Close to You (ARC)

by Kerry Wilkinson

  I end up parking at the end of a row of cars and watch in the mirror as she waits for her dog to sniff a lamp post.

  I wait until Yasmine passes and then get out from the car as quietly as I can. I pull the hood up over my head and start to follow her.

  Things would be easier if it wasn’t for Yasmine’s dog stopping at almost every bush, lamp post, wall or patch of grass for a sniff and a wee. The animal seems to have an infinite bladder and Yasmine doesn’t appear to be in much of a hurry as she pauses each time until he or she is ready to move on.

  It’s dark and the paths are largely deserted, so I find myself ducking behind hedges and hovering behind cars. To an untrained observer, I must look like some sort of flasher waiting for a moment – though Yasmine doesn’t ever look behind.

  After a while, she turns into an alley. I have to hurry to close the gap, not wanting to lose her when she gets to the other end. It’s only as I turn into the alley myself that I realise it isn’t a passage at all. There’s a small green that’s hidden by the surrounding bushes and Yasmine is sitting on a bench underneath a street light. Her dog is off weeing on the fence as I almost walk into the bench. I angle backwards, narrowly stopping myself from toppling over.

  It makes no difference as Yasmine is on the phone, oblivious to how close we are. I can’t back off now, so continue onto the grass, my head down, trying to maintain a gentle pace.

  ‘…really got it coming to her,’ Yasmine says to whoever is on the other end of the phone call.

  I try to slow without making it obvious I’m doing so – but I am already a couple of steps past her.

  ‘I know,’ Yasmine continues with a laugh. ‘I wish I’d seen the look on her face.’

  Fifteen

  THE WHY

  Three years, seven months ago

  David holds Mum’s hand as we head along the path towards her bungalow.

  ‘I can see where your daughter gets her looks from,’ he says.

  She laughs in a way I don’t think I’ve heard in years. Whenever she had a new outfit, she’d ask Dad how she looked. He’d always say that she’d look great in a bin bag and she’d chuckle to herself. It never seemed to get tired but, then, neither did they. As a couple, they had the sort of relationship that I’m not sure exists any more. They were devoted to one another and, possibly until now, that laugh was reserved only for my father.

  Now it is David with whom she is smitten. It’s extraordinary how he wanders into people’s lives, including mine, and enchants them.

  ‘People always say she looks like me,’ Mum says.

  ‘There’s definitely a resemblance.’

  We get to the door and Mum fumbles in a pocket for her key. The wind blusters across us as a couple of seconds becomes ten and things start to feel awkward. After Dad died, my mother sold up and moved to this retirement bungalow on the coast. Poynton-on-Sea is perhaps the place she was always happiest. Her, Dad and I would come here for a holiday every summer and, even though it’s only twenty miles from Gradingham, it felt like another world.

  Mum now has the key, but she’s struggling to fit it into the lock. David hovers at her side and I wonder if he somehow knows that offering to help will instantly change her opinion of him. Patience is what she wants and patience is what she gets.

  Waves slam into the cliffs below. When the tide is out, there is a sprawling beach on which I used to play as a girl. I’ve often wondered if I’ve ever been as happy as I used to be back then.

  Mum finally gets the key into the lock. She stands slightly taller with relief and then shoves the door inwards as if nothing was wrong.

  Her bungalow smells of burnt toast, but there’s no point in mentioning it because she’ll claim I’m imagining things. She closes the door behind David and me and then beckons us towards the sofa. David asks if he needs to take off his shoes, but she replies with ‘Of course not, love.’

  The sofa is second-hand because almost everything she’s ever owned once belonged to someone else. It has a faded floral print and is as uncomfortable as I remember; as if any foam filling has been replaced with Lego bricks.

  David turns between us somewhat theatrically: ‘I bet you were a heartbreaker back in the day,’ he says.

  Mum touches her permed bob. ‘I did have a few boys courting me.’

