Page 4 of You Are Mine

Stupidly she had done so, assuming he wanted directions, but he had grinned a fleshy, leering grin, licked his lips and raised his eyebrows.

You’re very beautiful, he said. A very sexy girl.

She was shocked into silence; all she could think to do was roll up her window and wait for the light to change.

As soon as it did, she pulled away, but the car followed her, close enough that she could see the man making gestures for her to slow down, gestures he made as he laughed and flashed his lights.

The panic had been near total; she fumbled with her phone and finally managed to call Eddie, her then-husband and Otis’s father.

I’m being followed, she said, stumbling over the words. A man, behind me.

What? What do you mean? Where are you?

On 295, leaving Portland. There’s a man in a car. He tried to talk to me at the lights and now he’s following me.

Jesus, Eddie said. Drive to Falmouth. The gas station near McDonald’s. I’m at the office so I can get there before you. And call the cops. Do it now and give them his plate number. Take a photo and make sure he sees you doing it.

By the time she cut the call, the car had pulled level with her. She lifted her phone, scrabbling at the screen, aware that she shouldn’t do this and drive, then held it up, ready to take her photo.

The man shrugged, gave a shake of his head, and accelerated away.

Now, on the street in the middle of the day, this guy was doing the same.

Well, finally, she had had enough. She turned abruptly and caught his eye. He was quite a bit younger than her, in his mid-thirties, wearing a pale blue dress shirt and chinos that stopped above his sockless ankles, a fashion choice she was pretty sure would not stand the test of time.

He looked away, caught in the act, then slowly lifted his gaze back to hers. He grinned, his eyes widening slightly in a quizzical expression, that froze when his eyes met hers.

For a moment she wondered what he would do, then he sped up. He glanced at her as he went by, a small smile on his lips.

Mary took a deep breath, trying to slow her pounding heart. She was angry at the man, but also at herself. Why hadn’t she said something? Why hadn’t she called him out? He’d do it again, leer at some woman and ruin her day, make her feel vulnerable and weak and unprotected.

It was easier not to say anything, that was why. You never knew how someone would react. But she wished she had. Wished she had the courage and resolution to turn and look him in the eye and explain calmly and rationally – or maybe not so calmly – that his behaviour was unacceptable and, even if he thought it was harmless and he had no intention of doing anything other than look, it made people feel uncomfortable and scared.

At work she had a reputation for taking no nonsense from anybody. She was a senior partner at a small law firm. There, she felt in control and able to handle anything. And yet here, on the street, she felt unable to confront this man.

She watched as he headed away from her. At the junction of Maine Street and Spring Street he looked left and right, and then, as he was about to cross, he stopped and looked left again.

Something had caught his eye.

Mary followed his gaze. He was staring at a young woman.

Leering.

Jesus. He never stopped.

The woman was maybe in her mid-twenties, with long, fashionably cut dark hair. She was standing in front of a lamppost, reading the notices tacked to it.

The man looked up and down, his gaze travelling the length of her body. Mary took a step towards him and coughed loudly. His head whipped around and he saw her. He blushed – good, he should know he had been caught – and he hurried across the intersection.

It wasn’t much; only a small win. But Mary smiled. Even the small victories counted.

The young woman hadn’t noticed. She was engrossed in whatever it was she was reading, unusually so for something tacked onto a metal lamppost on a small-town street. Normally they were flyers for bands or notices about missing dogs, but this was clearly more interesting than that.

Mary glanced at her watch. She had a meeting with a client at her office a block farther down the street but she had a half-hour to spare; maybe she would grab a coffee and let her nerves settle.

She was about to leave when the young woman made a strangled cry. It was an unusual sound, halfway between shock and fear, and Mary snapped her head up, expecting to see that the man had returned.

There was no one there. The woman was alone. She was staring at a note on the lamppost, her mouth half-open. She scanned nervously left and right, clearly looking for something on the streets or in the surrounding buildings, then stepped back from the pole, before looking around again, this time more slowly.