by C. L. Taylor
Alice laughs and the awkwardness she’s been feeling slips away. Simon keeps up the terrible curry jokes for another few minutes, then they slip into comfortable conversation, one topic morphing easily into the next. They laugh a lot and by the time Alice’s lamb bhuna is placed in front of her, her cheeks are hurting from smiling so much.
‘So,’ she asks, as she stabs her fork into a hunk of meat, ‘you still haven’t told me what you do for a living.’
Simon dabs at his mouth with his napkin. ‘Haven’t I? That’s because it’s not very interesting.’
‘Well, I’m interested. Go on, tell me. I won’t judge. Or yawn.’
Simon laughs. ‘I just, um …’ His gaze flicks away from her, to the door of the restaurant as the bell chimes and an older couple walk in. ‘I … it’s really very boring. Just insurance … stuff.’
Alice fakes a yawn, her eyes on Simon, waiting for a laugh. When it doesn’t come she says, ‘Sorry, I’m being rude. What kind of insurance?’
‘Just, um … financial, for companies, institutions. Like I said, really very boring.’ He swipes a hand dismissively through the air. It’s the third or fourth time Alice has noticed him do that and it’s always when she asks him something he doesn’t want to answer.
She takes the hint. ‘Okay, so, where do you live?’
He runs a hand over the back of his neck, his eyes still on the door. Alice turns her head to look but it’s closed. No one’s just come in.
‘St George’s,’ he says. ‘I’ve got a little three-bed house.’
She starts to tell him that she lives in a two-bedroom flat in Kingswood with her daughter Emily, then realises she’s already told him that. She shifts in her chair, suddenly uncomfortable. Simon definitely struggles with direct questions. He can riff for ages about books and films, holidays and politics, but whenever she broaches anything remotely personal he clams up.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks.
‘Yeah, sure.’ His smile returns. ‘I’m having a really good night. You?’
‘Yeah,’ she says, but there’s an invisible question mark that hangs in the air.
‘What’s up?’ he asks.
I need to know what you’re hiding, she thinks but doesn’t say.
‘Have you ever been in prison?’ It feels unlikely but it might explain why he’s so reticent about talking about himself.
Simon laughs – a loud, incredulous bark. ‘What? No! Of course not.’
Alice changes tack. Why else would someone warn her off him?
‘Have you ever cheated on anyone?’ she asks.
This time his answer isn’t quite so immediate and his gaze drops to the table. ‘No. Unless you count a kiss. I was a student, my girlfriend was back in our hometown and I got drunk at a house party. Actually that is cheating, isn’t it? So yes, but it was a long time ago.’ There’s a pause, then, ‘Anything else? I’ve got the feeling you’ve got a checklist hidden away under the table and you’re working your way through. Do you need my shoe size too? They’re massive by the way.’ The edges of his mouth lift into a smile.
Alice smiles too but it doesn’t reach all the way to her eyes. He thinks she’s a weirdo, bombarding him with questions, and she can’t say she blames him. She is being unusually full-on. She’s going to have to mention it, isn’t she? The Facebook message that warned her not to trust him. She was convinced that Michael was behind it but the reaction of the woman in Costa made her rethink that theory. How would Michael know Simon’s name? As far as she knows, Simon didn’t stop to check on Michael; he picked up her purse and ran after her, following her all the way to the Meads. And she’s watched enough episodes of Line of Duty to know that offenders aren’t told the name of witnesses by the police.
‘Simon,’ she says cautiously, ‘can you think of anyone who’d want to put me off you?’
‘Weird question.’
‘I know.’ She raises her eyebrows to let him know she’d still like an answer.
He reaches for his beer and takes a sip, his eyes not meeting hers. Alice waits, fighting the urge to fill the silence with an apology or an explanation. Simon takes another sip, longer this time, then sets his glass down on the table.
‘No, not really. Although my ex-girlfriend isn’t my biggest fan. I’m not going to call Flora a psycho because the sort of men who call their exes that are normally pretty dodgy themselves but … well, let’s just say that relationship didn’t end well.’
