Close to You (ARC)

by Kerry Wilkinson

  ‘I ran into her a week or so ago,’ he replies. ‘Just before I went away. We don’t get on, but it’s not like we’re enemies. We said hello, that sort of thing. She’s living with a boyfriend now. I said I’d moved in with someone wonderful – a trainer who hosted exercise classes. I figured that was it. I didn’t know that she’d visit you. I have no idea why she did.’

  ‘Wonderful’ sounds like deliberate overkill but it’s hard to ignore the surge in my stomach. Nobody’s ever described me like that before.

  The boiling water has almost disappeared, so I turn off the heat and drain the pan. That done, I take the chicken from the oven and serve that and the rice onto a plate, before joining David on the sofa. He takes his food and starts to eat with a fork, while still channel-surfing with the other hand.

  ‘Do you have any other brothers or sisters I should know about?’ I ask. Any anger I might have had is fading fast.

  ‘No – it’s just Yasmine and me. Our parents died before I met you, so it’s literally just me and her.’ He has a mouthful and then puts his fork down on the plate. ‘We should probably be closer – but she has her life and I have mine. What will be will be, and all that.’

  I don’t know how to reply. It’s not that I have any reason to disbelieve him but something doesn’t feel quite right.

  He pauses and then adds: ‘You’re my family now.’

  David stares across to me with such focus that it’s as if I can feel his loneliness. We’ve not really spoken about it properly but we stumbled across one another at a time where I think we both needed it.

  ‘Will it help if I talk to her?’ he adds.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘To ask why she came to your class?’

  ‘Just leave it,’ I say. ‘If she comes back, I can talk to her then. If she wants to be in contact with you, I suppose she will.’

  He nods and has another bite of food. ‘Whatever you want,’ he says, before turning to me and smiling. ‘Anything for you.’

  Thirteen

  THE NOW

  The customers who take my classes have usually pre-paid for blocks of ten. That means the same faces appear over and over. It creates a group in which everyone knows who I am, as well as a community who can compete with and support one another. That doesn’t mean there isn’t the odd newcomer – though it is the exception, rather than the norm.

  Yasmine clips into her bike as if she’s been here dozens of times before. As soon as our eyes meet for the first time, she turns away and stares at the front. I can hardly abandon the session, so find myself going along with it all. Much of the script and structure for the spin class is already in my head. The choice of music dictates when we should go faster or slower. A large part of it is going through the motions, while keeping half an eye on everyone – which is probably why I find it so relaxing.

  It’s the opposite this time, however. I can’t stop glancing off towards Yasmine, who steadfastly refuses to look at me. She’s in lycra and seems trimmer and fitter than when I last saw her. Her hair is definitely longer and is tied back into a face-tugging ponytail.

  I make my first mistake at the initial song change, thinking the pace is about to go up instead of dropping. The woman directly in front of me peeps up from her hunched cycling position, noticing that the tempo isn’t tied to the music. Others do, too, so I call for everyone to dial down the resistance and try to act as if it never happened.

  By the time the class is thirty minutes in, I’ve messed up the pacing three times; got two different people’s names wrong, and somehow unclipped myself from the bike, slamming my ankle into the pedal. It’s as if I’m a novice once more, going back to the days when I was nervously taking my first classes and overthinking everything.

  All the while, Yasmine has studiously avoided looking anywhere other than the screen in front of her that’s displaying the stats about her speed and distance.

  When we get to the end, I realise that I’ve barely noticed the pool of sweat around my bike. I do my usual trick of mopping the floor with a towel to get rid of the worst of it, but, by the time I look back up, Yasmine is already on her way to the door. Even though people are still warming down, I hurry after her – and there’s a moment of déjà vu as I remember our first meeting. There was a spin studio then and a chase along corridors.

  This time, I catch her outside the studio on the edge of the car park. I reach for her shoulder and she spins to face me. We’re underneath a street light that’s pouring a dim orange glow down towards the path. Up close, there are a concentric collection of wrinkles around her eyes. Although she was older than David, she always looked younger – but much of that youth has disappeared since I last saw her. She’ll be closer to fifty than forty, so I suppose it’s little surprise. Age is the one thing we can never escape.

  I suddenly realise that I don’t know what to say.

  ‘What do you want?’ Yasmine asks.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I reply.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ve come to my studio; my class. It can’t be an accident…?’

  She shrugs dismissively; something that certainly runs in her family. David was always a master at scorning subjects about which he didn’t want to talk.

  ‘I joined on the phone,’ she says. ‘Someone took my details earlier. It’s a free country, isn’t it?’

  ‘But why here? Why now?’

  Another shrug: ‘What does it matter? I wanted to get back into training after having Eden. You should be flattered that I chose here. I saw you in the news all last week – someone posted it on my Facebook. Some award thing you were up for…’

  I spoke to someone from the local paper and a photographer came to take some pictures. He kept trying to get me to lean over for a down-top shot – but I was too far ahead of him to go for anything like that. I was also named in a couple of the trade publications. Everything ended up online, so Yasmine might well have read about me. I also know that she gave birth around a year and a half ago. Probably around the time I last saw her.