  He gets to his feet. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mrs Noble?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s Wilma,’ she replies. Mum motions to stand, but once she’s down, that’s it for a couple of hours.

  ‘Let me,’ David says and Mum settles once more.

  ‘Everything’s in the cupboard by the door,’ she says. ‘I’ll have a splash of milk. No sugar for me.’

  ‘All the smartest people have their tea that way.’

  David leaves us momentarily and I have my usual few seconds of panic when I’m left alone with my mother. It always feels as if she’s a blink away from forgetting who I am.

  ‘How’s the flat?’ she asks. It is perhaps her favourite topic of conversation when it comes to me. When she sold her house and bought this, she gave me some of what was left to put down the deposit on my flat. Probably because of that, I think she sees my place as partly hers.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say.

  ‘Have you picked up your clothes since I was last there?’

  I want to say that I’m an adult and can leave my clothes where I want – but it’s not worth it.

  There’s a snap as the hob is lit. Mum has never got on with electric kettles. I suppose it’s the ease of use that annoys her, though I’ve never asked.

  ‘He’s quite the catch,’ Mum says.

  ‘David?’

  ‘Who else? Better than the other boys you’ve brought home.’

  ‘Hardly “boys”…’

  ‘Where’d you find him? Not on that Tinder thing, was it?’

  I start to reply and then realise what she’s said. ‘How do you know about Tinder?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m not as out of touch as you think, young lady.’

  Before I can reply, David reappears in the doorway. It’s like he’s a natural at meeting parents because he apparently knows exactly how to push Mum’s buttons. I suppose that’s a surprise in the sense that his own parents have died. It’s not long before he’s set her off and she’s telling stories about being a teenager in the sixties.

  One of her prized stories, the one I’ve heard probably more than any other, is the time she saw John Lennon. That’s it. She saw him. She never watched the Beatles in concert and she never actually met him; she spied Lennon from across the road. But the way she tells it, she was the fifth Beatle.

  ‘I always wished I’d got his autograph,’ she says. ‘He seemed like such a nice young man. I should have crossed the road and said hello.’ She tails off and then adds a new bit: ‘Course, it’s all selfies nowadays.’

  David laughs and plays along. ‘If you’d done that, Yoko wouldn’t have got a look-in!’

  ‘Oh, you…’

  It’s as if Mum is flirting as she giggles and bats a hand towards him. I’m almost embarrassed, but then days like this are better than the ones where she shrieks that I’m trying to rob her.

  After David brings in the teas, Mum continues to talk him through her teenage memories. In her telling, the culture we know today is a direct consequence of her tastes from the time. David must know it’s nonsense, but he nods along like a dutiful boyfriend trying to impress a girlfriend’s mother.

  Mum talks her way through almost forty-five minutes, which is probably the most coherent I’ve seen her in years. It’s only when David’s phone rings that the flow is interrupted. He checks the screen and holds it up.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says. ‘I really have to take this. It’s business. I won’t be long.’

  Mum tells him not to worry and then David disappears out the front door. With him gone, Mum twists in her seat to ensure he’s out of earshot. She bites her lip for a moment but I know what’s coming.

  ‘
You’re not going to blow this, are you?’ she asks.

  ‘What makes you think I will?’

  ‘I’m just saying. Men like David don’t come along very often. Once I found your father, I made sure I kept him.’

  I turn away from her, watching David’s shadow as he strides back and forth outside the window. It was time for him to meet her, I suppose, given that we’re living together. I think the speed of it all is starting to catch up with me. We only met three months ago – and here we are.

  ‘You don’t know him, Mum,’ I say.

  ‘You’re the one who moved in with him after a month.’

  ‘It wasn’t a month.’

  ‘Close enough.’

