Laura sat in silence as the true scale of her loss started to sink in. The production fee, the repeats, the second, third, fourth series. The international sales, the DVDs. The hoped-for accolades. Her reputation. Her company. Her career. All gone. She got a sudden surge of rage. How dare she? Laura grabbed her bag and, tight-lipped, strode out of the office.
Her anger didn’t subside in the cab, rather it condensed into red-hot embers that would reignite the minute they were aggravated. She felt herself tense as they got nearer Daniel’s flat . . . and then she saw her. Walking along as happy as you like in her skinny jeans and heels, expensive bag held over her shoulder with stylish, glove-clad hands, she cast benevolent smiles around, as well she might, seeing as she’d corrupted her way into the biggest scam she could. Laura thrust some notes at the driver, then got out and marched up behind her. When she was within touching distance, she clamped a hand on her shoulder and Cherry reeled round. Pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head.
‘Laura! You scared me.’
‘What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Oh, cut the act. You know exactly what I’m talking about.’
Cherry cast an eye sideways at the curious glances they were getting from passing shoppers. ‘Has something happened?’
‘You get a kick out of posting dead animals to random strangers? Do you know what this has cost me?’
‘I really don’t know what you mean, Laura, but I don’t like your tone.’
‘The show is cancelled and you—’ She was shaking with anger and jabbed her finger at Cherry’s face, but suddenly she stopped. She was going to shout at her more, threaten her, but Cherry didn’t look scared, or even unnerved. Her eyes were cold. A ripple of unease went through Laura. She took a deep breath. ‘Whatever it is you’re doing, whatever vendetta you’re on, I’d like it to stop. This has gone too far. What you’ve done . . . it’s completely unreasonable. You’re angry with me and I understand that, but this is . . . well, it’s completely disproportionate.’
Cherry was quietly watching her. Maybe, thought Laura, maybe she was getting through. The silence went on for longer. And longer.
‘Boo!’ Cherry was right up in her face.
Laura gasped out a strangled scream, staggered back.
‘You know, I had a bit of bad luck recently. Someone hacked into my account, sent a tweet that my boss thought was from me. Got me fired.’
Laura’s eyes flickered with guilt and she quickly looked away.
‘What does it feel like to lose your job, Laura?’
‘You’re insane,’ she whispered.
‘Sounds like you’re having a run of bad luck too. The divorce, the show . . . You know, they say it comes in threes. I really hope that’s not true.’
Laura stared at her, outraged, but at the same time, a primeval fear swept over her. ‘Are you threatening me?’
‘You really do have a habit of reading the most fanciful things into what I say.’
‘I know it was you.’
‘You know nothing. And you should think very carefully before saying that again. Remember, Laura, threes. Or fours, or . . . well, let’s not get too ahead of ourselves.’
Cherry turned and walked away, and Laura could do nothing but watch as she was rapidly overtaken by a terrifying sense of disempowerment.
Laura sat in her living room opposite two officers from the Metropolitan Police. She’d put off calling. It signalled a seriousness to the situation that she’d been trying to avoid. And there was Cherry’s reaction . . . for it would mean she’d find out. But she had no one else to turn to.
The first time they’d come to the house, she’d told them everything, like some great dam bursting, and the relief of sharing the burden had been so sweet. Then they’d gone away and done their investigations. Laura had been more jittery than ever before, waiting, praying they’d get back to her soon so she could stop looking over her shoulder.
Now they were back, and Laura knew systems and processes would be put in place. Soon this would all come to an end. They’d recapped the facts with reassuring clarity, and the tea had been drunk, the biscuits eaten. One lone Florentine was left on the china plate and the male officer would look longingly at it every so often. The policewoman looked down at her notebook.
‘So, just to be absolutely clear, you’re not receiving any nuisance or malicious calls?’
‘No.’
‘Any electronic communications?’
‘No.’
‘And you’re not being followed?’
‘No. Well, I don’t think so.’ Laura caught a whiff of boredom, of disengagement emanating from the policewoman as she shut her notebook, and alarm bells started to ring.
‘I’ve told you, she’s not harassing me, not directly anyway.’
‘Laura, we’ve contacted both Marianne Parker and Julie Sawyer, and neither wish to pursue anything with regard to the alleged communications. In fact, Mrs Parker says that she believes the letter came from you, and Miss Sawyer denies receiving a puppy or any kind of animal in the post.’
‘She’s a well-known actress. She doesn’t want the publicity, that’s all. But it happened!’
‘Do you have proof?’
‘Well, of course not, but . . . what about Cherry? Have you spoken to her?’
‘There’s nothing to speak to her about, as there’s no complaint.’
Laura leaned forward in her seat. ‘No, you can’t do this . . . You can’t ignore everything I’ve told you. She threatened me . . .’
‘I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do.’
‘Christ, what do I have to do to make you take me seriously?’ she exploded.
Neither of them answered at first. Laura swallowed the hard lump in her throat.
The policewoman spoke: ‘Laura, we are taking you seriously. We just have to follow the proper channels.’
She mustn’t get hysterical, but this, these people, she was relying on them. ‘Please. I don’t know what else to do.’
The policewoman showed a note of sympathy. ‘If you do start to receive any unwelcome communication, then this might be useful.’ She put a leaflet for the National Stalking Helpline on the coffee table. Two minutes later, they’d left.