The Closer You Get

by Mary Torjussen

  As soon as I was home, I unpacked my shopping. Already I knew I’d made some bad decisions. I didn’t care; I stuffed the cupboards and the fridge full of food. I threw the cushions and blankets onto the sofa, scattered a couple of magazines on the coffee table, and placed a plant from the florist’s shop downstairs on the windowsill.

  When I’d finished I realized the room was arranged just as ours had been at home. It was like a poor man’s version of our living room. I stood for a while, unable to decide what to do. Tom had always been the one who decided how the living room would look. I knew I had to change things around; it would bring back too many memories otherwise, so I dragged the sofa into another position and put the table and chairs by the window. The furniture was heavy and I was hot and sweating by the time I finished, but I didn’t stop until it didn’t resemble home at all.

  I hadn’t bought alcohol. At home we’d have wine delivered from the local wine merchant and Tom would stock up the drinks cupboard with whiskey and gin and liqueurs. I don’t think he’d had a day without a drink in all the time I’d known him. Usually I’d join him, to blur the edges of my life. I didn’t want anything like that here, though. I’d drunk enough at the hotel to last me a good while. I didn’t want to drink myself into a stupor now. Not now. I’d escaped that life. I needed to be wide-awake for my new life.

  I packed up all the empty bags and packaging and went out to the alley at the back of the shops where all the bins were kept. I found mine with my flat number painted on it and was just about to open it when something brushed past me. I screamed, thinking of mice and rats and foxes.

  When I stepped back from the bin and looked around I saw a cat was hiding between two bins, watching me. It had a coat of matted black fur and as I turned toward it, it ran down the alley to where a bin had overflowed. It started to scratch and pull at a bag of food there and I realized it was starving.

  I thought of the cat that Fiona and I had had when we were growing up and how spoiled and loved he was. “Haven’t you got a home to go to?” I asked gently. I stooped to see whether it wore a collar. It didn’t, just a scratch on its ear that looked as though it wasn’t healing properly. “Are you hungry?”

  Slowly it came toward me and sniffed. I held my hand out and felt its tongue flick out to lick me. It turned then and started to root in the bag of rubbish, found a piece of meat, and shot away into its place between the bins to eat it. I watched for a while, wanting to stroke its fur, to give it food and water, but I shook myself. It was clearly living on the streets.

  Reluctantly I left it alone but when I went for a walk that evening, I found the cat in the street, roaming around, sniffing in the gutters for food. On impulse I bought a few packets of cat food from the corner shop. I took a couple of foil containers from my kitchen and filled one with water, the other with food. I knew I shouldn’t feed a stray cat; it would think it belonged to me, but I couldn’t bear to think of it hungry. I took the containers down to the lamppost outside my house and watched from the doorway as the cat devoured the food.

  It looked desperate. I recognized that look. It was how I felt, too.

  CHAPTER 14

  Ruby

  Back in the flat, I charged my phone and put on one of my favorite song lists. I dragged my suitcases into the bedroom and started to unpack. I had to shut out the memories of packing the week before, hastily cramming clothes into my bags, muttering my memorized list as I raced around gathering everything together. I remembered sitting on my cases to zip them shut, so excited for my future. That excitement had vanished now, oddly enough. I tried to forget my imagined future as I organized my clothes in piles on my bed: sweaters, shirts, jeans, dresses. There were hangers in the wardrobe and I was just about to hang the dresses up when the music stopped and my phone beeped.

  Immediately I thought of Harry. Like a fool, I hurried over to check. Of course it wasn’t him. At that moment, though, it was the next-best thing: an e-mail about a job.

  Dear Mrs. Dean,

  Thanks for completing our online application form. Apologies for the e-mail rather than a phone call but I’m in a meeting and can’t talk at the moment.

  I’m looking for a PA for the next few months and haven’t found anyone suitable through the agencies. I’m returning to my office in Boston in the New Year so I’m just looking for temporary cover until then.

  I’ve got a busy week ahead and won’t be in my office until next Monday. I’m in Manchester at a conference today and wonder whether you could meet me there for a chat about the job? Details are below. I’ll book a meeting room but perhaps we could meet in the café at the front of the building at 2 p.m.?

  Kind regards

  Alan Walker

  Managing Director

  Immediately I brightened up. At last, a response and it was for a PA role, too. I replied at once, saying I’d be happy to meet him.

  * * *

  • • •

  I drove to the conference center, panicking in case I was late. It was on the other side of Manchester and it took longer than I’d estimated to drive through the city traffic, but still I managed to get to the car park in good time. I had to park on the top floor. I hated multistory car parks, with their tight bends and tighter spaces to park, and I could feel the perspiration trickling down the back of my neck by the time I parked in an empty space.

  As I arrived at the café, I looked at my watch. There was plenty of time; I was fifteen minutes early. I ordered coffee and sat in the window, just as we’d arranged, and took out my copy of the Times, so that he’d know it was me. I sent him an e-mail to say I was there. I felt like I was going on a blind date and for the first time I felt a bit uneasy.

