Close to Me

by Amanda Reynolds

  ‘Need any help with that?’ he asks, pointing to my broken umbrella, still in my hand despite its lack of use.

  I’m only a few yards from the door, but the smokers stand between me and the entrance to the bar; both drunk, pint glasses in their hands. I consider turning back, but my car’s parked down a side street; to walk away might encourage them to follow.

  ‘I’m fine thank you,’ I reply. ‘Waiting for someone.’ I take a step back into the shadows, sheltering in the recessed entrance of the shop next door.

  ‘Man of your dreams?’ the tattooed man calls out. He’s older, maybe late thirties, his voice deeper.

  ‘No, my husband,’ I reply, happy with the indifference my lie infers.

  The thought of Rob causes me to shudder, or perhaps it’s just the raindrops running from my wet hair and finding their way inside my collar.

  The tattooed man laughs, then coughs loudly, spitting on to the ground in front of him. Maybe it’s that which proves too much. The spittle is washed away by the rain as I stare at the place it once was, appalled to find myself here. I’ll have to take a long detour to circumnavigate them, but I decide I need to get back to my car; this was clearly a terrible idea. I pull my coat around me and take a step forwards, but then the door to the bar opens and a tall man with dark hair is silhouetted in the doorway, his features in shadow, the mouth illuminated for a second or two whilst he lights a cigarette, his lips curled into a confident smile as he banters with his smoking clientele.

  Perhaps I make a sound, the breath sucked from me at the sight of him, for he looks over, his long fringe obscuring his eyes. Then he smiles, a wide smile, but to himself, as though there were a joke at my expense which only he can enjoy. I take a few steps back, my breathing too fast now, the darkness no longer the threat, something much more tangible at play. He starts towards me, his long strides eating up the short distance between us; my head feeling light as though it might float free. I grip my handbag to my chest, the rain running down my fringe and into my eyes, but when I close them, it’s much worse, for in my head I see that smile again and I want to escape my own body, my own thoughts, be the person I thought I was; or at least I hoped I still was, Jo: mother, wife, steady, reliable. Faithful. Trusting. Trusted.

  ‘Jo? You alright?’

  I open my eyes and he’s there, right in front of me, and when he smiles there’s no doubt in my mind this is the man I saw through the café window; the same man I’d recognised at once in Sash’s beloved photo. And again I tell myself it means nothing, the subconscious is unreliable, it can play tricks. Just because I have some half-formed recollection of him, an image that has woken me from sleep, troubled me in my waking thoughts too, doesn’t mean anything actually happened between us. Maybe on a subconscious level I had desired my daughter’s unsuitable older boyfriend, but surely I would never have acted on those desires? No, it must have been a suppressed longing, nothing more, but my reaction had been so strong, as if—

  ‘Jo,’ Thomas says, ‘I said we’re getting soaked. Come inside.’

  I walk behind him as we negotiate the smokers once more, ignoring their lewd comments, although they’re no worse than my own silent admonishments, just more crudely wrought. He holds the door for me and then points to a barstool, offering to help me up, but I refuse, careful to avoid his touch. I look away, taking in the bar, wondering if the unease I feel is a memory of this place, or purely a reaction to Thomas. The bar is deserted, just a couple of drunk girls in the corner, one telling the other, ‘He’s not worth it, babe’; even the smokers have abandoned us, their empty pint glasses left on an outside table where they’re filling up with rain. I watch Thomas as he pours me a drink I haven’t asked for. I study his movements, his features, everything about him, but there’s no equivocation in my mind; he’s the man I saw through the café window. Perhaps I should be pleased I remember him, another slit in the veil of my lost year, but I feel my skin burn with shame and I look away, no shred of comfort in the fact I’ve found something real; something I have remembered all by myself and in spite of Rob; because this, whatever it may be, I sense I would rather forget.

  Thomas places a brandy in front of me, and walks from the other side of the bar to sit on the stool beside me, a beer in his hand. The neat alcohol burns my throat, but it feels good as it slides down, emboldening.

  ‘Wasn’t sure you’d remember me,’ he says. ‘Sash told me about . . .’ He taps a finger against his head. ‘You know who I am, right? I’m Thomas, Sash’s boyfriend.’

