The Closer I Get

by Paul Burston

  The answer was staring me in the face. A letter from your bank, confirming an evaluation on your flat and the release of a substantial loan, secured against the value of the property. The letter was dated a week earlier. At the bottom were a few calculations in your handwriting and the word ‘Hastings’, followed by the names of what I assumed were local estate agents. You hadn’t mentioned any of this to me. Had I known you had money worries, I’d have been happy to tide you over. And what was all this about Hastings? You told me you were going there to write, not to look at properties. Surely you weren’t thinking of moving there? When were you planning to tell me?

  But that wasn’t all. Beneath the letter was a bundle of A4 paper secured with a rubber band – around three hundred pages in all, covered in text, neatly double-spaced. At first I thought it was a draft of the book you’ve been working on, the one you’d been so cagey about. But when I looked again I saw that it wasn’t your manuscript. It was hers. The one you’d denied all knowledge of. Her name was printed on the first page, below the title – The Book of Us. On the next page was the dedication – to you, of course. I didn’t read much beyond that. I didn’t need to.

  I was placing the papers back in the drawer when I noticed it – the watch I gave you for Christmas a few years ago. The Christmas we ended up in bed together. The one we never talk about. It was an Omega Seamaster – as worn by Daniel Craig in the Bond films we’d both enjoyed so much. You’ve always had expensive tastes, but I figured you were worth it. I even had it engraved, ‘To Tom, love Emma’. You told me you loved it at the time, though I’ve rarely seen you wearing it. There was no sign of the presentation box. It just lay there with the paperclips and old biros. So much for you loving it. So much for you valuing our friendship.

  I didn’t act immediately. But when you insisted on giving that interview and I saw the misogynistic abuse Evie was getting on Twitter, I knew I had to do something. That’s when I decided. I needed to speak to her face to face, and find out what really happened between the two of you. I’d heard your version of events, but I hadn’t heard hers, not properly. She was such a mess in court, rambling on and going off at tangents, incriminating herself at every opportunity, it was no wonder the prosecution ran rings around her. But that doesn’t mean she made the whole thing up, does it?

  32

  I found her on Twitter and sent an email via a link on her blog.

  She must spend most of her time online because the response came back within a few minutes: ‘I’m not supposed to contact you. The restraining order forbids it, or have you forgotten?’

  ‘But I’m the one contacting you,’ I replied. ‘I need your help.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘With finding out why Tom lied in court.’

  There was a delay of ten minutes before she responded again. I pictured her staring anxiously at her computer screen, wondering if I was being honest with her or if this was some kind of trap.

  ‘How do I know I can trust you?’ she asked.

  ‘Because I believe you. I believe what you said in court. I know Tom lied.’

  I didn’t believe everything she said in court, of course. She was obviously infatuated with you, and her fixation led to harassment. Legally speaking, a crime was committed. But I didn’t believe it was as straightforward as you’d made out. I believed her when she said that you’d encouraged her, at least in the beginning. I had doubts about some of the allegations you’d made.

  ‘I don’t want to discuss this via email,’ she wrote. ‘I don’t want my emails coming back to bite me. I’ve been there before.’

  ‘I know you have,’ I replied. ‘And I want to hear your version of events. We can do this whichever way you want. No emails. No phone numbers. Just suggest a time and place, and I’ll be there.’

  Finally she agreed to meet me.

  We met at a dive bar on the edge of Chinatown – one of those places I assumed had closed down years ago, like most of the old Soho I used to know. A bit dingy and seedy, to be honest. I’d expected her to choose somewhere like a café at the Southbank or the National Gallery. But she was obviously paranoid about being seen with me. She was wary and watchful. She kept looking over my shoulder. When I asked her why, she said she was checking to see if there was anyone else with me. She meant you, of course. I could see how obsessed with you she still was. I could even picture her face lighting up at the sight of you. Even then. Despite everything.

