by Adam Croft
In Her Image
Adam Croft
Contents
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Untitled
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Epilogue
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Acknowledgments
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Adam Croft
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I see you.
You don’t see me.
That’s just the way I like it.
I know every line on your face, every angle of your jawbone, every twinkle in your eye. I know you better than you know yourself. Because I knew you long ago.
You won’t remember me. Not yet, anyway. But I will remind you. I fully intend to make sure you remember.
And then things can be like they were before.
When we were happy.
1
My fist connects with his skull and he snaps his head back, almost losing his footing. It’s a perfect punch, and I surprise even myself.
I see the look in his eyes as he lurches forward, keen not to lose momentum or allow me the overall advantage. It’s a look that tells me he’s got something up his sleeve. He goes for me, leans into the punch, his balled fist missing my face by millimetres.
I don’t have time to register what’s going on. Before I’ve noticed him reversing his lean, his leg’s up and heading towards the side of my head. My momentum from the dodge has kept me moving, and there’s nothing I can do.
I brace, and time slows.
My head rattles, the sound goes dull and I taste blood. Every part of my skull feels immediately stunned and my eyes feel like they’re on fire. I see the black edges start to appear around the sides of my vision, realise I’m going to lose consciousness if I don’t get down on the floor quickly. But if I get down on the floor, it’ll all be over.
I need to try and fight on.
My legs take that decision out of my hands, turning to jelly as I’m forced to hit the deck. My body relaxes almost immediately, and I see his feet walk up to me, see his shadow move as he leans down over me, feel his breath on the back of my neck as he places a hand on my shoulder.
‘You alright, Alice? Sorry. Been saving that one for a while. Didn’t expect it to be so brutal.’
‘I’m good,’ I say, my voice sounding alien to me.
Martin takes his hand off my shoulder and offers it to me. I take hold of it and he hauls me to my feet.
‘Between you and me,’ he whispers, whilst catching breaths, ‘I think it’s a bit fucking stupid putting men against women. But maybe that’s just me. I feel dreadful every time I make contact. Can’t get my proper game in, you know what I mean?’
I nod, then quickly wish I hadn’t. It only makes my head ache more.
He’s right, though. It’s only because so few people attend these classes any more that we have men fighting women. People round here would rather spend their evenings watching TV than kickboxing.
Martin takes off his protective gear and heads towards the bench. The velcro rasps through my skull as I loosen the belt strap on my head guard and take it off, my head feeling instantly cooler.
‘Right, that seems as good a place as any to leave it for tonight,’ Simon says, addressing his small and dwindling group of pupils. ‘Remember next week we’ve got a later start. Eight-thirty, alright?’
I know from experience that at least another two people will use that as an excuse not to turn up next week. I doubt whether the classes will still be running at Christmas. That thought makes me sad. Even though I know there’ll be other kickboxing classes around, there’s something quite special about this one. Apart from only being a short walk from my house, it does have other added advantages.
‘You sure you’re alright?’ Simon asks me, once the others have headed off towards the changing rooms.
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I say, smiling.
Simon smiles back. It’s a warm, pleasant grin that says I’m comfortable. You can trust me.
I can’t say comfortable is something that usually appeals to me, but there’s something different about Simon’s style of comfortable. Friendly-casual, perhaps. I guess all teachers have to have that about them.
‘You’ll be here next week?’ His Australian lilt and habit of using rising intonation at the end of sentences means I’m not entirely sure whether it’s a question or a statement.
‘Yeah, I’ll be here,’ I reply. When have I ever missed a lesson? ‘It’s a shame it’s a bit later, actually, because I was going to ask if you fancied a drink after. Only there’s this new bar open up the road, and, y’know,’ I say, running out of steam.
‘That’d be cool,’ he replies, in a non-committal way that doesn’t tell me whether he genuinely means it or is just going through the motions.
‘Or perhaps tonight, if it’s not too short notice?’ Bad move, I tell myself immediately. Too desperate.
‘Ah, I can’t tonight. Got things planned already. Week after next, maybe?’
‘Sure,’ I reply. If the classes are still running by then.
It always seems to take me longer to walk home from the leisure centre than it did to walk there. I don’t know if it’s because I’m more tired afterwards, because I’ve not got the lesson to look forward to or because everything seems to take longer in the dark. It seems longer, too, because I know I’ll be going home to an empty house.
Sure, Kieran wasn’t there all the time, and he never technically lived with me, but knowing that I had someone to spend the rest of the e
vening with was always a comfort. That ship has sailed, though. He couldn’t handle me, and I sure as hell couldn’t handle him. Nutcase and Tedious doesn’t have the same sort of ring as Bonnie and Clyde.
