The Happy Family by Jackie Kabler (electric book reader txt) 📕

love it. The job, and these women – because they are mainly women – keep me going. On the tough days they make me smile, tell me I’m doing fine, remind me that life is too short to stress about payroll blips or IT issues. Today, although it’s busy as always, turns out to be one of the better ones, and I’m humming tunelessly as I rush down the corridor again just after five.

‘Fancy a quick drink, Beth? Ruth and I are heading up to Montpellier in a bit. Join us?’

Deborah, hearing me approaching, has popped her head out of her room, grey-blonde bob swinging around her face.

‘Oh Debs, I’d love to, but I promised Dad I’d pop in this evening, and then the kids, you know …’

I shrug, and she nods understandingly.

‘We’ll give you more notice next time. See you tomorrow, love.’

‘See you. Enjoy. Have one for me. No, two. Have two for me.’

‘Not a problem. Wouldn’t do it for anyone else, mind.’

She winks and disappears back into her room, and I head for the car park. It won’t be dark for nearly another hour but the sky is leaden and, while the morning was just wet, this evening is wet and windy, a sudden gust rolling a discarded Coke can across the slick concrete ahead of me and whipping a strand of hair across my face. I fumble for my car keys in the bag slung over my shoulder, and suddenly I see him out of the corner of my eye.

Again? Seriously? Oh, come on …

I stop dead and push back my already-damp hair, trying to tuck it behind my ear. I feel a little wave of irritation. When it all began, I’d been wary, nervous, scared even. But then it seemed to stop again, and I’d almost forgotten about him. Almost. So if he’s back … I’m more than irritated now, I’m angry. What does he want, this weirdo who keeps turning up, hanging around? Has he nothing better to do than creep about, spying on me, following me? I turn, take a step towards the spot where he’s standing, then blink. He’s gone. It’s raining harder now, heavy drops settling on my eyelashes, blurring my vision, and I stand still, my gaze sweeping across the almost-empty space. Where did he go? I can’t see him; I can’t see anybody. Only half a dozen cars remain, mine included. But no shadowy figures. Nobody watching me, lurking, waiting. Just my overactive imagination, playing tricks on me.

OK. Phew. Good.

I take a deep breath, look around one last time, and shiver. It’s cold, and now I’m soaking wet. I need to get on. I climb into the car and start the engine.

Chapter 2

I’m still thinking about him though as I pull into the driveway at home an hour later, after popping in to see Dad. It was several months ago when I first began to get the feeling that someone was following me, that unseen eyes were watching me.

It was little things at first: a glimpse of a man on the other side of the road as I left the surgery, always in the same dark hooded jacket, but never approaching, never close enough for me to see him clearly, just standing there, statue-like, waiting until I got into my car and then scuttling away; the same silver Fiat appearing again and again, driving slowly past my house, following me into Sainsbury’s car park – but again, never near enough for me to get a proper view of the driver. Now and again, I even thought he might be taking photos of me, because there was a phone or camera raised briefly in front of his face. Unsettled, I mentioned it to a few people – the girls at work, a couple of neighbours – wondering if maybe they’d noticed anyone hanging around too, but none of them had, and I could tell they thought I was imagining things.

‘I mean, Cheltenham isn’t a big place, not really, not when you think about it, is it?’ Ruth said, when I confided in her in the staffroom one morning not long after it had started. ‘You do tend to see the same people around. I see the same bloke passing my house with his black Labrador all the time. You worry too much, Beth. I haven’t seen anyone hanging around. Nobody I’d be concerned about anyway.’

I nodded, somewhat reassured, but I still worried. As the weeks passed, though, I did try hard to convince myself that everyone was right and I was imagining it, because why would anyone want to follow me? The idea that I might have a stalker, some sort of crackpot secret admirer, is faintly ludicrous. I’m hardly a catch – a forty-year-old divorced mum of two, so frantically trying to divide her time between work, kids, and an elderly dad that she barely has time to drag a comb through her hair or dab on a bit of blusher. But still, every now and again, there he was, a figure on the periphery of my vision who seemed to melt away if I tried to get a closer look. I thought about marching over to confront him, to demand an explanation, but I couldn’t pluck up the courage because … what if I was wrong? What if I really was just being paranoid? And then, six weeks or so ago, it all stopped. He just seemed to disappear. No fleeting glimpses of hooded figures, no silver Fiats. And yet, today, there he was again, back in the car park. Except he wasn’t. Or was he? I had been so sure, for a minute, but then …

‘MUM! ELOISE WON’T LET ME BORROW HER IPAD, MUM! TELL HER!’

I’ve only just pushed the front door open, key still in the lock, and Finley is flinging himself at me, face contorted in frustration.

‘Crikey, Finley, give me a second to get in out of the rain!’ I say, and he pouts.

‘But