The Closer You Get

by Mary Torjussen

  Predictably, within a few hundred yards I was winded. I sat on a bench by the river wall and waited a few minutes, my chest heaving and my face burning and damp. In the distance I saw a group of runners, a club, maybe, graceful and fast, scattered along the skyline. They came toward me like a flock of seabirds and passed me, nodding acknowledgment, but still in their own worlds. It was as though I was looking at my earlier self. My earlier life. I wanted to be like them again, carefree and strong.

  I stood up, full of renewed determination. I could do this. It might take a while, but I could do it.

  * * *

  • • •

  Later that morning I sent off more résumés to the larger companies in the North West and filled in dozens of application forms for jobs that were advertised in the local newspaper. I felt full of energy, as though nothing could bother me now. I’d run for an hour and though I was aching, my mind had cleared. I didn’t care what kind of work I got now; I just needed something to help pay the bills. There were a couple of small local agencies advertising for temporary staff and I sent them an e-mail, attaching my résumé. Temporary work was exactly what I wanted. I wasn’t going to hang around once my house was sold. Within an hour both agencies had responded with an almost identical e-mail:

  We’re sorry, we don’t have any work available for someone of your caliber.

  I stared at the screen. What? What did they mean? I sent a text to Sarah, telling her about the meeting with Kourtney at Mersey Recruitment and quoting the messages from the other agencies.

  How would you take this? I asked.

  Sorry, Ruby, she replied. I don’t think that’s a compliment. It sounds more like an insult. Who’s it from?

  A couple of agencies. Lansdowne and Hill Street.

  She replied within minutes.

  They all know each other. You can’t get away with anything. And they swap jobs all the time. Years back when I was temping, I was talking to a woman from one agency; when I went to another agency the next day, she was working there! They all meet up every Friday night at the pub in the square. Cross one and you cross them all.

  My stomach dropped. Kourtney must have been talking about me. If I didn’t get any work through the agencies, I’d be stuck. Another message came through. It was Sarah again.

  Eleanor Jones used to work with them, too.

  Was that how Kourtney had known about Harry and me? I’d suspected everyone at work, and now I knew who it was. Sarah sent another text:

  Adam’s got some friends coming round tonight. Fancy meeting up for wine and a chat? I can come to yours if you like or we could go out.

  Of course Sarah thought I was still living with Tom. I looked around my new living room. Sarah and her husband, Adam, had been to my old house a few times and we’d been to their house. She’d loved my home and was polite about Tom, but I wasn’t sure she’d really warmed to him. She didn’t know where I was now, was completely unaware I’d left home. The thought of bringing her here horrified me. I sent a quick message:

  I fancy going out. McCullough’s at 8?

  * * *

  • • •

  McCullough’s was a bar just over a couple of miles away from each of our houses. It was a lovely warm night and I walked there. I arrived first but I’d been eager to leave the flat. That summer, gin was everywhere, and when I saw the cocktails on offer I abandoned my good intentions about alcohol and ordered a strawberry gin. Sarah came running in twenty minutes later, full of apologies, just as the place was getting crowded.

  “So sorry! Lovely to see you.” She kissed my cheek and sank into a chair. “Oh, that looks good. I’ll have the same.” When her drink arrived she sipped it and leaned back with a sigh. “God, I needed that. It’s been a horrible week.”

  “For me, too.”

  “Of course, sorry, I wasn’t thinking. What on earth’s been going on, Ruby? I’ve missed you so much at work. Are you okay?”

  Immediately my eyes prickled with tears. “Yeah, I’m fine, thanks.”

  “I can’t believe they let you go,” she said. “Do you know why? Nobody’s said a word.” She gave me a sympathetic look. “You were a great worker. They couldn’t deny that. You had that office running like clockwork. I hope they put that on the reference.”

  “They forgot to put that on,” I said. “My reference was insultingly short.”

