by Sue Watson
‘Get a grip,’ he goes on. ‘We live near each other, we work a few streets apart, we socialise in the same, small city with one high street running through it. Of course I’m going to see you around.’
‘I haven’t seen you.’
‘Well, I don’t spend my evenings licking someone’s face in public.’
‘It’s called being in love, Tom, something you know nothing about.’
He takes a sip of latte, cool as a cucumber, nothing ever seems to move him, even my anger – especially my anger.
‘I think you’ve got me wrong,’ he says, putting down his mug. ‘Yeah, okay I was pissed off when you dumped me, and kicked me out of my home. Then I was suspended from my job over some emails I didn’t write, and I still don’t know who did.’ He pauses and looks at me accusingly.
‘It wasn’t me, I told you, I swear it wasn’t.’ A few weeks after we’d split he turned up at the office screaming about how I’d sent emails to everyone at the council (where he worked) accusing him of sexual harassment, or impropriety or something. Apparently there was an internal investigation and he’d been suspended, but I had nothing to do with it.
‘Whatever,’ he says dismissively, still clearly believing I tried to destroy his life. ‘You were the one that dumped me, then you started punishing me… yeah, I came to the office, I was pissed off with you – but, trust me, I am no stalker. That’ – he points at the card on the table in front of me – ‘is different level.’
I’m not totally convinced. Admittedly, he never actually did anything too weird back then, just some heavy-breathing phone calls, but other stuff happened that I still can’t explain. Then more recently, there’s been the note, and the strong smell of aftershave in my car last night, the blanket on the back seat. It might be nothing. Or it might be Tom.
‘Anyway, when have I ever bought you flowers?’ he says as an afterthought, and laughs.
I can’t help but smile. ‘Mmm, you have a point, they were roses too – a bit classy for your tastes. But that note was nasty – and to my knowledge, there’s no one else who hates me like you do.’
‘I’m over it. And I know this might be hard for you to get your head round, but I’m seeing someone else now. I’m really not interested, Hannah,’ he says. ‘And, if you ask me, this card isn’t from someone who hates you, it’s from someone who’s obsessed with you.’
Chapter Eleven
It’s been almost three weeks since my meeting with Tom and, tellingly, nothing else unsettling has happened.
I’m not convinced Tom got into my car that night. Perhaps my perfume had reacted in the freezing air and that made it smell stronger, like aftershave even? And the wind may have whipped the blanket up when I opened the door. I’m not sure I believe it, but it’s made me feel a bit less anxious, and I can go about my daily life without being too paranoid.
As for the roses and the note, Tom did a good acting job of being surprised when he read it. But for him to say someone is obsessed with me makes me think he might just be trying to scare me – and therefore perhaps he did send them. I didn’t tell Alex about meeting up with Tom, he’d only worry, he warned me not to make contact, said he was dangerous. Perhaps he is. Fortunately, there’s been lots going on recently that has kept Tom’s antics on the fringes of my mind, not least my relationship with Alex, which is going from strength to strength.
I can’t believe how much my life has changed in a matter of a few weeks. Alex and I spend most of our time at his, weeknights and weekends – it’s almost as if we’re living together. We cook, binge-watch old movies, listen to music – we both love the same nineties bands, especially Oasis – and we regularly step into that big, beautiful shower together.
We still haven’t spent the evening at mine. In fact Alex hasn’t even set foot in my flat, and I know I need to invite him over soon. I just worry he’ll see my shabby old flat and be totally put off. And, besides, I love being at his, it’s a whole house rather than a flat, it’s more comfortable. And he spoils me in a way no one has ever spoiled me in my life. This morning, despite having had a large bowl of his wonderful home-made porridge, at 11.30 Alex dropped off a bag of warm croissants at reception. I was out on a visit and actually rather glad I wasn’t there when he dropped by. I’d have felt obliged to invite him into the office, which would have been awkward as everyone’s always busy, and you never know what they’re dealing with. Anyway, the croissants were waiting at reception when I got back, which filled me with a lovely inner glow that rivalled the warm porridge.
