when I meet him for dinner tomorrow.
I’m sure there’s a perfectly innocuous reason why he hasn’t invited me back to his place. So why do I feel so sick?
Chapter
Seven
I come to on the floor of the porch. One of my cheeks is pressed against cold tile, and the other is strangely damp. I glance up to see Milly standing above me, her big, brown eyes fixed on the empty dog bowl in the corner of the porch, her tongue dripping with drool. She senses me looking at her and smiles down at me before enthusiastically licking my cheek.
“Hello, Milly Moo.” I sit up slowly, gingerly checking my body for injuries. Nothing appears to be broken, though by the way my left temple aches, I think I’m in for a pretty impressive bruise. For a split second, I assume I tripped and fell, but then I spot the postcard on the floor beside me and it all comes flooding back again. The image on the front shows James Stewart sitting on a step, smiling a goofy smile while behind him, a shadow of an enormous rabbit is projected on the wall. It’s an image from the film Harvey . The postcard could so easily be innocuous—a simple hello from one friend to another—only there’s no chatty text on the other side of this postcard. There isn’t even an addressee. There’s just a stamp, postmarked Brighton, and an address, my address.
This isn’t someone forgetting to write a postcard and slipping it into the postbox with a handful of letters by mistake. That’s the explanation Brian would come up with if I told him about it. He’d give me a look, the look, the one that says, “You’re going to have another episode, aren’t you?” and then he’d throw it in the bin and tell me that everything’s fine and I’m safe. Only I’m not safe, am I? Harvey was James’s favorite film. I lost count of the number of times we watched that film together.
Milly startles as I kick out at the postcard, sending it spinning and scuttling under the shoe rack. If I can’t see it, then maybe I won’t think about it. Maybe I’ll be able to ignore the fact that, twenty years after I left him, James has finally tracked me down.
***
I try as best I can to forget about the postcard, but it’s like trying to forget how to breathe. Whenever my mind pauses, whenever it’s free of thoughts about Charlotte, Brian, and what to cook for dinner, it returns to the porch, peers under the shoe rack, and pulls out the postcard. No matter where I am in the house, it haunts me from its dark, dusty corner. I want to visit Charlotte but I’m too scared to leave the house. What if James is waiting for me? If he’s been watching the house, he’ll know I’m home alone, but all the doors and windows are locked—I’ve checked three times—and there’s no way for him to get in. I’ve got my mobile phone in my hands, primed and ready to call the police if I hear the slightest noise.
There won’t be time to call for help if I leave the house and James attacks me. If he’s hiding in the bushes opposite the front door, he could get me as I get into the car, or if he’s in a car down the lane, he could follow me to the hospital and attack Charlotte. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since I last saw her, and I’m already consumed by fear and guilt because I haven’t seen her today. What if, deep in her subconscious, she knows I haven’t been to visit, and it makes her retreat deeper into her coma? What if she wakes up and I’m not there? What if she dies?
For the next couple of hours, I don’t know what to do with myself. I jump when the phone rings and start when the wind rattles the letter box. When there’s a knock on the front door, I run up to Brian’s study and peer down from behind the curtain, only to discover the electricity man pushing a “I called to check your meter” card through the letter box. What am I doing? I’m allowing the memory of James to terrify me, to stop me from visiting my own daughter. I am not “Suzy-Sue”—I
I’m sure there’s a perfectly innocuous reason why he hasn’t invited me back to his place. So why do I feel so sick?
Chapter
Seven
I come to on the floor of the porch. One of my cheeks is pressed against cold tile, and the other is strangely damp. I glance up to see Milly standing above me, her big, brown eyes fixed on the empty dog bowl in the corner of the porch, her tongue dripping with drool. She senses me looking at her and smiles down at me before enthusiastically licking my cheek.
“Hello, Milly Moo.” I sit up slowly, gingerly checking my body for injuries. Nothing appears to be broken, though by the way my left temple aches, I think I’m in for a pretty impressive bruise. For a split second, I assume I tripped and fell, but then I spot the postcard on the floor beside me and it all comes flooding back again. The image on the front shows James Stewart sitting on a step, smiling a goofy smile while behind him, a shadow of an enormous rabbit is projected on the wall. It’s an image from the film Harvey . The postcard could so easily be innocuous—a simple hello from one friend to another—only there’s no chatty text on the other side of this postcard. There isn’t even an addressee. There’s just a stamp, postmarked Brighton, and an address, my address.
This isn’t someone forgetting to write a postcard and slipping it into the postbox with a handful of letters by mistake. That’s the explanation Brian would come up with if I told him about it. He’d give me a look, the look, the one that says, “You’re going to have another episode, aren’t you?” and then he’d throw it in the bin and tell me that everything’s fine and I’m safe. Only I’m not safe, am I? Harvey was James’s favorite film. I lost count of the number of times we watched that film together.
Milly startles as I kick out at the postcard, sending it spinning and scuttling under the shoe rack. If I can’t see it, then maybe I won’t think about it. Maybe I’ll be able to ignore the fact that, twenty years after I left him, James has finally tracked me down.
***
I try as best I can to forget about the postcard, but it’s like trying to forget how to breathe. Whenever my mind pauses, whenever it’s free of thoughts about Charlotte, Brian, and what to cook for dinner, it returns to the porch, peers under the shoe rack, and pulls out the postcard. No matter where I am in the house, it haunts me from its dark, dusty corner. I want to visit Charlotte but I’m too scared to leave the house. What if James is waiting for me? If he’s been watching the house, he’ll know I’m home alone, but all the doors and windows are locked—I’ve checked three times—and there’s no way for him to get in. I’ve got my mobile phone in my hands, primed and ready to call the police if I hear the slightest noise.
There won’t be time to call for help if I leave the house and James attacks me. If he’s hiding in the bushes opposite the front door, he could get me as I get into the car, or if he’s in a car down the lane, he could follow me to the hospital and attack Charlotte. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since I last saw her, and I’m already consumed by fear and guilt because I haven’t seen her today. What if, deep in her subconscious, she knows I haven’t been to visit, and it makes her retreat deeper into her coma? What if she wakes up and I’m not there? What if she dies?
For the next couple of hours, I don’t know what to do with myself. I jump when the phone rings and start when the wind rattles the letter box. When there’s a knock on the front door, I run up to Brian’s study and peer down from behind the curtain, only to discover the electricity man pushing a “I called to check your meter” card through the letter box. What am I doing? I’m allowing the memory of James to terrify me, to stop me from visiting my own daughter. I am not “Suzy-Sue”—I
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