Strangers on a Bridge

by Louise Mangos

  He kissed me.

  I should have felt terrible. Surely it was just a young man’s prank, a tease? All right, he kissed me, but I didn’t kiss him back. Much.

  I concentrated on Simon. I tried to remember our lovemaking the night of the opera. I pictured Simon’s faithful face and recalled the years we’d spent so comfortably with each other. I thought of the family we’d built together. I had no intention of destroying any of that. With Manfred a septic influence in our lives, I’d already come too close to the edge of sanity once.

  And then I remembered how Simon had left me to deal with the whole stalking challenge by myself. Granted, he was busy with a massive project at work. But his reactions were far from sympathetic, especially the worse Manfred’s obsession became. I thought of Simon telling me to sort myself out, to get it straight in my mind what was going on. That it was up to me.

  But now there was this connection to Manfred’s son. It was all too close to home.

  He kissed me.

  What did I think I might be getting myself into?

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  I signed for the box and warned the postman about the slippery patch of packed snow on the driveway. He smiled and told me not to worry. His post van’s tyres were studded. The vehicle could navigate the slickest of hills. The most dangerous part of his journey was always walking between the post boxes and his vehicle. It made me think he could have made use of the running crampons I hadn’t yet taken out of the cupboard. I glanced at the shovel in the corner of the porch and turned back to scrutinise my most un-Swiss shovelling handiwork in the driveway.

  In the kitchen I unwrapped the package. It was a bottle of Swiss red wine, a Merlot from Ticino. I figured it must be from one of Simon’s customers. Strange it was addressed to both of us, and had been sent to our home address. I picked out the padded packaging, and found a note in the bottom of the box.

  To Alice and Simon,

  I wish you a joyous Advent.

  Best wishes,

  Gerry Guggenbuhl

  My stomach dropped, and for a moment I thought I was going to be sick in the kitchen sink. I read only the name Guggenbuhl and thought immediately the gift had come from Manfred. Gerry’s name on the card caught up with me moments later and I laughed maniacally, taking a deep breath. This gesture was too close to the gifts his father used to leave. I hoped he had no idea he’d performed a similar act, and that his intention was purely an innocent gesture of gratitude.

  Back outside later, I saw Simon driving towards the house. I leaned against my shovel as I waited for him to park. I frowned at the sky, which threatened to render my work invisible by later that evening. I’d cleared the snow from the door to the garage so he could drive straight in. He pecked me on the cheek as he joined me, and we walked into the house together.

  As we entered the kitchen, I noticed I’d forgotten to clear away the bottle and its packaging from the counter. My hair crackled with static as I removed my bobble hat, and my jovial mood chilled when Simon picked up the note. The heat of the house suddenly overwhelmed me, and I tore off my ski jacket.

  ‘You have got to be kidding me,’ Simon said. ‘Does he think he can take over where his arsehole father left off? Is he trying to step into his shoes?’

  I bit my tongue, knowing that had also been my first thought. His sarcasm made me immediately want to defend Gerry.

  ‘Simon, he is not his father. He’s probably as relieved as we are his father is gone.’

  I sucked my lip. That sounded harsh. Simon looked at me curiously.

  ‘I mean, this is either a peace offering or a kind of apology for all we’ve had to put up with.’

  I was back-pedalling, trying to justify why the son of our stalker had sent us a Christmas gift. The last thing I wanted to do was tell him we’d met. Ordinarily that shouldn’t have bothered Simon. But I knew he wanted to forget about the last few months as much as I did. He wanted to forget that his wife had made some bizarre and inexplicable decisions. He wanted to forget a stalker had almost destroyed our family. Almost. And he wanted to forget any memory of, or connection to, that awful person.

  But Simon hadn’t lived with it quite like I had. He hadn’t had to deal with the uncertainty and confusion for those months. I’d had to do that alone. He’d only had to live with me. I, on the other hand, had had to live with them all.

  ‘Probably a cheap, crap wine. We can always give it to someone else. You know, the dreaded bottle that gets passed around – taken to everyone’s dinner parties.’

