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

Another pause.

‘Beth … look, I don’t know what’s going on, but … Oh heck, come on, you know what I’m talking about!’

I’ve just picked up my mug of tea again but now I put it back down on the tray. I’m starting to feel alarmed.

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. What’s going on?’

There’s a groan on the other end of the line.

‘Oh bloody hell, Beth. Were you pissed or something when you posted it? Look, I’m not an admin so I can’t delete it, only you can do that. But I’d advise you to do it as soon as possible, OK? Because so many people have already seen it, Beth, and commented, and … well, it’s not good. You could lose your job. What were you thinking? And who’s Daphne Blake?’

‘Lose my …?’

For a moment, two, three, I’m stunned into silence. I’ve never felt so confused in my life.

What’s she talking about?

‘And Daphne who? I’ve never heard of her. Ruth, honestly, I have no idea what this is about. What’s going on? Seriously, you’re scaring me now.’

She sighs.

‘Shit, Beth. Were you really that drunk? I’m talking about the … I can hardly bear to say this, but … the porn videos. The ones of you in your bedroom and bathroom. You posted them last night? You wrote, “a tribute to my friend, Daphne Blake”, whoever she is, and then added a link to a porn site …’

A … a WHAT?

I laugh. This is a joke. It has to be.

‘Oh come on, Ruth. Don’t be ridiculous. That’s impossible. I’ve never made a porn video in my life and there hasn’t been anything to film anyway, not since Jacob, so stop it. You’re freaking me out—’

‘It’s not sex, as such,’ she interrupts. ‘It’s a link to a video on one of those amateur porn sites. And it’s just you, on your own, naked and … and touching yourself. I couldn’t watch much of it, to be honest. But Beth, are you saying you didn’t post these pictures? That someone else did? Because they’ve been posted from your account, that’s all I know. I think you need to have a look. And then bloody delete them, for God’s sake. Look, I have to go, I’m sorry. Speak to you later.’

She ends the call abruptly and for a few seconds I stare at the phone. But now I’m not laughing anymore; shivers are running up and down my spine and a hard knot is beginning to form in my stomach.

Naked? Touching myself? Pictures of me in my bedroom and in my bathroom?

With shaking hands, I open the Facebook app. I see it immediately, just as Ruth described it: a post, ostensibly by me, the words ‘a tribute to my friend, Daphne Blake’, and a clickable link.

Daphne Blake?

Something about the name is suddenly familiar. Something is pinging in the furthest recesses of my mind but I can’t grasp it. I look at the words again and the link beneath them. And then I look underneath the post at the comments. Dozens and dozens of them.

Disgusting. How inappropriate on a doctors’ Facebook page.

Wow! Who’s this?

I think that’s the practice manager, Beth Holland. My sister had to see her once when she wanted to make a complaint.

Hey Beth, fancy a date? Looking a bit lonely in those videos.

Could do with losing a bit of weight, LOL! The doctors are always telling us to drop a few pounds, maybe they should try telling their own staff first.

What a sight! Put me off my dinner.

I stop reading, hot tears filling my eyes.

What is this? What is it?

Terrified, I click on the link and wait an interminable three, four seconds while the page loads. There’s a screenshot, a blurred image of a figure, and I swallow hard and press play. The video begins and the image comes into focus.

‘Oh God. OH MY GOD!’ I gasp, horrified.

I didn’t post this. Of course I didn’t. I’ve clearly been hacked; someone, somehow, has got into my account. But … these pictures, these videos. How? It’s me, very obviously me, standing right here in this bedroom, reflected in my full-length mirror, naked. Running my hands over my breasts, over my nipples, turning slowly to reveal my buttocks, then jiggling up and down. And then the scene changes and it’s me in the bath, in my ensuite, again seemingly caressing my body, my stomach, between my legs …

‘NO! NO!’

I’m sobbing now, flinging the phone across the room and hearing it crash against the wall.

How, HOW? I remember standing in front of the mirror a few weeks ago, studying my body, feeling fat … The bath … I remember all of it. It’s real footage but this looks so sleazy. It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t, and that’s not even the point …

‘How? How have you done it? And who the hell …!’

I’m screaming now, jumping off the bed, grabbing the ornate wooden frame of the mirror and pulling it off the wall with such force that chunks of plaster come away too. I throw it on the floor and crouch down, running my hands across the wood, into the crevices and swirls.

A camera. There must be a hidden camera, a tiny one, there must be, but where and who. Who?

I can’t find anything, nothing. I look frantically around the room but I can’t see anywhere else that could hide a camera either, not one that could take shots of me from that angle. The panic is building now and I’m panting like a dog on a hot day, gasping for air.

The bathroom. Check the bathroom.

I stumble into the ensuite, looking at the bath, thinking about how the footage seemed to have been shot from directly in front of me but slightly above. I look at the bathroom cabinet on the wall opposite, painted an innocent mint green.

There. It must be there.

I run my hands over the wooden door as I did with the mirror, again finding