Page 30 of The Friend Request

‘Kim. Listen to me. You’re imagining things. You’re making something out of nothing because that’s what you do when you’re anxious, and I get it, I do, but there is nothing going on with me and Lisa. All right?’

I wanted to push. I wanted to say that Lisa’s cheek had flushed and her words had stumbled, and his foot had been too still beside hers, resting there with pressure that doesn’t happen by accident.

But he sounded so sure. So calm. So gently confused by the accusation that my certainty crumbled, and in its place came something worse – shame. Hot, prickling shame, because I was being that girl, the jealous girlfriend who sees threats everywhere, who can’t enjoy a nice evening without inventing a crisis.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘All right. Sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry. Just trust me.’

Trust me. Delivered with such confidence. I took those words and held them close, and I let them smooth over the ugly thing I’d seen, or thought I’d seen. By the time I hung up the phone and walked home, I’d already started rewriting the evening in my head. The foot was accidental. The blush was the warm kitchen. The stumble in Lisa’s voice was a crumb of Hobnob caught in her throat. Nothing had happened, because Ross said so, and Ross wouldn’t lie to me, because what we had was special.

I believed him because I wanted to.

But later, when it was too late, I’d learn my lesson.

Chapter Thirteen

I need to call someone.

The thought arrives while I’m still sitting on the bottom step with my coat on and my keys digging into my thigh. Not Alex. Not yet, not like this. But someone. Someone who can do something, who has the authority to make a man stop following a woman through the dark, stop turning up where he isn’t wanted, stop pressing his face against her car window and trying the handle while she shakes behind the glass.

The police. I should call the police.

I pull up the number for the local station – not 999, because what would I say, there’s a man standing in a road I’ve already driven away from, and he didn’t touch me, didn’t break anything, didn’t technically do anything except walk and jog and say my name through a locked car door? It’s not an emergency. It’s not a crime, is it? I don’t even know. I just know my hands are still trembling and my pulse is hammering behind my ears and the hallway feels too narrow and too dark even with the light on.

I find the non-emergency number. I stare at it. My thumb hovers.

Ring them. Just ring them and explain. A man is harassing me. He followed me from a pub. He ran after me in the dark. He tried my car door. I feel unsafe in my own home.

I press call.

It rings three times before someone answers. A woman, calm and professional, the friendly tone of someone who answers phones for a living and has heard everything.

‘Avon and Somerset Police, how can I help?’

‘I – yes, hello. I’d like to report – I’m not sure what to call it. A man followed me tonight. From a pub in Keynsham. He chased me to my car and tried to get in.’

‘All right. Are you safe now?’

‘I’m at home. The doors are locked.’

‘Good. Can I take your name?’

‘Kim. Kim Stiller.’

‘And do you know the person who followed you, Kim?’

My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

Do I know him? Such a simple question, and the answer should be simple, too – yes, his name is Ross Mercer, he went to my school, I haven’t seen him in years, and now he’s turned up and won’t leave me alone. That’s all I’d need to say. One sentence, clean and clear. The woman on the phone would type it into her system, someone would follow up, and it would be handled.

But it wouldn’t stop there, would it?

Because the next question would be: and what is your relationship to this person? And I’d say, we were together when we were teenagers. And she’d say, has he made any threats? And I’d have to say, he sent me a photo. And she’d say, what kind of photo? And then I’d have to say it. Out loud. To a stranger on a recorded line.

A photo of me kissing him. Taken recently. After I met him for dinner and walked with him by the river and let him kiss me because for a few stupid hours I forgot who I was and what I had to lose.

And then the woman would ask: does your husband know about this?