by Wendy Clarke
As the door rolls down again, sealing me in, my panic returns. There are no windows in this place. No natural light. Just this huge great underground space. Wanting to get out as soon as I can, I drive down the empty lanes to the back of the car park where a panel of doors break up the brickwork. A navy Lexus, which I presume is Mark’s, takes up one of the spaces in front of them. Parking next to it, I see one door is for the lift and the other leads to the emergency staircase. On the wall to the side is a security camera and when I look around, I see another trained on the exit.
Getting out of my car, I take my bag from the boot, lock it, then head for the stairs. As I press against the door, it doesn’t give and I freeze, the part of my brain I find hard to control at times like this expecting it to be locked.
When I try again, my anxiety making me push harder, it swings open. Of course it wasn’t locked. Why would it be?
Nine
‘Find it all right?’ Mark holds out his hand for the key fob and puts it back in the drawer.
I nod. ‘Yes. It’s the white Mini. I parked it next to the Lexus.’
‘That’s mine.’ Mark has changed out of his work clothes and is wearing jeans and a light-blue short-sleeved shirt. He looks younger now. Less serious. Maybe he and Joanna are suited after all. It’s something I plan on finding out.
He’s refilled my glass of wine and holds it out to me, and I’m surprised to see that outside the windows, the sky has turned navy. The lights in the buildings across the water starting to come on.
Picking up a remote, Mark points it at the windows and presses a button. With a soft whir, heavy metal blinds start to lower from some hidden recess, and the tops of the buildings begin to disappear.
‘No, don’t!’
The blinds stop moving, and Mark looks at me, puzzled. ‘Why? What’s the matter?’
I wrap my arms around my body. ‘Nothing. I just like to see what’s outside, that’s all.’
‘It’s just London.’ Mark walks to the window. With a press of the button, he raises the blinds again. ‘Just buildings and cars and people. Just the same old.’
‘Not to me it isn’t.’ I think of my small house, the uninteresting street in an area not far enough out of town to have its own name, but not close enough to be part of the community. Black Water Dock is strange, not like any place I’ve come across before. ‘It couldn’t be more different.’
‘Each to their own.’ He smothers a yawn, and I see how tired he looks. I’m desperate to find out more about him, but I don’t want to inconvenience him further.
I take a sip of wine. ‘Please… Whatever it is you do in the evenings, don’t mind me. As I said, I’m happy just to read. If you could just show me where I’ll be sleeping.’
I’ve seen the huge flat-screen TV on the wall and wonder which of them watches it. What they watch. When Joanna and I were teenagers, we used to binge on episodes of Friends, huddled up under a tartan throw, pulled from the back of her parents’ overstuffed settee. There’s nothing like that here. Nothing to soften the sleek lines of the furniture unless you count the neat cushions covered in the same velvet fabric as the settee.
Mark turns. ‘Of course. Yes, I’m sorry. I’m not much of a host. We don’t have many visitors. Joanna…’ He stops and sighs. ‘Let me take your bag, and I’ll show you your room.’
Despite the fashionable clothes, the expensive haircut, there’s something old-fashioned about Mark. Letting him take my bag, I follow him through the living area to a door at the end. He opens it and gestures for me to go in.
‘This is our second bedroom.’ He goes over to the bed and lifts a pillow to his nose. ‘We’re not accustomed to having guests, so I’m not sure when the sheets were last changed.’
‘Please, It’s fine.’
Finding it strange that Joanna hasn’t put fresh sheets on the bed for me, I put my bag on the chair and take another sip of wine, surveying my surroundings. The floor is the same dark wood as the living area as are the two large, small-paned windows that reach almost to the floor. But, in here, there are no rugs to soften the effect. No billowing curtains. Just the double bed at one end, its plain iron frame contrasting with the crisp white duvet, and a solid-looking wardrobe at the other. Above the bed, three twisted iron arms hold candle-shaped bulbs.
The effect is stark – reminding me of a cell in a monastery.
