Close to Me

by Amanda Reynolds

  ‘Excuse me?’ I ask, using my seniority to wipe the smile from his face, but he’s cheeky, still smirking to himself. The coffee burns my lips as I finish it quickly, wishing I hadn’t ordered it in the first place as there’s still no sign of Thomas.

  ‘Thanks,’ the barman says, eyeing the ten-pound note I’ve handed over.

  ‘Will Thomas be in later?’ I ask, picking up my change and returning it all to my purse.

  ‘Who knows?’ he replies. ‘Shall I tell him you were asking after him?’

  ‘No,’ I answer. ‘I’ll find him myself, thank you.’

  I emerge into the bright sunshine, flushed at the thought of the barman’s innuendo. He can’t know anything, can he? Surely Thomas wouldn’t have . . . boasted about us? My memory of that night is nothing more than a disjointed picture of a drunken pass at Nick and my run from him to the bar. If only I could remember exactly what happened after that. The image of Thomas naked reappears and I glance at my watch, then back at the barman who is looking at me through the door as I turn away and walk off at speed.

  The apartments are impressive slabs of glass and steel, three storeys high and surrounded by manicured lawns and regimented flower beds. I wonder how much the maintenance payments are costing Rob; let alone the rent. It only took me a few minutes to walk here from the bar, but the change in tempo is marked; this area gentrified and genteel. I try to recall Sash’s address, the flat number Rob told me changing and muddling in my head as I rewind the many conversations we’ve had since I came home from hospital. I take a seat at a bench in the park opposite and watch the entrance doors. There are three in total, one for each block. When I tire of that, I look up at the tinted windows, wondering if Thomas is looking out at me; the thought galvanising me into action once more.

  I plan to work methodically, reading each of the names next to the entry buzzers, but as I approach the first building I spot Nick – maybe a hundred yards from me, descending the flight of steps which lead down from the furthest block of flats – his distinctive spiked hair and leather jacket unmistakable. He must live here too, in one of these expensive apartments, a world away from the lives of the people he helps at the drop-in centre. His squat legs are taking him away from me towards the park, but the sight of his receding figure still causes me to shelter in the shadows of the nearest door, my back pressed against the cold stone wall. There’s a loud buzz and the door opens, a woman roughly my age emerging. She pauses to ask if I need any help; her expression haughty rather than helpful. ‘Oh no, sorry. I don’t live here. I was looking for someone.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ she asks, letting the door swing shut behind her and hunting in her handbag for something. ‘Ah, there it is!’ she says, holding up her phone.

  ‘My daughter, Sasha Harding. She lives in one of the flats with her boyfriend, Thomas . . .’ I can feel the colour rising in my cheeks. ‘Sorry, I don’t know his last name.’

  ‘And you don’t know which flat?’ she replies. ‘Oh dear, then I’m sorry I can’t help you.’

  It takes me ages to check every resident’s name, some of the labels handwritten, some neatly typed, some blank. My heart rate speeds up when I spot Nick’s name, my backward glances temporarily slowing the process of scanning every entry buzzer for anything familiar. I reach the last door and realise my search will not be rewarded. Sash has clearly not had the presence of mind to change the name plate to hers or Thomas’s names.

  I turn to go and jump at the sight of Thomas, cigarette in hand, observing me from the bottom of the steps. ‘You looking for me?’ he asks, pausing to relight the half-smoked dog-end.

  ‘No, no. I was—’

  He smiles, blows smoke out of both nostrils. ‘You were at the bar, Jo. You’ve obviously been trying to find me.’

  ‘No, it was nothing. I wanted Sash,’ I say, turning away; my face burning.

  ‘Bye, Jo!’ he calls after me and I can hear the smile in his voice, no doubt at my expense.

  I should have done as I’d intended and asked him what happened that night. Maybe he could have reassured me, but I doubt it, he clearly derives pleasure from my pain. Caught out in a lie, as I so obviously was, had wrong-footed me yet again. Each time I have the chance to find out the truth something holds me back, something too awful to make real by uttering the question I know I must one day ask. What did we do that night, Thomas? What did we do?

