‘Why wouldn’t I be alright?’ I ask, removing myself from her touch as we sit down, her concern even greater in person than by email.
‘I was so relieved to finally hear from you,’ Rose is saying, ignoring my question. ‘I know you said you needed some time away from the drop-in centre, but when I didn’t hear from you . . . and then I kept trying to—’
‘The drop-in centre?’ I ask.
Rose looks at me and laughs nervously. ‘Of course. It’s not been the same without our best volunteer. I didn’t know where you might have gone. You said you were . . . Jo, you sure you’re okay?’
Rose reaches across to pat my arm again, but manages to knock her coffee, the contents spilling across the table. She fusses with napkins, cleaning up the mess as I take the chance to look out of the window to the street outside, considering the implications of her comments. I came here in search of clues to my new life, wondering what or whom I may have found to plug the gap left by the kids, in many ways dreading the answer, but it would appear at least some of my time was spent in a laudable manner. I was a volunteer at a drop-in centre, a regular by the sound of things. Although Rob hasn’t mentioned it, which now feels very deliberate.
‘So, how have you been?’ Rose asks, scrunching the sodden napkins into a heap before her.
I’m unsure how to respond. I could play it safe, tell her nothing of my fall, but already I’ve learnt something by taking a chance on meeting her, and her interest in me seems genuine.
‘I was in hospital,’ I tell her, her eyes widening as she asks me what happened. Clearly she had no idea. I reassure her that I’m much better now, the effects of my fall already wearing off.
‘A fall?’ She grips my arm again; fortunately the left one this time. ‘What kind of fall?’
‘A slip, down the stairs. Quite a few stairs in fact.’
‘Oh my god, are you hurt?’ She removes her hand from my arm.
I tell her I’m much better now but I would like to get myself a coffee, realising if I’m to get through this, my first outing since leaving hospital, I’ll need something in my stomach. I look at her latte glass, now half empty. ‘Would you like another?’
‘Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry. I’ll get it.’ She stands, the table swaying as she squeezes past, the remains of her latte sloshing from side to side in the tall glass. I mop at it with the pile of damp serviettes. ‘How about you, black as usual?’ she asks, turning back.
‘No, I’ll have the same as you.’ I smile up at her. ‘Thank you.’
She grins at me, her gums pink and glistening, and for a second something tweaks in my brain, as if a file has been opened up, then snapped shut again. ‘Coming right up! Don’t you move!’ she instructs me. ‘I’ll be right back.’
My coffee, thick with caramel syrup and full-fat milk, is bringing the colour back to my cheeks, or so Rose tells me. Her close scrutiny reminds me of Rob’s searching glances and the thought prompts me to check my phone. I retrieve it from the bottom of my bag and, sure enough, the screen is full of notifications; all of them messages from my husband.
‘Sorry, I should . . .’ I say, tapping in a reply.
‘Is that Rob?’ she asks, her head tilted to the side.
I send the message and then glance up at Rose. ‘You know my husband?’
She smiles, perhaps misinterpreting my question as a statement. Her expression is kind, but it’s unfamiliar, and her intimate knowledge of me is unnerving. It’s why I’m here, but it’s still disconcerting to be at such a disadvantage. ‘He worries about me,’ I say.
‘You don’t have to stay with him, Jo,’ she says. ‘Just because you—’
‘Excuse me?’ I ask, interrupting her. ‘Why on earth would you say that?’
She leans forward, points to my right eye. ‘Did he do that to you, Jo?’
I’m shocked by her directness, about to challenge her on it, but then an image of Rob and me arguing on the stairs comes back to me. I need Rose to stop her persistent questioning, to look away just for a second so I can think; to define the expression on Rob’s face, the words I’ve spoken which have angered him so much, but the memory slips from my grasp, Rose’s insistence recalling me to her.
‘Jo? Are you okay?’ Her hand is on my arm again, the concerned smile accompanying it. ‘You know you can tell me anything.’
‘Can you stop touching me,’ I say. ‘I don’t like it.’
She snatches her hand back and I can see the hurt in her eyes, although she rallies immediately. ‘You really don’t seem yourself today.’
‘I’m fine.’ I sip the sweet drink, reviving me now. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound rude.’
