Close to You (ARC)

by Kerry Wilkinson

  Andy takes a step closer to the man, who takes three or four steps towards the door. ‘OK, I won’t,’ Andy says. He angles towards me, although he never takes his eyes from the man. ‘We’ll leave, all right? We don’t want any trouble.’

  The man is nodding, though it’s clear from the way his eyes are darting to the onlookers that he’s suddenly unsure. ‘We’re going anyway,’ he says.

  It’s only then that I notice a woman hovering by the door. She’s half hiding behind the frame, not wanting to be here. Without another word, the man turns and hurries away. As soon as he gets to the door, the woman turns and follows. A moment later and they’re gone.

  There are a few seconds in which it feels as if everyone has frozen. It takes a moment and then the group by the window playing a board game swiftly turn their attentions back to what they were doing. A dart thuds into the board and, even though I know everyone is still half-watching me, at least it’s not their full attention.

  Andy turns and threads an arm around my shoulders.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asks.

  ‘I think so. I want to go.’

  ‘Let’s give it a minute.’

  We wait awkwardly at the edge of the pool table. The balls are still scattered across the baize; a match that will never be finished. Andy returns the cues to the rack and then we leave hand-in-hand. There’s a momentary pause when we get outside as Andy scans the car park. A tingle tickles along my spine; a sense of being watched. I’m not sure if Andy feels it, though he grips my fingers tighter and leads the way across to the stable where his car and van are parked.

  ‘Do you want to follow me back?’ he asks.

  I know the way, of course, but that’s not what he’s asking.

  ‘Sure.’

  There’s a crack from somewhere off towards the bushes and we both turn at the same time. There are no lights around the edge of the car park and the slick mud of the autumn months has turned into a thick, solid blend of muck and ice.

  I continue staring, remembering the flash from the bushes I saw years before, though there’s nothing there.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Andy asks – and it’s only when I turn to him that I realise this is the second time he’s asked. It’s as if I blanked out for a moment.

  ‘Yes…’

  He goes to take my hand, but it doesn’t feel as if there’s enough strength in my fingers.

  ‘I know that look,’ Andy says.

  I’m still watching the bushes, although I’m not sure whether anything has moved since we heard the crack.

  ‘What look?’ I ask.

  ‘You’re thinking of him…’ Andy tails off but the twinge in his voice is hard to ignore.

  ‘Who?’ I reply, although of course I know.

  ‘David.’

  I bite my tongue to stop my first reply from emerging. It’s always hard to hear Andy say David’s name; as if he’s too pure for it. Like a toddler using the F-word.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t mind.’ Andy takes a breath and then grips my hand.

  ‘Can I stay at yours?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course.’

  He pulls me gently away from the bushes and then puts both arms around me, pulling me into him. I press into his shoulder, wishing he wasn’t so damned understanding all the time.

  Twenty-Two

  THE WHY

  Three years, one month ago

  David’s alarm goes off at half-past-five. There’s little more annoying than a morning person – and David does his best to prove that as he springs out of the bed as if he’s on a trampoline. It’s an ungodly hour, but he turns on the bedroom lights, leaving me hiding under my pillow.

  ‘Best time of the day!’ he says.

  ‘Will you turn the light off?’

  ‘I’m finding the right outfit.’

  ‘You could’ve done that last night.’

  ‘Bit late now.’

  David bangs around the bedroom like a cow on a stairwell and, by the time he’s dressed, I’m wide awake, too. I sit up in the bed, squinting vampirically into the light. I’m not entirely sure how we got to this point. Perhaps I valued my own space more than I thought? The longer we’ve been together, the less we seem to have in common.

  ‘Big day,’ David says, giddy like a kid on Christmas morning.

  ‘So you said.’

  ‘I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  Since we’ve been living together I’ve realised David can’t close a door quietly. It’s never simply clicked into place, it’s always banged shut, as if he’s an airport worker hurling suitcases marked ‘fragile’ onto a conveyor belt.

  David has a meeting with someone in Newcastle that could mean ‘big money’. That’s more or less all I know, because he said he doesn’t want to jinx the deal by talking about it. I hear his car start and then he’s off and away into the November darkness.

  Despite the hour, there seems little point in trying to go back to sleep. It’s like a day trip to Bolton. No one wants to end up in that situation, but, once there, a person might as well make the best of it.

  I get up and make coffee, then potter around the flat, waiting for the sun to come up. It’s barely an hour until I’m bored out of my mind. Morning television ‘personalities’ have similar appeal and charisma as an aggressive STI and there’s only so long I can spend looking through other people’s Facebook updates until it dawns that nobody I know ever seems to do anything worthwhile. That includes myself.

  I have no classes this morning, so spend a bit of time organising my receipts. It is, perhaps, the most boring thing I have to do. The most boring thing anyone has to do. Shows like Dragon’s Den always promote entrepreneurial skills and ideas. That’s all well and good, but what they don’t show is a self-employed person hunched over a desk, trying to hunt down the scrap of paper related to a sports bra that was bought on sale six months previously.

  It takes a text message from David to make me realise that it’s already past midday.