‘He seemed so disappointed that you weren’t here,’ Margaret said. ‘I think he was hoping to catch a glimpse of you.’ She winked.
I walked into the office, holding the bakery bag aloft and announcing that Alex was a sweetie, just as I spotted two large pains au chocolat from the café on my desk.
‘I didn’t realise you had a new supplier,’ Harry joked.
‘Yeah, but you’ll always be my main man,’ I replied.
This morning before work, I’d popped into the Sainsbury’s Local and finally remembered to buy a second box of Father Christmas-shaped Smarties for Harry as a thank-you for the pastries. I’d put them on his desk and said, ‘A fair exchange for all the croissants?’
‘Ahh cheers, Hannah, you didn’t have to do that,’ he’d replied.
I think he was genuinely pleased, and I was glad I’d kept this new tub away from Alex.
‘I’m not sure I can eat dinner tonight after those lovely croissants you sent today,’ I tell Alex this evening, when I arrive at his place. He’s made a casserole, and insists I have some, but I ask for the tiniest portion.
‘So, you enjoyed the croissants?’ he asks a little later as we finish eating.
‘Yes, they were delicious. So delicious I had to go to the gym at lunchtime,’ I say.
‘You went to the gym?’ he sounds horrified.
‘Yeah, it’s near work. It’s nice to get out of the office sometimes and jump on the treadmill. It was busy, though – I reckon everyone’s firming up for their Christmas party dresses.’
‘You don’t need a gym. You can work out with me in the garage,’ he says. ‘I’ve got everything in there – state-of-the-art treadmill and—’
‘Your garage? Isn’t it bloody freezing in there this time of year?’
‘It’s fine, a bit of cold air won’t kill you. We can work out together, it’ll be fun. Much nicer than a gym full of sweaty people. Besides, it’s romantic to work out together.’
I try to resist, but Alex won’t take no for an answer and insists we do a mini workout now, so I can ‘test-drive’ his gym. I have my gear with me, so get changed and reluctantly follow him through the kitchen to the inside door to the garage. He’s taking ages to unlock it, and I’ve never noticed until now, but there’s a padlock above the keyhole too.
‘Why do you have so many locks? The garage door will keep anyone out, it’s electric,’ I say, puzzled.
‘Oh, you know me, I like to be safe, and now you’re here a lot – I want you to be safe.’
‘I can look after myself. I’m a big strong girl, Alex,’ I joke, lifting my arm and flexing my biceps.
‘Yes, but after your weirdo ex sent those flowers with the vicious note, I reckon we need double locks on everything.’
I don’t like to think about it, it’s too disturbing, and as nothing more has happened since I warned Tom off, I reckon it’s over now.
‘Don’t worry about him. He’s moved on,’ I say, not wanting to get into a conversation about it.
‘How do you know?’
‘I spoke to him,’ I say, knowing this isn’t going to go down well.
‘You called him?’ He sounds agitated.
I don’t want to lie, but I also don’t want to tell him we met, it will only upset him. He’ll think I put myself in danger, when I didn’t see it that way. I never thought I’d be one of those women, hiding things from my partner so as not to upset him. I’m not intimidated by Alex, no
r do I need his approval – it’s just easier and will avoid any additional drama this evening. It’s true that love makes liars of us all.
‘He insisted it had nothing to do with him, he was pissed off that I’d even asked him.’
‘It is him though, I’m sure of it. I wish you hadn’t made contact, he might think he’s in with a chance. He could be watching you, and I hate to think of you being alone and vulnerable. I can drive you to and from work,’ he suggests.
‘Thanks, Alex, but I’ll be fine… I’m tired, let’s not talk any more.’
‘Hannah, I don’t want you to be scared, but I do think you need to take it seriously. Go on, let me drive you to work and collect you. We do similar hours, I can work around you.’
He’s mentioned this before, soon after I told him about the note and roses. I like that he cares, but sometimes I think he worries too much. What happened was horrible and upset me, but I don’t want to dwell on it, nor do I want to live in a padlocked place and have him ferrying me around everywhere. It’s like he’s petrified something might happen to me if he’s not there. I suspect it might be a legacy of his childhood. He told me that when his mum died, no one told him. She died in her sleep, and he woke to be told by his dad, ‘the angels have taken her.’