  She has a point, and yet she doesn’t. Sometimes people get swept up into things and it overtakes everything else because it feels right. With David’s landlord selling up, it seemed like a natural thing that, if he had to find somewhere new to live, it might as well be with me. It’s worked for both of us. I think I needed his encouragement – and it can’t be a coincidence that things are finally beginning to happen with my career since he came into my life.

  That doesn’t mean I believe I’ve made a mistake by moving in with David, simply that things were different when Mum was young.

  I don’t reply, so, after a moment, she continues: ‘Anyway, I’m just saying—’

  ‘I know what you’re saying, Mum. Can we not talk about it, please?’

  Mum straightens in her seat, annoyed. I wonder if she’ll remember this conversation tomorrow. She’s only seventy, but Dad’s death took more from her than she’ll ever admit. This is her own bungalow but there’s someone who checks on her every day and makes sure she’s eating. It’s not full-on home help and it’s not residential care – but it is a half-step.

  ‘What does he do?’ Mum asks.

  ‘I told you,’ I say, before catching myself. In Mum’s world, all pieces of information are new and she definitely doesn’t forget things.

  ‘You’ve not told me anything,’ she snaps.

  David is still pacing back and forth outside the window and there’s no chance of him saving me in the short term.

  ‘He buys and sells things,’ I say.

  Her face falls slightly and her tone sharpens: ‘Like a market trader?’

  ‘No, Mum, not like a market trader. It’s high-quality stuff. He buys and sells rare vinyl and books, things like that. He scours the country for collectibles and then sells them on for a profit.’

  Mum examines me for a moment before deciding that this is acceptable. ‘He must have a good eye,’ she says. ‘Does he make good money?’

  ‘I’m not answering that, Mum.’

  She shrugs indignantly: ‘Well, you’ll need something. It’s not as if you’ve got a big career plan. When your looks go, what’ve you got left?’

  I stare at her, but she’s refusing to meet my gaze. I think about not answering, but that will only make it worse.

  ‘We support each other,’ I say. ‘He’s been passing around my personal training cards, plus checking out new gyms when he travels. He knows what I’m trying to achieve – and I do have a career plan, actually.’

  Mum harrumphs to make it clear that she believes precisely none of this. Next, she’ll be telling me how she had to walk ten miles uphill through a snowstorm and then hurl herself off a cliff to get to school on time. Obviously, she would do that both ways. I’m not sure where the cliffs are in Gradingham…

  Mercifully, the front door clicks and then David reappears in the living room. He crosses to where I am on the sofa and reaches into his pockets before passing over an oblong box. It’s wrapped with silver paper, with a golden bow on top.

  ‘I know it’s your thirtieth on Tuesday,’ he says, ‘but I figured I’d give you your present a bit early.’

  It’s obvious that he’s done this to gain favour with Mum, though I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing. For now, I’ll take the distraction.

  ‘Go on,’ he says as I run my fingers across the join in the paper.

  The gift is heavier than it looks and the paper is sealed down with at least a double wrap of tape. It takes me a while to find a join and, when I finally get the paper off, it reveals a crimson plastic box. David is watching my mother as I open the lid to reveal a sparkling silver watch.

  ‘Ooooh,’ Mum says. ‘That looks expensive.’

  I have no idea about watches but have to agree. I think I read somewhere that the value of things like watches and jewellery can often be measured by weight. The heavier something is, the more likely it is to be worth something. I’m not sure how that could apply to a strip of lead painted gold, but it sounds good.

  ‘Are you sure you can afford this?’ I ask, turning to David. It’s not a problem as such, but he’s still not contributing much to our finances. Or, more to the point, my finances.

  He’s beaming with pride: ‘Of course. I stumbled across a proper trove of records the other week.’

  He stretches across and straps the watch to my wrist before I can say anything about it. I’ve never worn a watch with any regularity before – and I’m not sure it’s for me.

  Mum instantly reaches for me to get a better look.

  ‘Your father used to love a good watch,’ she says, before turning to David. ‘Some of my friends have record collections. I can have a word if you want. Perhaps you can go and see if there’s anything worth your while…?’