  “What? That’s outrageous! I’ll ask Harry to write you one. He’s back at work on Monday.”

  “No, don’t,” I said quickly. “Don’t ask him.”

  She stared at me. “Whyever not?” she said. “It’s the least he can do.”

  I took a gulp of my cocktail and thought, Why not? Why shouldn’t I tell her? Why should I protect him when he’s treated me like this?

  “We were having an affair,” I said. “That’s why I got sacked.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Ruby

  I couldn’t have gotten a better reaction if I’d tried. As I spoke, Sarah was sipping her gin and when she heard what I said she started to cough, then choke. Her face scarlet, she stood, brushing off my attempts to help her, and rushed to the restroom. I sat back and wondered whether I should have told her.

  When she returned, her face was still hot and pink. “Sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting that. My drink went down the wrong way.”

  “Are you all right?” I passed her the glass of water the barman had brought over for her. “Here, drink some of this. I’m sorry I gave you a shock.”

  “You really did,” she said. She drank the water, then started to look better. “I wonder why I haven’t heard anything at work. I haven’t heard even a hint of a rumor.”

  “Thank God for that.” It would happen, though, I knew that. I looked at her, wondering whether I could trust her. “Don’t tell anyone any of this, will you?”

  “Of course I won’t,” she said, and reached out to touch my hand. “We’re friends. But tell me everything. When did you meet up?” She lowered her voice. “Did you go to hotels?”

  Suddenly I didn’t want to tell her the details. I didn’t want it to sound tawdry, as though we’d been constantly, furtively looking for the opportunity to have sex. And we hardly ever booked into a hotel for the afternoon. Just a few times. Once a month or so. I held my face really still, the way I used to at home, so that she didn’t see a telltale flush, a giveaway smile. “We never spent the night together,” I said. “Not until Paris. Tom’s home every night. I would never have gotten away with that.”

  Sarah looked disappointed. I think she wanted stories of glamour and hotels and jewelry. It felt ridiculous to tell her that our affair had consisted mostly of snatched moments together that had meant more than any time in a hotel. Every week or so I’d travel to meetings with Harry and those hours spent in the car together had been like little holidays: something to look forward to and to treasure afterward. I’d keep quiet when Tom asked about work and always made sure to include Sarah or another woman if I told him I’d been anywhere. He’d usually switch off if I said too much, anyway; his eyes would glaze over and he’d turn on the television or open a book.

  “And nobody found out? Tom didn’t suspect?”

  “No, he didn’t suspect a thing,” I said. I didn’t say that I was so used to watching what I said, in case Tom was annoyed, that lying came really easily to me now. “I was home every night. He had no reason to be suspicious.”

  I remember the first time I lied to him. An actual full-on lie. There wasn’t an ounce of truth in it. It was ten at night and Tom had just arrived home. He’d had a meeting with clients in Glasgow that day and, knowing he’d be late, I’d spent some time with Harry in his office after hours. I’d gotten home at eight, so that when Tom touched the hood of my car, the engine would be cold, and I’d called him from the landline, as he liked me to do, but he hadn’t answered his phone. Before he’d even taken o
ff his jacket he’d said, “What did you do this evening?”

  I panicked for a split second but remembered that as soon as I’d gotten home I’d dialed the house phone to check the time of the last call, but he hadn’t called me. Without a pause, without even thinking about it, I’d said, “Oh, today was a really horrible day at work. It was so busy and Sarah just wasn’t pulling her weight.” Sorry, Sarah. “And I was listening to the radio on the way home and someone was talking about meditation and how it helps if you’re stressed, so when I got in I put some on YouTube and had a go.” I laughed. “I was really bad at it, but it did the trick. I’ve just had a nap.”

  Tom picked up the remote and flicked the television on then, and went to YouTube. He still had his jacket on, his car keys in his hand. He looked at the sites last viewed; there was no mention of meditation. He looked back at me, his face still.

