The Divorce Club (11 page)

Suppressing a yawn, I pull out the sofa and
prepare his bed. Sam's already left for her room, so I'm alone with
Jamie saying goodnight. He stands left from me, too close, as I
fluff the bedding.

"The pillows are going to do wonders for my
neck," Jamie mutters.

"They're not that bad. So, finished." I
flatten the cover and stand. "Make yourself at home."

"Then I can sleep in my boxers?"

He's trying to break the ice with jokes. "Uh,
I don't think so. There's a thirteen-year-old upstairs in case
you've forgotten."

"I know. I wouldn't dream of it," he
whispers. "I hope my presence makes a difference."

"It will." I walk past, my heart pounding in
my chest. He places a hand on my upper arm, stopping me before I
can reach the door.

"What are you scared of?" His voice's low,
even lower than his whisper, but somehow I can sense what he's
saying like there's something inside our minds that helps us
communicate without words. "He hurt you, but not all men are the
same, Sarah."

I don't turn because I don't want to face
him. His eyes are burning holes in my back. He's not like Greg, and
yet he is. The personal assistant was the other woman in Greg's
life. Now I fear I might turn into the same thing for Jamie,
hurting Chloe along the way, with the only difference that Jamie
wants a divorce.

"You haven't talked about her the whole day."
I sigh defeated. "Does she even know what's going on inside you?
You should tell her. You once loved each other. You vowed to stay
together. Maybe it's not too late to save what you have."

"Sarah—"

"Goodnight, Jamie." I shake my arm free and
walk off. Upstairs, the bedroom's dark and cold. I thought having
someone here tonight would make a difference to my insomnia, but it
doesn't. Any traces of tiredness gone, I switch on my notebook and
start my research on stalking. The more I read, the more I'm
horrified. This isn't a phenomenon that hits the rich, famous and
beautiful. According to studies, a quarter of women have been
stalked at some point in their lives, some of these cases even end
in casualties. It's almost one a.m. when I decide to check my
emails before switching off the lights. My inbox shows three
hundred messages, all from the same sender—a bunch of numbers and
letters.

I've been spammed before, so I know the
risks. There doesn't seem to be an attachment so I open a message
anyway. It's just a string of meaningless numbers and letters
again. In the middle, there's an imbedded blue link called 'Sarah's
World'. I click on it and am transferred to a black website with
blood red fonts and photos of me; it looks like countless
snapshots, from my last Halloween party at the local pub to me
running errands, even recent ones where I'm heading out of the
club. In a blurry one, I'm standing in front of the window, dressed
in my black nightgown, as I pull the curtains for the night. Thin
rivulets of red color run down the sides of the screen as though
it's covered in blood.

My hands start to shake. I feel violated,
broken inside. It's what these people try to do, break your will
and leave you shattered so they can pretend to pick up the pieces
and stitch you back together. But the knowledge doesn't help make a
virtual altar less gruesome. I spend yet another night awake,
staring at the door because I'm too scared to turn my back on
it.

***

At breakfast, I'm wondering why I'm not
telling Jamie what's going on. I always thought I'd never let
anyone turn me into a victim, but talking from a third person
perspective and acting when facing a dangerous situation are two
different things.

"You have a nice sofa." Jamie rubs the cricks
in his neck. He looks so comfortable sitting at my kitchen table,
as though it's where he belongs. "Haven't been sleeping on one of
those since—"

"Wifey put you out in the 'doghouse'?" I
prompt.

He blushes, embarrassed. "Something like
that."

"Let me make it up to you by cooking you
breakfast fit for a king." I get up and start rummaging in the
fridge even though there isn't much there because my daughter eats
for ten and I can't keep up with the shopping.

"Wow. Where can I submit my application to be
your bodyguard? I'll take waffles, pancakes, hash browns, French
toast, bacon, sausage and eggs."

I don't have half of the stuff he wants so I
place a bowl of cereals and a carton of milk in front of him. "The
eggs were all sold out. Maybe I shouldn't have said the 'king'
part."

"Sold out eggs?" He doesn't even blink as he
tucks in with a grin. "I love your homemade cooking."