  It’s all plausible… and yet, combined with everything else that’s been happening, it doesn’t feel right. David reappears in a photo, someone steals my car – and then David’s sister, who never seemed to like me, walks back into my life, all within twenty-four hours.

  ‘Is that it?’ Yasmine asks.

  ‘Eden’s your daughter?’ I reply, not entirely certain.

  ‘Do you care?’

  ‘She’s my niece.’

  Yasmine snorts, shakes her head and then spins and walks away without another word. I watch her go, not following because I have no idea what to add.

  When I get back inside, I almost miss Andy sitting near the front desk. He’s wrapped up in his wool coat that he got from a charity shop. Sometimes, he never seems to stop talking about the bargain he found. I’m probably imagining it, but the retail price seems to get higher with every telling, while the amount he paid gets lower. If it goes on much longer, it will end up with the woman behind the till paying him to take the coat away.

  He stands as I spot him: ‘Where’d you get to?’ he asks.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You rushed right past me on the way out.’

  It’s only now that I remember I’m supposed to be meeting him after my class. There’s still a towel in my hand and I dab at my forehead. I’m saved from having to give him a proper answer because a couple more people from my class exit through the barriers and say goodbye on their way out.

  Andy loosens his scarf and fiddles with his watch. In contrast to the age difference between David and me; Andy is a year younger than I am. He is baby-faced to the point that he sometimes gets ID’d in pubs. It wouldn’t be quite so annoying if I was ever asked to prove my age. Instead, I’m constantly waved through by people younger than me who definitely do not view me as one of their own.

  ‘How’s the packing going?’ Andy asks.

  ‘Oh, right… um…’
/>   ‘You look upset.’

  ‘Did you hear about the hit-and-run?’

  ‘Of course. Everyone’s been talking about it in the shop today.’

  ‘It was my car,’ I say. ‘Someone stole it after I got back from the hotel. I was interviewed by the police.’

  His smile dims and fades until even he can’t do anything other than frown. He knows the implication instantly: ‘They think you were driving?’

  ‘I’ve been bailed pending further investigation.’

  He stares, eyes widening until he manages: ‘I don’t think I understand…’

  ‘I drove back from the hotel overnight because I couldn’t sleep. After I parked and went to bed, someone stole the car. I phoned up to report it, but whoever took it had already hit someone by then.’

  I know that this is a long way out of Andy’s comfort zone. He’s the type of person to see the good in everyone. He believes in rehabilitation instead of punishment. He’d make a terrible politician because, as the public demanded fire and brimstone, he’d try to placate them with a journal-published report about the value of community reintegration versus prison costs. It’s who he is.

  ‘Did you talk to a lawyer?’ he asks.

  ‘No… I just… told the truth. I thought…’

  Andy nods, but there’s disappointment in his eyes; like his newly trained puppy has done a wee on the living room carpet. ‘You should probably get a solicitor,’ he says.

  ‘I will.’

  I’ve sometimes wondered why Andy and I are together. I certainly like him, though I often think it might be because he’s my shield. Nobody is going to look at me as a murderer while my boyfriend is busy giving up his time for a scout troop.

  ‘I think I need a quiet night by myself,’ I say.

  This seemingly comes as no surprise as Andy tightens his scarf.

  ‘I’m looking forward to Saturday, though,’ I add.

  ‘Me, too,’ he replies. ‘I’ve cleared a whole room if you want to convert it into a walk-in wardrobe. We can put some shelves and rails up – or there’s a company in Kingbridge that do that sort of thing for you. They specialise in maximising storage space. It’s up to you. Your room, your space.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He pulls me closer and puts his arms around my back. I wrest into the crook of his neck and can feel his heart beating, steady and predictable, just like the way he is.

  ‘I want it to be our house,’ he whispers. ‘Not mine…’

  Andy inherited his parents’ four-bedroom house a few years ago. I suppose it’s the only way anyone under the age of about forty can afford anything bigger than a box in a doorway. He’s been rattling around in the space by himself ever since. I’ve stayed over there semi-regularly; certainly more often than he sleeps at mine.

  It was his suggestion for me to move in with him. He encouraged me not to sell my flat, saying I could rent it out as we ‘see how it goes’. There was a big part of me that agreed, simply to be rid of Sunshine Row and what happened there. I’m still married, so I suppose there’s some sort of technical adultery in there. The usual village nutballs need have something to gossip about.

  Andy releases me and steps away: ‘You’ll have to show me your trophy another time,’ he says.

  It takes a second for me to realise he means my win from last night. It feels like an age ago. ‘Sure,’ I reply.

  ‘Are there photos?’

  There’s definitely one…

  ‘I’m waiting for the organiser to email me,’ I say.

  ‘We’ll get it printed out and framed.’

  ‘Right…’

  ‘Jane texted and said you were thinking about doing something with the four of us on Wednesday night. I’m free if you are…?’

  I suppose this is one social invitation I can’t get out of. I had a feeling Jane might contact Andy directly. He gets on with everyone and hands out his phone number like dodgy blokes in anoraks give away sweets to kids.