  “I wouldn’t do it in here where anyone could look in the window! You had my iPad, didn’t you, so I took my phone upstairs and did it there.” I smiled at him. “We could do it together, if you like, when you’re ready for bed? I promise you’ll sleep like a baby.” I knew there wasn’t a chance in hell that Tom would meditate. I quickly added, “I’ve made you some supper. Fancy a glass of wine with it?”

  Now Sarah said, “Typical of me not to notice what was going on. So that trip to Paris. The conference. You were together then?”

  My face flamed. “Yes.”

  She ordered more drinks and I thought that after that one I wouldn’t have any more. I’d tell her too much. “But you were risking everything,” she said. “Your marriage. His marriage.”

  I could tell she thought I was crazy. “I loved him.” I couldn’t say whether I did now or not, and hoped she wouldn’t ask me. “And I thought he loved me.”

  “But why were you fired?” she asked. “I don’t understand.”

  “Yeah, that wasn’t exactly what I thought would happen.” My throat clenched up and I took a long slug of my drink for courage. “Harry and I decided we wanted to be together. It was all agreed. I was going to leave Tom. He was going to leave Emma. It was all arranged.”

  “What? You were leaving home to live with Harry?” And you didn’t tell me? rang in the air. “When?”

  “Last Friday.”

  “But Jane said he went on holiday on Friday night. She said it was all planned.” She looked confused. “I wondered why he hadn’t said anything about it. You know how he’d normally look forward to his holidays and talk about them. He never even said he’d be off work.”

  “He wasn’t meant to be,” I said. “He was meant to be leaving home. To be with me. We’d booked a hotel and were supposed to meet up there.”

  She was quiet for a minute and I could tell her mind was racing. “When I left the office at three o’clock, you didn’t say a word. I asked what you were doing at the weekend and you said, ‘Nothing much.’ Remember, I asked if you fancied going to see a movie that night? You said you were tired and just wanted to watch television.”

  “I’m sorry. I felt horrible about that. I would have told you on Monday. We’d planned that I’d tell Tom and he’d tell Emma, then we’d meet in the hotel afterward.” I could feel my throat tighten. “And then he didn’t turn up.”

  “But you did?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’d already told Tom it was over?”

  “Yes.”

  She took a deep breath. “Oh no. I don’t think I could have done that. I would have wanted him to leave home first, I think.”

  I winced. “That was the thing. I thought I could trust him.”

  “I wouldn’t trust anyone that much.” We sat in silence for a while, then she said, “So you got to the hotel and Harry wasn’t there?”

  I nodded, still furious at his betrayal. “I waited all night. All weekend.” I thought of how I’d sat there so excited at first, before I started to worry. I remembered calling the hospitals and felt such a fool. All that time he was on holiday, having a romantic break with his wife.

  Sarah looked shell-shocked. “Didn’t he call you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you call him?”

  “A couple of times.” Or a couple of hundred times. “His phone went straight to voice mail.”

  “He might have switched it off. It wouldn’t even register you’d called unless you’d left a message. We were told he wasn’t taking messages. They needed a break.”

  “But I didn’t know that. I didn’t know anything. He just didn’t turn up and then I went to work on Monday, thinking he’d be able to explain himself, but I couldn’t get in. My pass wouldn’t work. And then Eleanor came down to reception and gave me my things from my desk.” I was hot with embarrassment at the memory. “She knew I’d been seeing Harry. She made that pretty obvious.”

  “But how would she know? Did Harry tell anyone?”

  “No. He didn’t tell anyone about us, not even his best friend. Nobody knew.”

  “Isn’t that discrimination? I’m sure it doesn’t matter how long you’ve worked there if you’re discriminated against. Maybe you could appeal?”

  I shook my head. “There’s no way I’m going to do that. I’ve looked it up and I could appeal, but what’s the point? I don’t want to work there now, not after all that.”

  “No, I wouldn’t, either,” she said. “But how did Eleanor know? She didn’t know about it all along, did she?”