  I’d already checked the links he’d sent me but now I Googled his name. He was on LinkedIn and all his work and educational history were laid out in front of me. There was a photo, too; he was in his late fifties, quite attractive, with an engaging smile. He’d owned a small company for ten years, according to the bio there. I wondered why he was looking for a PA now, then remembered what he’d said about going back to the States. What would happen to his business then?

  After half an hour, I was bored and starting to get a bit edgy. I forced myself to relax. I didn’t want to look annoyed when he did turn up. I spent a few minutes rereading my research into his company, then bought a copy of the Manchester Echo from a stand outside and started to look at jobs advertised in the Manchester area. It was forty miles from home and a much bigger city than I was used to. I could live here, I mused. I could live wherever I wanted to. I was ready for a change.

  I waited until just before four o’clock, feeling increasingly irritated. Surely he should have the courtesy to call me? I stood to go and a group of businesspeople standing nearby pushed through and took over my table.

  I asked for help at the reception desk but the guy working there didn’t have details of any individuals, just organizations who’d booked in. Given that Alan Walker’s business was so small, I wasn’t surprised that the name wasn’t on his list. He checked the meeting rooms, but there wasn’t anything booked in Walker’s name.

  “Sometimes people book a room at the last minute,” he said. “It’s first come, first served. Maybe he thought he’d wait until you met up?”

  “I suppose so.” But he’d said he would book it in advance. Why hadn’t he done that?

  Now the large reception area was full of people coming down from their meetings. I stood by the desk, holding my newspaper and feeling like a fool, but didn’t see him among the crowds. Certainly nobody was lingering; they were all chatting and hurrying for the exits.

  Just then my phone beeped. I sighed with relief. It wasn’t the guy about the interview, though; it was Oliver, my neighbor from home.

  Hey, Ruby, how’re things? Haven’t seen you for a while. Are you at your mum’s? x

  All I wanted right then was someone to tal
k to. A friend. I called Oliver’s number but it rang out. Within seconds I got another text: Sorry, just waiting for a client and can’t speak just now. Are you OK?

  I realized he didn’t know I’d left home. I wasn’t going to tell him just now. I had to focus on this interview. I’m OK, I replied. Turned up for a job interview but it looks like the guy hasn’t shown up.

  It was a few minutes before he replied and I thought his client must have appeared, but then a message came through:

  That’s terrible. Sounds like someone you wouldn’t want to work for anyway. Have to run, will be in touch soon x

  He was right, I thought. I’d waited well over an hour for him and he hadn’t even had the decency to call me. Did I really want to work for someone like that? I sent Alan Walker an e-mail:

  Is our meeting still on? Happy to wait if you’re running late.

  There was no reply and five minutes later, I called his number. I had no idea what I would say. I was raging, but knew I’d have to keep calm. The call rang out but didn’t go to voice mail. I frowned. Why hadn’t he got voice mail? How was anyone supposed to get in touch with him? I tried again a couple more times, but still no one answered. I sent another text saying that I’d have to leave soon, but again there was no reply.

  By then the place was almost empty and the guy on reception kept staring at me. It was obvious I was wasting my time. Slowly I headed back to the car park. On the ground floor I scrabbled in my bag for the parking ticket and fed it into the machine. The fee was fifteen pounds. Furiously I looked through my purse; I hadn’t enough cash. I took out my credit card, completely fed up.

  When I got back to my car I saw I had a missed call. My phone had been in my bag since I left the conference center and the call was made ten or fifteen minutes before. The number wasn’t the one I’d been calling but I assumed it was Alan. I returned the call immediately, but as soon as I said, “Hello?” I was cut off.

  I thought maybe I’d caught him in a meeting and he couldn’t talk freely. I wondered whether to wait, but knew I had to leave the car park within five minutes or pay for another ticket, so I sent him a text:

  Sorry to have missed you. Looking forward to talking later.

  Just as I approached the motorway, I heard the beep of a message from deep inside my bag. I took the first exit and parked on an industrial estate to check my phone. The message was from the number I’d called in the car park. It said:

  If you call me again you’ll be sorry.

  CHAPTER 15

  Ruby

  I drove back to the flat in a fury. As soon as I was in my living room I opened my laptop and looked at the e-mails Alan Walker had sent me. He was the one who’d suggested I drive forty miles to meet him and then hadn’t shown up. I’d heard of guys doing that on dates, but for an interview? And had he sent me that text? I was going to let this guy know what I thought of him.

  I looked him up again on LinkedIn. He was beaming away in the photo, looking so happy with himself. It was just after five o’clock now. I opened my e-mail and started to write a message, but after a few lines I guessed he’d just ignore it and I couldn’t hang around waiting for his reply. I saved it as a draft just in case I needed it later and tried the number that he’d given me. As soon as it rang, the call was cut off. Furious now, I called his office’s direct line instead.

  “Good afternoon, Alan Walker’s office,” said a young woman.

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Walker. It’s a private matter.”

  “Who’s speaking?”

  “Ruby Dean.”

  She went away for a moment, then came back. “Could you tell me what it’s about? I’m his personal assistant.”

  “I think he would prefer it if I didn’t.” It didn’t sound as though she knew she was about to be replaced and I didn’t want to be the one to tell her.