  She looked worn out. Her face was thinner than when I’d last seen her in court. There were dark circles under her eyes. Her skin was sallow and dotted with pimples. It was as if she’d stopped taking care of herself. I asked her how she was feeling and she laughed bitterly.

  ‘How do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’

  So she did. She told me how you’d first met, at that book signing. She described how you flirted with her – laughing at her jokes, pocketing her business card and referring to her as a kindred spirit. And I believed her, Tom. I believed every word. We both know what a flirt you can be, how you use your charm to get what you want from people. I’m not saying she didn’t harass you afterwards. I heard the evidence in court and it was strong – strong enough to have her convicted. But it wasn’t the whole story, was it? There was more to it than that.

  ‘But you went to his flat,’ I said. ‘After you’d been arrested. When the police had warned you to stay away from him. Why?’

  ‘To talk,’ she said. ‘I pleaded with him. I begged him. I didn’t threaten him. And I didn’t send him those threatening emails, either.’

  ‘He said you did.’

  ‘He lied. He lies about a lot of things.’

  So it seems. She described meeting you for a drink – the clothes you wore, the smell of your cologne. In court you denied ever arranging to meet her socially, but deep down in my gut I knew she was telling the truth.

  ‘When was this?’ I asked.

  She smiled. ‘A few weeks after we first met.’ I could see the hypnotic effect the thought of you still had on her. Her eyes shone. She was miles away.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Red Lion. It’s a gastro pub in Kennington. Do you know it?’

  I didn’t. I couldn’t picture you in a gastro pub. I still can’t. All those real ales and dark wooden beams – they’re just not you. But as I was quickly discovering, I don’t know you half as well as I thought.

  ‘Did you mention this to the police?’ I asked.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘But there must be some way of proving this meeting took place. How was it arranged?’

  ‘He called me,’ she said. ‘I knew he would.’

  ‘Then there’ll be phone records.’

  ‘He withheld his number. He’s good at withholding things, or haven’t you noticed?’

  ‘But surely your defence could have found some evidence to prove he was lying?’

  She smirked at that. ‘Let’s hope you never have to depend on legal aid. Not that it would have made any difference. They all had it in for me. The police. The crown prosecution service. Even the judge. And my only crime was to love someone. That’s what I am, you know – a prisoner of love.’

  I couldn’t help myself. ‘It’s a pretty fucked-up kind of love.’

  She glared at me. ‘Well, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?’

  I tried to pretend that I didn’t know what she meant. But I knew alright. She was toying with me. It was written all over her face.

  ‘Did he ever talk about our time together?’ she asked.

  I told her that no, you hadn’t.

  She smiled knowingly. ‘He talked about you.’

  Then she told me things – things she could only have known if you’d confided in her. She knew about that Christmas. The Christmas after my mother died.

  ‘Did you think you’d finally snared him?’ she said, and as she spoke it felt like a dagger in my chest, twisting and turning w
ith every word.

  What happened that night was between us. Nobody else. Why would you tell her? I’ve never told anyone. It’s none of their business. Why would you share something so personal with someone you claimed you hardly knew?

  ‘Poor Emma,’ she added. ‘It was just a pity fuck. It didn’t mean anything, not to him anyway. He just felt sorry for you.’

  You told her we fucked? I know you’re prone to exaggeration, but chalking me up as another of your sexual conquests is really taking the piss. What happened between us that night was certainly intimate, but it wasn’t intercourse. I think I’d have remembered.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t I?’ she replied. ‘It must have been a difficult time for you, after your mother took her own life like that.’

  So you’d even told her about my mother. How could you?

  ‘You know he’s planning on selling up and leaving London,’ she said then. ‘He wants to cut his emotional ties and start a new life in Hastings.’

  I told her I didn’t believe her. But how did she know you’d had your flat valued? How did she know you were in Hastings?

  ‘It looks to me like he’s played us both for fools,’ she said, grinning triumphantly.

