Close to You (ARC)

by Kerry Wilkinson

  I turn to her, wondering if this is some sort of joke. Her face is serious as she switches her attention from David back to me.

  ‘I should’ve said something ages ago,’ she repeats.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. Weren’t Ben and David on the same football team?’

  ‘Ben says they were in the same squad. Ben was in the first team and David would come along to training sessions. That was about it. He couldn’t get in the team.’

  I watch David float around the room and, now I’m looking for it, it’s suddenly obvious that he’s studiously avoiding the corner where Ben and the rest of the university football team are congregating. It wasn’t David’s idea to invite the members of the football team still living in the area; it was mine. I insisted on it. He even tried to talk me out of it, but I said there had to be some people he knew at the party. I know Jane’s telling the truth and yet I can’t quite take it in.

  ‘I don’t get what you’re telling me,’ I say.

  ‘Maybe I’m talking out of turn,’ Jane says, ‘but that’s what happened. If he’d been a proper member of the football team, I’d know him. I hung around with all the players because I was seeing Ben. I honestly don’t think I’d ever met him until you introduced us. When he and Ben were arguing outside your flat on the day he moved in, it was because Ben was asking him why he’d turned up to my birthday party.’

  ‘Why had he?’

  ‘We’re still not sure. We think he’d seen the invite via a friend of a friend on Facebook, something like that, and tagged along. We didn’t know if we should say something… You seemed so into one another and I didn’t want to spoil things…’

  Neither of us speak for a while. David takes out his phone and rests on a table at the furthest end of the room. He’s by himself, making no attempt to mix with anyone.

  ‘Haven’t you noticed how all his stories make him out to be either a hero, or wronged in some way…?’ There’s a wobble in Jane’s voice. The wine taking hold, though there’s truth in what she has said.

  I had noticed before and put it to one side. Most people are like that, aren’t they? We’re all the heroes of our own stories. Except that so many of David’s tales do end up with him being wronged. Whether it’s by his sister or unscrupulous buyers or sellers, he’s almost always the victim.

  ‘That’s untrue,’ I say, not wanting it to be the case. It’s not just about him – it’s about being wrong in front of Jane.

  ‘I just want you to be sure. Marriage is so… final.’

  Jane is trying to help and I know it’s partly the booze talking. It’s partly her, too. The jealousy that I’ll be getting married first. I could probably get pregnant first if I tried. When she talks of a ‘career gap’, what she really means is to stay home, spread her legs, and pop out a series of babies. She wants to be a stay-at-home mother. I think she always has.

  David may not be a hero, he may not be popular or even always truthful, but he wants to marry me and who said marriages were ever perfect. They take work and effort, and at least I’m going in with my eyes wide open. We both know what we’re getting into and we both know the alternative.

  ‘David supported me,’ I say. ‘You didn’t. You said I should get a job at a bank. He pushed me into visiting gyms and leisure centres a bit further out. That got me more serious jobs closer to home.’

  Jane shrugs and finishes her glass. ‘I’m not saying—’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  She sighs and glances away. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s not my fault your boyfriend is stuck for life shuffling papers around a bank and won’t marry you. Talk about living the dream.’

  I can feel her staring sideways at me, her mouth open. I’m watching Ben, who’s busy laughing with his old football friends. For so long, I’ve thought that Jane and Ben were the perfect couple. I’ve wanted to live up to everything they are – and, now that David and I are close, I see how jealous Jane can be.

  ‘I think I’m going to go,’ Jane says – and, as she pushes herself up, I know that I’m never going to say sorry for this.

  Twenty-Six

  Two years, seven months ago

  The sun is beaming through the back windows of the Rolls-Royce and I can feel the sweat starting to pool in the space where the zip sits at the back of my dress. Mum is sitting indignantly with her knees crossed, facing me as if we’re in the back of a black cab. Meanwhile, Jane is at my side. It’s only her presence that’s stopped my mum criticising what I’m wearing.

  ‘Are you nervous?’ Jane asks.

  ‘I wasn’t until you asked,’ I say.

  ‘Sorry.’

  I smile at her and try to laugh, although it comes out as more of a cough. ‘I’m joking,’ I reply.

  She smiles weakly and I think she’s probably more anxious than I am. The argument between us has been forgotten in the sense that we’ve not spoken about it since. It’s as if the night in the rugby club never happened. But none of what she said – or what I did – has gone away. It’s like a blister that’s bubbling and ready to pop at an indeterminate point in the future.

  Not today, though.

  Jane is my only bridesmaid, largely by default. It was only that decision – if it can be called that – which made me realise how much of life itself is ‘by default’. Everyone goes through the motions and things happen to us, rather than the other way around.

  The driver sets off from Mum’s bungalow and edges slowly through the gates, before accelerating onto the country roads. The three of us are largely silent in the back. In my case, it’s because I’m worried about what might come out if I allow myself much time to think about today. It feels like we’re on the way to a funeral, rather than a wedding.

  We’re a little out of Gradingham when Mum waves me closer. I lean in, unsure what to expect, and her voice is barely audible over the hum of the engine.

  ‘Don’t mess it up today,’ she whispers.