‘In what way?’
‘We were engaged, six months away from getting married. The venue had been booked, the dress had been bought, invitations had been sent out, the whole lot. And I, um … I called it off.’
‘You cancelled the wedding?’
‘I ended the relationship. She was a lovely girl, woman,’ he corrects himself quickly, ‘the best. But I knew it wasn’t right. Spending the rest of our lives together would have been a mistake.’
‘I’m guessing she didn’t take it well?’
He laughs ruefully. ‘You could say that. I’d been feeling that things weren’t right for a while but I put off saying anything. I thought they might sort themselves out but they … um … they didn’t … and when I went to the fitting for my suit I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t even put it on. Anyway, God …’ he runs his hands over his face and sighs heavily ‘… why are we even talking about this?’
‘Look at this.’ Alice pushes her mobile across the table towards him.
Simon picks it up and looks at the screen. His eyes flick from left to right as he reads the Facebook message from Ann Friend.
‘Who is this?’ He looks at her, her phone still in his hand.
‘I don’t know. I thought it might be Michael, the man from the pub, but there’s no way he could know your name unless … unless you told him?’
‘No.’ Simon shakes his head. ‘I didn’t speak to the guy.’ He reaches into his jacket and pulls out his own mobile. He checks it, then puts it back in his pocket.
‘Don’t you think it’s creepy?’ Alice asks.
There’s that look again, blankness behind the impenetrable grey of his irises. ‘A bit. I’d ignore it if I were you. If you’ll excuse me.’ He gets up. ‘I just need to make a quick call.’
‘Sure.’
Weird, Alice thinks as Simon leaves the restaurant with his phone in his hand, suddenly having to make a phone call after she showed him the message. Should she ask him who he was speaking to when he comes back or would that look too obsessive? No, she decides as she reaches for her glass, better to say nothing and see what he says. As she takes a sip of water her phone vibrates on the table. It’s a text from Emily.
I’m sorry, Mum. I didn’t mean to insult you. I hope you’re having fun with Simon. You deserve to be happy. SORRY, SORRY, SORRY. I LOVE YOU. Xx
Alice smiles as she taps out a reply:
I love you too. You mean the world to me. xx
As she sits back in her chair she looks longingly at Simon’s pint glass. Maybe she should ask the waiter for a small glass of red. She’d still be under the limit and it would take the edge off her nerves. As she raises her hand to attract a waiter’s attention her phone bleeps again.
Hello! How’s your night in with Emily going? There’s sod all on the telly. Anything good on Netflix?
Lynne. Shit. She’d completely forgotten about the lie she’d told to get out of going to the cinema. She loves Lynne to bits but sometimes hanging out with her can be exhausting; their conversations go round in circles – picking over old relationships, gossiping about the staff in the other shops, gossiping about the staff in their own shop (although Alice tries very hard not to), and discussing various health woes. It’s good to have a bit of time apart every now and then. But she should have been honest with her.
I’m such a dick, she thinks as she taps out a text:
Actually, I’m having dinner with Simon. It was a last minute thing. She cringes at the lie then continues, It’s not going well. I don’t think there wi
ll be a second date. Cinema tomorrow night instead? You can choose. xx
She presses send before she can second-guess herself then glances up as the bell at the front door tinkles and someone walks in. It’s Simon, all ruffled blonde hair and broad shoulders but with the stooped posture of a man who feels uncomfortable with his height.
Alice’s phone bleeps with a reply from Lynne.
No way, how exciting! Sorry it’s not going well though. Give me the goss tomorrow. Yes definitely to cinema. x
‘You’re still here,’ Simon says, as he shuffles, rather than strides, up to Alice. He doesn’t sit down. Instead he hovers beside the table, unsure, his hands in his pockets.
‘Of course I am.’ She turns her body towards him. ‘Why would I leave?’