‘I thought she’d been stolen, kidnapped by these wicked angels,’ he’d said. As difficult as the concept of death was to his young mind, the idea of a group of angels ‘taking’ his mother must have been so much harder to comprehend. ‘I was scared of angels throughout my childhood, because they came in the night and stole people you love,’ he’d admitted. It made me cry.
‘The gym’s a lot warmer,’ I say now, trying to do sit-ups on a mat next to him in the icy garage. As romantic as it might be for some people to work out together, it’s not my idea of a couples’ night in. Apart from the fact he’s so much fitter than me, and I can’t keep up, it’s absolutely freezing, as I’d feared. ‘I think I might give your gym a miss, babe,’ I say after an hour of freezing-cold torture. ‘I’m tense with cold, my muscles will ache tomorrow.’
‘Darling, I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘What about if I get some heating in here, would you give the garage workout another go?’
‘I might,’ I say doubtfully, ‘but don’t go to any trouble, I’m fine with the gym.’
‘It’s no trouble.’
‘You do so much for me, Alex, and you really don’t have to, you know. I’m not a princess, I don’t need pleasing all the time,’ I say with a smile.
We both laugh at this. ‘Sorry, I just want to make everything – right. I told you I’m a bit too much sometimes,’ he says – a point which was proven earlier this week when he couldn’t get tickets for a play I said I’d like to see. I saw the flickers of anger, the fear of failure when he thought he’d let me down. And now, as we walk back into the house, after he’s double-locked and padlocked the garage, I know he feels as if he’s failed me again because I found the garage too cold tonight.
It makes me feel bad, as if I’m solely responsible for his happiness. I appreciate his attentiveness, but it’s quite a responsibility, especially when it seems to be his mission to make me happy. He’s even started to fill his fridge with my favourite things. He says I’m a slut when it comes to food, and he’s right, but then he moves aside his jars of artisan chutney and pickled artichokes to squeeze in my mini supermarket trifles and ready-sliced cheese. And I know there’s nothing that will stop him loving me. And I keep telling myself that’s good, isn’t it?
I tell Jas about the freezing garage-gym workout when I get to the office this morning, thinking it’ll amuse her – but she doesn’t laugh.
‘Anyway, Alex is having heaters installed, so I can’t use the cold as an excuse not to work out in the bloody garage,’ I add with a giggle.
‘Wouldn’t you rather go to the gym?’ she asks, unsmiling.
‘Not really, it’s full of sweaty people. Besides, it’s romantic to work out together.’ I hear myself echoing Alex, but I now think he’s right.
‘Do you think he’s just done that so you don’t go to the gym?’ she says, loud enough for the others to hear.
Sameera asks what we’re talking about and Jas tells her that Alex wants to make me a home gym.
‘He doesn’t want her doing press-ups in tight lycra in front of other men,’ she says with a wink.
‘Ooh he might be a bit… too keen,’ Sameera says.
‘No he isn’t,’ I say wearily, pissed off at Jas’s interpretation of Alex’s kindness, and the fact she’s opened this up to the whole office for debate. I think she’s feeling a little rejected because we haven’t had a girls’ night recently, and now she’s trying to rally the troops to judge Alex through her cynical eyes.
‘It might be that he doesn’t want you going to the gym because you might bump into hunky men,’ Sameera offers, almost apologetically.
‘Is this guy possessive much?’ Harry sniggers.
That’s the trouble when you spend all your time with people, you tell them too much and they start to create their own narratives. Jas has started this one. I realise it’s been difficult for her to see me so caught up in Alex when her relationship has so recently backfired, but I wish she’d be a little more supportive.
‘He isn’t possessive at all,’ I say. ‘There’s a difference between being controlling – which I think is what you’re saying – and caring. And, trust me, I do know the difference,’ I say, perhaps a little sharply.
