Don't You Want Me? by Andrew Lowe

Author:Andrew Lowe [Lowe, Andrew]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781999729035
Publisher: Redpoint Books
Published: 2018-01-11T00:00:00+00:00

11

Over the next few days, there’s nothing from ‘?’, and no word from Peter. I conduct an extensive Google investigation on Miles Priest, but only bring up incidental cuttings; nobody who looks like they could have been connected to Amy.

I book the table at Parata. Amy and I reconcile, accepting the need to put aside our baggage and not let ‘bad choices’ from the past affect our future. I buy her flowers: a bouquet of scarlet roses and creamy white lilies. But there’s still a gulf to close before her birthday. I have three days to bring her round from accusing me of spying to accepting a proposal of marriage. Time to bury my head in the sand until I get that ‘yes’. I can then nudge her towards confronting the harassment, fighting it. I have contacts for a few support agencies—the Network for Surviving Stalking, Protection Against Stalking, Paladin—and I almost bought her a book, Give Me Everything You Have: On Being Stalked, but then emptied the Amazon basket and refilled it with a more positive choice: a book on her favourite designer, Dieter Rams. Now, the idea of giving her the stalking book makes me cringe with embarrassment; at the time, it felt like a smart and thoughtful move.

I’m going to call that a moment of maturity.

On the way to a session with Paul, I visit Harmony, an upscale jeweller in Pinner. The female assistant—forties, mousey, red-framed spectacles—introduces herself as Rosemary. She’s helpful and friendly and speaks in a hushed voice, undertaker style. As I describe Amy, explaining her taste in clothes and accessories, she smiles and nods and clasps her hands as if in prayer. She shows me a selection of simple bands, and I go for a solitaire set with an elaborate diamond in pink gold. She enthuses about the ‘harmonious sculpture’ and enquires about my budget.

‘Around five hundred.’

She tweaks a wince into a smile and, with a tangible drop in enthusiasm, offers an alternative: a 9ct white-gold band she calls a ‘diamond illusion’. I sneak a look at the price list; the second is five times cheaper than the first, but it looks good to me.

On the bus to Paul’s, I call Intelligent Investigations. It rings and rings. No voicemail. No ‘my love’.

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