  I start to interrupt but David talks over me: ‘That sounds amazing, Mrs Noble.’

  ‘It told you, love – it’s Wilma.’ She glances to my watch again and then adds: ‘Do you have your own family?’

  ‘My mum died when I was young, but Dad ran a collecting business, which I guess is where I get it from.’

  Mum nods along: ‘You’re an only child?’

  David glances momentarily towards me: ‘I have an older sister. She’s a bit protective of me, though we tend to do our own things.’

  ‘Oh, that’s lovely. What’s her name?’

  I’ve not seen Yasmine since that time at the gym – and we’ve not talked of her. With that, I can’t take much more of these happy families so stand somewhat abruptly and announce that I need the toilet. I head along the hall into the bathroom and then lock the door behind me. I can hear the soft muttering of David and Mum, though can’t make out the words. I sit for a minute or do with my eyes closed, wanting to leave. I’m not even sure why. This is one of my mother’s better days – except there’s something about her being nice to someone else that will always rankle. I’m not sure I’ll ever get past the feeling that she likes literally anyone more than she likes me.

  I’m not ready to return to the living room, so take off the watch and examine the back. It only takes a brief Google search to find the model David’s given me. I have to check the top five links to make sure there hasn’t been a mistake somewhere.

  The watch is worth £3,000.

  Sixteen

  THE NOW

  Nothing happening is worse than something happening.

  Well, maybe.

  I haven’t had any further texts overnight from the unknown number. Google throws up no matches for it and I decide against messaging or calling. I try searching for Yasmine’s name online, but there’s little information about her – and her Facebook page shows me only her name and a photo. It’s rather annoying when people know how to turn on their privacy settings. I probably should have called the number when I was following Yasmine – but it didn’t occur to me at the time.

  It’s been a day and a half since seeing David in that photo at the awards. A day since my car was stolen. I woke up this morning expecting something to happen – more cryptic texts, or contact from the police. Instead, there is nothing. I potter around, making myself coffee and indulging with a couple of slices of toast. There’s still no sign of the Tigger pot and so, after that, there’s little to do other than work.

  The windscreen on Andy’s car is frosty, but the hea
ting deals with that in barely twenty seconds. If this was my car, I’d be impatiently outside with a bucket of hot water in an attempt to get things moving. That does make me think that whoever took my car must have done so not long after I parked it. If it had been left for long, it would have been an icebox.

  It is only a short distance to the studio, but I drive as carefully as if I’m taking my test and there’s a mardy middle-aged singleton at my side. It’s partly because Andy’s car still feels like it’s trying to drive itself, but mainly because it would terrible if I had an actual crash while denying being involved in another.

  By the time I let myself into the studio, one of the other trainers – Mel – is busy laying out the mats for her yoga session. It’s clear that almost nobody yet knows about my car being involved in the crash because we go through the usual small talk. One of the other trainers is off to Bermuda for Christmas, so we go back and forth about how strange the festive season will be if it’s warm. People start to arrive and Mel sets her whale music going, which is always my cue to move on.

  I head up to my office and open the slats of the blinds enough that I can see out, while nobody should be able to look in. It gives me a view of almost the entire lower level, including the entrance and reception, and I spend a couple of minutes watching as more people arrive. I’m not sure what I’m looking for but, whatever it is, it’s not outside my window.

  My desk is full of pads and pens, even though I rarely use them. Almost everything is done digitally, but I end up writing myself a list:

  Someone who looks like David?

  A brother?

  I start to write David’s name and get as far as the capital-D before stopping myself. Even entertaining such a thought feels like a step to madness. Neither of the other two explanations feel particularly solid, either. David didn’t tell me about Yasmine at the beginning – but it’s not as if he concealed her identity for the whole time we were together. It was weeks, not years… although I have wondered if he’d have ever told me if I hadn’t brought it up.