‘Will this be okay?’ Mark has seen my expression. ‘It used to be the one Joanna used when she first lived here as she said she liked to see the river. But, after I moved in, it made more sense to move to the other room as it’s quite a bit bigger.’ He points to a door on the right. ‘There’s an en suite, though.’
‘It’s very nice.’ I search for the right word. ‘Minimalist. Like something from a magazine.’
I hope he won’t be offended by this, but he just shrugs. ‘Tell me about it. Joanna sees these ideas and likes to take them to extremes, but I let her do her own thing. It keeps her happy.’
There was a time when just being with me made her happy. Making up silly rhymes about the teachers. Mucking out her horses when I stayed with her family in the holidays. Sending valentine cards to each other because, going to an all-girls school, we knew they’d be the only ones we’d get. And later, when we were older and discovered school wasn’t the only place to meet boys, getting drunk on alcopops when we’d been stood up at the cinema or had our hearts broken.
Desperate to find something to remind me of her presence, my eyes scan the room, but find nothing. No evidence that my best friend has ever been here. No alarm clock on the bedside table. No bedside light even.
I want to ask about Joanna, but I hold back. The way he talks about her makes her seem different.
Mark sees me looking. ‘I’ll bring in one of the lamps from our room… in case you need to get up in the night. If there’s nothing more you need, I’ll leave you to settle in and make a start on the supper.’
It’s the first time he’s mentioned food, and I’m grateful. My stomach is rumbling, and I’ve nothing in my bag except for a packet of mints. I don’t want to be a burden, but the way he’s said it is so casual I’m put at ease.
‘Thank you. I hadn’t expected you to cook for me as well. Is there anything I can do?’
Mark’s eyes flick from the expensive-looking watch on his wrist to the living room. He seems ill at ease, his brows pulled together, and I wonder what it is he’s waiting for.
‘It’s kind of you to ask, but you’re my guest. I wouldn’t dream of it. Do you like pasta? I don’t have a lot in.’
‘I like anything. Please don’t go to any trouble.’
‘It’s no trouble. Really. Come and join me when you’re ready.’ He leaves me and, through the open door, I see the fridge opening. Watch how he bends his tall frame to it before straightening again and opening cupboards. Taking out packets and jars and reading them.
Not sure what to do, I take out my phone, wondering if Joanna has left a message. She hasn’t. Instead, there’s one from Drew.
Hope you’re okay.
I stare at it, wondering how it is that since I’ve been here, I haven’t thought of him at all. Now he’s in my mind, I wait for the pain of the last week or so to return and am surprised when it doesn’t. Being somewhere new is already making it easier to bear.
The bedroom is cold, and I rub my arms. Its starkness reminds me of the room in my university halls of residence before I filled it with my junk. Covering the walls with posters and my bed with cushions bought in a flea market. I remember Joanna reaching over and picking up the photograph of the two of us in its charity shop frame, the one I kept on the desk beside my laptop. She’d joked that I was turning into a regular Del Boy.
A wave of disappointment washes over me that Joanna’s not here. Seeing her would have made everything that’s happened recently so much better. Her invitation had been the perfect distraction. She always had this way of making everything seem less serious, and I know she’d say all
the right things.
Knowing I can’t sit in the bedroom forever, I take my book out of my bag and carry it, with my wine, to the living room. Mark is still in the kitchen area, so I take myself over to the purple velvet settee and try to make myself comfortable.
Mark looks up from the island. ‘You were limping a bit as you came out of the bedroom. Are you all right?’
I touch my ankle. I’d almost forgotten. ‘I turned my ankle the other week, and it’s still a bit tender. It must have been all the stairs that did it, but I’m fine. Really.’ I change the subject. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘No, you’re my guest. I wouldn’t expect you to do anything.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’
I try to concentrate on what I’m reading, so Mark doesn’t feel pressured to entertain me. But I feel out of place. If only Joanna were here, it would be different. We’d giggle together just as we used to, and she’d call Mark a goofball as the pasta water boiled over, forming hissing bubbles on the induction hob, or when his glasses steamed up, and he had to take them off and wipe them.
