I can barely watch a television show in which there’s not someone who looks a bit like someone else I sort of know. If I’m ever watching something new, I spend half the show trying to figure out what I’ve seen the lead actor in before, and the other half wondering who the rest of the cast look like. It’s not beyond the realms of possibility that there’s someone who looks like David.
The award in my hand means that various people are stopping me every few paces, largely to say congratulations – although it’s hard to miss the head tilts and sympathetic smiles. The story goes that David disappeared two years ago and it’s as if everyone expects me to be constantly on the brink of a breakdown.
I do a second lap of the room and, after seeing nobody who looks like David, I head towards the reception area of the hotel. There are plush crimson carpets and more people milling around. Someone is lugging a suitcase to the front desk, though there is no one in a blue suit.
I’m not sure what else to do and find myself in the elevator, pressing the button for the upstairs floor to head to my room. A man eyes my trophy and nods an acknowledgement.
When I get upstairs, I spend the usual amount of time trying to get into my room. The keycard fails to work on the first two attempts and, as I’m about to start cursing everyone involved in the hotel industry, I realise it’s because I’m using it the wrong way around.
Inside, and I clip on the chain and thunk down the lock. I sit on the bed and stare at Jane’s photo. The resemblance to David is uncanny. He might not have had any significant distinguishing features – but he had a solid jaw and thick brows that framed his dark eyes and always seemed to give him an authority. I tell myself it’s not him – that I, more than anyone, know it can’t be.
I’m still staring at the photo when the phone buzzes and makes me jump. It’s from Andy.
How did it go?
I begin a reply, but my fingers are trembling too much to type properly. It doesn’t help that autocorrect is up to its usual standards of changing words like ‘sleepy’ into ‘slutty’. That would be an entirely different kind of reply, so I call him instead.
Andy sounds surprised when he answers: ‘You sound more coherent than I thought you might,’ he says.
‘I’ve not been drinking.’
‘I thought you’d either be partying or sleeping. How did you do?’
‘I won.’
There’s a slight delay and I wonder whether the line has cut out, but then he replies: ‘You don’t sound too excited about it…?’
I’m not sure how to answer but manage: ‘It’s been a long day, that’s all. I think I need some sleep. Shall we catch up after your class tomorrow?’
‘Sure.’
Andy’s not the type to hold grudges or start arguments – but I can’t quite tell from his voice whether he’s annoyed.
‘I’m looking forward to Saturday,’ he adds.
‘Me, too.’ I wait and then add: ‘Good night.’
He chirps ‘I love you’ and there’s a split second in which I consider saying it back. I have said the words to him before, but it doesn’t feel right now. Things seem different. I quickly press the red button to hang up instead. He’ll think that I didn’t hear him.
Another yawn purges through me and the clock says that it’s almost midnight. The past hour has charged by.
I don’t know what to do. In many ways, nothing is different. I came to these awards as planned, I won, and now the night is over. Everything is the same and yet nothing is. I look at the photo once more, where David’s face is peering out from the back of the winners. I zoom in and out, I fiddle with the brightness and contrast, but there’s no denying it’s him or someone who looks uncannily like him.
I down my phone and then rest the trophy on the nightstand. After that, I wriggle out of my dress, before having a wash in the bathroom. It’s not long before I’m drawn back to the photo. I can’t leave it alone. It’s not David and yet, somehow, it is. He’s frozen in the moment; neither smiling or frowning, his gaze angled towards Jane as if he knows precisely where the camera is.
When I look at the clock again, it’s a few minutes after one. Another hour has zipped by, as if I’ve blinked forward in time.
There’s a bump from the corridor and I hurry across the room until I’m pressing my eye to the spyhole. The hallway is bloated from the fisheye glass, though the only thing of interest is a messy tray of room service left on the floor outside the opposite door.
I return to the bed and sit, then lie, then sit, then stand. Nothing is comfortable.
I slept next to David for long enough – I married him, I killed him – and yet, two years on, he’s seemingly here again. Is it a twin? A brother? A cousin? It’s not as if he didn’t lie about his family once. More than once.
As I lie on the bed and stare at the dimpled bumps of plaster on the ceiling, I can only think of the night it all happened. There was so much I never knew about my husband and now, I suppose, there might be one more thing.
Four
THE WHY
Three years, nine months ago
David pulls out my chair and waits for me to sit before tucking me in under the table. He texted me three times after we went our separate ways that first night – and, after two weeks of messaging back and forth, we’re finally on a proper date.
The waiter comes across and David says something in Italian to him. Or I assume it is Italian – it’s not as if I understand. The waiter takes my coat and then disappears off without a word to me.
‘What did you say?’ I ask.
‘I was asking about wine. I’ve heard they’ve got a good cellar here.’
‘Oh…’
‘Are you a wine drinker?’
‘I’m not much of a drinker at all, really.’
He nods knowingly: ‘Of course. I should’ve realised, what with your job and everything.’
