I don’t know how to answer this question. Apart from my parents (with whom my relationship is muddied by duty, guilt and prevarication) and Henry (who is biologically compelled) Polly is the only person in the world who loves me. I’d never been really close to my parents like some children are, but after Maria disappeared, our lack of communication became even more marked. It happened at that critical time in the mid-teens when children separate from their parents anyway. I was already drawing away from them towards my friends, my ‘real’ life. I suppose in the normal course of things I would have become closer to them again as I grew into adulthood, but Maria’s death caused a schism between us so great that it was impossible to cross. I could never tell them what I had done, why I withdrew from them so completely. And they in their turn were baffled as to why the disappearance of a girl who, as far as they were concerned, I barely knew, had such a catastrophic effect on me.
Polly saw me at my lowest ebb when Sam left. I may not have told her the whole story, but she knows more than anyone else does. She picked me up and set me back on my feet when I thought I was never going to be able to get up again. In all my life I’ve never had anyone who was in my corner like she is, and I can’t bear to risk losing that. I can’t risk showing her who I really am, particularly in light of what’s happened to Phoebe.
‘Sort of,’ I say. ‘But not so much by the time she died. It wasn’t just me anyway, another girl I was at school with got the same request. The one I saw last week when you babysat. And there’s something else.’ I take a breath. ‘That night when I went to Sophie’s, I think someone was following me.’
‘What? Why on earth would anyone be following you?’
‘I don’t know exactly… but this request, then the photo going missing…’
‘But Henry had the photo, you just told me.’
‘I know, I know. But I swear there was someone behind me in the tunnel at South Ken, and when I started running, so did they.’ The footsteps clipping, keeping pace with mine, the burning in my chest, the bottle banging against my legs. ‘And then I got another message from Maria’s account. It said, “Run as fast as you like, Louise. You’ll never escape from me.” She was following me, she must have been.’
‘That could just be a figure of speech though, couldn’t it? It doesn’t mean that anyone was actually following you that night.’
She doesn’t believe me, and I don’t blame her. Without the context of what I did to Maria, my story loses its power, but of course that’s the bit I can’t tell Polly. But someone has set up a Facebook page for Maria Weston, and someone followed me all the way from Crystal Palace station to South Kensington. I know it.
‘This Facebook page though,’ Polly says, echoing my thoughts, ‘that is weird. Do you not have any idea who could have done it?’
‘There’s a school reunion next weekend, I thought I might go, see if – I don’t know, if anyone else has had anything similar, I suppose?’
She regards me sternly. ‘A school reunion? Seriously? Will Sam be there?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, eyes glued to the bottom of my wine glass and thinking of the event page on Facebook that told me exactly who was going to be there.
‘Hadn’t you better try and find out before you go? I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to see him socially, do you?’
Sometimes I wish I hadn’t confided in Polly at all when Sam left me. She’s not the sort of friend who forgets things, or allows you to do so. I love how fiercely protective she is of me, how angry she is at Sam on my behalf, but I can’t allow her to stop me from doing this.
‘Look,’ I say, ‘I’ll try and find out who’s going – there’s probably someone I can ask, or maybe there’s a Facebook page or something. I won’t go if it looks like he’s going to be there.’
I hate lying to Polly but I don’t want to argue with her, I need her to be OK with me. She’s right, of course. It’s not a good idea for me to be in a relaxed, social environment with him, one full of drinking and reminiscing and heightened emotions, and Polly knows exactly why. I made the mistake of telling her that there was one time, not long after he left me, where he came round in the evening after Henry was asleep. I’d been drinking alone, so I poured a glass for him and he sat down with me, and for an hour or so it was as if he’d never left. There was a moment where he leaned over me to open the drawer where I still keep the corkscrew and time stood still, just for a second. He was so close that his features softened hazily, leaving only the feeling of his breath on my cheek, and a hot, melting sensation low in my stomach. I stood up quickly, my legs shaking and crossed the room, pretended to remember an early start, asked him to leave. Despite everything he had done to me, I still felt a pull to him. Part of me still does.
‘Hmm… OK,’ she says, seemingly mollified. ‘Right, let’s have a look at this email account, see if you’ve got any interest.’
I pass her the laptop and she logs in to the email account she set up for me.
‘Oooh, there’s quite a few!’
I scooch my chair round so I can see the screen, and she starts opening the emails.
‘Oh,’ she says. The first one makes lewd reference to the fact that Polly said I was interested in ‘nights in and out’. ‘“I will go in and out all night if you want me to.” OK, delete and on to the next.’
The next one goes into even more detail about exactly what it is he would like to go in and out of, and how he would feel about that.
‘Oh dear. I think I should have phrased that differently,’ says Polly, crestfallen. ‘It was my first foray into the world of online dating. We should have got a teenager to do it for you. They’re much more savvy.’
Most of the messages are variations on this theme, with a few genuine responses mixed in, all of whom seem to have taken my love of country walks and run with it. They are rock climbers, triathletes, iron men.
‘I can’t date any of these men,’ I say. ‘I get palpitations going outside the M25.’
‘Hang on,’ says Polly. ‘We have a live one. “Hi there,” it says. Well, that’s friendly isn’t it, a good start? “I must confess I’m not a huge fan of country walks, but I love to eat out and wondered if I could take you out for dinner?” There you go! He doesn’t like country walks either!’
‘That’s not exactly the strongest basis for going out with someone, is it?’
‘No, I know, but you never know. Let’s have a look at his profile.’
Greg is 42 years old, and handsome in a non-threatening way. He’s laughing in the photo, and looking at something over the photographer’s shoulder.
‘Lovely shirt,’ says Polly.
‘Again, Poll, not necessarily the criteria on which a lifetime’s happiness is built.’
‘Oh, stop creating obstacles. Let’s reply.’