The Book of You. Claire Kendal

gives me the safety of public space.

      ‘Darling, please talk to me.’

      I can’t help myself. The leaflets’ commands of silence are impossible. ‘I’m not your darling.’ You step closer. ‘Don’t come near me.’ My voice is shrill. I try to lower it. ‘Don’t you ever come here again. You had no right.’

      ‘It’s a public gallery.’

      Unless I stop you from ever coming again, I won’t be able to enter that jury box and continue with the trial. Court 12 will become a trap, a place where I’m pinned down and on display for you. I realise how powerfully I care about the trial, how much it matters, that I’m actually immensely proud to be serving on a jury – it’s something I’d always hoped to do. Corny thoughts about public duty and citizenship are banging around in my head even in your presence.

      ‘If you come again I’ll tell them I know you. They may call off the whole trial. They don’t want jurors disturbed by people they know. I need to concentrate.’

      ‘The testimony upset you, Clarissa – I saw that it did.’

      You are right. I hate your being right about me. I hate that I wasn’t even aware of you, watching. I hate that I don’t quite know what I would have done if I’d noticed you there while Court 12 was still in the throes of its ugly business instead of its last seconds.

      ‘There’s no law against the friends of jurors sitting in the public gallery.’

      ‘You aren’t my friend.’

      ‘You’re right.’ You correct yourself. ‘Lover.’

      ‘You’re not—’ I bite my lip. You look so sad anyone else would pity you.

      ‘I thought you’d be happy to see me.’

      ‘I’m not.’ It isn’t so difficult to be mean. I’m almost shaking with anger. My mother never could have imagined a man like you.

      ‘I’m not seeing Rowena any more.’

      ‘I don’t care who you see or don’t see.’

      ‘You’re cruel, Clarissa. I was worried. You were ill.’

      ‘I lied to you. I wasn’t ill. I didn’t want you to follow me that morning. I didn’t want you to find me. I didn’t want you to know I was here. I have a right for you not to know where I am. I don’t like being followed.’ This is better: firm and honest.

      ‘That was an evil thing to do. I thought better of you.’

      ‘I don’t care what you think of me. I don’t want you to think of me at all.’

      ‘Your mobile still isn’t on.’

      ‘I changed the number. You’re the reason I changed it. I want nothing to do with you. I’ve told you this a million times.’

      ‘I went into every courtroom in the building until I found you.’

      I move my head slowly from side to side. ‘Don’t you see that that’s not normal?’

      ‘No. No, I don’t. It shows how much you mean to me.’

      You hold your arms out, as if expecting for me to fall into them, and I step back. How can you imagine that I’d want that? ‘Did you like the ring, Clarissa?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘You’ve kept it, though. So you must like it.’

      ‘Don’t send me any more things. I want you to stay away from me.’ As I start to walk away you grab my arm. I jerk it free. ‘Don’t touch me. You make me sick. The things you do make me sick.’

      ‘You can’t just sleep with me and then change your mind. You can’t make me feel what you have and then ignore me.’

      A phrase from one of the leaflets stabs at me.

       One third of all stalkers have been intimate with their victim.

      ‘It was only one night. It meant nothing to me. It was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made and I wouldn’t have made it if I hadn’t been drunk. Or worse. Was there something worse?’ For once you don’t have anything to say. ‘Why can’t I remember any of it?’ And still nothing. ‘Why were there marks on me?’ For once I have more to say than you do. ‘Why was I so sick, afterwards?’

      At last you speak, though I wish for your silence again as soon as the words are out of your mouth. ‘You were crazy with passion for me, Clarissa. You were out of control, the way you responded, the things you begged me to do to you.’

      ‘I was unconscious.’ I clutch my bag, trying to stop my hands from trembling. The coffee I drank during lunch is halfway up my throat. I swallow it back down. ‘Did you put something in my wine?’