He does all this with little emotion or even thought, I suppose. Like a robot fulfilling its programming.
It’s not to think of David and all that happened. All I did. There’s a part of me that unquestionably liked the unpredictability. With Andy, it’s all stability and certainty.
‘…want anything?’
I blink back to the sofa, realising that Andy’s talking to me.
‘Pardon?’ I say.
‘Do you want anything?’ he asks.
I clamber off the sofa and try to remember where I put the BMW keys. ‘I’ve got to go,’ I say. ‘I have classes later. I’ll text you.’
‘Do you need help packing for the weekend?’
‘I don’t think so.’
He gets up from the table, probably wondering why I’m suddenly rushing. I’m not sure I can explain it. I should ask him why he was searching for David but know that I won’t.
My phone buzzes and I glance down to see the text from Jane:
I need to see you. Urgent.
Hyperbole is unlike her, so I quickly thumb back a message while Andy watches:
Your place? Mine? What’s up?
‘Everything all right?’ Andy asks, nodding towards my phone.
‘I’m going to stop by Jane’s on the way home.’
He nods acceptance and then pulls me close. His fingers clutch my back, but I start patting his almost straight away, wanting to be released.
‘If you see that guy from last night, call the police,’ he says.
It takes me a second to remember the son of the guy hit by my car.
‘I will.’
My phone buzzes once more and it’s almost as if I can feel the urgency of what’s come back. I resist the urge to check.
‘I’m looking forward to moving in,’ I say.
‘It will be a new start for both of us.’
I’m not completely sure how it’s a new start for Andy – but I would love it to be true. I should have let my flat after what happened with David. Life changed – except that it didn’t.
Andy kisses me on the forehead, though that’s as passionate as it gets. ‘See you at Jane’s later,’ he says. ‘It should be good.’
I’d forgotten that she’d invited us over. I’m not sure if I can agree that it’ll be good – but I nod along anyway.
I head for the stairs to grab the rest of my things, which is when I check the message from Jane.
It’s such a shock that I stumble over the bottom step and clatter my knee into the one above. I have to pull myself up and act like it never happened. A clumsy child with out-of-control limbs. I read the message a second time, but it hasn’t changed, and it’s just as heart-stopping as it was the first time:
I think I saw David.
Twenty-Eight
THE WHY
Two years, five months ago
A squirrel stops momentarily on the path ahead, stopping to look towards David and me. I go for my phone, but the animal quickly decides he or she has better things to do than pose for pictures. The squirrels skips away into the undergrowth with a rustle.
‘You’ll have to be quicker next time,’ David says.
I don’t reply as we continue along the dusty trail, deeper into Little Bush Woods. It’s not rained for weeks and the green along the edges is starting to turn a yellowy-brown.
This isn’t an official country park, but locals from Gradingham use it as such. It’s busy at the weekends, with dog-walkers and parents using the trails as free entertainment for their children.
‘You got in late last night,’ I say.
‘I know – you were out like a light.’
‘How was Estonia?’
‘Wet – but I found a Hank Mobley LP that should be worth a fortune.’
‘I have no idea who that is.’
‘There was an Agincourt, too – and some Led Zep. I brought it back in my hand luggage. Didn’t want to risk them losing it in the hold.’
He stretches and takes my hand. Apart from a groggy coffee this morning, it’s the first time we’ve seen each other in ten days. This has been the pattern since we got married. Instead of being the start of something, that wedding day has increasingly been feeling like the end. I’m not sure if that’s my fault, or his.
We continue along the path, my hand in his.
‘How much can you get for them? I ask.
‘Maybe a couple of thousand for the Mobley if I can find a buyer.’
‘Wow.’
‘What about you?’
‘I dropped a class this week because I signed up two more PT clients. I’m up to 400 followers on Twitter, too.’
He squeezes me hand. ‘That’s great. I’m so proud of you. It’s good that the name change didn’t create a problem.’
‘No…’
We had discussed keeping my name as Morgan Noble, figuring that it would be easier to pitch as someone running their own business. David wasn’t keen and so I went with him. He was insistent that we should be linked through our names. There are battles to pick and this didn’t feel like one of them. Morgan Persephone, which rhymes with ‘knee’ and not ‘phone’, is quite the mouthful. It doesn’t feel like me and perhaps it never will.
David lets go of my hand and we continue along the path slowly as a pair of boys race past us, heading in the other direction. Another couple is walking towards us and we swap a series of smiles and hellos until we’ve gone our separate ways.
The sun is dappling through the leaves, throwing a speckled quilt of rays across the track. I find myself sticking to the shadows, stepping over the patches of light without trying to make it obvious. Like avoiding the cracks in a pavement.
It’s as we’re walking that I realise how nice it is to have David at my side. The doubts have never really gone away, ever since that afternoon in the service station, but it’s true what they say about absence making the heart grow fonder.
