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again—so Gabriel could see him too—but there was no sign of him. So I felt even more stupid.
This afternoon I decided to go for a walk, despite the heat. I wanted to be in the park, away from the buildings and roads and other people—and be alone with my thoughts. I walked up to Parliament Hill, passing the bodies of sunbathers strewn around on either side of the path. I found a bench that was unoccupied, and I sat down. I stared out at London glinting in the distance.
While I was there, I was conscious the whole time of something. I kept looking over my shoulder— but couldn’t see anyone. But someone was there, the whole time. I could feel it. I was being watched.
On my way back, I walked past the pond. I happened to look up—and there he was, the man. He was standing across the water on the other side, too far away to see clearly, but it was him. I knew it was him. He was standing perfectly still, motionless, staring right at me.
I felt an icy shiver of fear. I acted out of instinct:
“Jean-Felix?” I shouted. “Is that you? Stop it. Stop following me!”
He didn’t move. I acted as fast as I could. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and took a photo of him. What good it will do, I have no idea. Then I turned and started walking quickly to the end of the pond, not letting myself look back until I reached the main path. I was scared he was going to be right behind me.
I turned around—and he was gone.
I hope it’s not Jean-Felix. I really do.
When I got home, I was feeling on edge. I drew the blinds and turned off the lights. I peered out the window—and there he was:
The man was standing on the street, staring up at me. I froze—I didn’t know what to do. I nearly jumped out of my skin when someone called my name:
“Alicia? Alicia, are you there?”
It was that awful woman from next door. Barbie Hellmann. I left the window and went to the back door and opened it. Barbie had let herself in the side gate and was in the garden, clutching a bottle of wine.
“Hi, honey. I saw you weren’t in your studio. I wondered where you were.”
“I was out, I just got back.”
“Time for a drink?” She said this in a baby voice she sometimes uses and that I find irritating. “Actually, I should get back to work.”
“Just a quick one. And then I have to go. I’ve got my Italian class tonight. Okay?”
Without waiting for a reply, she came in. She said something about how dark it was in the kitchen and started opening the blinds without asking me. I was about to stop her, but when I looked