David reaches for the table water and pours some into my empty glass. He’s in jeans and a sports jacket, which, for most people, would look like some sort of middle-aged cry for help. For him, it works. There’s a sophistication about him. As I thought when I first saw him, he is almost exactly a decade older than me. That sort of age difference has never done anything for me before – but I figured there was no harm in going out to dinner together. It’s not as if I’m getting any younger – and, besides, there are so many dickheads out there that it’s rare to stumble across someone I actually like.
I don’t bother correcting him about the fact that I’ve never really been able to handle my alcohol. If he wants to think it’s because of my job, then fair enough.
The Italian place he chose for us to eat is one that I’ve walked past for years without ever really noticing it. I checked the prices once and decided it wasn’t for me. I’m not saying Domino’s is the pinnacle of culinary excellence – but I am saying a pizza shouldn’t cost £20. The inside is all faux Mediterranean, with the walls covered with prints of olive groves and sprawling, sun-drenched shores. If that doesn’t set enough of a mood, there are plastic grapes hanging from fake trees in the entranceway, plus glass jars filled with pasta lining the walls.
I’m still eyeing the menu when I sense David watching me around the large card that serves as a menu.
‘Did you go to university?’ he asks.
I suddenly feel self-conscious, wondering if this is something that might matter to him.
‘No,’ I reply.
‘It’s all a bit overrated anyway,’ he replies. ‘Some of the best people I know are self-taught and self-made.’
‘I’m trying to get into personal training,’ I say. ‘I’ve done the courses and am running a few classes at some of the local gyms.’
I don’t mention that my main gym is closing.
‘What’s your end goal?’ he asks.
‘My own studio.’
He nods approvingly: ‘I like people who dream big. Have you always worked in fitness?’
‘I’ve done a few things – wait
ressing, a bit of secretarial stuff. Nothing that took…’
David nods along, but I wonder if he’s thinking what I am: that it’s embarrassing to be almost thirty and have so little to show for it. Whenever meeting a new person, the first questions are always about name and occupation. It’s how we all judge one another. How we judge ourselves, I suppose.
‘I’ve been doing this for about four years,’ I add quickly. ‘I had to get a few qualifications and I was covering maternity at a gym in Kingbridge. It’s spiralled from there.’
I’m not sure why, but I care what David thinks. I want him to approve. Jane has been pushing me for a long time to get what she would see as a ‘proper’ job. I don’t think she’d still be with Ben if it wasn’t for the fact that he worked in a bank. Things like that matter to her.
‘It’s very impressive,’ he says. ‘I admire people who branch out to take control of their lives.’
He stares at me with such earnestness that I have to hoist the menu higher and hide behind it. I’m not used to this sort of praise.
The waiter relieves the embarrassment by appearing back at the side of the table and asking if we’re ready. We each order and then David asks if I’d mind him choosing wine for us to share. I say it’s fine and then he opts for something he says he’s certain I’ll like. I’m not sure how or why he’s come to this conclusion but am fine to go with it.
When the waiter heads off, he takes our menus with him, leaving me nothing to hide behind.
‘What about you?’ I ask, trying to get the conversation away from me. ‘What do you do?’
‘I trade collectibles.’
‘I’m not sure I know what that means.’
He presses back and puffs out his chest. There’s pride in talking about something he enjoys explaining. ‘It’s a family thing. My dad used to do it and I picked it up from him. I buy items like vinyl, books, comics, prints – that sort of thing – and then sell them to buyers around the continent, or in the US.’
Things are starting to click into place. I’d wondered why he was away for work since I met him at Jane’s party but didn’t want to ask.
‘That sounds fun,’ I say.
‘It can be.’
‘Do you travel a lot?’
‘Sometimes. It depends on circumstances. I can go months without having to leave home and then need to be on the road for weeks at a time. There are all sorts of conventions. If you know what you’re looking for, you can make a good living.’
My mind wanders, knowing that Jane won’t approve of David’s job.
‘How did you end up in Kingbridge?’ I ask.
‘I came for university. I’m from near Margate, but Dad died while I was on my course, so I never really left.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
He waves it away in the way people do when they don’t want to talk about something.
I’m not ready to let him turn the conversation back to me, so quickly add: ‘You told me you knew Ben through football at uni – but you’re a bit, um…?’
David smiles and interrupts before I can finish the thought: ‘You can say older.’
‘Sorry…’
‘You’re right. I went to university a bit later in life than most. One of the ways I tried to fit in was to get involved with the football team. I used to be a bit nippy in my time. Not a bad winger. I once scored four in a cup final when I was still at school.’
‘You must’ve been good.’
He shrugs humbly, although, if he was that modest, he wouldn’t have mentioned it in the first place.
‘I was scouted by the county,’ he says. ‘Had trials with Gillingham and Brighton, but things didn’t work out. Even with university, I was always putting off going into the same business as Dad. I think I was always destined to do this.’
