The Closer You Get

by Mary Torjussen

  “No idea,” said Sarah. “Jane came in to tell us about it; she was very excited about becoming an aunt. Her own children are in their teens now; she was looking forward to holding a new baby again.” She paused for a few minutes, then said, “I still can’t believe you were having an affair. You don’t seem the type, somehow.”

  “I’m not the type, whatever that is. I just loved him.” I softened as I remembered. “And he loved me.”

  Sarah looked at me as though I was the most naive person she’d met. “He was married, Ruby. And so were you. It was never going to end well.”

  “I know, I know,” I said. “It’s unforgivable. But what he did to me, encouraging me to leave home to be with him and not turning up, well, that was the greatest betrayal.”

  “I think his wife might disagree with you,” said Sarah quietly. “And Tom, too.”

  I winced, wishing I’d stayed in that night. Why was I putting myself through this?

  “What about Tom?” she continued. “Did you tell him you were leaving to be with Harry?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “No, I didn’t tell him anything. If you see him, don’t mention it, will you?”

  “Of course not. I doubt I’d see him anyway. But why did he think you were leaving him?”

  “We hadn’t been getting on well,” I said. “Or rather, we only got on well because I did whatever he wanted. I wasn’t happy at home.” I hesitated before going on. Some people just don’t get it and I had a horrible feeling Sarah was going to be one of them. “Tom’s hard to live with. He’s controlling. Possessive. I’ve wanted to leave for a long time.”

  Sarah seemed confused. “That’s not how he came across when I met him.”

  “No, he could put on a great mask.”

  “Yeah, they’re never the same in company as they are when you’re on your own with them. But are you sure it wasn’t just because you were in love with Harry and you were comparing them?”

  I shook my head. “I almost left a couple of years ago, before I even started working with Harry. I’d just about had enough. And then my mum fell over and broke her arm, so that took me out of the house some, and things were a bit easier. But then a couple of Christmases ago it was awful.”

  “What happened?”

  “Just an argument,” I said. It had been more than that, though. You know when someone says something and it cuts you to the quick? I was naked at the time and Tom was clothed, which made me feel so much more vulnerable. It wasn’t something I was going to talk to Sarah about.

  She reached out and touched my wrist. “Don’t you wear your Fitbit now?”

  We both looked down at my wrist. I was wearing a bangle instead; it felt too odd to have nothing there.

  “I’ve never seen you without it,” she said. “Where is it?”

  “I gave it back to him. He . . .” I knew she wouldn’t understand me, but I’d had enough gin to keep going. “He tracked me all the time.”

  “What, where you were?”

  “No, it didn’t do that, thank God. He tracked my footsteps.”

  She frowned. “What?”

  “He would check it, see how many steps I’d taken.”

  “Oh, Adam does that,” she said. “We both wear one at the weekend and he’s always checking his against mine. When we went to New York in the summer I did twice as many steps as he did, even though we were together all the time.” She laughed. “That’s the advantage of being so much shorter than him. He never got over it. Said it was much easier for me to do ten thousand steps.”

  I knew this story. She’d told me about it ten times. “It isn’t like that, though. He’s always trying to catch me out. Let’s say I go to the shops one Saturday. I walk there, buy the newspaper, walk back again. Then the next Saturday I’ll do it again and he’ll check the steps against the first trip. And then he’ll cause a fight, saying I didn’t go to the shop I said I’d gone to. And one day I didn’t wear it to work. He was convinced I hadn’t gone to work at all. He kept a check of everything I did, Sarah. Every step I took. I couldn’t bear it.”

  I didn’t tell her about the times I’d try to fool him. I always parked in different spots in the office car park, to confuse him. He seemed to think I should be doing roughly the same steps each day. I could tell he was comforted if the figures matched his expectations. A few weeks ago I gave the Fitbit to Harry, who put it in his pocket when he was going to a meeting in Manchester; he knew he’d walk for a couple of miles. He told me he’d gone up and down the stairs several times instead of using the lift, just so that the figures would be skewed. That was after I’d told him about it, of course. When I knew I was leaving. He’d been horrified and wanted me to throw it away, but by then I just wanted to hand it back to Tom when I left. He’d know what I meant.

  “Honestly,” said Sarah, “you’re reading too much into that. He’s just trying to keep you healthy. Anything else he’s supposed to have done?”

  I bristled. “It would take too long to tell you. Maybe another time.” I couldn’t have coped if she’d told me that she thought his behavior was normal. I’d spent years being told one thing but believing another. I couldn’t bear her telling me that Tom was right all along.

  “Okay,” she said. She reached out and touched my arm. “Things will be all right. Once there’s a buyer for your house, I’ll come with you and look for someplace of your own.”

  I smiled, relieved. “I’d love that. I’m not sure where I’m going to move to, though.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll help you.”

  “Sarah,” I said. “I hate to ask you this, but will you give Harry a letter from me? Or ask him to call me?”

  From her expression I could tell she really didn’t want to. “Can’t you send him an e-mail?”

