ANNA

SATURDAY, AUGUST 10, 2013
MORNING
I drove to the gym in Northcote for my spin classthis morning, then dropped into the Matches storeon the way back and treated myself to a very cuteMax Mara minidress (Tom will forgive me once hesees me in it). I was having a perfectly lovelymorning, but as I parked the car there was somesort of commotion outside the Hipwells’ place—thereare photographers there all the time now—and thereshe was. Again! I could hardly believe it. Rachel,barrelling past a photographer, looking rough. I’mpretty sure she’d just left Scott’s house.
I didn’t even get upset. I was just astounded. Andwhen I brought it up with Tom—calmly,matter-of-factly—he was just as baffled as I was.
“I’ll get in touch with her,” he said. “I’ll find outwhat’s going on.”
“You’ve tried that,” I said as gently as I could. “Itdoesn’t make any difference.” I suggested that maybeit was time to take legal advice, to look into getting arestraining order or something.
“She isn’t actually harassing us, though, is she?” hesaid. “The phone calls have stopped, she hasn’tapproached us or come to the house. Don’t worryabout it, darling. I’ll sort it.”
He’s right, of course, about the harassment thing.
But I don’t care. There’s something up, and I’m notprepared to just ignore it. I’m tired of being told notto worry. I’m tired of being told that he’ll sort thingsout, that he’ll talk to her, that eventually she’ll goaway. I think the time has come to take matters intomy own hands. The next time I see her, I’m callingthat police officer—the woman, Detective Riley. Sheseemed nice, sympathetic. I know Tom feels sorry forRachel, but honestly I think it’s time I dealt with thatbitch once and for all.