The waiter returns with a bottle of wine and there’s the cartoon routine of him pouring a bit, David tasting and giving a barely-there nod, and then the waiter pouring it into both of our glasses. They exchange another word or ten in Italian and then we’re alone once more.
David raises his glass: ‘To entrepreneurs,’ he says. ‘We’re both doing our own thing.’
I’m not sure that’s true, but we clink glasses anyway and I have a sip. I half expect David to ask me what I can taste. People bang on about peat and floral aftertastes, but wine tastes of wine to me. It’s not complicated. Luckily, David says nothing of the sort.
It’s not long before the food arrives. David tells me how he once came across an early Superman Action Comics issue that he bought for a pound and sold for ‘six-figures’. Then there was some early Ferrari memorabilia that he picked up from a flea market in Italy that he sold for ‘the cost of a car itself’.
We spend most of the time talking about David, which is fine as it takes the focus away from me. Conversation comes easily and, though there’s more than a hint of the grandiose about his boasts, it’s not the worst trait. If I’d bought something for a pound and sold it for six-figures, I’d be telling people, too. His last name is ‘Persephone’, which he insists does not rhyme with ‘telephone’. He brings it up without prompting, but says the name with pride, as if it’s Windsor, or something like that. A moniker of which to be honoured. Perhaps it’s why he says it, like it’s a tactic or something, but I find myself running the name Morgan Persephone through my mind. I can already hear people mispronouncing it and having to correct them.
In a blink, the evening passes. We share a tiramisu and then I realise the restaurant is largely empty. The staff are hanging around with little to do. It doesn’t take a psychic to realise that they’re ready to go home.
The waiter brings the bill unprompted, presenting it in a smart leather booklet as if it’s a treasured first edition. The type of thing David might buy cheaply and sell on.
David reaches for the bill, but I’m not the sort to give too much ground and passively allow him to pay. Our fingers brush and it feels like that jolt of knowing the correct answer to a question.
There is a brief moment in which we both freeze and I know he feels it, too. It’s only a second, perhaps not even that, and then he slides the bill away.
‘I’ve got this,’ he says.
‘You don’t have to.’
‘It’s fine.’
He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and then checks the other side. His brow creases and then he tries the two outer pockets on his jacket, before he stands and checks his jeans.
‘I can’t find my wallet,’ he says. ‘I had it when I left the house.’
He pats all his pockets once more and then takes off the jacket and tries again.
‘All my cards were in there,’ he adds. ‘I’m so sorry about this.’
I assure him it’s fine, though the waiter has noticed there’s a problem and comes across to ask what’s wrong. David asks if anyone’s handed in a wallet, though there is no such luck.
‘I’ll pay,’ I say, digging out my purse from my bag.
David starts to argue, but it’s not as if we have much choice. ‘There was that thing about pickpockets in the news the other day…’ he adds.
He’s still patting his pockets, not concealing that spark of panic when something valuable is lost.
‘I’ll pay you back,’ David says.
I tap my PIN into the card machine and wait for it to process. ‘You can pay next time,’ I reply.
There’s a momentary gap and then he gets it: ‘There’ll be a next time…?’
The machine starts to spit out a receipt as I remove my card with a smile: ‘I have to get my money’s worth somehow.’
Five
THE NOW
Monday
I’m still awake at quarter past two in the morning when the text arrives from Jane.
Got home safely! Congrats on the win! Sleepy time now! Zzzzzzzzzz
I put down my phone and twist over in the hotel bed, facing the other side of the room. The lights are off but there’s a disrupting hint of wh
ite creeping under the door from the corridor. It’s an itch that can’t be scratched. I can somehow see it even with my eyes closed. I roll back the other way but my feet are caught up in the covers and there’s an orangey glow from the street light creeping around the curtains. More distractions. There’s no way I can sleep here.
I reply to Jane:
Think I’m going to drive back too. Can’t sleep here
I flick on the bedside lamp and then cram everything into my small suitcase. The trophy won’t fit, so I end up carrying it down to reception, along with my case. The party has seemingly fizzled out and the reception area is empty except for a weary-looking woman behind the desk. She’s tapping something into her phone but quickly puts it down when she notices me.
‘Can I help?’ she asks.
‘I’d like to check out.’
I expect there to be weirdness, but I suppose she’s seen far stranger things than a guest checking out at 2.30 a.m. I hand over the room key and get the bill, before heading out towards the car park. I pass the door to the suite in which our awards party was held, and there is a phalanx of unfortunate sods cleaning up after us. The lights continue to twinkle above them, like the scene on a particularly bleak Christmas card.
Outside, and the tarmac of the car park is covered with a glistening sheen of frost. The trees that ring the hotel are glazed white and the air bites like a snarling wolf.
Winter could not care less about how quickly I want to get home.
My windscreen is covered with a layer of ice and, after getting into the car, I turn the heaters up to full and sit with my fingers on the vent, waiting for the glass to clear.
Close to You (ARC) Page 3