  August – This Year

  I imagine many of life’s tragedies occur at three o’clock on a weekday afternoon, when no one is paying much attention. You spend your whole life expecting the worst; even when life is good, worrying it will all be taken away from you. And then, on a seemingly innocuous day much like any other, when everything you thought you knew and trusted is without warning snatched from you, you realise you were always looking the other way, were never ready for disaster, never would have pre-empted it, however hard you tried.

  Rose and I had spent the morning tidying Nick’s office, or attempting to, and I suppose I’d been reasonably content, chatting with her about Sash’s scan, how they think it’s almost certainly a boy. Rose may have frowned a little when I’d assured her I was fine, may have noticed how I talk less about Rob these days, how Fin has all but dropped out of my life, but it was a day like most others, unremarkable. We’d swept piles of papers into drawers and cupboards and I may have even laughed as Rose called me Granny, which seems ridiculous now, given what was to come. Then I drove home, perhaps listening to the radio, I don’t recall. I was probably thinking of Sash, or Fin – I often do – or wondering how to kill the empty hours until Rob’s late return, but nothing sticks in my mind before that phone call.

  It was a dull voice, suited to him, I thought afterwards, although I suppose he’s as much a victim as I am, but there’s a part of me that blames him too. The landline rang maybe thirty minutes after I got home. I think I’d been at my laptop with a coffee before that, but I was upstairs when the phone rang. My hands shook for a long time afterwards, but they’re steady again now, resting on my lap.

  ‘You don’t know me,’ he’d said. ‘At least, you might remember me, I’m not sure. My name’s Colin; we were colleagues, many years ago. I work with your husband, well, I used to until recently. My wife, Anna, is his assistant. Do you remember either of us?’

  I’d only a vague recollection of him. It’s been over two decades since we were colleagues and we were never particularly close ones, but I’ve met Anna a few times; a dumpy woman, unmemorable, the kind you don’t want to be seated next to at a dinner party. Then I remembered the rather odd email invitation to Colin’s leaving do, arriving out of nowhere and immediately disregarded. I offered an apology for not attending; the only possible reason I could think he might be calling. But the invitation had been months ago. I couldn’t understand why he was contacting me now. ‘I’m sorry, is it Rob you want to speak to?’

  He laughed without mirth and said no, he’d tried talking to my husband. It hadn’t worked. It was me he wanted to warn. There was a trace of pity in his voice, but the overriding tone was bitterness. He said he’d tried to save us both this awkwardness, that’s why he’d emailed me when he’d found out, hoped I’d contact him, open up the conversation.

  ‘How did you get my email address?’ I asked, the message now taking on new meaning.

  He laughed, said it was a long shot, but he’d simply substituted Joanne for Robert and hoped it would work. It was a kind of intervention, he said. A last-ditch attempt to confront them head-on and put a stop to it. He’d thought with both of us at the party they might see sense. Rob had gone alone, and they’d promised, and he’d believed them. I told him he was a liar before I hung up. Swore at him as I stared at the phone, thrown on to the bed beside me.

  I pace the bedroom, muttering to myself that it was a bloody cheek. Rob will be livid when I tell him, but Colin’s words loop in my head; an unwanted soundtrack. ‘Jo, you have a right to know. It’s been going on months. And that’s not all—’
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  I ignore the other calls, running downstairs to disconnect the answer machine, deleting his voice as he begins to leave a message, stabbing again and again at the button until the machine tips sideways and falls from the hall table.

  It’s quite some time before I do anything practical, staring out of the windows and pacing the barn as I cry angry and then sad tears. Then I’m frenetic, rifling through Rob’s hideous macho study; but the desk is tidy, the drawers empty. I run into our bedroom, pulling open his wardrobe door to remove his overnight bag, unzipping it to see the price tag still attached inside, a half-emptied bottle of cologne lying at the bottom, the lining pristine. Then I open his bedside drawers and the cupboard beneath the sink, and every drawer and cupboard in the kitchen, until I reach the den, my haven, and that’s when I cry again, fearful tears, then wracking sobs of utter despair.

