen. The photo keeps bouncing back from the edge, indicating there aren’t any more to view. I put the phone back down and sit back in my chair.

  I can hear some sort of commotion from outside the office. It sounds as if someone’s having an argument. I can’t hear the words, though, and the whole thing just forms part of the background noise. I barely register it.

  But the sound of an email pinging through on my work computer might as well be the sound of a nuclear bomb detonating. It jolts me back into the here and now, and I lean forward and use the mouse to open the email.

  I make a small choking noise as I see who the email is from.

  It’s from Gavin.

  On my work computer.

  To my work email address.

  I open the photo in the email. It’s another shot from the studio. Nothing pervy, nothing I didn’t know about. It’s one I posed for. But the photo itself isn’t what’s worrying me.

  I didn’t tell him where I work. I said nothing about my job, nothing about my life. So how has he managed to not only take a photo of me leaving work, but also get hold of my work email address?

  I feel an icy chill run down my spine. And that’s when I realise I’m deep into something serious.

  I just don’t know what.

  10

  I try not to panic. But I need answers. I need to find out what the hell’s going on. I pick up my mobile, go to my calls list and see his number in my Recents list from Saturday morning. I tap the number and put the phone to my ear.

  It seems to take an age to connect, but eventually the phone starts ringing. It rings and rings, but there’s no answer. No voicemail, nothing. Just the constant repeating ring.