  ‘I’ve been wanting to catch up with Ben for ages,’ Andy adds. ‘See how his football’s going.’

  ‘I’ll try to sort out a time,’ I say.

  We look to one another, with apparently neither of us quite sure what to say now. We’ve always had awkward goodbyes. They’ve never been of the ‘No, you hang up’ – variety, more a rush to leave first.

  ‘What are you going to do for a car?’ Andy asks.

  ‘I’m not sure. Jane gave me a lift here. Everything happened so quickly that I’ve not thought it through yet.’

  ‘You can take mine if you want? I’ve got the van for work, so can get around in that.’

  ‘Oh…’

  Before I can give a proper response, Andy has dug into his pockets and handed the keys over.

  ‘You’re insured for any car, aren’t you?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s in the car park,’ he adds.

  ‘Don’t you want a lift home?’

  He pats his flat stomach: ‘I need the exercise!’

  ‘Oh… OK.’

  ‘I’ll see you Wednesday night, then…?’

  ‘Right.’

  He pecks me on the cheek, gives a wave to one of the other trainers, and then spins on his heels and heads out the door. This is typical of our relationship. We’ve never been the type of couple to live in one another’s pockets, or put on over-the-top displays of public affection. After David, I like that. We spend more nights apart than together, which is why moving in is such a big change.

  I feel myself starting to shiver with the mix of the opening and closing front door and my sweaty T-shirt. There is a private shower in the staff area at the top of the stairs, but I have the urge to shower at home and barricade myself away from the rest of the world.

  I head for the stairs, ready to grab a hoody from the upstairs office when my phone beeps. It’s a text from an unknown 07 mobile number and I almost delete it without bothering with the content. It’ll only be some company telling me I’m eligible for compensation over some injury I’ve never had.

  Except it isn’t that. The message is far simpler and far more chilling:

  Miss me? X

  Fourteen

  I stare at my phone, reading the message over and over, as if expecting something more substantial to appear. I move away from the steps, back towards reception, and turn to look at everyone who’s left. There’s only Jess behind the counter – and she’s busy talking on the phone.

  Who is this?

  The reply comes almost instantly:

  Nice top. You always looked good in orange.

  I shiver, spinning the entire way around, although not seeing anyone I’d missed. Jess is making notes from whoever she’s talking to and, as far as I can see, there is nobody else in reception. I hurry to the glass doors at the front and step outside, feeling the chill as I stare out into the darkness.

  There’s nobody there.

  WHO IS THIS?

  There is no instant reply this time. I hurry inside and up the stairs, phone in hand, willing it to buzz but simultaneously hoping it doesn’t. When I get into my office, I lock the door behind me and sit in a darkness that’s broken only by the glowing light from my phone.

  Could it be Yasmine? She knew I was wearing orange. She can’t know the truth, but I suppose it was her pregnancy that was the beginning of the end for David and me. I’m not trying to absolve myself from the blame – I know what I did – but everything might have played out differently had it not been for her.

  It was only after David’s disappearance… David’s death… that I found out precisely where she lived in Kingbridge. Her house is relatively close to the police station where I was questioned earlier. Despite what she said about seeing me in the news, she’s chosen to drive all the way to Gradingham for a spin class – my class – when she could’ve signed up for one much closer to her home.

  I call the number that texted me, but it rings and rings without reply or a voicemail message. I think about sending
another message, though realise it will achieve little. Whoever sent it knows who I am already – and, if he or she wanted to reveal their identity, I’d already know.

  I change out of the orange studio shirt and then put on a winter coat and cap before leaving the studio. I could be anyone.

  Andy’s BMW is parked perfectly in the car park, as if he got out and measured the gap on either side between the car and the lines to ensure he was in the centre of the space. I spend a few minutes trying to readjust the mirrors and getting the seat in the right place. The car is so big. Usually, ‘BMW’ and ‘wanker’ would go hand-in-hand, which is why it felt strange when Andy bought one. I suppose I’ve joined the club now, at least temporarily.

  I deliberately avoid the road on which my car is – or was – buried in a verge, instead following the country lanes around the edge of the village until I hit the main road. It’s a steady drive to Kingbridge, although Andy’s car feels like a surging behemoth that constantly wants to move faster than I’m willing to go. Like trying to wrestle a sleeping bag back into one of those impossibly small pouches.

  It’s as I pass McDonald’s that I start to feel a little lost. Yasmine lives on a newish estate towards the back of the police station, but it’s a labyrinth of dead-ends and unhelpful signs. I can feel more curtains twitching as I drive into the third cul-de-sac and have to turn around at the end. The pitchforks will be on standby as someone with too much time on their hands gets ready to kick off because a stranger has parked outside their house.

  It’s on my next pass along one of the main connecting roads that, almost inconceivably, I spot Yasmine walking a dog. I was looking for a familiar house – but here she is herself, bundled up in an unbuckled coat over the same yoga pants and bright shoes she had on at the studio. Her hair is high in a ponytail and I’m so surprised to see her that I almost swerve towards her without thinking. I manage to catch myself and continue driving past, watching as Yasmine tugs at the dog’s lead, oblivious that I’m so close.