The Closer You Get

by Mary Torjussen

  Suddenly my mouth was dry. “Can I speak to Harry Sheridan, please?”

  “Yes, of course.” She sounded pleasant. Happy. “Who’s calling?”

  I hesitated. I couldn’t give my own name. I didn’t know what she knew. “Jenny Leonard,” I said then. Jenny was one of my sister’s school friends. I’ve no idea where her name came from right then.

  “Just a second, Jenny,” she said. “I’ll call him.” Then I heard her shouting, “Harry? Phone call!”

  At the sound of her yelling, I realized that he must be at home. Nobody at work would answer the phone like that. Nobody would shout his name. That must be his wife! Emma. My stomach churned and I thought I was going to be sick. I didn’t want to talk to him now. Not with her there.

  Then she was back on the phone. “He won’t be a minute.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I’ll have to ring back. Another call’s coming through on my phone. So sorry.”

  “I’ll tell him,” she said. “Can he call you back?”

  “Thanks,” I said, pretending I hadn’t heard what she said at the end, and hastily switched the phone off.

  My hands were wet with perspiration. What if he’d answered and she was standing next to him? What would he have said? My phone rang then—it was from a local landline number I didn’t recognize and my heart leaped.

  “Harry?”

  “Sorry, darling,” a man said. “It’s Danny here. Can you fit me in tonight at seven?” And then he told me exactly why he wanted to visit me. I could tell from his voice that he was calling from his house, trying not to be overheard by his wife.

  He wasn’t Harry but I realized he could have been. If Harry had answered the phone while Emma was in the house, he would’ve spoken just like that man, in a low, deceitful voice, desperate not to be overheard, but desperate, too, to speak illicitly. Privately. I shuddered. This was the reality. There was little difference in the end, when you boiled it right down, between this tosser who was calling strange women and asking to meet up for sex, and Harry, the man I thought I’d loved. Both were liars and cheats and bastards.

  I reached into my bag and brought out the whistle I’d bought. I blew it as loudly as I could, right next to the mouthpiece.

  Probably not the answer he was expecting, but hey, you can’t always get what you want.

  CHAPTER 39

  Emma

  It was the hesitation that did it. Who hesitates when they’re saying their own name? Harry was in the shower when she called; he was about to drive down to Birmingham for a meeting and I was working from home. When I returned to the phone and realized the caller was in such a hurry to end the call, my sixth sense was on high alert.

  Harry came downstairs. “A woman called Jenny Leonard called you,” I said. “She’ll call back later.”

  “Who?”

  I repeated the name. “Don’t you know her?”

  “Never heard of her,” he said easily. “What did she want?”

  “No idea.”

  He shrugged. “What are you up to today, honey?”

  Now it was my turn to hesitate. “I’m not sure. This and that. Plenty of work to be getting on with.”

  “Don’t work too hard,” he said, hugging me close. “There are two of you to think of now.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The second he left the house, I withheld my phone number and called Harry’s office. I hadn’t called him on his office number for years; I’d always called him on his mobile when he was at work.

  “Hello, Harry Sheridan’s office.” The woman on the phone sounded young and educated. Cheerful. My stomach tightened with nerves. What was I doing?

  “Hello, could I speak to Mr. Sheridan, please?”

  “I’m sorry, he’s out of the office today on business. Can I take a message for him?”

  I thought fast. “Is that Ruby?”

  “No, this is Sarah Armstrong.”

  “Oh, I wondered if Ruby was around. I wanted to ask her something.” I had absolutely no idea what I would say to her; I just needed to hear her voice.

  “Ruby no longer works here,” Sarah said. “I’m Mr. Sheridan’s PA now. Can I help?”

  Interesting, I thought. He never told me that.

  “No,” I said. “No thanks. I’ll call him tomorrow.”

  She started to say something, but I ended the call and called Human Resources.

  “Hello,” I said, then lied through my teeth. “I’m Susan Forrest and I’ve just interviewed Ruby Dean for a job. I forgot to ask her start and end dates with you. Could you let me have them, please?”

