Close to Me

by Amanda Reynolds

  ‘Jo? Is that you?’

  Rob’s voice comes from the kitchen, the room bright with antiseptic light as I walk in, the polished granite surfaces dusty with the weeks they’ve waited here for us. I always imagined he’d stay, but he left within a matter of days. The place empty ever since.

  He has his back to me, the coffee machine blinking a red light as he watches the slow funnel of cream dripping into a mug, then he looks around and smiles, asks if I’d like a cup too. I reach out to steady myself against the island, a hard knot of emotion welling in my throat, the force of it so unexpected.

  ‘You okay?’ he asks, handing me the mug.

  He’s added milk, but I try to drink it anyway. ‘I’m good,’ I say, keeping my voice level. ‘You?’

  He frowns by way of reply and I note the signs of damage: his eyelids drooping over his pale eyes, lending them a hooded appearance, his face that of an old man, and his hair much thinner, although it’s longer, in need of a cut.

  ‘Not great,’ he responds as he turns back to the coffee machine.

  I look for the tanned strip of skin above his shirt, the familiar sight of it suddenly so needed, but the longer hair covers it. ‘And Anna?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Sash told me she saw her at the hospital,’ I say. ‘It must have been so hard for her, seeing Sash like that.’

  ‘It was a girl,’ he says, and he turns back to me. ‘Didn’t think I wanted her.’ He tries to laugh. ‘Fucked up or what?’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say and I truly am. ‘I know that baby would have been loved and wanted.’

  He nods, then says, ‘Sash says she barely sees you other than the hospital appointments.’

  ‘I try to avoid seeing Thomas,’ I reply, turning away. I cannot forgive him for what he put me through, or maybe I cannot forgive myself for that moment of temptation. ‘I give it a few more months.’ I say, glancing back at Rob, and he nods.

  We walk into the garden, despite the sharp air and the sodden grass which leaches dampness into the cherry suede of my new boots, a tidemark of dull burgundy. I mind that the boots may be ruined, but it’s easier to be out here, walking side by side, our words caught and tugged at by the stiff chilled wind. Rob tells me he’s asked Sash and Thomas to take over the rent on their flat. I laugh, say he’ll be lucky, but I agree they do need to stand on their own feet; like Fin. Rob doesn’t take the bait, he knows how heinous it was to blame Fin for the handouts which were actually going to Anna. Fin was angry with me too, only recently agreeing to see me, and I know he has little contact with his father.

  I hang back, feigning interest in a holly bush, the bright red berries the only stabs of colour in the neglected garden. Rob waits for me to catch up, says the sale of the barn seems to be going well and I agree, tell him it was a good price, we were lucky. Lucky. The word dances between us, sneering before it evaporates on our breath, white puffs ahead of us as we walk.

  ‘What do you do with yourself?’ he asks, looking at me directly as the sky releases its first flakes of snow, catching on our eyelashes and settling on our shoulders and hair.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, wrapping my coat more tightly around me.

  ‘How do you fill your days?’ He pauses, reaching out to brush something from my face.

  ‘Don’t!’ I tell him, but we remain still, facing one another, fat snowflakes now falling fast.

  ‘Do you see Nick?’ he asks. ‘Is he still your lover?’

  ‘Don’t,’ I tell him again as I walk ahead, back towards the house. ‘Just don’t!’

  If there were a time when I would have told Rob what really happened between Nick and me, then that moment has long passed. He believes Nick was my lover, and perhaps in a sense it’s easier that he does. It’s none of his business any more, he has no right to the truth and I have no desire to share it with him. There are questions I could ask him too, about deleted emails, a deliberately concealed phone, all the lies, but what would be the point? I have my answers already.

  Rob calls after me, ‘What do you do every day, Jo?’

  I stop, turn around, open my mouth to speak, but then I’m unsure what to say. What would I tell him? That I attend my weekly meeting at the brain injury group, eat Rose’s home-cooked meals, sleep in the single bed that was once hers whilst she sleeps in her parents’ room next door, that we talk endlessly about Nick’s disappearance and our work at the drop-in centre, and how I’m thinner, or more tired, or how many weeks until Sash’s baby arrives, as though that were the great hope; a new year and a new baby all it takes to mend a broken heart. Or would I want to share with him how sometimes when I’m behind Nick’s desk – now tidy – updating the new paperless system that Rose and me, but mainly me, have grappled with for weeks and almost completed, I can feel almost content. How I forget the room was once the source of such fear and pain, and I lose myself in my work. Would I brag how the charity has offered me Nick’s job at Rose’s insistence, and I’m taking my time to think about it, although I’m almost certain I will? How I have moments when I feel in control at last, worthy of respect. Or how when I leave the centre with Rose, I imagine myself, once this place is sold, walking to an apartment or small house of my own, filled with everything I have chosen, everything I will learn to love, and closing the door on the rest of the world.

  ‘It doesn’t concern you any more, what I do,’ I reply as I go back inside the empty barn.

  The forms are on the dining table, neatly laid out with a pen at their side. I sign first. Rob pauses, looks up at me and I hand him the pen. He takes it then says to me as he signs, ‘Anna wants to try for a baby again, but if it would make any difference, if there were even a small chance that—’ He looks up at me.

