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

said yes and let her come in here alone. Brenda and Barbara, who’ve now drifted away, who’ve cut me off.

Could Mike have persuaded one of them, one of my friends, to hide cameras in my home for him? But wouldn’t they have told me if someone had asked them to do something like that? Why would they agree? Why would any of them do something so vile, so cruel? They’ve all had the opportunity, the access to my home, it’s true. But … really? Why would any of those women, women I love and respect, treat me like that? I’ve never exchanged so much as a cross word with any of them. It doesn’t make sense; it just doesn’t make sense …

And then I think about Robin. I think about the times I’ve suspected her of rooting through my stuff, the rearranged cosmetics in my bedroom, the time Mum saw her nosing in my bathroom cabinet. If Mike had approached her, maybe, just maybe. And then, of course, there’s Mum.

My stomach lurches and I sit there and think about Mum for a long time. About how, wonderful though it’s been to have her back in my life, it’s only been since she returned that everything’s begun to fall apart. And about how, as far as access goes, she’s the one who’s had the free run of my house recently, the one who’s been in it alone for hours every day while I’m at work and the kids are at school. I’d be an idiot if I didn’t consider her being behind this, wouldn’t I? But … no. Ridiculous. Why on earth would she want to hurt me like this? She’s done everything, everything she can to show me how sorry she is for leaving all those years ago; she’s shown me nothing but love. She looked almost as horrified as I felt when I told her what had happened today. Whoever this is, it’s not Mum. But who, then? Who?

I groan, my head spinning. I can’t work it out, any of it, and now my phone’s ringing again. I don’t even look at the display this time. My eyes are swollen and sore from crying and my voice is weak and weary even to my own ears as I say hello.

‘Beth, it’s Gabby from work.’

She sounds cold, brisk, so unlike her usual warm, smiley self that a chill runs through me, and I suddenly realise that what has happened today isn’t just about embarrassment and humiliation. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of people have seen Fairfield Surgery’s practice manager naked on the internet.

This is serious, isn’t it? As Ruth said earlier, I could lose my job over this, my livelihood. And what then? Jacob will never let me have the kids back, never …

Gabby’s still speaking, her tone terse and business like.

‘Beth, I know Ruth spoke to you earlier, and that you’re claiming your Facebook account has been hacked. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what to believe, especially after the concerns about your mental health raised by that letter earlier in the week. It’s something we need to talk through with you in person, and we’d like you to come in for a meeting at seven-thirty on Monday, so we can discuss it before morning surgery, so please put that in your diary. But I also have to tell you that I received a telephone call earlier from a tabloid news reporter who somehow tracked down my home number and who told me he’d received a tip-off that our practice manager was “moonlighting as a porn star”, as he put it. I managed to put him off and told him it was all a misunderstanding, but I’m not sure he’ll drop it, Beth. These people can be very persistent, and there’s every chance he’ll run a story anyway. The link to the website appearing on our Facebook page was bad enough, but if the practice ends up in the papers, well …’

‘Oh God, Gabby! I’m so sorry, but I don’t know. I have no idea …’

I’m crying again, great gulping sobs now, and on the other end of the phone there’s a pause, a few seconds of silence, before Gabby speaks again, a little more gently this time, telling me to calm down and asking me if I’ve eaten today, if I’m alone.

‘No … no … Mum … Mum’s here. Downstairs,’ I manage. She tells me to go downstairs, to stop sitting in my room dwelling on it, and to try to distract myself.

‘Put a movie on – something funny. Don’t drink any alcohol, and make yourself eat, OK? Promise me, Beth? I’m very, very worried about you. I’m going to call you again tomorrow and I’ll see you first thing Monday, right? I’m going to go now, but do as I’ve said, OK?’

‘I will. Thanks Gabby. I’m so, so sorry,’ I whisper, and she says goodbye and ends the call. I think about going downstairs but Mum seems to have finally given up calling me to come down so instead I just sit there, huddled on my bed, my mind blank and my cheeks still damp with tears. And then, quite unexpectedly, there’s a little pop in my head, like a light coming on, and it comes to me, clear as a summer sky, as I remember again those words on the Facebook post: a tribute to my friend, Daphne Blake.

Daphne Blake. I know who Daphne Blake is.

I grab my phone again and type the name into Google. And there it is.

Daphne Blake is a fictional character in the Scooby-Doo franchise …

Daphne Blake. Daphne and her friend Velma. And her friends Fred and Shaggy, and Shaggy’s dog Scooby-Doo. Daphne Blake is Daphne from Scooby-Doo.

I stare at the page, fear prickling my skin. You see, Daphne isn’t just a cartoon character. Back in the day, back at school, it was somebody’s nickname. Just an occasional nickname, but a nickname, nonetheless. A nickname for a girl who, now and again, wore