Harry isn’t even listening to my response, he’s engrossed in something on his phone.
Jas shrugs. ‘Well, it’s your life, but I wouldn’t like that – I need my own space, I like getting away and being on my own in the gym – or with the girls.’
‘Yep, it’s my life,’ I say pointedly, and it’s my turn to shrug.
I’m the one who’s with Alex, and I know the truth – not them. They can think what they like. All I know is that since we met, I feel as if I’ve been living on a cloud of pink candy floss. Alex is kind, considerate, sensitive, he doesn’t even leave his socks on the floor or let plates pile up in the sink. Being me, I’m always looking for the problem, nothing is so good that it’s flawless. But the only little spot on my horizon is the spectre of Helen, his ex. He hasn’t really mentioned her since that first night at his house, and I’d love to know more about her. But all I really care about is that she’s in the past. Right now, nothing matters but me and Alex. I’ve become one of those people who, mid-conversation, smiles mysteriously when they receive a text, and has hushed phone calls in the office. I’m aware Jas doesn’t approve, but Sameera and Harry have calls with Raj and Gemma, and Jas never says anything. Perhaps I’m just imagining her disapproval. The old guilt gene again making me feel bad for something when I don’t need to.
I am worried about Jas though. She seems in a bad place right now, and it’s coming through in her negativity. Being made a widow in her thirties means she carries a lot of baggage, and I don’t know how to help her. Only yesterday I suggested we go out for lunch and talk – I understand she may not want to pour her heart out in front of the office. But she said there’s nothing to talk about, she’s just feeling low, wondering where her life’s going and if she’ll ever meet anyone again. I understand, because until recently I was the girl who spent her weekends alone, who gazed resentfully, yet longingly, at the ‘couple’ photos on other friends’ Instagram accounts. I used to roll my eyes at the sickly silhouette heart shapes they made with their hands against a sunset, the cute little selfies of two loved-up faces squashed against a camera lens. I hated anniversaries and Valentine’s days and dinners for two. No one understands how Jas feels more than me, and I get it: as satisfied as she is with her career, her home, her life – she’s ready to share it with someone again.
‘I had a bitch of a night last night,’ she said to me when I popped into her office earlier. ‘So, as you know, I bought a new outfit, got my nails and hair done, trowelled on an inch of foundation
and lipstick.’
‘Yes how did it go?’ I ask, guessing what her answer will be.
‘Well, I ended up sitting in Pizza Express on my own. I was that loser, checking her phone and nursing a glass of white wine. The bloody waitress kept asking me if I was waiting for someone, and was I going to order, like you aren’t allowed a pre-dinner drink when you’re on your own, you have to be in a sodding pair.’
‘The guy didn’t turn up?’ I asked, feeling terrible for her, she’d been quite excited about the date. She hasn’t said as much, but I’m sure she thinks if she does what I did and goes on a dating app the same thing that happened to me will happen for her.
‘No he didn’t bloody turn up. The hundredth guy I’ve been talking to recently who seems to think it’s okay to chat online, make all kinds of suggestions and promises, arrange a time, a date and just not turn up. Jesus, it’s got to the stage where I wouldn’t mind if they just wanted a one-night stand – as long as they actually showed up.’
‘Oh, love, it will happen for you. Thing is, you just have to relax and—’
‘Don’t.’ She’d put her palm up in a stop sign. ‘If you’ve got some bloody cliché about ten buses coming at once up your sleeve, keep it to yourself. I don’t want to hear it.’
‘I know it’s annoying, but I meant it. I believe it will happen for you… but you have to open up and stop being so cynical about men.’
‘Not easy when time and time again they prove themselves to be the tossers I think they are.’
I shrugged in agreement.
She looked at me, weighing me up for a few seconds and I waited for the comment. ‘I bet you spent the night all snuggly in bed with Mr Perfect watching Netflix and ordering a takeaway.’
‘No, we just had some bread and cheese,’ I said, suddenly feeling defensive. ‘We watched some Netflix – but Alex is busy working on a case, so it wasn’t quite the love-fest you paint.’