It’s the way she’d always been whenever I’d met one of her boyfriends, and I’d found it funny then… but perhaps I wouldn’t now. I’ve grown up and Joanna has too. Would she really make fun of the man she’s going to marry?
Giving up, I put my book down. I need to find out more. ‘How long have you lived here?’
Mark takes a handful of spaghetti from a stainless steel cylinder and adds it to the pan in front of him. Pressing it down with the flat of his hand until it disappears.
‘Not long.’
I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t.
I try again.
‘How did you meet Joanna?’
‘Through her parents.’ He says matter of fact. ‘I work with her father. In fact, it was he who introduced us. I suppose her parents thought we’d be a good match.’ He smiles to himself. ‘Turns out they were right.’
I look at him, trying to decide whether I agree. It’s hard when I know nothing about him. Thinking back to the holidays I spent at Joanna’s house, and the way Joanna and her parents, Gary and Denise, were with each other, I’m finding it hard to believe she would be interested in anyone they suggested for her. Quite the opposite in fact. Her choices of unemployed musicians and perpetual students weren’t solely for her own benefit – they’d been a way of thumbing her nose at her parents, knowing how it would irritate them. She’d never succumbed to the pressure to reach the high standards they’d expected her to achieve. Had never wanted their lifestyle.
‘That sounds like something from Jane Austen. It’s not often your parents choose your fiancé for you.’
It’s meant as a joke, but Mark doesn’t laugh.
‘And you think that’s odd?’
Wishing I could take back my words, I feel my cheeks redden. ‘Not odd, just unusual. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.’
He looks at me, then shakes his head. ‘No, I’m sorry. It was unforgivable of me to snap at you like that. I’m just tired. Work’s difficult at the moment. Bloody difficult.’
‘What do you do?’
Mark frowns. ‘What do I do? Hasn’t Joanna told you?’
‘Well, no. Not exactly.’
Mark opens his arms wide to encompass the room. ‘I do all this.’
I look around to find a clue as to what he’s talking about. ‘All this?’
‘New Tobacco Wharf. I’m the developer.’
I stare at him in surprise, and then gradually a picture comes into my mind. Of course. He’s the man in the photograph from the company brochure. Only in that picture he hadn’t had a beard, nor was he wearing glasses. No wonder I hadn’t recognised him.
‘You’re Mark Belmont?’
‘I am.’ He picks up his glass and swallows a mouthful. ‘But the question is, who are you?’
‘You know who I am.’
‘But do I?’ He stares at me intently, a deep crease forming between his brows, then looks at the photo of me on the fridge. He looks back at me. ‘I’ve answered the questions you’ve clearly been dying to ask me all evening and now I have a few of my own for you.’
Ten
‘You still haven’t really told me why you’re visiting, Alice. Though, of course, you’re very welcome.’
I clear my throat. ‘Joanna wanted me to meet you before you got married.’
‘I see.’ Mark puts the lid on the pan and looks thoughtful. ‘How strange,’ he mutters.
‘It isn’t really. I’m Joanna’s best friend,’ I reply, wondering where he’s going with this. What could Joanna have told him about me?
‘As I said… strange.’ Picking up the bottle of wine, Mark carries it over and refills our glasses. He places it back on the glass coffee table, sits on the leather settee opposite me, and leans forward so that his elbows are resting on his knees. It feels like he’s studying my face, and I wonder what he’s seeing. Small, pale grey eyes fringed with lashes so fine even mascara makes little difference, a high forehead and the delicately sculpted lips that are my only redeeming feature.
Flustered under his scrutiny, I take a sip of my wine. ‘Dinner smells nice. Joanna will be missing out. Do you normally cook for her?’
Mark leans back in his seat and crosses his long legs. ‘Sometimes. It’s not very exciting, I’m afraid – just sauce from a jar. I like cooking, but I’ve been too busy to shop, and I wasn’t exactly expecting your arrival.’ He smiles.