Alice walks through the dark streets of Bristol, her arm looped through Simon’s. There’s something about the way her arm fits into the crook of his and the light pressure of her coat sleeve on his that feels right, even if she has to take two steps for each one of his. The mood lightened after Simon returned from making his phone call. Alice pushed Ann Friend’s message to the back of her brain and she and Simon both laughed a lot over dessert. After he paid for dinner he said he’d walk her back to her car. It wouldn’t be right, he said, letting her navigate the back streets of Bristol alone, not when it was so late. In any other circumstances she would have laughed and said she was perfectly capable of finding her car alone but she was touched by the gesture and besides, it would make the date last that little bit longer. And perhaps there would be a second date after all.
As they pass the NCP car park, Simon makes a soft little snort of disapproval. ‘Full. Still. At nearly 11 p.m. on a Tuesday night. Honestly, the council really needs to sort out the parking situation. Not to mention the bloody roadworks.’
‘I know,’ Alice says, then, with nothing more to add to the discussion, adds, ‘we’re not far away now. I’m just round this corner.’
As they turn the corner into the dark alleyway, her heart flutters a little. Will he kiss her goodnight at the car? It must be at least twenty years since—
Simon sighs heavily. ‘Yours isn’t the white Golf is it?’
‘Yes. Why?’ Alice peers into the gloom and immediately spots the issue. A parking ticket, inside a clear plastic sleeve, tucked under the windscreen wiper. She swears under her breath, then unhooks her arm from Simon’s and stalks up to the parking sign on the opposite side of the narrow street.
‘It says here that parking is free after … oh.’ She closes her eyes in frustration and inhales sharply through her nose. In her desperation to get to the restaurant as quickly as possible she’d only glanced at the sign, seeing what she wanted to see and not what it actually said.
‘Alice,’ Simon calls out. There’s a note of urgency in the way he says her name. ‘You need to look at this.’
She glances across the street, to the last place she saw him, a few feet from her car. But he’s not there.
‘Simon?’ She looks towards the end of the alley and the traffic rushing past. There’s no one in the other direction either. There are no shops open for him to have slipped into, no pub doorways for him to shelter in. He’s completely disappeared.
‘Simon!’ She heads back towards the main street but a flash of light somewhere between her car and the wall makes her pause. She turns, waiting for it to happen again, then squeaks in surprise as Simon pops up from behind the car. He’s got his mobile in his hand, the light from the torch app flashing across the alleyway.
‘Alice.’ He beckons her over.
‘What is it?’ she asks as she draws closer, but Simon doesn’t answer. Instead he crouches down and slowly sweeps the light of his phone across the driver-side door.
It takes her a couple of seconds to make sense of the jagged scratches in the paintwork but the longer she looks, the clearer it becomes. Three words.
YOU’RE NOT LISTENING.
Chapter 16
Ursula
Definitely no spy cameras in the bathroom. Ursula looked everywhere – twice – and then searched her room. It’s 11.05 p.m. and she’s lying back on her bed, a book in her lap and headphones clamped to her ears. She can’t settle, and not just because of nail brush-gate. It’s been a good day in a lot of ways – she delivered all but two of her parcels, nothing hugely stressful happened and she didn’t steal anything. But she can’t stop thinking about the woman at number six. Was she telling the truth? About being agoraphobic? Ursula moves her book onto the bedside table, then swings her legs off the bed and stands up. She stretches, fingertips nearly grazing the textured ceiling, and wanders over to the window. A name has been scratched into the thick gloss paint on the sill: Nick.
She runs a fingernail over it, wondering how many people lived in her room before her, then pulls back the curtains and looks outside. Unlike Charlotte’s house with its incredible view of Bristol’s twinkling lights, there’s nothing of interest at the rear of Ed’s – just a matchbox-sized patio with various dead plants in tubs and the backs of other people’s houses. She presses her palms against the glass and raises her gaze. No stars, just a sliver of moon, peeping out of a murky grey-black sky. It’s one of the things she misses most about her old life: being able to see the stars. She and Nathan would travel up to the Lake District every opportunity they had. They’d camp out and lie on their backs outside their tent, gazing up at the inky black sky, making up stories about the shapes they could see in the stars.