  Simon looked at me pointedly before heading upstairs to change out of his work clothes.

  We would not be drinking Gerry’s wine.

  I picked up the card and read it again, noting the haphazard cursive loop of the ‘l’ in ‘Alice’, hinting at his jauntiness. The card was neutral grey with no printed inscription. I touched the writing, drew my hand away and put the card down.

  I stared at the bottle and rubbed my arms. This felt wrong. Too many messages to be misinterpreted. I stared out of the kitchen window at the snowflakes, blowing like cherry blossoms sideways in a bizarre reversal of seasons across the field beside the house.

  After dinner, while Simon sat with Leon at the kitchen table practising algebra for a test, I went to the office and wrote a note to Gerry. The giving of gifts, the need for contact… these things should not start a trend. I refused to believe Gerry was displaying the same traits as his father. I recalled childish bouquets of wildflowers picked from the fields near the house in spring, a punnet of cherries bought at the summer fair, a handful of Steinpilze mushrooms from the forest with peaty earth still clinging to their papery stalks. Showers of gifts that had stopped just a few weeks ago.

  Dear Gerry,

  Simon and I thank you for the wine you so thoughtfully sent. However, we must insist that your generosity stops here. However grateful you have been for my counsel and help following the death of your father, I think it would now be wise for everybody concerned that we don’t meet each other again. It is time for me to rebuild the blocks that have shifted in our family over the past months. I wish you and your mother a joyous Christmas and a prosperous New Year.

  How to sign off? What the hell was I supposed to write? In the end I signed it simply Alice.

  The trouble was, the rules had become distinctly murky in my mind. On a random day in spring, Gerry’s father, Manfred, had misinterpreted my euphoric relief at saving him from suicide on that miserable bridge as budding affection.

  I was sure Gerry had misinterpreted nothing.

  I was sure, because I knew what he had seen in my eyes.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  ‘Is there any way you’d ever consider moving back to England?’

  I glanced at Simon as he lowered his book to his chest. We were lying side by side in bed waiting for the boys to fall asleep. Our plan was to sneak into their rooms and take the stockings off their beds to fill in the quiet of our own bedroom.

  ‘I really miss Mum at this time of year,’ I continued. ‘Even though Mum’s gone, I sometimes wonder if it wouldn’t be best if we were closer to our relatives, sparse as they may be, scattered across the UK.’

  Tears sprang inexplicably to my eyes.

  ‘We’re not enough for you, Al?’

  Simon patted my arm paternally and resentment burned in the back of my throat, although I knew he didn’t mean to be callous. My sudden desire to move away from all this, to get away from my unpredictable emotions, had been evoked by my meeting with Gerry. I knew we were on dangerous ground.

  ‘I also feel like we should move far away from here after all the stuff that’s happened this year.’

  ‘Because some overgrown kid with a nutter for a father sends you a bottle of wine? Come on, Al, aren’t you overreacting a bit?’

  ‘I guess I’m just down on the whole Swiss thing at the moment. I can’t get over how the police didn’t do anything about Manfred when he was alive, but are spending so much time tr
ying to work out what happened now he’s gone. Don’t they get it? It’s making me hate the system. The system that’s supposed to be so perfect and bound with red tape, where everything is examined with a fine-tooth comb, but then, when it comes to us, the measly foreigners in the equation, we’re not given the slightest attention. That’s what makes me want to move, Simon. And besides… this apartment. I know it’s quaint and traditional, and every Swiss Family Robinson’s dream being part of the old house, but it’s suffocating me. I feel like there are too many bad memories. I can’t shake them.’

  ‘Seriously? I always thought you were positive enough to move on from it, Alice. You surprise me.’

  Simon turned, leaned his head on his elbow. His hand closed gently around my wrist, and he hooked his little finger under the leather friendship band.

  ‘You wearing that old thing you found? Does Leon know you’re stealing his hippy fashion accessories?’

  I blushed, and shoved my arm under the duvet. It had been inevitable that Simon would mention it, but I’d never taken it off, and almost forgotten I still wore it. Now it seared my wrist.

  Simon traced his finger down the buttons on my nightshirt. I put my hand over his.