  ‘There isn’t,’ I tell him.

  After I hear his car drive away I go upstairs and switch on the bedroom light, pulling the blind against the near darkness. The snow has stopped, but the lane will be dark and slippery. I need to go soon, before it’s too treacherous. The suitcase is on the bed, taken down from the loft as promised. He’s even unzipped it. I open my wardrobe doors and begin packing my remaining clothes, every dress or jacket taken from its hanger and folded neatly. Then I do the same with the contents of each drawer, picking up a book, half read, still resting on my bedside table. I glance at the cover then I throw it in too, closing the zip around the tangled mess inside. I wheel it along the hallway, past the empty rooms until I reach the top of the stairs where I push the handle down and lift the heavy case on to the first stair, almost losing my balance as I reach out to save it from falling. I steady myself, adjusting my technique to go down backwards, the weight of the case above me now as I bump it from tread to tread. I’ve only tackled two stairs when the image rears up, a perfect picture, fully formed and clear. I stop, supporting the suitcase as I look up.

  Rob is behind me, begging me not to leave, he’ll do anything, he says, his hand reaching out to stop me. I step away from him. He can’t stop me now, he can’t. There’s no excuse. I don’t want him any more, there’s nothing left. Nothing worth fighting for. I abandon the photos I’d been trying to remove from the wall. I just need to get away from here, from him. My foot slips, just a little, an inch too far from the tread. I reach out to Rob and he hesitates, but then he grabs my wrist, his reflexes quick as his firm hold tethers me there; safe. I feel such relief, the protection of his hand on mine, the tightness of it, squeezing so hard around my wrist I think the pain may slice straight through the bone.

  My tears are falling hard now, my chest heaving as I feel that same relief again. He’d held me there; safe, his grip so tight it had bruised my wrist.

  But I still fell.

  My hands cover my mouth, suppressing a scream as I see Rob’s expression change, his eyes clouding over, the frown deep.

  He releases his grasp on my wrist all at once, an opening of his palm, a stretch of the long fingers, my body tilting back as I scream, ‘Rob. No!’

  The h
eavy suitcase slides towards me, its weight knocking me off balance. I step back, losing my footing, but this time I manage to grab the bannister and save myself, watching as the case falls, two heavy thuds as it hits first the wall, then the tiled floor below. I sink down on to the stair beneath me, my hands shaking, my eyes closed; but the image of Rob is still there, his hand opening to let me fall, the cold hard tiles of the hall floor hurtling towards me; the first lie already forming on my husband’s lips.

  Acknowledgements

  Without Sarah Williams, my wonderful agent, this book would not be in your hands. Sarah’s patience and tenacity have always equalled and often exceeded my own as we walked this path together. She spotted something in my writing and held her nerve. For that, and her skill and intelligence, I owe her everything. And to Sophie Hicks, who always offers the best and most down-to-earth advice, and Morag O’Brien, who has taken Close To Me to places I could never have dreamed it would go. I am forever grateful.

  Thanks also to everyone at Headline who has been involved in the many aspects of publishing Close To Me. I am so fortunate to have found such an amazing publisher. Aside from their expertise, the team at Wildfire – Alex Clarke, Kate Stephenson and Ella Gordon – are also the loveliest people you could hope to meet. A special thank you is reserved for Kate Stephenson whose editorial skill has brought my book to life. I have loved working with you, Kate, every minute of it. Also thanks to Katie Brown for her superlative PR, Jo Liddiard for her creative marketing, and Siobhan Hooper for my beautiful cover.

  To my Mum and Dad, who inspired me to always follow my dreams and instilled in me a belief that I could achieve anything if I wanted to, I am so grateful. And to my wonderful husband Chris, who has put up with the strange and volatile world I inhabit as I write. You have always believed in me; thank you so much. And for my children, Beth and Dan. You are my world and I am so proud of you both.

  To my extended family and friends, thanks for knowing when to ask, ‘How’s the book going?’ and when to talk about something else. The support from you all has been such a source of strength. To George, Val, Clare, David, Hannah, Morgan, Olivia, Tony, Kim, Gayle, Caroline, and all my family and friends, thanks for caring about something that matters so much to me.

  A huge debt of thanks is also owed to my writer friends, Hayley Hoskins, Kate Riordan and Helen Maslin, who have understood this journey in ways no one else can. It’s a long road and without them it would have been so much harder. For their thoughtfulness, loyalty, fun, laughter, and all the hours spent reading on my behalf, I thank them endlessly. Thanks also go to Henri, an early supporter of my writing.

  To all the members of Cotswold Creative Writing, thank you for sharing your beautiful stories with me each week; they have entertained and moved me and it has been a pleasure and a privilege to get to know you all.

  No one writes a book alone, so to everyone who has helped, thanks, thanks, and more thanks. It’s never too late to dream. Never.

  About the Author

  Amanda Reynolds has taught creative writing in Cheltenham for the last five years. She currently lives in the Cotswolds with her husband, two children and two furry retrievers. Close To Me is her first novel.

  Follow her on Twitter: @amandareynoldsj