  I press back and bite my lip before letting it out anyway. ‘Don’t, Mum.’

  ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘It’s my wedding day. Can you please be happy for me? For once? We’re doing it at the same register officer where you and Dad married.’

  Of all the things to say, I accidentally hit the right one. A smile slips onto her face and she grips the armrest hard as she looks between Jane and me.

  ‘It was such a lovely day,’ she says. ‘Your father looked spiffing in his suit – and then we all went off to the Legion for tea and cake. We had to get special permission because they didn’t usually let in women after five, except for on a Sunday.’

  Jane and I exchange a glance and it’s hard to believe that this was only a little outside our lifetimes. The world has changed so much.

  ‘Course, couples stayed together then,’ she adds, her features darkening. ‘Not like now where people break up after one little argument.’

  ‘How many people were there?’ I ask, wanting to hear about my parents’ wedding; not my mother’s opinions on life today.

  ‘Where?’ she snaps.

  ‘Your wedding.’

  It’s as if a cloud is floating overhead. Mum’s face brightens and darkens depending on its position. It shifts again and the light returns.

  ‘Everyone we knew,’ she says. ‘We couldn’t fit everyone inside. They were standing in the doorway, clinging to the windows. Everyone loved your father.’

  ‘You, too,’ I say, although she doesn’t react. I’m not sure if she’s listening.

  ‘He was like the Pied Piper afterwards,’ she adds. ‘Leading everyone back down the High Street to the Legion.’

  The cloud above her shifts again and the hardness returns to her jaw. ‘Your David’s just like him. I honestly don’t know what he sees in you.’

  It feels like the air has been sucked from the back of the car. My dress was tight to begin with, but now it feels as if it’s shrinking, pushing the breath out from my lungs.

  Jane squee
zes my shoulder momentarily and then pulls away. I can’t dare face her.

  I can’t bring myself to say anything during the rest of the trip. Mum starts humming to herself as we reach the edge of Kingbridge – and she doesn’t stop until we pull in outside the register office. The driver is all action, opening doors and offering arms. Going anywhere in a wedding dress is like trying to cross an ice rink while wearing bowling shoes. It takes planning and a large amount of luck to get around without falling over.

  The registrar is waiting for us: a prim woman who, I suspect, can judge the potential success of a marriage within two minutes of meeting a couple. I wonder what she thinks of David and me.

  She looks me up and down and beams ‘You look lovely,’ though I can’t believe she ever tells a bride anything else. It would be quite some career gambit to turn to a bride and say, ‘You look quite the state.’ I feel it, with sweat pooling down my back and Mum’s words bouncing around my head.

  Jane guides Mum off towards the main room, while I go with the registrar into a side office. She keeps it light, talking about the weather and the journey, but it’s easy to see that she’s trying to smooth away any nerves. She says she has to go and prepare – and that she’ll see me in a few minutes – and then I’m alone.

  The room is lined with books and a plush red carpet, like someone’s private library. I can imagine other brides sitting or standing in here, looking around and wondering what life will bring after the day. This is the line in the sand that’s been in the back of my mind ever since I saw David in that service station. I suppose it isn’t even a line; it’s a junction. Left or right. Yes or no. Marry or don’t.

  The Rolls-Royce is parked outside the window and the driver is polishing an already spotless part of the wing. It was David’s idea for me to arrive in the fancy car. He insisted and so I went with it. If nothing else, I thought Mum might enjoy it. In the old days, she’d take me to the seaside for the annual parade of fancy cars. I can’t remember why it happened, or what it was actually called, but there were sparkling sports cars alongside classic vehicles. Mum would always point out the Rolls-Royces, possibly because it was the only make of car she knew. When I told her we’d be travelling to the register office in one of the cars she’d long admired, she shrugged and said there had never been such a parade.

  As I watch the driver move around to the front of car, I think about knocking on the window and telling him to start the engine. I could duck through the side door, rush along the corridor and be out front before anyone knew. I’m sure he’d drop me off at my flat – or anywhere else I wanted.

  What then?

  I’ve heard stories of women who walk out on their husbands-to-be – but there never seems to be a follow-up to say what happens after that. David and I have only known each other for fifteen months and, suddenly, it feels like it. This is the problem with living somewhere small. Cities give anonymity, home towns give notoriety.

  The door clicks and then Jane appears. I turn away from the window and she must see what I do. She stands with her body angled towards the second door. The way out. I wonder if she knows.

  ‘You ready?’ she asks. I take a breath and then she adds: ‘Everyone’s here.’

  There’s a moment, just a second, perhaps two, in which is feels like she might ask me again whether I’m sure. Last time, it caused an argument; this time I might tell the truth.

  And then the moment passes. Jane offers her arm and says: ‘Shall we go?’

  I link my arm into hers and she leads me through the door, along a short corridor, to the entrance of the wedding chamber. It doesn’t feel as if there’s any turning back now. A no is a no is a no.

  When we came to plan the day, I realised there are so few men in my life. It isn’t by design, it just sort of… happened. There’s no one to walk me down the aisle and, though Ben volunteered, it didn’t feel right. I said I’d do it by myself and so Jane gives my shoulder one final squeeze and then waits off to the side.