  “I’m worried one of the tech guys might see it. And I don’t want to text in case Emma sees it.”

  She hesitated. “I don’t really want to get involved, but yes, okay. Send it to me and I’ll make sure he gets it. He’s back at work on Monday.”

  “And you’ll ask him to call me?”

  “Yes.” She drank some wine, then leaned forward and gave me a hug. “Of course I will.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Ruby

  I spent most of the weekend alone, just me and a notepad and pen, trying to write a letter to Harry. It was hard to write, imagining his expression as he read it.

  He and I had talked all the time. We worked hard, too, but between us was the ease of age-old friends. It had been like that since I first met him. It was as though I’d been existing in some sort of half-life, living the smallest possible version of myself. When I met him I could feel myself growing, blossoming. I could say anything to him and he’d understand. Not that we sat debating serious topics all the time, of course. We talked about anything and everything. Our favorite wine. The first person we kissed. The books we couldn’t be without. The songs of our youth. Our conversations would be piecemeal throughout the day, then at the end of the day we’d almost always have time for a proper talk. And the more we talked the harder we worked; Sheridan’s had done really well in the last year and Harry had told me again and again it was because he was invigorated by me. Revitalized.

  And now Emma was having his child. I couldn’t let myself think about how that had come about. I thought of his face as he found out. I could only guess at his expression. Had he given me a second thought? Had he just forgotten about me in the joy of discovering they would have a child together? In the pit of my belly was a growing fury that he thought so little of me that he couldn’t even be bothered to tell me it was over.

  * * *

  • • •

  On Saturday afternoon it was windy and raining outdoors, and I stayed in my flat, looking out of the living room window at the river beyond. And I thought of Harry on his sofa right now, his hand stroking Emma’s belly, m
aking plans together, thinking of names and their baby’s future. They might go out later and look at paint for the nursery, at cots and cute little outfits. Any day now, they’d go out for the afternoon and come back laden with bags and wallpaper and furniture, all for the new life they were sharing.

  I had no plans like that, or not for a long time. When I’d married Tom, I was still young and children weren’t something I’d really thought about. Having Josh around seemed to fulfill whatever maternal desire I had, though really he and I were more like friends. I had learned early on not to take on a maternal role. Josh was Tom’s child, not mine. After a while I was worried about being tied to Tom for life; I’d seen the bitterness between him and Belinda, and I’d slowly realized that at least half of the time their animosity was down to him. I knew that if he and I split up, it would be unbearable if we shared a child.

  “I don’t think we should go down the IVF route,” Tom had said, when I’d suggested it after a couple of years of trying for a baby. “It can do so much damage to marriages. People tend to get obsessed with it; it’s all they can think about.”

  It was all I could think about anyway. I knew he was right, though. If I’d had hospital appointments and treatment and so on, I knew what I’d be like. I’d be totally obsessed.

  “And we know we can have children,” he said. “I have Josh. We have Josh. You know he sees you as family.” He gave me a sympathetic smile. “And, well, you were pregnant, too.”

  I winced, hating to think of that time in my life. When I was eighteen and about to go to university, I discovered I was pregnant by a boy from school that I’d been seeing for a few months. I hadn’t known whether to go through with it or not, but decided to go ahead, to defer university for a year, and to have the baby. A couple of days after the twelve-week scan, the baby clearly thought otherwise.

  “If we just keep on trying, we’ll be lucky. They’ll come one day.”

  But they hadn’t. It wasn’t for want of trying, though. Soon Tom was waiting with me, month after month, buying me pregnancy tests, holding me as I sobbed each time the words Not pregnant were revealed. I thought of the soft toy he’d bought me right at the start, the first time we tried to get pregnant. He’d come home with it, a long, soft, furry dog, the color of caramel with treacle toffee eyes and the floppiest ears. When you squeezed its ear it made a barking noise and Tom nicknamed him Captain Barker, saying it was clear that the dog should be a higher rank than a mere mister. When he gave it to me that first night, we were so full of hope and promise for the future and we’d laughed so much I’d cried with happiness. Over the months and years the dog moved from the armchair in our room to the wardrobe in the spare room and eventually, just before I moved out, I took it to a charity shop for another baby to have. A real baby.

  I thought of the dog’s new owner that afternoon in my flat, sitting at the window not knowing whether it was my tears or the rain that blurred my vision, and wondered whether they could smell my perfume, feel the hope that clung to the dog for all those years. I hoped they could, hoped they never felt the despair that led me to give it away.

  * * *

  • • •

  Eventually, I grew sick of feeling so bad and forced myself out into the rain. There was a cinema nearby and I booked myself in for a movie that was so loud and action-packed that I didn’t have time to think. The cinema was nearly full and just seeing other people nearby gave me the illusion of company. Though I wanted someone to talk to, when my phone buzzed at the end of the movie and I saw it was Oliver, I felt too fragile to see him just then.

  Ruby, I’ve just spoken to Tom. He said you’ve left home. Is everything OK?

  I winced. I knew I was going to have to face this with everyone. I kept my reply short.