  ‘Yes,’ I tell him, clearing my throat. ‘She showed me a photo of you on her phone.’

  He frowns, then seems to recall the photo and smiles. ‘Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t be here otherwise.’ He’s still swallowing another mouthful of beer when he asks, ‘No permanent damage from your fall, other than . . .?’ He taps the side of his head in the same maddening gesture to indicate, I guess, my memory loss. ‘You remember this place?’ he asks, looking around, then shakes his head and laughs to himself.

  I look around too, searching for anything familiar, but there’s nothing specific, more a feeling; an imprint from my past placing an indelible marker within these shabby walls. I shake my head and take another reviving sip of alcohol and look at him, just for a moment, avoiding those knowing eyes, wondering whether I should ask him now, just come out with it, face my demons head-on. He’s tumbling his hair from side to side, rainwater spraying us both. He stops and smiles at me again, a daring confident grin. I have a vision of him seated across a table from me, our dining table in fact. He’s asking me here for a drink, and Rob is there, and Sash. I want to ask him about that, and so much more, but I don’t know where to begin and I don’t even know if I want to know the truth of what I may have become, so far removed from who I thought I was. He stretches out a long leg and his knee almost touches mine. I pull back, tucking my feet on to the base of the stool.

  ‘I saw you in the café the other day,’ he says, and when I nod he smiles and says he thought I’d seen him.

  ‘I came here before—’ I begin, but then there’s a noise behind us, shouts, one of the drunk girls is staggering towards the door, her friend supporting her. Thomas jumps to his feet and locks the door behind them and when he turns back to face me, I realise we are entirely alone.

  He sits beside me again, his head heavy on his neck so he stoops a little, regarding me from under his fringe as he says, ‘You were saying?’

  His voice is low and insistent, and his words seem loaded with hidden meaning, but I’m not clear-headed enough to decode them. ‘Yes, I was trying to remember why I was here,’ I tell him, unable to meet his eye. ‘Was it to see Sash?’

  ‘You do know she doesn’t live here any more?’ he asks.

  I tell him of course I know, adjusting myself to sit securely on the high stool. ‘Where is she now?’ I ask, panicked by the thought she may be close by, about to walk in at any moment. It hadn’t even occurred to me before.

  ‘She’s at the flat, never goes out these days.’ He frowns then looks back at me and asks, ‘You know about that, the new flat? The fact Rob pays?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  He smiles. ‘Where is the delightful Rob tonight?’

  ‘At a conference,’ I reply.

  ‘A conference,’ Thomas repeats. ‘Bit weird for a Saturday night.’

  ‘No, not really,’ I tell him.

  ‘So what does he think of you coming here?’ He’s thrown his gangly body over the bar, his long legs following as he retrieves his second beer in almost as many minutes. ‘Bet he’s thrilled, or haven’t you told him?’ he asks, bouncing back down on to the stool.

  ‘Of course I have,’ I say, looking away from that smile.

  Thomas laughs and it strikes me how he’s wrong for Sash in so many ways – his age, his occupation, his flirtatious manner. I can imagine Rob’s disapproval, see his disgust at Sash’s appalling choice, and I feel it too. She would never use the words delightful, or thril
led, they belong to a different generation, one that came way before hers. Thomas is trying to hold on to his youth, to prove that someone as bright and beautiful as Sash would find him desirable. I can almost understand that, if not forgive it, but then it hits me hard, a jolt through my body so I have to steady myself with a hand to the bar. Maybe I am guilty of the same thing.

  ‘So when I was here before . . .?’ I ask, stricken by the image that’s returned. The memory is indistinct, but I know it was a very similar night to this and we were alone, as we are now. I’d pushed open the door, the bar was empty, but I think Thomas was here. I feel sick and my head swims, more than the brandy muddling my thoughts.

  ‘Whoa, you okay?’ Thomas asks, reaching out to grab me, then throwing his hands up when I block him. ‘Only trying to help.’

  ‘I need to know what happened when I was here,’ I say, righting myself on the stool, but I’m interrupted by loud thumps against the glass.