  The man who answered the phone sounded very young. I knew most of the staff working at Sheridan’s and tried to remember what Harry had said about HR. And then I remembered there was an intern who’d started working there in June.

  “She’s not on our records,” he said. “She was employed through an agency. I think it was Mersey Recruitment; that’s the agency we usually use. I’d have to ask Finance for the exact dates.” He hesitated. “I’m not meant to give out information like that over the phone.”

  I had a strong suspicion that I’d get more out of this young man if he didn’t speak to anyone else first.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” I said. “I can call Ruby later, but I know she’s driving at the moment. She’s on her way to London for a couple of days. I just wondered if you can remember when she actually left so that I can complete this form.”

  “Oh, I can tell you that. She left on Friday, June twenty-first.”

  “Okay, that’s great. Thanks.” I ended the call before he had time to realize he probably shouldn’t have told me anything, and sat at my desk thinking things over.

  She’d left her job on the day that she left home. The day I’d discovered I was pregnant.

  I don’t believe in coincidences.

  CHAPTER 40

  Ruby

  That evening I thought I’d go crazy if I stayed in any longer. All I could think about was hearing Emma calling to Harry in their house. His wife, his home. That was his reality now. It always had been. I should have known that. I needed to do something before I had a drink to forget. I knew that wouldn’t work, either. I’d just dwell on it.

  I looked out of the open window. The sun was setting and the air was still. I needed to get out. I pulled on my shorts and trainers and ran downstairs. On the floor by the front door was some junk mail and I picked it up to take it out to the recycling bin. I wasn’t expecting any mail; in fact, I didn’t think I’d get anything there at all, as nobody knew where I was living now and all of my bills were paid online. I riffled through the pile as I walked to the bin in the alley. Among the leaflets and flyers was an envelope with my name typed on it. There was no address or stamp; it must have been hand-delivered.

  I opened the envelope, thinking the estate agent must have sent a receipt for the deposit I’d paid, though I couldn’t figure out why it had been hand-delivered. Inside the envelope was a card. I pulled it out and frowned.

  It was postcard-sized. On one side was a photo. A photo of me. It was taken last summer in my garden at home; I recognized the red halter-neck dress I was wearing. I’d bought it one lunchtime last year for an awards evening for Tom’s work and I’d worn it for his birthday. We’d invited some people round and had a barbecue in the garden. I hadn’t seen this photo before, but I thought it was taken at that party. I was sitting on my own at a table in the garden, with a glass of white wine in my hand. I could see the bubbles in the wine and the glass was frosted with condensation. It looked as though I was midconversation with someone but I couldn’t see who. I was smiling and looked happy. Carefree. I couldn’t remember feeling like that at home, yet that smile looked genuine.

  I was confused. I hadn’t realized anyone had taken a photo of me that day. Who had sent me th
is? I turned over the postcard and saw, written on the back of the card, a message, in a computer font that looked like handwriting. It said, Thinking of you.

  * * *

  • • •

  Though I ran for an hour that evening it didn’t do anything to clear my mind. I came home and showered then stayed up late, sitting by the window in my living room, looking down the road at the river. Music was playing on my laptop and I’d lit a few candles as it started to get dark. The curtains were open and outside I could see the lights outlining the banks of the Mersey. In front of me, propped up on a vase of flowers, was the photo. I found a notebook and started to write down a list of everyone who was at our house that afternoon. Oliver was there, as well as a few of our other neighbors. Josh and his girlfriend at the time. They broke up shortly afterward. Sarah was there with her husband, Adam, and their children. Some of Tom’s colleagues and their wives came along for a couple of drinks. My parents were there with my sister, Fiona. She was over from Australia for a holiday. Tom’s parents had passed away a few years before; I shuddered to think how they would have reacted to my leaving their son. They really would have wanted revenge.