That’s not stopped me wondering if his ten days in Eastern Europe has really been ten days in cheap motels. He’s been forwarding me emails of his itinerary under the guise of me being able to check whether his flights and trains are on time. We both know that wasn’t the only reason he was sending on those things.
‘How long are you home for?’ I ask.
‘I’m not sure. There’s a fair out Bristol way in a couple of weeks – but that should be down and back in a day. You can come if you want…?’
He knows I won’t, but that isn’t the point.
‘I’ll see what I have on,’ I reply, which is a not very subtle code for ‘no’.
We continue along the path, which is gradually starting to fill with more and more walkers. There are some in flip-flops and shorts; others with hiking poles, backpacks and enormous water bottles, as if they’re on their way up Everest. The route takes us in a full loop until we arrive back at the car park. It’s just off a country lane, half a mile down the road from the rugby club. There’s a barrier that was installed after an outcry in the local paper because of apparent doggers during the summer nights – though it never seems to be down.
The day is getting warmer and it doesn’t feel as if either of us is ready to head back to the flat yet. It’s taken us a while to find this groove, but perhaps morning walks on a sunny summer’s day is what married life is supposed to be.
Without needing to discuss it, we stroll along one of the other paths that quickly leads to a bridge that crosses the lake. There are signs warning of ‘deep water’ and I remember kids at school saying there was a shark in here. That was before we knew how ridiculous it sounded. I think Jaws had recently been on TV, which got everyone’s imaginations racing.
There are waterlilies dotted around the edge of the lake, though many are massed on the soil verge. The water is low and there are footprints around the slope down from the bridge, where kids have gone wading. A family of two-point-four children are crossing the other way, with the father holding onto the youngest son’s shirt to stop him charging ahead. There ar
e more nods and smiles. The countryside code, I suppose.
It’s after they’ve passed that David stops and half turns, resting his forearms on the rail of the bridge and peering down to the water below. I swing around until I’m at his side, elbow to elbow.
‘Yasmine’s pregnant,’ David says.
It’s the first time I’ve heard her name since the wedding two months ago.
He pauses and then adds: ‘I was wondering…’
David doesn’t finish the sentence because there’s no point. In everything that’s happened between us, we’ve never properly had this conversation. We each said that we’d like kids one day – but it was vague and undefined. There was never a timetable; never a plan.
‘We’re both self-employed,’ I say. ‘I’d have to put my career on hold. I don’t think we can afford that.’
It’s a practical reply to a question from the heart.
‘I think I might be running out of time…’
I fix on a point on the furthest side of the lake, where a deer has appeared from the trees. It stoops and laps at the water and there’s a beautiful serenity to the moment.
Sometimes I forget that David’s a decade older than me. I wonder if I can do this for us.
For him.
‘You’d have time afterwards,’ he says.
‘Time for what?’
‘To still have a career.’
I don’t reply, though he’s probably right. I’m young enough to get my body back after a birth and then, with the free time he has, perhaps he can take on the role of day-to-day carer? Perhaps that’s what he wants? Perhaps it’s what I want?
‘Maybe…’ I say. ‘But what about money?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your work is so unpredictable.’
Since marrying, we have a joint account, into which we both pay a certain amount each month. We still have our separate accounts, though I have no idea how much David has squirrelled away – if it’s anything at all. He’s never asked about my accounts, either – although I want the flat to remain in my name. I want it to be mine.
‘We can figure it out,’ he says. ‘I think we’re ready to be parents.’
‘We’d need something bigger than my flat.’
‘That’s the other thing – perhaps we can look for a house…? Something with three bedrooms – or four?’
I don’t know what to say. Five minutes ago, there was none of this in my mind – and now we’re talking about houses and children.
‘Where’s the money going to come from?’ I ask again.
‘It will work out.’
I move my weight from one foot to the other and the wooden bridge creaks ominously. The deer looks up, perhaps startled by the noise. Its ears are pricked high and then it turns and darts off into the trees. Perhaps that’s the omen? That should give me my answer.
‘What do you say?’ David asks.
‘I don’t know.’
Twenty-Nine
Two years, two months ago
I bluster through the door as the bell jangles above. Outside, the wind is howling as the hail blasts the pavement. If it was anyone other than Mother Nature, it would be common assault.
My inside-out umbrella has long since been abandoned to the bin, while my coat is so wet, that it’s more liquid than solid. I drip my way across the floor, apologising the entire way until I get to the counter. The glass cabinets are filled with various necklaces, rings and jewels; none of which are marked with prices. The man at the counter looks on somewhat disapprovingly as I continue to drip on his carpet.
‘I brought my watch in a few days ago,’ I say. ‘It had stopped working…’
He gulps and looks sideways to an empty space, as if hoping someone will come and save him.
‘I’m afraid there was a problem, Mrs Persephone,’ he says.
‘What sort of problem?’
