Great, that’s all I need. Those bloody women could have at least tried to be a little more subtle about it instead of pointing and whispering like bitchy teenagers. I shudder, thinking back to the last time I was the subject of gossip. A time I wish I could forget.
I fumble in my bag for my phone and text Ed to tell him I’m on my way back home, although Fiona’s probably told him by now. I bet she’s also told him that I had too much champagne. She’ll make it sound like I’m drunk. My phone vibrates with a message. It’s Ed. He’s telling me not to worry. Says he’ll stay on at the regatta with the kids for another hour or so.
Thank goodness for Ed. He’s quite literally the most perfect husband in the universe. I don’t deserve him. I love him so much. My eyes fill with tears, which is ridiculous. I realise that maybe I am a bit tipsy, but so what? It’s what you do, isn’t it? You go out, have fun and have a few drinks. Ed doesn’t mind. He knows I like to enjoy myself. It’s what he loves about me. My fun-loving attitude.
But what’s he going to say when he finds out about the photos? I can’t even prove that they’re fake because I don’t remember what went on that night. It’s all still a blank. I know I’m burying my head in the sand about the whole thing. Hoping it’ll all go away of its own accord. I still haven’t even attempted to look for an expert to examine the photos. And I’ve been avoiding my brother’s calls. He’s pushing me to tell him what’s really going on, but I don’t want him to know. I should never have gone to see him about it. That was a big mistake.
My phone vibrates once more. Must be Ed again. But when I look at the screen, I see it’s a text from an unknown number. I stop walking and take a breath before opening the message:
Make the most of it Tia, because your marriage will soon be over.
A wave of panic hits me.
I knew they’d be back in touch, and I knew I wouldn’t like what they had to say, but as I read the text again, my fingers are trembling with shock.
I clumsily tap out a reply:
Who is this? What do you want?
There’s no response, so I send another one:
If you don’t tell me what you want, I’m going straight to the police to show them your messages.
Of course I’m bluffing, but I don’t know what else to do. Whoever it is seems intent on intimidating me. They still haven’t asked for anything specific or said what all this is about. I realise that the effects of the champagne have suddenly worn off, and I’m stone-cold sober, like someone has chucked a bucket of icy water over me. Although my head still throbs, and my throat is so parched I can barely swallow. My phone vibrates with a new message, and I’m suffused with a queasy dread.
I wouldn’t go to the police if I were you. Your brother can’t save you now.
My brother? So they know my brother’s a police officer. Did they see me go and speak to him? Have they been following me? I type angrily:
Why shouldn’t I go to the police? You can’t keep harassing me like this.
I can do whatever I want. After what you did, you deserve a lot worse.
What am I supposed to have done?
You know what you did. The rumours about you are true.
The rumours? My heart begins to pound and my mind buzzes with fear.
Tell anyone and the photos will be forwarded to every person on your contact list.
I go rigid. The thought of them sending out the photos to my contact list doesn’t bear thinking about. Aside from ruining my marriage, there’s my family to consider, the other parents from school, teachers, friends, everyone… I’ll never be able to hold my head up again.
Why are you doing this? Who are you?
I wait, but there’s no response. I try calling the number, my heart in my mouth as I listen to the ring tone. But no one is picking up and the number doesn’t seem to be connected to an answering service. After twenty rings I end the call and tap out another text:
Hello
Answer me
Please
But they’ve obviously said all they’re going to say. Thank goodness I received the message while I’m alone and