  Who had taken the photo? I thought back to the party. I thought I was the only one taking photos that day. I remembered printing them out later that week and realizing I wasn’t in any of the shots. And when I looked at that list of people at the party, I knew that only Josh knew my address yet I thought he hadn’t arrived at the party until later in the evening; he’d been out for the day with his girlfriend and they turned up when we were all indoors. I just couldn’t remember what time they turned up, but who could I ask?

  And then I realized it must have been Tom who’d sent this to me. He hadn’t taken a photo of me for years, but maybe he had that day and hadn’t shown me. I sent him a message:

  Did you send me something?

  He replied a few minutes later.

  You woke me, Ruby. Do you mean The Goldfinch? xx

  No, not that, but thanks for buying it, I replied. Something arrived today and I wondered whether it was from you.

  In the post? he said. Not me, babe. I don’t know where you live. I meant to ask for your address. Can you send it over? x

  I didn’t reply to that. I ripped up the photo and threw it into the bin. I tried to focus on what I’d be doing this time next year. I needed to get away, I knew that. I found a property website on my laptop and started to search for houses far away from here. I looked at places I loved to visit: Edinburgh and York, London and Brighton. It took about five minutes to realize that I couldn’t afford a thing in any of those cities. I started to make a list of cheaper places that I could go to, then started to think about whether I wanted to stay in Britain or whether I should pack up and go abroad. I could wait until my parents came home, then go off to Melbourne. Perhaps I could stay with Fiona until I got myself sorted out.

  Or maybe I should go traveling. Set off with no goal in mind, just me and a backpack. The thought flashed into my mind that I struggled to carry a couple of bags of shopping home. I’d go to the gym, then. Run every day instead of just when I felt like it. Become fit. Yes, traveling sounded amazing. Then I panicked. Traveling implied I’d return: What did I have to come back to?

  Dave Matthews was singing “Some Devil” from my playlist. No wonder I was feeling depressed. I’d just clicked on Bob Marley’s “Everything’s Gonna Be Alright” in an attempt to cheer myself up when the phone rang. I swore under my breath when I saw an unfamiliar mobile number. Instead of being scared of it, as I had been, I was suddenly furious.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, love,” said a man with a strong local accent. “Can you fit me in tonight? I can come round to yours.”

  I looked at my watch. Tonight? It was already nearly eleven o’clock.

  I softened my voice. “Sure, sweetheart,” I said. “No problem. But you’re new, aren’t you? I don’t recognize your number.”

  “Er, yeah.” He was clearly trying to keep his voice low and hadn’t figured on a long conversation. I wondered for a moment about his situation. Was he at home, telling his wife he was about to walk the dog? In a moment of hysteria I wondered whether he intended to bring the dog along, too. Or was he at the end of a shift at work, trying not to let his boss hear him and thinking his wife would be none the wiser if he was late home, because she’d be asleep anyway? “I haven’t been to you before.”

  “I thought not!” I wished then I had some wine in front of me to give me some courage. Why had I decided not to have anything in the flat? I tried to sound welcoming. “Where did you see my number, darling? I like to keep track of these things.”

  “I saw it on Sex Works,” he said. “Thought I’d give you a try.”

  I looked around for my whistle, but it was on the other side of the room and I couldn’t be bothered to move. “Sorry,” I said, though I had no idea why I was apologizing. “Wrong number.”

  I did my usual routine of blocking his number, then pulled my laptop toward me. It was time to see what there was on me online.

  * * *

  • • •

  Within seconds I’d found Sex Works, with its slogan “Some women are too easy.” It was a site for escorts, though it didn’t sound as though the women left their own home, so that was a bit of a misnomer. My first name was used—and mine’s uncommon enough in women my age around here—and my age was listed as between thirty and forty. They named the area I lived in. My phone number was there with a description of myself and what I would do for money, which made my eyes nearly pop out of my head. Next to my name was a photo of a woman’s naked body. Her face was hidden in a pillow. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t anything like me, apart from her having shoulder-length dark hair.

  And you know there were a few comments underneath, where they rated me. They said that I was a slut, that I wanted it but wouldn’t deliver, that I messed people around. Yet the calls had continued. What kind of review would there have to be to make someone resist making that call?