‘You’re upset; I can understand that.’
‘I should probably explain,’ I say. ‘You see, since my fall I find it difficult to remember things. I have memory loss. A whole year in fact.’
It’s not that Rose is unsympathetic as I explain, not at all, but her reaction is also detached; almost professional, which comes as a relief. As she listens it occurs to me she may be a trained counsellor rather than a volunteer as I’d assumed, and then another, more alarming thought occurs: maybe I’d been to the drop-in centre seeking as well as offering help. But I have no time to consider this, as Rose asks me lots of questions in quick succession and then listens as I explain how the bruising to my head, yes, from the fall, has caused a persistent headache and, more troubling, the memory loss. Maybe it’s Rose’s encouraging smile, or the pink gums, or the floral scent of her, but I have an image in my head of her turning to me as I walk into a large room. It’s filled with activity, people at tables, the low hum of voices. It’s a place I go to often, where I feel in control, and for a second that thought is all-encompassing, a flicker of something positive amongst all the terrible things which seem to have happened in the last year.
‘I think I remember you,’ I tell her, smiling now. ‘And the drop-in centre. I liked it there.’
‘You do, and you’re such a great volunteer, Jo.’ She smiles too. ‘A real asset.’ But then her expression becomes serious and she says, ‘Jo, I’m very worried by this fall.’
I assure her I’m feeling much better, although in truth I’m struggling at the moment, my head pounding and exhaustion threatening. Rose says she’s very pleased to hear I’m improving after such a horrible incident, but it wasn’t exactly what she’d meant.
‘The last time I saw you, you said you needed some time away from volunteering.’ She looks me directly in the eye. ‘Because you were leaving your husband.’
‘What?’
‘You told me you were leaving Rob.’ When I say nothing, too taken aback by her words to form an immediate response, she squeezes my arm and says, ‘Do you think he might have reacted badly?’ She runs a finger gently over my bruised wrist. ‘When you told him?’
I snatch my hand away and then hear myself defending my marriage to a stranger. She must be wrong, Rob and I have been married for – I think carefully – twenty-four years. I would never leave him.
‘I don’t need to hear this,’ I tell her. ‘I’m not strong enough. And you’re wrong!’ I stand up, but Rose does too, asks me to stay a minute, please. We need to talk. ‘I have no idea why you’re saying these things to me,’ I tell her, ignoring the stares of the other customers. ‘I don’t even know you.’
‘We were friends, Jo. We’d become close. Please stay.’
I sit, but when she reaches out to take my hand I draw it back. ‘Start from the beginning,’ I tell her.
Rose says we first met last November when I came into the drop-in centre to volunteer. I’d told her my daughter had been there one time herself. She hesitates, then says, ‘At least, you said you’d come in to volunteer, which of course you did – still will I hope – but I think there was another reason which prompted that first visit.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, trying to process all this new information.
‘You’ve never said what really brought you t
o the drop-in centre, not as such, but I normally have a pretty good instinct with these things.’
‘What things?’ I ask her, leaning forward now. ‘Tell me!’
Rose looks startled by my tone, asks me if I’m okay and I tell her I’m fine, impatient for her to continue.
‘You’d picked up a leaflet,’ she says, still frowning. ‘You were reading it as I came over. I assumed that was why you’d come in, but you were insistent—’
‘What leaflet?’ I ask, interrupting her.
She places her hand on my arm again, and this time I let her because her eyes are kind and full of pity. ‘It was for women like you, Jo,’ Rose says. ‘Advice for victims of domestic violence.’
I withdraw from her contact, resisting her advances when she tries to soothe me, telling her she’s got a bloody cheek, making accusations about my husband like that. She doesn’t even know him, does she? She says they’ve never met, but I’ve talked about how we’ve argued about the kids leaving home.
‘There are all kinds of abuse, Jo. Physical, verbal, mental abuse. A controlling partner can—’
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t let you insinuate that my husband . . . Rob’s not like that.’