  A minute or two later, a man spoke. “Alan Walker here. Who’s calling?”

  “It’s Ruby Dean.”

  There was a pause, then he said, “Sorry, have we met?”

  “Good question. We should have met but we haven’t.”

  He sounded confused. “I’m sorry?”

  “We were supposed to meet today in Manchester. I wondered whether you wanted to reconvene.”

  Now he sounded bewildered. “A meeting? Who are you?”

  I said again, “I’m Ruby Dean. You invited me to interview at the North West Conference Centre today.”

  “What?” There was no mistaking his confusion. “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”

  “You e-mailed me earlier today. You said you were looking for a PA.”

  “Not me,” he said firmly. “I’ve got a PA. You’ve just spoken to her. What was the sender’s e-mail address?”

  I found it on my laptop and read it out to him.

  “That’s not mine. It doesn’t belong to anyone in this company.” His voice softened slightly. “I think you’ve been the victim of a hoax. If you hear anything more from them, get back in touch, will you?”

  Hot with embarrassment and anger, I thanked him again and ended the call, really glad I hadn’t asked him whether he’d sent me a text from a different phone telling me I’d be sorry if I contacted him again. Then he really would have thought I was mad.

  Once again I looked at the e-mail. The e-mail address had Alan’s name and then the company name. I frowned. How could someone create that? It wasn’t as though it was a random Gmail address. So I went online and searched for that company’s website. A white screen appeared, telling me the site couldn’t be reached.

  Frustrated, I shut my laptop. Why would someone ask me to interview if they weren’t going to turn up? Why would they use Alan’s name? Was he lying about the e-mail?

  I stomped into the kitchen. By now I was starving. In the fridge was a lasagna I’d bought that morning. It didn’t look tempting but I was too hungry to cook something from scratch. I put it into the oven and while I waited, I opened all the windows to let some air in and went back to the unpacking I’d started earlier that day.

  The bathroom wasn’t big enough to hold all my toiletries and I took the bulk of them into the bedroom to put into a drawer there. On the bed lay my clothes in piles, just as I’d left them before I went to Manchester, and I started to put them away. When I’d put my T-shirts into the chest of drawers I turned to the bed. Where were my dresses? I closed my eyes and thought of that morning, how I’d laid everything out in piles. I’d put my dresses one on top of the other, straightening out creases as I went in the hope that I wouldn’t have to iron them. I shook my head. I was sure I’d done that. I could remember the feel of the fabric as I stroked the wrinkles away.

  I wondered whether I’d taken them into the living room, though couldn’t think why I would have done that. I turned at the doorway to check the bed again, to see if they’d fallen onto the floor. The wardrobe door was standing slightly ajar. Slowly I reached out and opened it wide. All of my dresses were there on hangers, just as I’d planned, swaying in the evening breeze.

  CHAPTER 16

  Ruby

  I woke at five the next morning, hardly knowing where I was. The early-morning sun crept through the thin curtains, lighting up the bedroom. In that light every single blemish could be seen, from the cracked plaster on the ceiling to the little rips in the wallpaper. A small silver cobweb hung in the corner of the room. My eyes fixed on the wardrobe. I could not remember hanging up those dresses. Then I thought of a movie I’d seen, Still Alice, about a woman suffering from early-onset dementia. I shuddered. That couldn’t be happening to me. I was just tired. I had too much on my mind. Too many worries. I must have hung up the dresses while I was thinking about the interview and that’s why I couldn’t remember doing it.

  That made me think of the interview the previous day. Why had I been set up like that? I wondered whether it had been Kourtney O’Dwyer a
t the employment agency, making me suffer for my sins. Or Eleanor at Sheridan’s. The thought flashed through my mind that it might be Harry, punishing me. I pushed hard against that thought. He wouldn’t do that. Why would he? I hadn’t done anything to harm him. But my eyes drifted up to the cobweb; I was unemployed and living in a run-down flat because of him. He’d had no reason to do that to me, but he’d still done it. Could he have taken it further? I jumped out of bed to stop myself thinking about it. It couldn’t have been Harry. He loved me. Or at least he had. I couldn’t bear to think he no longer did.

  Last night had been the first night in a long time that I’d gone to bed stone-cold sober. Tom and I were more at ease with each other if we were tipsy and then at the hotel I’d had to drink so that I could sleep. But now it was time to change.

  My running shoes lay on the floor in the corner of the bedroom. Harry and I had planned to run together in the park that summer and I’d packed them into my car, eager for my new life with him. As soon as I saw them I knew what I was going to do. I was going to go back to being the woman I was more than thirteen years ago, before I met Tom. Before I met Harry.

  * * *

  • • •

  My street was quiet when I left the flat. I’d thought the shop on the corner would be open, the owner getting newspapers ready for the day ahead, but it was in darkness and all was still.

  I took a deep breath and focused on the middle distance, and then I started to run. I hadn’t run for years and years, since the days I’d lived in Liverpool. A couple of friends and I would run along the dockside there in the early morning, and now more than ten years later I was doing the same, though on the other side of the river.