I sit next to him and start sipping my
coffee, regarding him. He looks so cute with the first signs of
morning stubble and his hair in disarray. My heartbeat picks up in
speed, but not at his sight. Shame's slowly crawling over me at the
memory of that website. I know it's not my fault and yet I can't
help but think that somehow I provoked that wacko's personal attack
on me. Maybe I smiled at the supermarket checkout when I shouldn't
have. Or I offered to pay his change when he didn't have any. I do
things like that out of goodwill and a constant attempt to be nice.
Maybe not being a bitch's what got me into trouble in the first
place.

Sam, fully dressed in jeans and a tight top,
comes in and plops down on a chair, staring from me to Jamie and
then back to me as though she only now realized he stayed over. Her
shoulders seem tensed, her mouth pressed tight. "Mum, the zombie
look's not in. Just because you're forty doesn't mean you're
dead."

"What? I'm not that old." I glance at Jamie.
"Really, I'm not." Trust my daughter to always find new ways to
embarrass me.

"You look it," Sam says.

Jamie smiles and pushes a glass of orange
juice toward her. "Here. There's nothing like sunshine in a
glass."

"You sound like a commercial." Sam laughs,
then shoots me a venomous look. I've no idea what I've done wrong.
Maybe she's upset because she thinks a new man's taking her
father's place.

"He slept on the sofa. Remember?" I
whisper.

Sam just shrugs as though she doesn't care,
but I know she does.

"Let's just call it a trial run," Jamie
says.

I cock an eyebrow. What does that mean?
Before he moves in? My heart skips a beat. But he's already changed
the subject.

"You get to see me in all my blazing glory
with my crazy bed hair, stubble and bad breath. Best to scare you
now rather than in France."

I groan. Okay, he's talking about our get
away this weekend. I don't know why I jump to conclusions like an
infatuated teen.

"Don't forget the wrinkly clothes." Sam
laughs. Why can't she laugh like that at my jokes? "Actually, you
look scarier than the gargoyles we'll get to see."

"Hey, we can't all wake up looking like
glamour queens." He clears his throat. "Or kings."

"If you don't mind," Sam says, "I'd like to
introduce you to a friend of mine."

Jamie leans forward, serious. "Sure. What's
her name?"

Sam whips something out of her purse.
"Brush."

"You need to get her on the comedy circuit.
She'll make you a killing." Jamie laughs and ruffles her glossy
hair. She doesn't seem to mind.

"I'm popping over to Kendra's for lunch."

"Sure, sweetie. Would you like some cereal
before you go?" I offer her my bowl, but she shakes her head.

"I'm in a hurry, Mum."

Jamie winks at me. "Which is understandable.
On Sundays, the shops are only open until five. That's a mere total
of six hours to shop."

Sam punches his shoulder and bolts out the
door again.

"I don't know how you do it," I say. "She
would've cut my head off."

"You're too scared of her. Children can smell
fear from a mile." Jamie pours us another cup of coffee and turns
to face me, a smile crossing his lips. He makes me uncomfortable. I
feel a strong need to avert my gaze, move my hands, shuffle in my
seat, do something so long I don't have to sink into his blue
eyes.

"I've got to go," he says, his gaze still
fixed on me.

"Thanks for staying over." My voice sounds
low and insecure.

He reaches for me as though to touch my arm,
then stops. "I can pop over again tonight if you want me to."

I shake my head. "Once is enough. I don't
want to pester you. You've already done too much."

"Are you kidding? I want this job. It comes
with a lot of perks."

What's that supposed to mean? I raise my
brows. "Such as?"

"Breakfast, silly. You make delicious, thick,
fluffy pancakes to die for—or so I've heard. If there's anything I
can do to help, just call me." He stands and hesitates again. I get
up too but look away because I won't encourage him.

At the door, our eyes lock and for a moment
his gaze brushes my lips. My breath catches in my throat. Before I
decide whether he's going to kiss me or not, he turns on his heels
and leaves, mumbling something that sounds like, "See you."

"Thanks," I say, but he's already started the
engine and pulls out of the driveway without so much as a glance
back.

