Destroy Me by Karen Cole (read people like a book TXT) 📗

it was only a local paper, the atmosphere at the Gazette was fiercely competitive and cutthroat, so against my better judgement, I rang the distraught parents and was told in no uncertain terms to fuck off. Then I rang the grandparents and the uncles and aunts and neighbours until eventually, I got the quote I needed. I remember that now with shame.

I don’t scream at the reporters. Instead, I draw the curtains and sit in the darkened room, my head buried in my hands, trying not to cry.

After what seems like an age, I hear them packing up and driving away and I feel safe to open the curtains again and let in what’s left of the daylight. The man that lives across the street is gawping at me. I repress the urge to give him the finger and turn away abruptly. God only knows what Eileen and Bob will have made of this.

I don’t want to think about it all any more. I retreat to the back room and try to forget the only way I know how. I switch on my laptop, open the Embers file, and write until the real world recedes, until I’m absorbed into Molly’s world and the simple battle between good and evil. The words flow easily, and my fingers fly over the keys, my word count steadily climbing. I’m not sure how long I sit there writing but when I finally stop, my bum is sore from sitting still for so long and it’s already getting dark.

I look at the time in the corner of the screen. It’s seven-thirty and Dylan will be heading to bed soon. I miss him a lot when he’s not here. The house feels so lonely and empty without him. But I’m relieved he wasn’t around to witness those reporters. The poor boy must be confused enough as it is.

When I ring Theo’s to say goodnight to Dylan, I can hear the burble of the TV and Harper talking in the background and I imagine the three of them cuddled up cosily on the sofa. I picture Dylan leaning against Harper as she ruffles his hair and Theo pouring her a glass of wine. In my ­imagination, Harper’s wearing a simple white slip dress, her hair is down and she looks beautiful and slim. Beautiful, slim and innocent. Everything I’m not.

‘Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite,’ I say to Dylan, biting back tears.

‘What bugs?’ Dylan sounds alarmed.

‘It’s just an expression. There aren’t any bugs, really. I just mean I hope you sleep well, and I’ll see you tomorrow. Night night, sweetheart.’

‘Night night, Mummy.’

‘Can you just get your daddy for a minute? I want to speak to him.’

‘Hello?’ Theo takes the phone. He sounds impatient, no doubt annoyed to have his perfect evening with Harper interrupted.

I want to tell him about the press and about the interview with the police today. I need to talk to someone about all the craziness in my head. But he doesn’t sound like he wants to talk. He sounds like he can’t wait to be rid of me.

‘I just wanted to remind you that I’m taking Dylan to play with his friend tomorrow,’ I say in the end.

He sighs. ‘Okay. I haven’t forgotten. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’

‘Yes, see you tomorrow.’ I hang up.

Without really being aware of what I’m doing I head to the kitchen, make myself a cup of tea and open a large bag of salted peanuts. Then I switch on the TV and sit down, shovelling peanuts into my mouth, tears of self-pity rolling down my cheeks. I catch the end of an old comedy show, which washes over me and then the evening news comes on. I brace myself for what’s coming. I’m terrified that I’ll be on, but I need to know. Maybe it’ll be a busy news night. If there’s a lot happening around the world, maybe they’ll skip the story about Charlie. You never know, I could be lucky.

The lead news item is about the upcoming elections, and then they bang on about Brexit and the economy again for a while. The half hour is nearly up, and I’m beginning to think I might have got away with it, but my hopes are quickly dashed when Charlie’s picture flashes up on the screen, her big hair, big smile – lots of teeth. Of course, they were never going to drop a story like this. An attractive young woman dies under mysterious circumstances in a posh country house. It’s like an Agatha Christie. This is catnip for the press.

‘An “angel” who was loved by everyone,’ runs the caption underneath. They show an interview with Adam during which he tears up and says that he can’t imagine life without her, then a short clip of Ben Wiltshire basically saying what he told me – that she was ‘an angel’ and he owes his life to her.

‘Charlotte Holbrooke was much loved by friends and family, described by those who knew her as selfless and caring,’ concludes the male news anchor. ‘Police aren’t ruling anything out and couldn’t be drawn to comment on a woman that was seen close to the Bathurst estate on Friday night.’

The photofit of me appears on the screen and there’s a split screen of me dashing to my house chased by reporters. Oh, God – I look guilty as hell, I think. Why else would I be so unwilling to talk to the press?

The news reporter moves on to a light story about a dog that was rescued from a well somewhere in Africa. I’m just turning off the TV and heading up to bed when my phone beeps, making me jump.

It’s a text from Georgia.

Just checking you’re still on for tomorrow. 

She obviously hasn’t seen the news.

The last thing I want to do at the moment is socialise and make small talk with someone I barely know, but Dylan has been looking forward to this playdate and I don’t want to disappoint him

I hesitate,