  I really didn’t have an answer for that. You’d betrayed my confidence. You’d shared the intimate details of our friendship with a stranger. There was nothing I could say that would alter the fact.

  Can you imagine how I felt at that precise moment? Hurt doesn’t begin to describe it. I was devastated. I’m not like her, Tom. I’m not some little fangirl with a crush who you can toy with whenever it suits you. We have a history, you and I. We’re friends, for fuck’s sake! Friends are supposed to look out for one another. Whatever happened to loyalty? Whatever happened to trust? I thought you respected me. Evidently not.

  I didn’t think it could get any worse, but then she said you’d raped her.

  At first I thought I was hearing things. You may be many things, but a rapist? Never. Then she explained. ‘Artistic rape’, she called it. She described how you’d stolen her ideas, how the book you were writing could never have been written without her input. You’d always been so cagey with me about your new book. Now I knew why. It wasn’t entirely your own work. No wonder you were so determined to discredit her. After being convicted of harassment nobody would take her claims seriously.

  ‘Have you read it?’ she asked.

  I told her that no, I hadn’t.

  ‘Has he ever asked you for feedback on his work? Has he ever sought your advice?’

  ‘Of course,’ I replied, though in reality you never have.

  ‘You’re lying,’ she smirked. ‘You’re as big a liar as he is. No wonder you get along so well.’

  And then she said that you’d stolen her life. Thanks to you, she had a criminal record. Thanks to you, she was being trolled on Twitter. Thanks to you, her beloved father was under enormous strain. She described how his health had deteriorated rapidly since the court case. I can only begin to imagine what his subsequent death did to her. I think it’s what finally tipped her over the edge.

  I tried to defend you, tried telling her it wasn’t your fault, that you would never knowingly hurt anyone. But my words sounded hollow even to myself. You encouraged her, Tom – at least in the beginning. And when things got out of hand, you twisted the truth to suit your needs. You lied to everyone, including me. You had me believing you were on antidepressants and on the verge of a nervous breakdown – knowing what I went through with my mother. How could you? After the trial, when you said you’d seen Evie at the Southbank, I thought you were suffering from some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder. Now I realise it was just your guilty conscience.

  Finally the words died in my throat.

  ‘Poor Emma,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘You’re still under his spell, aren’t you?’

  She left pretty abruptly after that, looking around one last time and thanking me for the drink with what sounded like genuine gratitude. Maybe it wasn’t the drink she was grateful for. Maybe it was the fact that someone had given her a fair hearing.

  She didn’t say anything else. She didn’t need to. Her point had been made. You’re quite capable of using someone, then dropping them when their services are no longer required. I of all people should know that.

  33

  The day she was sentenced, I took you for a celebratory lunch at that restaurant in Clapham. The truth is, I didn’t feel much like celebrating. In fact, I felt sorry for her. She looked so broken – and the lack of interest on her father’s face made me wonder what kind of childhood she’d had, whether the reason she craved attention was because she’d never had it. I know how damaging a distant father can be for a young woman’s self-confidence. It’s not unusual for a girl raised in those circumstances to repeat that pattern well into adulthood, chasing after men who are emotionally unavailable. I should know.

  Lunch was a disaster. You barely listened to a word I said. You were too busy flirting with the waiter. I tried to engage you in conversation, but when you weren’t cruising him, you were cracking jokes or being evasive. You didn’t ask a single question about me, my work or how I was feeling. From the moment we sat down, the only person you had eyes for was him. I left the restaurant knowing I wouldn’t be missed, that the two of you would hook up as soon as he finished his shift. I knew you’d get what you wanted. You usually do.

  That was supposed to have been our celebration – yours and mine. Just for once, couldn’t you have focussed on me? A friend who’s always been there for you. Someone who has stood by you, cared for you, cooked for you and, yes, loved you.

