Neither of us knows that much about the way James works in his current position at data-gathering company Varvello Analytics. The thing nagging at me, quietly but firmly at the back of my head, is that this is in our personal Dropbox. Not his work account. Not even his own personal account. If they were work documents, surely he would have had to transfer the files and password-protect them?
There’s another thing troubling me. ‘When you said to me that it was something bad … I sort of expected … I don’t know … something involving porn … or maybe … God, this sounds ridiculous … evidence of an affair …’
‘I’m sorry.’
I touch his arm, ‘No, no, it’s okay,’ I say, trying to sound comforting. ‘How many of these have you looked at?’
‘All of them.’
‘And they’re all like this? The same sort of thing?’
He nods.
I don’t know what to say to this at first. Then something falls into my head – a strange sensation, almost like déjà vu. That we’ve been here before. ‘You know a few years back, when you had all that stuff on your computer. All those images of naked women that kept opening every time you clicked on something …’
Stephen looks up sharply and cuts me off, ‘That was a virus.’
‘Yes, I know.’ I hold up a hand to offer reassurance, but he looks offended.
‘Are you saying you think this has something to do with me?’
‘No, I’m just trying to make sense of it. And it reminded me of it, that’s all. Could this be the same thing? A virus your dad has downloaded, maybe when he was buying something or downloading music? And he got a load of someone else’s content by mistake?’
Stephen shakes his head, ‘He downloads music from iTunes. I can’t imagine him buying anything from anywhere … well … dodgy. And anyway, why would the files turn up on our family Dropbox, in his folder?’
‘I … no … it doesn’t make sense. I just don’t understand how …’
I stop talking. Both Stephen and I have heard it. Someone is coming up the stairs. And there’s only one other person in the house. We look at each other, as if we’re two children about to be caught doing something we shouldn’t. I stay very still and hear the sound of my husband going into our shared bedroom, then the noise of a drawer opening and closing. He must just be looking for something or changing his sweater. The noise of him coming back out onto the landing causes Stephen’s eyes to widen in alarm, but I shake my head. It’s okay. The sound of his feet is growing distant and, after a few seconds, the creak of the stairs signals his retreat back down to the hallway.
I let out a breath I only now realise I’ve been holding the whole time, and turn back to the screen. Do I carry on after our close shave? Or give him back his iPad, tell myself it’s going to be fine and just talk to James later, ask him to explain, get everything out in the open? After nearly a minute of us sitting in silence, Stephen hunched over, watching me, I go back to the iPad and click on the second file.
It’s almost identical in layout to the first, except the photo is of a different woman – a young black girl. She’s smiling, holding a drink up to the camera. I cast my eye down her details.
Name: Carly Gale
Date of Birth: 1 April 1991
Occupation: Sex worker, former shop assistant, now officially unemployed
Area: Clapham, South-West London
Reference: Daisy
Another sex worker, I think, a chill moving down the back of my neck. I read through the rest of her details. She used to be employed in a clothes shop in Central London but after making an allegation of sexual assault against her manager left her job and hasn’t been employed since. She, too, has no support network to speak of. The phrase ‘trial run’ once again catches my eye. What does this refer to? Was this some kind of brothel agency? Was my husband seeing prostitutes?
• No attempts to contact police have been made since the second trial run in February 2019. Ms Gale tested negative for HIV and hepatitis as of this second trial run. Participants are still strongly advised to use protection.
These aren’t prostitutes. This information is telling a far more sinister story. One I can’t get my head around right now, especially not with my teenage son watching me. The screen blurs suddenly and I think something’s gone wrong with the iPad, then realise it’s my eyes. Without me realising, they’ve filled with tears that now begin to stream down my face.
‘Mum?’ Stephen says.
‘I’m all right.’ I quickly brush them away. Then I hear the doorbell.
‘Julianne?’
Stephen’s face drains of colour as soon as he hears his father’s voice. I instantly hit the lock button on the iPad, like a child caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Fuck, I think to myself.
‘Julianne?’ I can tell he’s at the door to the kitchen, probably confused as to where I’ve got to. ‘Where are you?’ he calls up the stairs now.
‘We need to go back downstairs.’ I go to hand him back the iPad, then a thought strikes me.
‘Hang on just one minute.’ Without thinking too much about what I’m doing, I open the tablet again, navigate back to the folder of files and take a screenshot, capturing the full file path information.
‘What are you doing?’ Stephen asks.
‘Don’t worry about it now.’ I rush what I’m doing, clicking the home button and locating the Facebook Messenger tab on the menu screen, finding myself on the list of Stephen’s chats. I send the screenshot to myself.
‘We’ll talk about all of this later. We will. Just … just try not to think about it … There’ll be an explanation.’ I’m talking fast, trying to stifle the panic I can feel building within me. I give him back the tablet as I make for the door.
‘Okay,’ he says.
‘Julianne?’ James’s voice is louder this time. ‘Sorry, Diane, I’ll find out where she’s got to.’
In spite of my panic, there’s a familiar feeling of irritation bristling within me. Can’t he deal with his mother-in-law on his own for five minutes? Why do I always have to play the host?
‘I’m coming!’ I shout back, trying to sound normal. Walking the short distance across the landing and down the stairs feels like I’m doing the last leg of a double marathon. I keep thinking I’m going to stumble and fall, but I hold on tight to the handrail and press on, determined. Determined not to believe the worst. Determined to shake the horrible feeling that something, finally, is threatening to shake the foundations of what we’ve built together. Determined to remain convinced he’ll explain everything, clearly and calmly, and all of this will go away. He’ll tell me the documents are something he accidentally got sent. Or important documents from his work that somehow ended up