I stand up to go, but Rose again pleads with me to stay. I sit, but then turn away, allowing myself a moment to think, to come up with arguments against her mistaken assumptions. She doesn’t know Rob. And she certainly doesn’t know me. She may think she does, but I know what I’m like, I would have kept personal things to myself, I always do. The trouble is, her account does resonate with one aspect of my recent recollections. Rob and I were arguing just before I fell. But I can’t believe he would have deliberately pushed me. Or that I was leaving him. We were happy. He said so. I try to trace a path back to the truth, seeing Rob and me at the top of stairs, arguing with one another, his grasp of my wrist tightening as his anger spills over. I wince with pain and rub at my right arm and Rose asks me if I’m okay, but I ignore her, instead staring out of the window; the street scene out of focus, blurred by the turmoil of my thoughts. Rob has always been a loving husband, devoted to the kids and me. What could have happened between us to drive him to such anger, such naked aggression? My thoughts run on, my feelings towards Rob since the fall so negative, my distrust of him always there, but why?
Then something outside diverts my attention. Someone, in fact. There’s something familiar about him, something that flips my stomach over and makes my heart beat faster. I am drawn to his confident walk, the overcoat, the thick hair which almost covers his face, but the feeling of familiarity I experience isn’t comforting or reassuring; it’s disturbing. And yet I’m transfixed by him, fascinated by his long strides which cover the pavement so quickly, his huge coat billowing around his strong frame. I only have a second or two to take in his appearance as he passes by. He’s tall like Rob, maybe even taller than my husband, and at first I wonder if that’s what caught my eye, something resonant in his gait, or his demeanour perhaps, but this man is much younger than Rob, closer to Sash’s age, although maybe he’s older than that, his clothes giving him a more youthful appearance. And he’s self-assured, his dark hair thrown back as he lifts his head, his eyes turned to me, and as he does so he smiles, a wide smile which precipitates a memory, the images and reality fusing.
A naked back, the face featureless, in shadow, except now it turns to me and I can make out a generous mouth, a wide smile. It pulls me in, sucks the breath from my lungs as I’m reaching out to touch him, the smile closing in.
‘I need to leave,’ I say, snapping back to Rose and the café.
Rose, who was still talking, stands up as I do. ‘Jo, don’t leave like this. I’ve upset you.’
‘No, not really, it’s just I have to go. I’ve remembered, there’s somewhere I need to be. Sash, I’m meeting her.’ I’m frantic now, desperate to leave, but it takes ages, my escape only facilitated by Rose’s eagerness to pay for our coffees. By the time I run out into the street those long strides have taken him away from me. My disappointment is too much to bear and I turn my face from Sash’s offices in case she should look out and see her mother outside, a crumpled mess.
He’d just smiled and walked on, a young man I have probably never seen before, but that smile had felt like a secret travelling between us; as if the images of the naked shadowy-featured man in my head had materialised before me, his face at last revealed. But now he’s gone and I have no idea how to follow him. I dab at my eyes with a tissue from my coat pocket and wonder if I’m losing my mind, visions of those awful internet searches of brain trauma victims returning to haunt me. I look up and down the street, then walk a few halting paces in the direction he was heading, but exhaustion breaks over me like an ice-cold wave, deadening my senses. It’s all I can do to put one foot in front of the other as I walk towards the taxi rank on the corner, glancing back for Rose and relieved to see she’s not there.
The journey home seems longer, my mind and body drained. It’s all I can do to reply to Rob’s latest message, assuring him again that I’m fine. I pay the driver and hold the keys in my weak grasp to let myself into the barn.
Dragging myself up the stairs, I lie down on the bed, hoping sleep is not too far away, but my thoughts will not settle. I close my eyes, anticipating a vision of the naked man, his face turned to me to reveal the same smile I’d seen outside the café; hoping the revelation he’s flesh and blood, not just a fantasy, will cause a more distinct memory to return. The truth, however awful, is still preferable to this perennial soul-searching and doubt. But a flash of something else returns instead; Rob’s face, mocking, dismissing my work at the drop-in-centre, telling me they’re druggies, I shouldn’t waste my time on them. I turn on to my side, closing my eyes tighter and hugging the pillow to me.
Why didn’t he tell me about Rose and the drop-in-centre? Perhaps he’d forgotten I’d been a volunteer, although that seems unlikely. Or he never knew – but why would I have kept such a huge part of my life a secret from my husband?