  The girls are banging on the door, demanding they be let back in, ‘It’s only half-past fucking ten!’

  ‘Nice language ladies,’ Thomas says, springing up and walking to the door to tell them the bar’s closed.

  ‘Bit early for closing time,’ I say, watching as they stagger away. ‘Weird, on a Saturday night.’

  Thomas slides his long limbs back on to the stool beside me, clearly amused by my comment. ‘You know, I like you, Jo. Always have. I’m glad you came by.’

  I turn away from his smile, it disturbs me too much, but then he stands up again and announces he should probably get home. He walks to the door and unlocks it, turning back to tell me, ‘Sash gets anxious; thinks I’m up to no good.’

  I press myself against the door frame to avoid his touch, but he grazes my hand with his as he reaches out for me.

  ‘Are you?’ I ask as I pull away and look up to see the wide smile is back. ‘Up to no good?’

  ‘Always,’ he replies, pulling the door closed behind him.

  I wait as he locks up, the street deserted, the rain lighter, the wind dropped.

  ‘Do you love her?’ I ask when he turns to face me.

  ‘Sure,’ he replies, passing the bunched keys from hand to hand, his shoulders hunched.

  ‘Sure?’ I repeat. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Sure, I love her,’ he replies.

  ‘She’s precious, Thomas,’ I say, stepping forward to see his face better in the darkness.

  He laughs. ‘That’s rich, coming from you.’

  My stomach lurches. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  He throws one hand in the air, releasing the keys, then snatching them out of the darkness between us. ‘I should get back to your daughter, don’t you think?’

  I watch as he walks away, his long strides echoing into the darkness until I can no longer make him out through the rain, his shadow turning into the blackness of the night; all-consuming. I look around me, still desperate for answers. Why had I come here before? What had driven me to the bar? Was I looking for Sash, or Thomas? Then a flicker of something returns; the drop-in centre in darkness, the door slamming shut behind me as I ran out.

  February – This Year

  The drop-in centre is particularly crowded today, the buzz of the place such a contrast to the emptiness of the barn. I find the noise comforting, as though it will eat up the gnawing silence I’ve left behind, waiting at the top of hill for my reluctant return.

  Rose pounces on me as soon as I walk in. ‘Jo, thank goodness you’re early. Busy one today, they’ve laid off over a hundred at Anderson’s.’

  ‘Anderson’s?’

  ‘Yes, you know, the family firm, far side of town. All hands to the pump, quick as you can!’

  ‘Okay, let me get my coat off,’ I tell her, walking towards Nick’s office. ‘Is there any coffee on?’

  ‘I just made some,’ Rose replies. ‘And tell Nick I need more printer paper.’

  I open the office door and smile at Nick, although he’s partially obscured by the teetering piles of clutter on his desk. He looks up at me and grins back, his glasses tipped forward on his nose, his hair, as always, spiked up; a failed attempt to look younger than his forty-seven years. When I first met him I found his affectations bewildering, the ‘Hey’s and ‘Cool’s jarring, but now I like them, they’re part of his unlikely transition from City boy to community worker and I’ve found myself increasingly drawn to him as I have been to Rose, their values aspirational to me, their friendship given unconditionally. This place is my escape; a bubble of other people’s problems to temporarily distract me from my own, although Nick and Rose always enquire about the kids, how things are.

  ‘You’re looking very lovely today, Jo,’ Nick says, removing his glasses.

  ‘Am I?’ I ask, pouring myself a coffee from the pot on the filing cabinet. ‘I don’t feel it.’

  ‘Hey,’ he says, putting the file he was reading back down on the ever-growing pile beside him. ‘If there’s a problem, let’s talk.’

  ‘No, I’m fine. Nothing new.’ I pick up my mug of black coffee and take a sip; not too awful as it’s freshly brewed. ‘Anyway, too much to do.’

  ‘Cool,’ Nick replies. ‘Catch up later?’

  ‘Yes, definitely,’ I say, smiling to myself as I close the door behind me again.