  The Wedding March begins with a boom and the doors open, leaving me nowhere to go. Light beams from the windows at the furthest end of the chamber but the room still feels dark… or perhaps it isn’t the room at all. Perhaps it is me?

  My legs feel unsteady, a dog in booties for the first time, though I somehow remain upright. Each step is a tiny bit easier than the previous, though that isn’t saying much. Jane slots in behind me and I can feel her presence close, almost as if she’s blocking me in. Mum is on the front row, though she continues staring towards the windows at the front, not turning to watch. Other than that, it is mainly acquaintances. Some of the gym managers I know, a few old school friends, a couple of neighbours. It’s not much to show for thirty-one years on the planet.

  David is there, of course. He looks good in his hired suit. I know he hasn’t – but it makes it look like he’s shed half a stone. Yasmine is at his side and this will be only the third time I’ve met her. We’ve only spoken once – that first time in the gym. The second, David was giving her a lift somewhere and they stopped outside my flat. He said he saw her on the side of the road, though he never talks about her. She’ll be my sister-in-law and yet I know nothing about her. She’s not quite wearing white, but she might as well be. It’s a shoulderless silky cream dress that I should probably be more annoyed about than I am.

  Like my mother, Yasmine is refusing to turn and watch – but the one person whose eyes are fixed on me is David. It’s true that he adores me. It’s complete. I wonder if that’s what’s in my eyes when I look at him.

  How many other people will ever show that devotion to me?

  I reach the front and my legs are jelly; my mouth a desert. The registrar goes through the things that everyone’s seen a hundred times before. When she gets to the part about anyone objecting, I half turn to take in the room. This is the final moment; the last chance. Jane doesn’t move and neither does Ben. Mum continues staring at the floor; Yasmine is picking her fingernails. Nobody speaks.

  There are vows and rings: I do, he does, we all do. And then it’s over. There’s a kiss, claps and cheers. Job done. We’re married. Happy ever after and all that. The thing all young girls dream of.

  So why does it feel as if I’ve made a terrible mistake…?

  Twenty-Seven

  THE NOW

  I wish it had been porn on Andy’s laptop. I could shrug it off if he was interested in various questionable acts he’s never mentioned wanting to try. People’s internet browsing histories are a murky business at best. I would imagine most would rather do a naked lap of Trafalgar Square than have to unveil their list of visited websites. No one wants the truth to come out that they clicked onto the Daily Mail’s site.

  After seeing the name ‘David Persephone’ in Andy’s history, I continue scrolling through the rest of the things he looked for.

  I Googled Andy before our first meal out together. I stalked his social media and looked through his juice bar’s webpage. I found out everything I could about him because, like it or not, that’s how things work nowadays. It’s easier than asking questions. To find the answer, put the question into Google, and there it is.

  Andy’s history from the past few days includes visits to the websites of various wholesalers and suppliers. He did an Ocado shop and browsed The Guardian. He likes the BBC website and spent time on Twitter. Much of it is normal… except there is a huge gap in the history from Sunday evening. I have no idea where Andy was but, at the time I was getting my award, he wasn’t using his laptop. There is no activity from 4 p.m. through to Monday morning.

  It proves nothing, of course – except that the final thing he looked for on Sunday was ‘David Persephone’. Hours after that, I was seeing the ghost of my dead husband.

  I glance away from the laptop towards the door and the stairs beyond. There’s no sign of Andy getting up. I could go and ask him why he was searching for David, but it’s another of those lines in the sand. I’d have to tell him about going through his browser histor
y and where would that leave us?

  While I was travelling to the venue on Sunday, Andy read almost two-dozen articles about David’s disappearance. He spent almost two hours in total looking through details. I’m there too, of course. The devastated wife with all the questions about where my precious husband had gone. I always found it a surprise how quickly things went away. One minute, the police and the media had a sustained interest in David vanishing; forty-eight hours later and it felt like nobody cared. A week on and the only people who remembered were those who knew him.

  Andy and I have talked about David in the past and it’s natural that he’d be curious. My concern isn’t so much that he is looking at these articles, it’s that he’s looking now. What’s changed?

  There is a creak from the stairs, so I snap closed the lid of Andy’s laptop and push it back underneath the coffee table. I’m leaning back on the sofa, casual and carefree, when Andy appears in the doorway. He stretches high and fights a yawn.

  ‘How did you sleep?’ he asks.

  ‘Good. You?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  I don’t know why couples talk about sleep. We take the most boring of subjects and somehow drag it out to be a daily conversation piece. I’m not convinced anyone cares anyway.

  I watch Andy go through his routine. He pours almond milk onto his cereal and sets it to soak while he sets the espresso machine to heat. With that bubbling, he checks the news headlines on his phone and then, when the green light appears, he turns the dial to set the coffee pouring. As that’s filling a cup, he pours a glass of juice that would’ve been prepared the night before. He’s done that just in time for the espresso cup to fill, so he turns off that machine and quickly disposes of the grinds into the bin. After washing the filter, he then carries everything to the table. Finally, he fetches the laptop and takes that to the table, ready to browse the news properly.