‘I don’t mind. Really,’ I reply.
He doesn’t say anything else but observes me from over the top of his wine glass. The huge warehouse space is silent, except for the tick of an old station clock on the furthest wall. I can’t meet his eyes but look beyond him at the tiny pinpricks of light in the distant buildings across the river.
Eventually, he speaks, but it’s only my name he says. ‘Alice Solomon.’
The way he says it, it’s as though he’s trying out the name to see how it fits. Pronouncing each syllable carefully as you might a foreign word. He says no more but drinks again, and I’m relieved when the timer on the oven trills.
Mark stands. ‘Please, you go and sit down at the table, and I’ll bring it over.’
The dining table is at the far end of the room – a hunk of dark wood the same colour as the floor. Pulling out a high-backed chair covered in the same purple velvet as the settee, I sit down and wait.
Eventually, Mark joins me with two steaming bowls of spaghetti. He places one on the slate mat in front of me, then goes back for the sauce. He has a tea towel across his arm as though he’s a waiter. I want to laugh, but he’s deadly serious.
‘Say when,’ he says as he pours the sauce directly from the pan, wiping the edge of my bowl with the cloth, where some has splashed, before pouring the rest onto his own.
As we start to eat, my nervousness returns. I’m in a strange apartment in London’s Dockland with a man who I’ve never met and who, until a week or so ago, I’d never even heard of. A man who has just put down his fork to light the stubby candle in its stone holder that sits between us on the dining table. Self-consciously, I start to eat. Twisting the spaghetti around my fork. Biting the inside of my cheek in embarrassment when it slips back onto my plate. I battle on, thankful that Mark doesn’t seem to have noticed.
I wish Joanna was here. It’s not the first time I’ve met one of her boyfriends, but it’s certainly the first time I’ve met one on my own. It feels odd.
As though reading my thoughts, Mark lifts his fork and smiles. ‘So what do you think then?’
‘I’m sorry…?’
‘About me? That’s what you said you came to do, isn’t it? Suss me out. It reminds me of when I visit a new property, when the owners are away, to fill out a snagging list. Only it’s not a building that’s being vetted… it’s me.’
I take a gulp of wine. ‘It’s not like that.’
‘No, of course not. I’m just teasing you. I only hope y
ou approve.’
He gives me a sidelong glance and smiles. It makes his eyes twinkle, the creases at the corners of his eyes more defined. I realise that I like him.
‘Well, you’re certainly an improvement on some of the guys Joanna’s hooked up with in the past.’ I hope she doesn’t mind me telling Mark this. ‘She always seems to pick men with issues.’
Mark raises his eyebrows in amusement. ‘Issues?’
‘Yes, problems with alcohol or drugs. Guys with little or no prospects… that sort of thing.’
‘Oh dear.’ He points to the half-empty wine bottle. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t have any more of this then.’
My cheeks start to burn, and then I see by his face he’s joking. I laugh. ‘Believe me, you’re nothing like them.’
Before long, we lapse into silence. With no television or music, it’s just the sound of forks on china. The clink of a glass on the slate coaster. I feel tongue-tied struggling to find a topic I can share with this man I know nothing about.
Mark finishes his pasta before me. Putting down his fork, he wipes his mouth on the linen napkin beside his bowl. ‘You don’t need to look so worried. I don’t bite. In fact, I’m fully house-trained and fit for civilised society.’
Feeling foolish, I force a smile. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not being very good company. It’s just odd to be here without Joanna.’
I put my fork down, my plate still half-full. Not wanting to appear rude and yet not wanting to continue eating with this man watching me.
‘Is there anything you’d like to ask me?’ He looks at me, amused. ‘Now you’re here?’
There are so many things I want to know. What attracted him to Joanna, what her parents thought of him… why she hadn’t told him about me. I choose the safest one. ‘How long exactly have you and Joanna been together?’
I know she told me in her message, but I can hardly believe it.