I shift my weight from one side to the other, trying to find a comfortable position, turning back from Rob’s side of the bed to face the window again. The sky is grey and listless to match my mood, the cloud heavy and static.
I need to go back to the drop-in centre, see what it brings forth – hopefully some memories – and to ask Rose what she can remember that I cannot. I need an ally and I need to find the man who walked past the café, whoever he is, because he’s back again now, his face no longer in shadow, turning to me, smiling, my desire also returning as I reach out to touch him, to kiss that mouth. I close my eyes once more, shutting out the thoughts which I’m also trying to connect up. Have I somehow forced them to meld as I attempt to make sense of the past? All I know is that I have to find out who that tall young man is, his smile so familiar.
December – Last Year
Our untraditional Sunday lunch limps on, the conversation stuttering once more. I smile at Sash, but find myself distracted, my gaze moving to Thomas, seated at her side. There’s something charming about him which, despite my many misgivings, leaves me conflicted about our daughter’s new love. Rob, on the other hand, clearly despises him and has done so from the moment they arrived. I can only hope he keeps his unfavourable opinion to himself until after they’ve gone. I mutter something about it being warm in here and Rob taps my elbow and frowns at me, asking if it’s a hot flush. ‘Don’t say that!’ I tell him, mortified he would say a thing like that in front of Thomas, and then doubly so when I realise how much I care. This first meeting is not going at all as hoped.
I was thrilled when Sash rang to suggest they come over for Sunday lunch; her call, late on Friday evening, interrupting Rob and me mid-row. Rob’s been particularly irritable of late, exhausted by the demands of his job, which seems to take up more and more of his time. I’d been tired too, my new routine of helping at the drop-in centre taking it out of me; the two hours a week I’d initially offered already stretching to many more as R
ose is ‘truly desperate’ for my help. I could easily say no, but I like the work; and Rose too. I also enjoy the company of Nick, the manager of the drop-in-centre, my chats with him less frequent than the ones with Rose, but no less welcome. Nick is earnest, caring, endlessly generous with his time with me and those who come into the centre looking for help. A very different attitude to Rob’s, who just before the phone call had, as usual, been grumbling about the time I spend volunteering when really all people need is a kick up the—
I dived for the phone, so rare for the landline to ring that I assumed, catastrophist that I am, something was dreadfully wrong. The kids always text if they have good news; so it could only be bad.
‘Who is it?’ Rob whispered as I listened to Sash’s excitable request. I mouthed back, ‘It’s Sash – she wants us to meet him.’
‘Who?’ he asked, as if he hadn’t listened to anything I’d told him about Sash’s mysterious new man. ‘The guy we saw her with on your birthday?’
‘No, it’s fine, darling. Of course I don’t mind,’ I told her, shushing Rob as I tried to concentrate on my conversation with Sash. ‘I’ll adapt my lasagne, make a vegetable one.’ I glanced across in time to catch Rob’s expression of horror. ‘No, Dad can go meat-free for once, won’t hurt any of us. What time will you get here?’
Sash had made the arrangements quickly, eager to get off the phone and back to Thomas, whose voice I could hear in the background as she said her goodbyes.
Rob had been full of questions about him. Would we like him? What was his job? Mindful of Sash’s lecture about us only liking ‘our type of people’, I’d told Rob I’d never met Thomas, so I didn’t know, but from what Sash had told me so far he sounded fine. I suppose I wanted to give Thomas a fighting chance, but I suspected we would very much not like him, every indicator pointing to his unsuitability. All I knew at that point were the snippets I’d already gleaned from Sash, who’d told me he worked in a bar and lived in the flat above. She said they met at the drop-in centre because he was a volunteer like her, but she also commented it was so good I was giving up my time to help ‘people like Thomas’s. I hadn’t picked her up on it at the time as she’d clearly given away more than she’d intended to, and I hadn’t want to stop the flow of information, but my gut feeling is Thomas may have been there seeking rather than offering help. Perhaps, I’d thought hopefully, he was after careers advice, but having now met him, he appears without ambition; the manager of his friend’s bar at the age of what, thirty-five?
Close to Me Page 11