It makes me want to cry, knowing that it appears as if I’m the one out of control rather than you.
Somehow I flee the campus and get myself into the center of Bath and stumble along my near-automatic walk to the Assembly Rooms. I don’t follow my usual descent into the dimly lit basement, my favorite place, where they display gowns from hundreds of years ago; they are spun of silver and gold, brocaded in shimmering silks, embellished with jewels. Instead, I walk straight through the sage-green entrance hall, between marbled columns the color of pale honey, and stop just outside the Great Octagon.
The room is closed. A sign explains that a private function will be taking place in it later today. But I slip between the double doors as if I have a right to and close them behind me. It is hushed and peaceful in here, surrounded by these eight stone walls; soft light falls on me through the paned windows. I take out my phone, inhale deeply, and dial 999.
“Police emergency.” The operator’s greeting is singsong and chirpy, as if she’s working in a dress shop and I’m a potential customer.
I don’t know what to say. I manage “Hello,” though I’m breathing heavily. I must sound like a nuisance caller.
“What is your emergency, please?”
Queen Charlotte aims her gentle gaze at me from her high portrait, as if to offer encouragement. “At work this morning . . . a colleague . . .”
“Has there been an incident in your place of work?”
I try to explain. He sat next to me in a meeting when I didn’t want him to. He whispered suggestively. He invaded my body space. He made me feel upset.
“Right. Is this man with you now?”
Queen Charlotte’s eyes follow me in concern as I circle the room. “No. But he’s stalking me all the time. I can’t get rid of him.”
“Did he physically injure you?”
The Drake family are too happy in their ornamental golden frame, posed in their manicured eighteenth-century landscape with their perfectly behaved children. “No.”
“Has he ever physically abused you?”
The sweet Drake baby, sitting on its mother’s lap, should not be hearing this. “No,” I say again after a long pause.
“Has he ever directly threatened you?”
Once more I hesitate. “Not directly, no. But he makes me feel threatened.”
“Are you in any danger at this moment?”
I look up, up, up, above the elegant frieze of curling tendrils, craning my neck. Captain William Wade poses in his red Master of Ceremonies coat and stares disapprovingly at me. “No.”
“I can see you’re very upset, and that’s understandable. But this isn’t a life-threatening matter. 999 is really meant for life-or-death emergencies.”
The room seems smaller, as if the tastefully muted yellow walls are drawing closer together. “I’m sorry.” The high ceiling doesn’t seem so high anymore. There isn’t enough oxygen in here.
“You don’t need to be. But I think you’d be able to help yourself better if you calmed down.” She clearly thinks I’m hysterical.
There are four pairs of brown double doors in the Great Octagon. One pair bursts open. A middle-aged tourist blunders in, takes one look at me, and quickly backs out, shutting the doors behind him.
“I am calm.” The words come out as a squeaky croak.
“I can see you made this call in good faith.” She clearly thinks I’m a crazy time-waster.
My face is red and hot. “I didn’t know who else to turn to. I thought that was what you were there for.”
“You’re obviously distressed. Have you thought of going to see your GP?” She clearly thinks I’m just plain mad.
I press my temple against the jutting plasterwork of one of the chimneypieces. “My GP isn’t going to make him leave me alone.”
Her voice is kind, even apologetic. “The police cannot act unless there is evidence that a crime has been committed. From what you are telling me, there hasn’t been a crime. I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but you