  Just got in. Roads not too bad. Fingers crossed. X

  He has attached a photo of what I assume is the Tyne Bridge. There is a curved semicircle of metal, like an upside-down school protractor.

  I send him a quick message back to say good luck and then remember I’m supposed to be meeting Jane.

  * * *

  Time travel exists – it involves a load of a receipts and a spreadsheet to make six hours pass in a click of the fingers.

  It’s a rush to get out the door and into the centre of Gradingham and I’m only five minutes’ late by the time I arrive at the new juice bar. Jane has commandeered a pair of stools near the counter and is scrolling away on her phone. Aside from the two of us and the man behind the counter, the place is empty. The walls and floor are bright white and the menu is on the wall behind the counter, written in neat, minimalist black type, as if Apple have launched iJuice.

  The man serving is wearing an outfit that’s half national service, half trying to seem young enough to get into an indie club. It suits him, though, and he smiles somewhat sheepishly at me as I stop at Jane’s table.

  ‘Have you ordered?’ I ask.

  ‘I was waiting for you,’ she replies.

  ‘Do you know what you want?’

  She scans the menu briefly and then shrugs, before calling across ‘What’s good?’ to the man behind the counter.

  ‘Everything’s good!’

  ‘That’s not helpful,’ I reply with a smile.

  ‘I like the acai bowl,’ he offers.

  ‘I have no idea what that is.’

  ‘Kind of like a yoghurt trifle.’

  I turn to Jane, who raises an eyebrow.

  ‘You had me at the word “trifle”,’ I say. ‘We’ll have two.’

  As he gets on with making our ‘yoghurt trifles’, I perch myself on the stool next to Jane. ‘How’s Ben?’ I ask. Jane and I haven’t been seeing each other anywhere near as often since David moved in with m
e.

  ‘I think he’s getting promoted at the bank. He had a second interview yesterday and his manager said it’s all but his. We’re waiting for confirmation.’

  ‘That’s great!’

  ‘It means I’ll be able to take the career gap I’ve been thinking about.’

  ‘Is Ben on board with that?’

  ‘He will be.’

  She says it with full confidence, although I’m less sure. I’ve known Jane long enough to realise that ‘career gap’ means giving up her job for good. There’s an irony in that she’s been onto me for years about getting into a proper career, while she’s seemingly been waiting for Ben to earn enough that she can be kept.

  I don’t say that, obviously, and then the server brings across a pair of bowls filled with yoghurt, banana, strawberry, some seeds and granola on the top.

  We each dig in and there is certainly something trifling about it. I wasn’t exactly being honest when I said I had no idea what an acai bowl was. Every diet book or women’s magazine has spent the past few years banging on about how it’s the solution to everything from weight loss to curing cancer.

  ‘How is it?’ the server asks.

  ‘Good,’ I tell him – although I was never going to say anything else. He’s literally made it in front of us and only a maniac would tell him it was horrible. ‘I guess this is what all the fuss is about,’ I add.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Some of my clients told me about this place opening.’

  He rocks back on his heels slightly, which is no mean feat considering the tightness of his jeans. ‘What do you do?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m a personal trainer and run a few different exercise classes.’

  ‘Oh. Hang on a minute.’

  He disappears behind the counter into a back room and then reappears moments later with a pile of what looks like business cards.

  ‘Take these,’ he says, passing them over. ‘They’re all for ten per cent off. Give them to whoever you want.’ He nods to Jane. ‘In return, you and your friend can have a discount whenever you’re in.’

  ‘That’s really good of you,’ I say.

  He offers his hand and we shake.

  ‘I’m Andy,’ he says. ‘I’ve not long moved down to the area. Hopefully see you around.’

  There’s a slight moment of awkwardness before he returns behind the counter and starts to scrub at what is probably a non-existent spot of dust.

  I lean in towards Jane and lower my voice. ‘I think he might have a thing for you,’ I say.

  She snorts: ‘He’s got a bit of a yummy mummy following. You should see what they’re saying on the secret village Facebook group.’

  ‘What are they saying?’

  ‘Put it this way: his skinny jeans are on the brink of getting their own fan page. Anyway, I don’t think it’s me that he has a thing for.’

  I turn and glance in Andy’s direction and it’s as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t as he quickly spins back to whatever he’s supposedly working on.

  Almost as if to emphasise Jane’s point, the door goes and a pair of women with prams enter. I’m distracted enough by them that I almost miss the significance of what Jane says next.

  ‘I saw David’s car this morning…’

  When I turn back to her, she is absent-mindedly tucking into the bowl.

  ‘Were you up early?’ I ask.

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Where did you see him?’

  ‘At the services just outside Kingbridge. The one where you can cheekily join the motorway if the gate’s not down. Next to the Burger King.’

  One of the women behind is giggling as she orders a cleansing juice and it’s hard to blank her out as I try to piece together what Jane’s said.

  ‘When?’ I ask.

  ‘About an hour ago. Maybe an hour and a quarter.’

  ‘Are you sure it was his car?’