I really can't figure him out. The more I
try, the more I fail, so I just push him to the back of my mind and
do what I've been planning to do all night. The breakfast dishes
can wait until I get back. I grab my purse and hop into my own
vehicle, then drive to a large shopping center a few miles away
because I know there's a shop that sells locks and security
cameras.

From inside, the shop seems small with little
variety, but that doesn't deter me. A middle-aged man clad in the
usual black pants and white shirt of a sales assistant stands at
the counter. As soon I enter he approaches me.

"Hi, I'm looking for something to turn my
castle into a fortress. Any ideas?" I say.

He flinches, probably taken aback by my
enthusiasm. After staying up all night and pondering over options,
my eagerness is understandable.

"What about kicking him out and changing the
locks?" he asks.

I laugh. "Did that right after the
divorce."

His eyes twinkle. "We don't sell a moat,
alligators or an army of knights, but we might have another helpful
thing or two."

"That's okay, I'm talking more this century
anyway."

"I can make your house more secure than
Buckingham Palace or the Pentagon."

"Now you're speaking my language." I start to
wriggle my hands because I can't wait to hear what he has to offer.
"There's one front, one backdoor and three windows. I need this
sorted out today."

He hesitates, his eyes glinting at the
prospect of making money. "We can get you whatever you need today,
and then someone will pop over on Tuesday to install it."

"Not good enough." I inch closer whispering,
"I'm being stalked. This person's even set up a website with photos
of me. If I don't get my house secured today you might see my
picture splashed all over the papers tomorrow."

His eyes pop wide open. "Have you been to the
police?"

I snort. "Aren't you the comedian? Don't you
read the papers? You know they won't do a thing."

"But they're professionals. I bet they won't
even let anyone cross the street to your house without raising
alert and sending in a special security team."

"I doubt that," I say. "But they'll make sure
no one
crosses
the yellow tape on their crime scene once I'm
dead."

His arm almost brushing mine, the shop
assistant inches even closer as though we're best chums and
chatting about some Hollywood star. "Do you have any idea who it
could be?"

I'm beginning to think he's more interested
in the gossipy factor of the situation than in my safety. "The
postman's been ringing a few times too many." I smirk. "Actually,
I'm clueless, which makes this even harder because I've no idea
what he'll do next or when he'll strike."

"Could be a 'she'." He holds up his hands.
"I'm just saying, don't shoot the messenger."

My mouth drops open. I must admit I didn't
consider that alternative. "You've just helped me widen my suspect
options."

"Check your Facebook account. That's where
stalkers usually strike first." He cocks his brows knowingly.

Never been a fan of wasting my time on
Facebook, but I nod nonetheless and point at what looks like a huge
intercom on the wall. "Now, that's fancy."

He winks. "Eye-catching, huh?"

"Is that something I should get?"

"Our MSX 2000 Pro? Good choice," he says. "It
works straight out of the box. Just attach the sucking cups to the
windows, plug it into the telephone socket, call your landline
provider to activate the line, and you're ready to go. In the case
of a break-in, the alarms will wake up the whole street and
automatically summon the police."

Impressed, I turn over the box and feel the
color drain from my cheeks. This miraculous device costs a few
hundred. Asking Jamie to pop over's cheaper. And so is getting a
Rottweiler.

"Bleed me dry. Do you have anything that's
not so
costly
?" I ask.

"Here's something more in your price range."
He doesn't even blink as he moves to the next box. "This is the MSX
2000
Basic
. It doesn't call the police for you. You'll have
to get two though if you want to cover the windows upstairs."

"Why would I do that?"

He smiles at me as though I'm dense. "Some
intruders use ladders to climb walls."

Now, he's making me even more paranoid. It
still costs two hundred, so I put the box back in its place. "Let's
assume he won't do that because he's afraid of heights or breaking
his back in the process, what else do you suggest I use to secure
the doors?"

Shaking his head lightly, he reaches under
the counter and retrieves a metal wedge the size of my hand. "This
will block every door from inside. Just squeeze it underneath. It's
only a fiver."