  Rose is organising the queue, allocating numbered squares of card to the agitated throng and instructing them to wait patiently until it’s their turn, her voice carrying over the many others. Somehow she always manages to stay calm, whatever the provocation. I collect a stack of blank CVs and a handful of pencils from the trays she’s laid out and smile at the smartly dressed gentleman who occupies the nearest computer terminal, his formal white shirt and blue striped tie indicative of a different generation to that of our normal clientele.

  ‘May I join you?’ I ask, pulling up a chair beside him and introducing myself; the confused expression I’d noted as he’d stared at the screen now transformed to one of relief as he accepts my offer to take over. He concentrates, eyes screwed tight shut, then wistful when he recounts his working life; forty-plus years of which he tells me he spent at Anderson’s.

  ‘So, you think that’s it?’ I ask, typing up the last line then saving the document. ‘Nothing else you want to add?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ He rubs his eyes with a handkerchief from his trouser pocket. ‘I’d been at Anderson’s over forty years; did I tell you?’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ I say, moving the mouse past his hand and clicking on the Print icon. He was a cook at Anderson’s Electronics until the staff canteen closed yesterday; ‘part of the furniture,’ he told me. Everyone knew him, said he’d never retire, they’d have to carry him out in a box. ‘You don’t feel ready for a change of pace?’

  He smiles at me, then shakes his head. He’s actually a bit older than I’d thought; seventy-two, and a widower. He has no hobbies other than ‘cooking’, ‘walking’ and ‘watching films’, and no formal qualifications since he left school at sixteen.

  ‘I need a routine,’ he tells me again. ‘Something to get up for. You know what I mean, Jo?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I say, stapling together the printed curriculum vitae. ‘Now if you want some help setting up an email account, just let me know, okay?’

  ‘I know I should get myself on the email,’ he says, fiddling with his tie.

  ‘Yes, just let me know.’ I glance at the ever-growing queue, a disgruntled mob hovering next to the occupied computer terminals: five basic laptops and three old-fashioned desktop computers, although Nick’s trying to secure funding for a couple of newer ones. He told me the other day he’s planning a trip later in the year to his old stomping ground in the City; ‘to shake some money out of those tight-fisted bastards’. I’d laughed and he’d asked me if I was teasing him, then laughed too.

  ‘I knew what I was doing at work, but everything’s changing,’ my gentleman says, fiddling with his striped tie again.

  ‘I know exactly what
you mean,’ I reply. ‘I was a stay-at-home mum, and when my kids both left home recently—’

  ‘Like my wife, he tells me, his eyes lighting up. ‘She never worked a day after we got married, not a day. Three kids we’ve got, two girls and a boy. My boy’s in Australia now, family of his own, and the girls are in London; fancy careers. Grandkids are almost grown-up too, got their own lives.’

  ‘You must be very proud of them,’ I say, trying to ignore the queue, which is growing increasingly restless.

  ‘I’d like to see more of them,’ he says, his rheumy eyes misting over. ‘Specially now.’

  ‘Have you told them you’ve been made redundant?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head. ‘No one wants to be a burden to their kids.’

  ‘No,’ I say, patting his hand. ‘But if they love you, which I’m sure they do, then they’d want to help.’

  ‘You’re a lovely girl,’ he says, taking my hand and squeezing it between his palms. ‘I hope your husband appreciates you.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ I reply, looking up at Nick who is standing in the doorway of his office watching me, a smile spreading across his mouth then up to his eyes when I smile back and free my hand to raise it a little, feeling awkward as I lower it again. ‘I should probably sort out that queue, excuse me.’

  It all happens very quickly, so at first I’m not even certain of what is going on. I know I was almost at the queue when someone fell, a lad, in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. I’m not sure if was an accident or if someone deliberately shoved him towards me, but it was too fast for me to avoid the impact. It was when I was on the floor, a bit shaken but nothing more, that I became aware of Nick behind me – I thought he was there to help me up, but instead I see him grab the lad by the back of his sweatshirt and wrench him from the floor, the slight frame of the lad no match for Nick’s stout grasp. By the time I’m back on my feet, Nick’s got him up against the wall, one hand holding him there, the other drawn back to swing a punch.

  ‘Nick! No!’ I shout across. ‘It was an accident!’