  I paused. I hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t think so. She came in to talk to Harry on Friday morning and I made her some coffee. She was fine. Told me about her holiday to Japan last month. In any case, I can’t see Harry telling her anything personal.” My head ached with worry. Had someone overheard me talking privately to Harry? Had they seen us? I winced at the thought. We thought we’d been so careful. “I tried to call him at work but his phone was redirected to Paula. And then you told me he’d gone on holiday with his pregnant wife.” I tried to laugh but I really couldn’t. “While I’m living in a crappy flat on my own. And he’s not even here to yell at.”

  Now it was my turn to stumble toward the restroom and stand in the privacy of the cubicle, tissues pressed hard against my eyes to stop myself breaking down. If I’d had my phone with me just then I would have called Harry and told him exactly what I thought of him. When I returned to the bar I saw Sarah sitting and staring into the log fire, her expression unreadable. I wondered whether this was going to change how she saw me, whether I’d lose the only friend I seemed to have now.

  She jumped up when I reached our table. “I’ll get us another drink.”

  “Just water for me, thanks. The last thing I need tomorrow is a hangover.”

  When she came back from the bar with a glass of white wine for her, water for me, she asked, “So where are you living?”

  “I’ve got a flat above a florist’s on Nelson Street. It’s all right, but I haven’t lived in that kind of place since I was a student. Hopefully, it won’t be for long. Tom’s going to sell the house, so I’ll get half of that and I’ll be able to buy something small.”

  “You could have come to stay with us,” she said. “We’ve got a spare room.”

  I thought of her lovely husband and her two small boisterous children. That was the family I’d wanted for myself. I couldn’t put myself through it. I tried to smile. “Thanks, but I needed to be on my own.”

  “Still, I wish you’d called me. I hate to think of you in the hotel, waiting for him. And then his wife’s pregnant, too.” She was quiet for a minute, then said, “I bet he was telling you that he and Emma weren’t sleeping together, wasn’t he? Did you really believe him?”

  I flushed. “It wasn’t something we talked about.”

  “But were you . . .” She hesitated. “You and Tom. Were you still sleeping together?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t want to think a
bout that. The few times we’d had sex over the last eighteen months I’d felt sick with guilt, as though I was unfaithful to Harry. I realized then that Sarah thought I was saying we weren’t, because she touched my arm and looked sympathetic.

  She took a long drink of wine. Clearly it was Dutch courage, for she said, “Do you think this was the only time Harry slept with someone else?”

  CHAPTER 18

  Ruby

  I stared at her. Not once in the last eighteen months had I thought of this. “What?”

  “I mean, do you think he makes a habit of it?”

  “No! No, of course he doesn’t.”

  “So he’s never had an affair before? Or a one-night stand? A fling when he’s been away from home?”

  “No!”

  “Are you sure? Has he told you that?”

  I wanted to say that of course I was sure, that before he met me he’d always been faithful, but how did I know? It had never come up in our conversations. I assumed he hadn’t played the field while he was married, but could I swear to it? I shelved that thought; it was something I needed to think about when I was alone.

  So instead of talking about Harry and other women, I asked, “Do you know when the baby’s due?”

  That was my way of trying to figure out when it was conceived, of course. If I knew the due date I’d be able to work out when he’d slept with Emma. There were apps that would tell me that. Not the exact date, of course, but the week, at least. I’d read that five days before ovulation was the fertile window. Five days. A working week. A very long weekend. The thought of finding out when she’d gotten pregnant made me feel ill. I knew I’d go back in my mind to that week and think about how he’d acted toward me. Had he hesitated as I’d come into the office one morning? Had he felt a surge of guilt? Was he about to tell me that all this wasn’t a good idea and that I should look for another job? Or had he given a self-congratulatory secret smile, knowing he’d gotten away with it, sleeping with two women? I felt sick at the thought of that.