Ursula presses a hand to her chest, suddenly struggling to breathe. The radiators are pumping out heat and the room feels stiflingly hot. She fiddles with the latch on the old window then, as the painted sill cracks and groans, gives it a shove. It swings open, then BANG, the wind grabs it and slams it against the side of the house.
‘Fuck!’ She says under her breath as she leans out of the window, hair wrapping around her face as she reaches for the metal arm. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’
She tenses as she pulls the arm towards her, anticipating a shattered pane or a bloody great hole where the glass used to be, but the window is still intact. As she sighs with relief there’s a bang from somewhere else in the house that makes her bedroom door shudder on its hinges.
She stares across the room, listening. Did Ed just come home and slam the front door? He wasn’t in when she got back a little after seven o’clock. The TV in the living room was off and cool to the touch, and she couldn’t hear anything when she listened at his bedroom door. She went into the bathroom, half-expecting to see police tape festooned around his stuff, but everything was as it had been that morning, including the nail brush on the shelf. She stood for a while, staring at it, trying to work out how he’d known she’d touched it. It was lined up with his other toiletries, each item about an inch apart, all labels facing forward. Had she just chucked it back in? She couldn’t remember.
When her stomach rumbled noisily she headed down to the kitchen and made beans on toast topped with grated cheese. She ate it standing up, shovelling forkfuls into her mouth as she leaned over the counter. She was already in Ed’s bad books and she didn’t want to make things worse by dropping a rogue bean down the side of the sofa. Afterwards, she quickly washed the dish and the pot she’d used, put them away and scurried back to her room. She’s been listening out for Ed ever since. He hasn’t responded to her Sorry, it won’t happen again text and, in Ursula’s mind, that can only mean he hasn’t forgiven her.
She moves across her room and listens at the door for the sound of footsteps, the clank of pans or the squeak of the stairs. Nothing. The house is still silent. She puts a hand on the handle and slowly eases the door open. She steps out onto the landing and peers down the stairs. The front door is shut and the only coat on the peg is hers. So Ed hasn’t come home. But what was the noise?
She turns as something catches her eye. There’s a small piece of paper wedged in the floor, in a gap between two of the planks directly outside Edward’s room. She crosses the landing and stoo
ps down to pick it up. It’s a photo clipped out of a newspaper, a full headshot of a smiling man. On the other side is part of an article about new building regulations in Bristol. There’s something about the man’s face that looks vaguely familiar but she can’t place his name. The clipping wasn’t on the landing when she got home; she would have noticed it when she went into the bathroom. Did the wind blow it out from Edward’s room? She drops to her knees. It’s a Victorian house and there are gaps under a lot of the doors. She presses her cheek against a cold wooden board, screws up her right eye, and peers under Edward’s bedroom door. She can’t make out much, mostly the floorboards of his room, but there is something else. More pieces of paper. The bang she heard must have been Edward’s window. By opening hers she caused a draught and the wind scattered his collection of newspaper clippings all over the floor. Shit. She gets to her feet and tries the handle to his door. Locked.
She crouches down and slides the photo she found under the door, but the man’s smiling face doesn’t make it all the way back into Edward’s room. She isn’t sure why she can’t bring herself to push him all the way inside; maybe it’s the little voice in her head telling her that it’s not normal to cut out photos of people from newspapers, or maybe she’s curious to find out what Ed will do when he realises it’s missing. Either way, she plucks it back up, carries it to her room, tucks it under her pillow and lies down on her bed. She glances at the door and the mess of parcel tape covering the missing lock and makes a mental note to ask Ed when he’s going to replace it, then promptly falls asleep.
The sound of creaking wood infiltrates Ursula’s dream. She’s on a beach, looking for Nathan, and the noise makes her turn towards the sea. She looks for a rowing boat, oars dipping and turning, gently bobbing on the waves. But there’s nothing there. Just miles of sea that fade into a dull grey sky.
‘Nathan!’ she calls. ‘Nathan, where are you?’ But her shout is drowned out by the creak, creak, creak of the wood. She turns towards the dunes, looking for whoever, or whatever, is making the noise. But there’s no one in the dunes either, just long blades of grass that curve and bend in the wind.