  ‘It had that weird bobblehead thing in the back. I’ve never liked that thing.’ She pauses for a mouthful of yoghurt and then adds: ‘How’s he getting on with his, um, job and all?’

  She might as well put ‘job’ into quotations, because it’s clear what she thinks of it. Even though I’ve had those doubts myself, I suddenly feel defensive.

  ‘Don’t say it like that,’ I snip back. ‘It’s not an “um” job. It’s a job.’

  When we were teenagers, we would argue about things like this all the time.

  That’s a nice, um, top.

  Those are nice, um, shoes.

  Sometimes I would let it go, other times I’d pick a fight. Jane would rarely, if ever, admit the clear malice she intended. I always took things in the wrong way.

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ Jane says – although we both know that she did. She can be an, um, nice person. I can be, too.

  ‘His job’s going great,’ I say. ‘Everything’s going great.’

  I finish with an audible full-stop that puts something of an end to the conversation.

  We continue eating in a silence that’s broken only by the girlish giggling of the flirty mothers. Moments later and Jane drops her spoon into the now empty bowl.

  ‘I have to get back to the office,’ she says. ‘Was great catching up.’

  We have a brief hug, although there’s little feeling in it, and then she waves a cheerio to Andy and heads out. I wait until she’s out of sight and then say a brief goodbye to Andy before hurrying to my own car. I might have been dismissive with Jane – but it’s hard to ignore what she said.

  I drive through Gradingham and out the other side, then follow the lanes until I reach the unmarked turn into the motorway services. There’s a big ‘no entry’ sign, although everyone ignores it. It is this entrance that staff use to get to work, while, for everyone else, it’s a cheeky – and probably illegal – entrance to the motorway.

  I drive down the ramp and head towards the main services building, which is when I spot David’s car. There are a few trucks on the furthest side of the car park and a coach slotted in across four spaces. Other than that, there are barely any vehicles. I hate that Jane’s right, but there’s no question she is.

  I get out of my car and walk around David’s. There’s the scuff on the back bumper and the familiar football bobblehead in the back. I agree with Jane that it’s weird. I’ve never liked it, either.

  I check the text message with the photo and now know that, if I were to Google ‘Tyne Bridge’, this would appear somewhere deep in the results. It’s probably come from Instagram, or something like that.

  After another lap of his car, I stop at the bonnet and turn in a circle. There must be an explanation for all this. He got up at half past five to travel to Newcastle for work. Perhaps he caught a bus from here…? Or he’s carpooling with a friend…? He never mentioned either of those things, but there must be some reason for why his car is here.

  I head towards the main building and make my way up the grimy steps. I don’t need to go any further. I don’t even need to go inside. The Burger King is on the corner, a giant splash of red, blue and yellow set against the grimness of this concrete monstrosity. The glass is slightly tinted, but it’s easy enough to make out the figure sitting at the table closest to the window. He has his phone in hand, an open box in front of him, with a half-eaten burger spilling onto the table.

  David’s definitely not in Newcastle.

  Twenty-Three

  Three years, one month ago

  How’s Newcastle?

  I watch as David picks up his phone and reads the message. He licks the fingers of his other hand, wipes them on his top, and then taps something back. Moments later, my phone buzzes with the reply.

  Just going into a meeting. The sun’s out.

  I’m not sure why, but I look up to the darkening sky that matches my mood.

  I head into the building and cross to the coffee shop opposite the Burger King. I don’t order anything but find a chair in the corner that gives me a
perfect view of David. He continues to eat his burger, although it is small bites at a time. I suspect he wants to drag it out, like a teenager trying to make a milkshake last all evening.

  Fifteen minutes pass and David does nothing other than use his phone – which is plugged into a socket on a pillar. I wonder how long he’s been in the same spot.

  He eventually finishes his food and then dumps the rubbish in the bin before heading out the door, into the main services building. I half expect him to see me, though he’s not really looking. Instead, he mooches into the arcade, hands in pockets. I almost follow but he’s simply trying to waste time. Five minutes later and he’s back where he started.

  He eventually heads to an empty table that’s in the central concourse. He pulls out the uncomfortable-looking metal chair and sits, before taking a book from his bag. There’s an unquestionable sadness about a lonely middle-aged man hiding in a service station. I’m not sure whether to be angry or consoling. I want to put my arms around him and say it’s going to be all right; but I also don’t want to see him again. Like a weighing scale: one side balancing the other. I’m not sure which will ultimately win.

  I leave the coffee shop and cross the hall, before scraping back the second chair at David’s table and sitting. He looks up, first in surprise and then with eye-popping alarm when he realises it’s me.

  ‘You’re a liar,’ I say.

  He opens his mouth and babbles something I’m not even sure are proper words. Then he bows his head and mutters a simple: ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it all a lie?’ I ask.

  David folds his book closed and sighs. ‘Is what a lie?’

  ‘Everything. The job. The travel.’

  He shakes his head: ‘No. I do buy and sell things. I have made money, it’s just…’

  He tails off and then returns his book to his bag, before pressing back into his chair. He stares past me towards the arcade and it feels like the clouds from outside have descended within.