  My phone started to ring again. It was from a withheld number. It gave me the creeps to think it was someone who was on that site at the same time as me, looking at that photo and my apparent wish list, and ignoring the bad reviews. Maybe it was someone who thought I should be punished for not treating the punters well. Quickly I rejected the call.

  I searched on the site and eventually found an e-mail address for the webmaster. It took ten minutes; he really didn’t want to be found. I sent a short snappy e-mail promising legal action if my number wasn’t deleted immediately.

  Then I copied the image next to my name and did a reverse image search on Google, but nothing showed up. I sat back, confused. The men who’d called me were the least of my worries, really. They had no idea where I lived and now that I had the whistle I could get rid of them easily. It was the person who’d posted my details that I was concerned about. Who had done that? Why would anyone do that?

  I wondered then whether my name was on other sites. Maybe my address was on them! “I can come round to yours,” the man had said. Did he know where I lived?

  I jumped up and went to the window, pulling the curtains shut. As I did so I could see in the distance two men walking down the road in the direction of my flat.

  I froze. Were they coming here?

  I had no reason to think they would but the way they walked, with such a determined air, frightened me. As they came near to the edge of the row of shops I reached out and turned the lamp off and, holding a curtain to one side, peeped out. In darkness I watched as they walked past, with no hesitation or glance toward my flat, and continued on down the street.

  I breathed a huge sigh of relief. My heart was thudding and I put the lamp back on and slumped onto the sofa.

  Who had put my name on that site? I sat in the quiet room thinking who it might be. My age was in the right category. The woman in the
photo was a brunette, just as I am. I thought of the calls I’d had—there’d been well over a hundred by now—and shuddered.

  Again I regretted not having a bottle of wine in the fridge, but knew it wouldn’t really help. This was something I had to do on my own. I poured a glass of water with shaky hands and went back into the living room. I was afraid to play music or watch a movie on my laptop in case I didn’t hear someone knock or call my name. Someone wanting to pay me for sex.

  I couldn’t read. Couldn’t focus. I just sat curled up on that sofa, careful to avoid the dip that made my back ache, and tried to think who might have done this to me.

  CHAPTER 41

  Ruby

  When the agency in Chester had told me the job was basic, they really did mean it. After a few days, I thought I was going mad.

  I turned up on Thursday morning, wearing a smart dress, and found the other admin staff looking hostile. They were a lot younger than I was and dressed more casually. One wore shorts and flip-flops and I don’t think I saw her do any work in all the time I was there. They eyed me with suspicion from the moment I arrived. I tried to be friendly. I’d brought a big jar of coffee and a tin of biscuits with me and I was happy to talk to anyone, but the thing that ruined it for me was the fact that the manager, Mike, was impressed by me. That meant they couldn’t accept me as one of them. They still ate the biscuits, though.

  I was there to work on the reception desk but they didn’t have many visitors; it was mainly deliveries that had to be redirected to the warehouse. There was a large office for administrators behind the reception area and Mike had a small office off that room. Upstairs were individual offices for other managers. As soon as I got there one of the admin staff hauled a computer into reception for me and they all piled work on my desk. On Friday, an hour before we were due to go home, I’d finished everything that had to be done and went to the bathroom. When I came back I found my in tray was suddenly full to the brim and when I looked into the admin office nobody would meet my eyes. I preferred to be busy but didn’t want to do their work as well as my own. I couldn’t say anything, though. There were six of them and not one of them had given me a friendly word. The door between reception and their office stood open and as I did their work for them I’d hear them chatting about what they were doing that night. My mind was far away as I typed up their work, daydreaming about what I’d do after my house was sold. I could buy a house here and rent it out, then live off the rental income while I traveled the world. I’d have to stick to cheaper areas, I thought, full of enthusiasm, but then had a sudden vision of myself lying on a beach with a bunch of twenty-year-olds. Just then I heard one of the women in the office say, “I’m going to Thailand in September,” and I hastily rearranged my plans.