Page 51 of Cover Story

‘You’d not have taken my call! Haha. You won’t even see me when I’m fifty feet away.’

She imagined Anthony playing coquettishly with the telephone cable, swinging on his chair. All this to soothe his wounded male psyche because she didn’t want him anymore, on terms almost nobody would accept.

But that was Anthony: he thought he had her on the hook and could keep making the tasks harder. Bel had walked away, and that couldn’t happen:hechose when it ended.

This dysfunction now being vividly inflicted on Bel– it was somehow her responsibility to resolve his Reduced Empathy Disorder.

Sorry your mum didn’t pick you up from your crib enough, go get therapy.

The way he got gratification from this harassment was so loathsome, Bel worried it bordered on psychopathy.

‘You don’t have my number for a reason. You know that. You need to back off and stop acting like a creep, or …’ Bel had not been able to control her emotions in contacting him, and here the lack of planning made her stumble. ‘ … or I will have to start letting other people know what you’re doing. I don’t think that’ll go well for you.’

‘Sorry, are you making threats towards me, Bel?’ he said, pitched nice and clear for anyone around him. He’d anticipated this.

She wanted to scrub her skin off at the thought he was relishing it, with an audience at his end.

‘Yes. Fuck off,’ she said, and ended the call.

She turned to see an embarrassed-looking Connor, passing her on his way out.

‘Awful customer service,’ he said, with an apologetic, wry smile.

Bel trudged back up to her desk, put her mobile down next to her open laptop and sat morose, staring at a larger blank screen and a smaller blank screen.

This was a big sign that read: ‘Get real: the Anthony problem isn’t going to go away on its own.’ She had no idea how to fix it, none.

As she’d said to Shilpa, if she told on Ant to his wife, how could she do that in a way that stopped him? Apart from the fact she had no means of directly contacting her, who knew what would happen after the disclosure: ‘Your husband (who I had intimate relations with) is stalking me’? Pretty wildly unsympathetic as far as pleas for help went.If Anthony and his wife patched it up, Bel had launched missiles on herself– it was the end of her leverage, and guaranteed he’d tell Tim.

That was what Ant’s message to Tim was really about: showing Bel he could do that. She technically had nothing to lose there, except she did.

She was wrecked at the thought of hurting Tim further, of reopening wounds that had barely begun to heal, and wax-sealing his claim he’d not known the real Bel. He’d tell his parents. Bel’s mother had been holding them back singlehanded, like a storm-battered Gandalf with his staff, insisting it wasn’t fair to take sides in a no-fault divorce. She would be unable to defend a daughter who’d cheated and lied about it, and, on top of that, cheated with somebody so malignant as to tell Tim after the fact.

On every analysis, telling Anthony’s wife was impossible, and Bel assumed he’d figured this out. The other route was informing the editor of theYorkshire Postabout his emails, imperilling his salary instead. Except she’d have to also tell Toby– you didn’t enter into a form of litigation like that, and not clue in your new bosses. The prospect of that Teams meeting made her want to shrivel up and die. Journalists were gossips by nature and he would become the keynote thing known about that Bel Macauley up north. She’d said relatively little to Anthony in return in messages when they were involved. But she was sure he could still find sensitive, out-of-context WhatsApps if he wanted to act like it was six of one, half a dozen of another, hazing the cops, like thatBaby Reindeerseries.

This was Anthony’s power over her. The gun to her head was: if you reveal I’m pursuing you like this, then everyone youwork with, your family and your friends and your ex will all find out about your sorriest sex life transgression.

Bel’s phone lit up again. She wanted to bash it with a stapler.

Ian

Miss Macauley, you have an admirer here. Two, actually. Erin tells me that Amber Kendrick posted a bird’s eye view photo of the partygoers at her recent thirty-fifth. Someone asks who you are (face obscured, nicely done). Amber says in the comments: my ‘gorgey’ (ugh the hideous neologisms of social media!) ‘new friend Bella.’ You are a master of your craft. Bloody good job! Ian.

Bel

Ian, you’re very kindThank me when we’ve nailed the bastard.

Bel opened her dummy no-followers Instagram account on her laptop, created for snooping only, found Amber’s profile and the image in question. In addition to being part of a panorama of dozens, Bel’s face was turned away from the camera, a dark-haired man had his face buried in her neck. Thankfully, neither she or Connor were identifiable.

Ian had intended to pay her a compliment, yet Bel shuddered.

She couldn’t help but think a master of her craft would 1. Have noticed a photograph being taken and 2. Currently not be being outsmarted by a cheating married man.

Bel

Connor, a quick heads-up: my contact re: GB has messagedme to point out there was a party photo on Amber’s Instagram and we’re in it, she mentions Bella. We’re not recognisable tho!*sweating emoji*

Connor

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