‘It’s a bit of an, um, delicate matter…’
* * *
The television is playing in the background as I sit and stew on the sofa. I’ve not really been watching it, but the shows have scrolled around on a loop until the news came on. The lead story is about a one-punch murderer who’s been given a life sentence. It’s hard not to think of all the lives that have been destroyed. Not only the victim and his family – but the attacker, too. One stupid, momentary decision, if it can even be called a decision.
The door bangs behind me and David blusters his way in, followed by a few litres of rain. He slams the door behind him and then puts his soaking coat onto the rail next to mine. He offers a quick ‘need a wee’ and then dashes for the toilet, leaving a trail of water behind.
The news story has moved onto the mother of the victim. She’s devastated and struggling for words as she says that the attacker should never be released from prison.
I wait and I fume until David returns. He’s taken off his shoes and socks and has a towel around his neck. He heads towards the kitchen and then he stops still, turning to peer over his shoulder like a wronged cowboy in a Western.
I’ve never quite understood how emotions can bleed out into the surrounding atmosphere. As if feelings themselves can be so intense, so strong, that they can become something physical.
‘What’s wrong?’ David asks.
‘When we were at my mum’s last year, you gave me a watch for my birthday,’ I say.
‘I know…’
‘Where did you get it?’
He takes a small step backwards, but the counter is behind him and there’s nowhere to go. ‘I, um… don’t remember.’
‘It’s worth three grand. How can you not remember?’
I watch as his eyes flick to my wrist, surely noticing the empty space where it used to be. I hold my wrist up higher so that he can see clearly.
‘It’s gone,’ I say. ‘Why do you think that is?’
He slides around the counter, putting it between us as I stand and move towards him.
‘Where did you get it?’ I repeat.
David’s doing a goldfish impression; the first time I’ve seen it since we were in the service station a little under a year ago.
‘It had stopped working, so I took it to the jewellers,’ I continue. ‘I went back to pick it up, but he said the serial number was on file. It had been reported stolen eighteen months ago.’
David is like a dog stuck in a cat flap.
‘I’ve been walking around with stolen goods on my wrist for more than a year.’
He holds his hands up, still backing away – this time into the fridge: ‘I didn’t know,’ he says. ‘I bought it from a pawn shop. I buy all sorts of things from places like that. It’s my job…’
‘I don’t believe you.’
I shake my head. If that really is his job, then he should be able to tell the difference between something stolen and something that isn’t.
‘It’s the truth.’
‘Even if it is, that’s the point, isn’t it? It’s not a job. It never has been. It can’t be a job if you’re buying stolen goods.’
‘I wanted to buy you a new one, but—’
‘I didn’t need a £3,000 watch. I never did. You must know that’s not who I am…?’
David stumbles over the words, but it’s not that he can say much anyway.
It’s not even the watch. Not entirely.
‘I can’t work out when you’re lying to me,’ I say.
‘I’m not lying.’
‘You have before. You kept quiet about Yasmine. You lied about knowing Ben. You lied about going to conferences. You lied about your stolen goods.’
He doesn’t say anything, so I keep going.
‘I could’ve been arrested. I think the jeweller felt sorry for me, which is why he said he’d deal with it indirectly. I still don’t know what that means.’
‘I didn’t steal it.’
David speaks through gritted teeth and everything about him screams that he wants to be somewhere else.
‘I love you,’
he says.
‘Don’t.’
‘Don’t what?’
‘You can’t give me something stolen and then make it all right by saying you love me. It doesn’t work like that. Tell me the truth.’
He opens the fridge door and then closes it, then takes two paces to the other side of the kitchen, before taking a couple of steps back. His breathing quickens and then, finally, after everything: ‘I knew it was stolen.’
Deep down, I think I always knew. David never had that much money, let alone that much for a watch. The rugby club spent three months phoning me, wanting final payment for the engagement party – and, even though David said they didn’t take cash, the secretary specifically told me they did. I suppose it was another reason for me to pay and not him. This is how it’s been ever since he moved in. The ‘rent’ is sporadic. Everything is. I pay for most things under a fantasy premise that he’ll one day pay me back – and I’ve largely stopped asking because he’s bought me off with other people’s property.
‘Where did you get it?’ I ask.
‘Someone I know.’
‘A thief?’
He shakes his head. ‘Just someone who sells things…’
‘Someone who sells stolen goods?’
He turns away and it feels like something is broken – or, perhaps, it was never whole in the first place.
‘I can get the money I owe you,’ he says, even though I’ve not asked about it.
‘I don’t care about money, David. It’s the lies. Maybe you have been in Estonia all week – but the fact I even question it is what matters.’
‘I’ll make it up to you…’
It’s me who turns away this time, backing towards the sofa. The anger is gone and now there’s only resignation.
‘I don’t think you can,’ I reply. At first, I don’t know what to add, but then, from nowhere, I do: ‘I need a break.’
David stands staring at me. His shoulders have slumped and his bottom lip is wobbling.
Close to You (ARC) Page 16