  ‘If you don’t want to move back to England, I think we should move house. Find a new apartment,’ I said.

  A seed of relief bloomed in the back of my mind, and I realised in my heart I hadn’t really wanted to move back to England. The reason for my drastic suggestion was dead. His memory would surely fade. And Manfred was the only reason, I thought.

  Simon wriggled his fingers under my clasp. He wasn’t taking me seriously. Before he could slip his hand under my shirt, I climbed out of bed and went down the hallway to fetch the empty stockings from the boys’ beds.

  Leon lay very still. I could hardly hear him breathing, which made me think he was still awake but feigning sleep. I recognised the tension in his body, reflecting my own skill over the past few months. Oliver’s outward breath blew comical steady puffs through his lips, so I knew he was sleeping.

  This childhood ritual was more for his benefit than Leon’s. Both boys had long given up believing in Father Christmas, or the Christkind, as the secret bringer of gifts was known here. But I clung to the excitement Christmas afforded, especially as sporadic snow over the past week meant that, this year, our alpine Christmas would again be truly white. Who in their right mind would want to move back to England when they had this magic on their doorstep?

  I returned to our bedroom and placed the stockings on our bed.

  ‘Al, this apartment is great for us. It’s just outside the village, with perfect access to the trails, and I love being immersed in nature here, so close to the forest. I don’t want to move. Perhaps you should give yourself more time to think about this. You’ve hardly been in the most stable frame of mind over the past few months.’

  I pulled out a shopping bag I had hidden behind the door earlier in the evening, and emptied the contents onto the bed.

  ‘I can’t seem to get over the fact that our space was violated by Manfred. Surely you can empathise with that emotion.’ I tried not to sound petulant.

  Simon’s tongue sucked lightly against his teeth.

  ‘Jesus, Al, the guy’s dead,’ he said loudly, making me jump. ‘You don’t believe in ghosts, do you? He’s gone, not coming back. Can we move on, without moving out, so to speak? As I said, give it time!’

  ‘Hush. You’ll wake the boys. It’s just me, I guess. That’s how I feel. Surely my opinion counts for something. It’s plaguing me. I assure you, I wish I could shake it.’

  ‘And you think moving house is going to solve that? You didn’t bring this up when he was alive.’

  That had been sitting in the back of my own mind. I stared at the pile of gimmicky little gifts now spread on our bed. The sudden flash of anger in his voice was dangerously raw. It made me wonder who I wanted to run away from. Christmas Eve wasn’t the time to be driving nails between us.

  ‘If it’s that important to you, Al, I guess we could consider a move. But we’re approaching the middle of winter now, so there won’t be any places advertised yet. No one moves during the snow season. It’s too much hassle. It’s even written into our contract we can only give notice three times a year: spring, summer and autumn.’

  We began splitting the little gifts – mandarins, chocolates and nuts – between the two stockings.

  ‘Aren’t the boys a bit old for this malarkey, by the way?’

  Simon picked up a wind-up toy – a pair of chattering dentures he’d chosen himself from a toy shop last week – and stuffed it into Oliver’s stocking.

  It was time to make peace. I didn’t want to end the conversation on a fractious note and experience yet another restless night worrying about our delicate relationship.

  ‘I guess you’re right. About the move. It’s the one disadvantage of living in a mountain community. We can realistically only move during the snow-free months. We’re in the midst of that famous dead-rental period.’

  ‘If it’s that important to you, Al, we can revisit this in spring. But you know I’m really happy where we live, and the boys love it here.’

  As we each took a stocking to place on the end of the boys’ beds, I made a mental note to study the local papers, contact the estate agents and look on the noticeboard at the village Co-op.

  Carefully closing their doors, we reunited in the hallway and Simon, knowing the spirit of Christmas shouldn’t be ruined over the next few days, took my hand as we tiptoed back to our room.

  We lay in bed and Simon pulled me towards him affectionately. I tucked my head into the crook of his shoulder, my heart still beating with the tension of our conversation. Listening to the blanketed silence beyond our windows, interrupted only by the ticking of a radiator, I blinked hard in the dark. My head rose and fell gently as Simon’s breath deepened. His heart beat steadily against my ear and I finally fell into a fitful sleep, wondering whether moving house would solve any of my own internal issues.