  It’s an hour later when I’m closing the front door behind me, calmer now, order restored to the barn. Steely, my mother would have called my mood, and the thought bolsters me. Then Fin’s message flashes up on my phone, a picture of him and Ryan, both smiling, the backdrop a huge festival site. They look so happy I think I may turn back, go into the barn and convince myself that it’s not true, but then I hear Colin’s voice, and Sash’s and Fin’s, telling me I can’t always ignore things and carry on as if nothing were wrong. I start my car and drive down the hill, adrenalin making me slick; fast gear changes and my foot hard to the pedal. Rob told me he would be late home tonight, I wasn’t to wait up for him, could even be an all-nighter, the connotations of the phrase only now resonating. I’ve been a fool. He’s not a doctor or a fireman. He crunches numbers. Head in the fucking sand, Jo.

  It’s after five when I arrive; reversing into a visitors’ parking space opposite the long flight of steps every employee must descend on their way out. I used to work here, and for a while after I’d left to have Sash I’d drop Rob at work every day, but that was many years ago when we’d had to manage with one car. The building is much the same, looking a bit tired perhaps, and the grass is in need of a cut. I watch the crowded steps leading up to the entrance, a central atrium flanked by rows and rows of green-glass windows three storeys high. Putting on my glasses, I study each man who descends, assuming they are returning to a calmer scene than the one I fear may unfold for me. More suits appear and begin to merge, a homogenous corporate grey, so it’s not his attire which distinguishes my husband to me, but the familiar gait, his height causing his shoulders to round, the long legs lithe and quick as he sprints towards his car. I start the engine and follow him out of the car park, allowing two cars to slide between us, the scene quite surreal, although there’s no amusement or sport in it for me, quite the opposite.

  Rob’s car is heading away from home. A shock. Although perhaps I shouldn’t be quite so surprised, he told me he’d be late. He’s taking the main arterial road which bisects the new estates. The roads are busy with rush hour traffic, but I still worry he may notice me. My Mini is distinctive if not unique. I slow, ignoring the car tailgating me as I see Rob’s brake lights flash red. He indicates and then turns right. We drive past our old house, Rob now a hundred yards ahead of me, speeding as always. I allow a gap to open up between us as I pass our previous home, glancing across at the colourful blooms which fill the front garden. The couple who bought it from us were new to the area. They had two small children, boys I think. Rob has driven further into the estate. I follow, past the park where we’d push Sash and Fin on the swings, or twirl them on the roundabout until their faces were animated with frenzied excitement. I hang back now, watching as he slows and turns into a cul-de-sac, before I turn too and then pull into the side of the road. I’ll walk from here.

  At first I’m afraid I might have lost him, but then I see Rob’s car parked in one of the drives on the left, about ten houses away from where I now stand. He’s still sitting in the driver seat, the doors closed. I can just see the blue of his work shirt; the one I ironed last night along with five others, my back aching. I lean against the wooden fence next to the path, a drooping bush growing over the top of it, my limbs now heavy, my head light. I could turn back; pretend I haven’t seen what I’ve already witnessed. It’s not too late, I tell myself, although I know in my heart it is.

  The houses are small, staggered modern terraces, imitation stone and no garages, just drives. They weren’t here when we lived on the estate, but there are tens of them now, all the same, a sprawling mass of starter homes around a triangle of undulating grass. Young families live in this road, children playing on bikes up and down the grassy slopes. Rob climbs out of his car and locks it. The double-blip scours through me, an incongruously familiar sound which usually alerts me to his arrival home. But he’s parked in another drive and now he’s using a key to let himself in. I stagger a pace or two, afraid he may see me, almost falling, my hand to the rough fence beside me. He has a key? I can’t bear it, I look away, the tendrils of the flowering bush above me tapping at my head and shoulders, as if they want to attract my attention. They release a scent of summer, too beloved, too happy, and glancing up I see slender drooping cones of deep purple flowers with orange eyes, each stem smothered in butterflies. He has a key? I close my eyes, the flapping of a thousand tiny wings loud in my ears.