  All OK, thanks.

  His reply came within seconds. Fancy meeting up to talk about it? I’d invite you round but Tom’s at home so I doubt you’d want to call here. Just say where and when and I’ll be there.

  I thought about the day I’d had, with no human interaction, and the day ahead—Sunday—always the most miserable of days.

  Meet me for brunch at the Marino Lounge at 11 tomorrow?

  He replied immediately. I’ll be there x

  CHAPTER 20

  Ruby

  It was odd sitting in the bistro having brunch with Oliver. He’d been to our house tons of times, for meals and barbecues and drinks. One year he’d even had Christmas lunch with us, because his fiancée had just left him. We’d bumped into him in the supermarket, looking forlorn, and when I heard he was going to be alone, I invited him to our house. He’d brought the makings of cocktails and I’d been plastered by the end of the night. And we’d been to his house, too, when he got promoted, when he got engaged. I’d never been out with him on my own, though. Why would I?

  But most of the times Oliver and I talked, I realized now, we were on our own. And I grew used to not telling Tom about it; I knew he wouldn’t like it.

  I remembered the first time I kept quiet. A couple of years ago, Oliver and I were sitting on the garden wall, chatting. Tom was working late and Oliver was telling me that he’d been promoted at work. He told me all about the interview and the other candidates and what the panel had said to him when they offered him the job. We’d been interrupted as usual by Tom calling me on the house phone, to check I was there. A few days later Oliver was around at our house for a drink and when Tom asked how his job was, Oliver said, “Oh, well, I’ve been promoted at work. I’m their marketing director now.”

  There was a split second where I could’ve said, “Oh yes, of course!” but I didn’t. I knew it would lead to endless questions from Tom about when we’d spoken, what was said, and why I hadn’t told him. I just couldn’t do it anymore. So instead I said, “Wow, congratulations! When did that happen?” And there was the slightest hesitation on Oliver’s part as he answered me, as though he hadn’t told me about it in great detail just days before.

  I knew it was wrong of me. There was a complicity between us, that we knew something that my husband didn’t. It’s not right. I know that. But sometimes, well . . . sometimes you just want to keep things to yourself. And that’s what it was with Oliver; it wasn’t that I was colluding with him, more that I was keeping just a fraction of myself to myself. I was allowing myself a private life.

  And that was the start of it really; it wasn’t long after that that I started to work with Harry, and by then I was skilled at deception, adept at keeping my thoughts and, later, my actions to myself.

  * * *

  • • •

  So,” said Oliver, after we’d finished eating. We’d just ordered coffee and I’d thought I was going to get away without having to answer anything personal. We’d covered his job and his upcoming holiday to Ibiza. “Why did you and Tom split up?”

  I flushed. “Have you spoken to him?”

  “Yes. It was a bit strange, really. I noticed your car wasn’t there for a few days and when I saw him bring Josh home I asked him whether you were at your mum’s. I was really shocked when he said that you’d left. He said he didn’t really understand why you’d gone.”

  Now I really was embarrassed. “He did understand. I’ve been telling him for a long time that it’s not working.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want to tell me. He seems the sort of guy who’s quite proud. I can’t imagine him telling me anything private, really.”

  I nodded. “He hates anyone to know anything about him.”

  “So you’re really not going back?”

  “No,” I said firmly. “That’s not going to happen. I’m just waiting until my house sells.”

  “So are you staying with your parents?”

  “No. They’re going to Australia tomorrow to see my sister. They plan to stay there for months.”

  He laughed. “Have they told her that?” He’d been to my house on Tom’s birthday w
hen my parents and sister were there and he’d seen Fiona’s exasperation with my mum.

  I grinned. “She’s told them to get an open return but my mum’s interpreted that as Fiona wanting her to stay there for a long time. But in any case I can’t stay there. I might embarrass them in front of the neighbors. Apparently I’m killing my mother. She says she can’t stop crying.”

  “Really? I saw her in a café in Liverpool on Friday afternoon. She was having a cream tea with a friend and looked pretty happy.”

  I laughed, feeling lighter for the first time in ages.

  “Put it this way, she hasn’t lost her appetite as a result of you leaving Tom. That cake stand was empty.”

  “You should’ve sent a message,” I said. “I could have phoned her, just as she was tucking in. It would have been funny to see how her expression changed.”

  “I will do if I see her again.”

  The waitress approached us and left the bill on our table. Oliver took out his wallet and smiled at me. “I’ll get this. So was it just that you were unhappy with Tom? I wondered whether you might be interested in someone else.”

  I was startled. Had he seen me change as I grew involved with Harry? I knew Tom hadn’t noticed—he would have said if he had—and even Sarah had been astonished at my revelations. Oliver and I had always gotten on really well. Had he noticed what nobody else had?

  “Tom had changed over the years,” I said, careful not to actually answer his question. “He always wanted to know what I was doing, where I was. It was suffocating at times. And things had to be done his way or I’d pay the price afterward.”

  Oliver looked shocked. “He’d hurt you?”