  I know we’re not supposed to talk about what happened at my place that Christmas – though obviously you have no problem discussing it with others. It was a moment of madness, you said, one of those silly things that happens and is best forgotten. I was still grieving at the time. My emotions were raw and my head was all over the place. All I wanted was a little comfort – though if memory serves me correctly, it was you who made the first move.

  We’d been drinking heavily all day – Bucks Fizz at breakfast, wine with lunch, vodka and tonic as we curled up on the sofa watching It’s a Wonderful Life. I started to get a bit weepy and you put your arm around me, told me not to cry, started nibbling at my ear. I turned to face you and suddenly we were kissing.

  I pulled away. ‘Tom,’ I whispered. ‘What are we doing?’

  ‘Shh…’ you replied, putting a finger to my lips. ‘Where’s the harm?’

  Maybe you’ve forgotten that part, but I haven’t. I’ve always found you attractive, always known that you were off limits. Sex between friends is rarely a good idea. But because I’d drunk too much and my judgement was clouded, I cast my doubts aside. The next thing I knew, we were naked in bed together. I was gripping your broad shoulders, and you were kissing my neck, your penis semi-erect against my thigh.

  But that was as far as it went. The spirit was willing but the flesh was weak. A quick fumble and you realised your mistake.

  ‘Sorry,’ you said. ‘This isn’t going to work. Too much booze.’ Embarrassed, you climbed out of bed and pulled on your clothes.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I replied, and at the time I truly believed it was.

  More fool me. From the way you reacted afterwards, it was as if I was the one who’d initiated it. What do you take me for, Tom? Do you seriously think I was trying to convert you? I know the nature of your desires. I know what really turns you – and I know it isn’t me. All I expected from you afterwards was a little respect. Is that too much to ask? Apparently so.

  I thought what happened that night would bring us closer. But I was wrong. The closer I get, the more distant you become. And the more I realise how little I really know you after all.

  That day in the restaurant, I tried not to let it bother me. But as I watched you flirt shamelessly with the waiter, I couldn’t help but think of all the o
ther times you’ve taken me for granted. I was never part of your world, Tom. Not really. Not where it mattered. I was always on the periphery. I was there for you when you needed me. That was a given. I was the one you invited to parties and book launches when you needed someone to support you in the all-important business of being Tom Hunter. But I was never your equal. I was always your plus one.

  And though we arrived together, we seldom left together. There was always a more important or more attractive proposition. I’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve abandoned me, left me stranded, being pawed by some sweaty man who’s big in publishing or well connected in the media and unhappily married to a woman who doesn’t understand him. Do you have any idea how often this happens to women? How many times in a woman’s life she’s subjected to unwanted sexual advances? The world is full of men who think that our bodies are theirs for the taking. And where were you when this was happening to me? Off with some random guy you’d just met and would probably never see again. So much for loyalty. So much for friendship.

  But despite all this, despite everything I now know – the lies, the betrayal – I couldn’t just switch off my feelings for you. I still cared. When I saw that missing-person display at Charing Cross station, I felt sick to my stomach. I feared for her welfare – but I feared for yours, too. I knew how obsessed and unstable she was. I didn’t know then that her father had died. But I’d seen the abuse she was getting on Twitter. Rape threats. Death threats. Threats you shrugged off when we spoke about it. The kinds of threats women are subjected to every day, and men can only begin to imagine. She had every reason to be angry. Perhaps if you’d taken my advice and thought twice before agreeing to that interview we wouldn’t be in this situation now.

  I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t listen. You were too busy celebrating the fact that your agent loved your new book – the one you’ve never even discussed with me. Maybe I should have made myself clearer. But it was hard to know what to say when there was so much I had to avoid saying. You sounded paranoid on the phone. It wasn’t just the drink talking. There was a tone to your voice I barely recognised. What had become of you? I couldn’t tell you I’d met with her, not after everything that had happened. You’d have hung up on me. You hung up on me anyway. When I tried calling you back, you ignored my calls. I tried several times and each time it went straight to voicemail.