  I am sprawled on a satin swirl of cool bed sheets, my legs intertwined with the muscular thighs of an unfamiliar body. The man in whose arms I lie has a wavy shock of brown hair. The tendons in his shoulders flex as he shifts away from me and moves down my body. His kisses flutter like moths on my skin. My heart thumps in my chest. I’m filled with a longing need. I want him to be part of me. This is wrong. It’s not Simon. But I can’t stop myself. He’s touching me, touching me. The agony of the ecstasy. I look up, into the smoky green eyes of Gerry.

  Where is Simon? How did I get here? What am I doing? I panic. How can I be cheating on Simon? I resist, but so want this feeling to continue. Passion is singing through my veins. I am out of control. This feels so right. But it’s wrong. Oh, oh, oh. It’s a dream.

  I woke up breathing heavily. My legs moved over each other in the bed. My heart continued to beat hard, and there was a slight throbbing sensation between my thighs, my lower abdomen tight. I was lying on my side, and squeezed my legs together to try and calm the feeling in my stomach. As I brought my knees into a foetal position my legs swished under the duvet.

  ‘Baby?’ Simon murmured. ‘Are you awake?’

  ‘Yes, I… I had a strange dream. I…’

  Before I could continue, Simon moved towards me and pressed himself into my back. He was hard. His hand reached around my arm and grazed my nipple. I gasped, and a shudder ran through me. He parted my thighs from behind and slipped into me.

  ‘Honey, I…’ Simon silenced me with a deep thrust.

  I wanted to tell him I didn’t want this. I wanted my emotions about moving house acknowledged. That issue couldn’t be resolved with sex. When we’d made love last time, after the company evening out, I didn’t know when Simon would touch me again. Why did he suddenly want me now?

  As the memory of my dream bloomed hot in my head, an animal need now eclipsed any mental solution I might have been seeking in the dark. Simon moved rhythmically. I reached be
hind me to grasp his hip, encouraging him.

  Waking in the middle of the night and simultaneously rising to passion had filled me with a sense of feral fascination. It was blocking all other feelings, my compulsive need for an almost violent act overwhelming. It was as though my dream, which had left me crying out for release, had awoken an equal and inexplicable passion in Simon, my pheromones dragging him from his own slumber.

  Suddenly he was thrusting harder into me. He had never possessed me like this. This was not making love, it was… I didn’t know. He pushed again and again. I felt his teeth against my shoulder. He pinched my nipple between his thumb and forefinger. The pain was exquisite. I closed my eyes. My hips pressed backwards to meet his, our movements now urgent. I wanted to cry out. Simon put his hand over my mouth, afraid I would wake the children.

  With the tumultuous relief I had been craving ready to split open, tears flowed involuntarily from my eyes. The pleasure. The pain. And with eyes clenched tightly closed, the vision of Gerry swam before me, and I was riding the wave of a pulsing climax, on fire, and as much as I tried to eliminate his face from my mind, it was Gerry whose sinuous body was tucked behind me, Gerry who had given me release.

  I lay with the crumpled duvet twisted around my lower legs, lungs heaving and a swathe of perspiration cooling the space between my breasts. Our unresolved conversation was forgotten, forced into oblivion by the lasting, horrifying vision of someone else in my marital bed.

  Deeply disturbed by a rising self-loathing, I opened my eyes and tried to turn to gaze at Simon’s face. But he was a shadow in the dark, and I could not eliminate the feeling that it was Gerry’s hot body entangled with mine.

  My beating heart calmed and I imagined there was a logical explanation for thoughts of Gerry creeping in beside those of the husband I so desperately wanted to reconnect with.

  Should either of these men discover my secret, it would manifest a drastically different reaction in each of them. The revelation to one would destroy my family, the other, my freedom. And like all good, well-kept secrets, it had become a simmering infection in my mind. The deceptions piled in, one on top of the other now, creating an avalanche of shame.