  It feels too long before I can open my eyes, as if by waiting it will no longer be true, shutting out the hurt, and yet it must only be a second or two. The door is closed. Glossy red. Rob behind it. I have no frame of reference for what just happened and no idea what to do next. He’s my husband of twenty-four years, I thought I knew everything about him. It’s like an out-of-body experience, as though Rob will emerge at any moment and walk towards me, laughing at some perverse joke he’s playing, an entirely reasonable account to hand. Or the door will open and it won’t be Rob, but someone who looks like him, who has borrowed his car. Rob will have an explanation, he always does, but he had a key, he let himself in. This isn’t the affair I’d so feared; it’s much worse than that. This is a whole other life. He’s made me the fool I thought I’d never be. I’d publicly mourned the loss of friends’ marriages, privately certain that Rob and I would never do that to one another. Complacency: the death of everything. Neglect by another name. But I am not culpable, this is not my doing. I turn away, guide my feet back to my car, each step laboured, and yet hurried by the horror of discovery, as if I am the one at fault. But he had a key.

  20

  Nineteen Days After The Fall

  Rose throws open the door, the sight of her gummy smile so welcome. It’s been almost a week since I rushed out of the drop-in centre, away from Nick and whatever he may have wanted of me, but by default also leaving Rose behind. Her email yesterday had brightened my day. Her invitation readily accepted.

  ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come,’ Rose says. ‘I always got the impression you’d rather keep our friendship to our chats over coffee in Nick’s office.’

  ‘Haven’t I been here before?’ I ask, and she shakes her head, stepping back to let me in.

  Rose tells me to go through, following me along the narrow entrance hall. The front room is much lighter and surprisingly spacious, although the décor is firmly seated in the past, floral chintz fabrics covering every surface, the carpets and walls competing in different prints, swirls and fleurs-de-lys creating a dizzying sensation. Rose disappears to make tea and I look out of the net-curtained window to my car below, nervous of where I’ve left it on the side of the road. The view of the other blocks of flats and the green spaces surrounding them is entirely different to the manicured common areas which surround Sash’s pristine flat. The abandoned cars and shopping trollies which litter Rose’s view a stark contrast to the beautiful park those flats adjoin.

  ‘This is nice,’ I say, turning from the window to see Rose place a tea-tray on the lace tablecloth covering the coffee table. ‘You been here long?’

  ‘My whole life,’ Rose says, patting the sofa cushion next to her then straightening the cr
ocheted antimacassar draped over the back. ‘It was Mum and Dad’s and I was lucky enough to keep the tenancy.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I take the teacup and saucer she’s holding for me.

  ‘Mum passed two years ago, only sixty-two, and Dad’s been in a care home for five months. He’s almost eighty,’ she explains. ‘I visit every day.’ She looks at me and smiles the saddest of smiles. ‘I just couldn’t cope, Jo. Even if I’d have given up the drop-in-centre. There’s only me, you see.’

  ‘I’m sure you did everything you could,’ I tell her, sipping my hot tea. She reveals her gums again, but there’s still sadness in her eyes. ‘I’m an only child too,’ I tell her, although I’m sure she must know.

  ‘Kindred spirits,’ she says and unlikely though it is, I smile and agree, finding such comfort in the thought that despite everything I have found a true friend in the last year.

  ‘Have you told your husband about Nick?’ she asks, direct as always.

  I look up at her. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Come on, Jo. It’s pretty obvious something was going on between you two. I don’t blame you, he’s a good-looking guy.’

  ‘I don’t remember,’ I reply, my cheeks burning, but grateful for the excuse my memory loss has provided.

  She smiles back. ‘It was obvious he liked you,’ Rose says. ‘Late-night drinks and always sending me out of the office. I didn’t like to say, hoped you’d tell me yourself. Did Nick tell you?’

  There seems little point in keeping up the pretence. ‘He said we’d agreed to just be friends,’ I reply. ‘You really think we were lovers?’

  Rose offers me a biscuit from a worn-looking tin which bears a faded portrait of Princess Diana and Prince Charles. I chew my custard cream and study the barrel, now facing away from me on the table, the ill-fated couple curved around it.