I try not to think about it too much. The more I do, the more it upsets me. If there’d been any specific incident that either of us could put our finger on, it would have been much easier. But to me, it was pretty clear the relationship was over. I just wish he’d taken it half as well as I thought he might.
The steps up to my front door often ice up at this time of year, so I’m extra careful as I walk up them. The leaky gutter means that water drips onto the steps then freezes, making the whole place a deathtrap for two or three months of the year.
I put my key in the lock and open the front door. As I step inside and close it behind me, I feel my heart jump in my chest. Not a lot, but I notice it.
There’s a sense of unease, a feeling that something isn’t quite right. I tell myself I’m being daft; I’m going to have to get used to coming home to an empty house. After all, it was my decision to break up with Kieran. Can’t have your cake and eat it, girl. I walk into the kitchen and put the radio on, listening to the soothing bass tones of a Simply Red song I semi-recognise, as I pour myself a glass of wine from the fridge. The first of a couple, I fear.
2
Work’s chaotic at the moment, and I’m finding myself having to get into the office earlier and earlier all the time. The only problem is that I’m so knackered by the time I get home I find myself drinking more and more each evening, too, and that doesn’t fit well with early starts.
There’s a horrible taste in my mouth that only comes the morning after drinking white wine — almost like the alcohol vapours have seeped up from my lungs overnight — and I lean over to take a mint out of the packet. I’ll brush my teeth once I’m up and have had breakfast, but at least this’ll make me feel a little more human. While I’m there, I prise one of my fluoxetine pills from its blister pack and slug it back with a mouthful of water before crunching the mint.
Mornings are lonelier now than they were before. Generally speaking. It has its upsides, though. It’s better than having to wait to use my own bathroom, or getting downstairs to find the kitchen work surfaces covered in crumbs. There are some things I don’t miss one bit.
My morning routine doesn’t end when I leave the house, either. Even though I’ve already had a small bowl of cereal at home, there’s no swaying me from my morning pastry on the way in to work. One of my colleagues introduced me to a new patisserie on the high street a few months back, and I’ve been in there every day since. And today’s no different, as I find myself going through the motions, walking in through the door and smelling that familiar smell of freshly baked pastries. The woman behind the counter smiles as she spots me join the back of the queue, packages up my pastry and sets the coffee machine running. By the time I reach the front of the queue, I’m ready and waiting with my £4.90 — I’ve got the right change today — and we go through our usual daily routine of asking each other how we are, even though we don’t even know each other’s names. It’s reassuringly familiar, though.
I leave the shop and turn right, in the direction of the office. I don’t even see him there until it’s too late.
‘Shit! Sorry,’ he says, placing a reassuring hand on my upper arm as he bends down to pick up the pastry packet from the pavement. ‘My fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.’
‘Honestly, don’t worry,’ I reply, as I take the pastry from him, being careful not to spill my coffee too.
‘No, really, it was my fault. Let me buy you another one.’
I shake my head. I just want to get to work. ‘It’s fine. It’s packaged up so it’ll be alright.’
‘Nonsense,’ he says. ‘It’ll be a bag full of crumbs now. Let me buy you another one. Please. I insist. I’ll feel dreadful all day if I don’t.’
He looks me in the eye in a way which makes me think I’ll feel like a complete shit if I say no. If he wants to buy me another pastry, why not?
‘Alright then,’ I say. ‘If you insist.’
Back in the shop, the queue has died down, but we still have to wait for a minute or two.
‘I wasn’t even paying attention out there,’ the man says, still going on about it.
‘It was an accident,’ I reply. ‘It happens.’
‘I know, but it’s still my fault. I’ve had my head in the clouds for the past few days and I should’ve been paying attention. Relationship break-up,’ he adds, giving me information that I didn’t ask for.
‘Sorry to hear that.’
The pastry replaced, we leave the shop and I thank him.
‘Oh, just a second,’ he says, putting his hand on my arm again — not in a creepy way, but a reassuring one. ‘I told myself in there I wasn’t going to mention it, but I thought I should. No regrets, and all that. I run a modelling agency, just down the road here. I mean, I’m a photographer by trade, but I’ve got a lot of friends in the fashion industry and I quite often do a bit of talent spotting for them, if you see what I mean. I don’t mean to be rude, and I hope you’re not offended, but you’ve got fantastic bone structure and a great figure.’ He hands me a business card from his back pocket. ‘Just in case it appeals. You know. No pressure or anything, but I think you’d be great. It’s good fun, and some of the people I’ve referred have gone on to make great money. Just a thought.’
He shows me his friendly smile. There’s something in the way he said it. Something reassuring. But now really isn’t the time or place for me to be thinking about a change of career.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
‘Sure. Give me a call or a text if you fancy it, alright? No charge, naturally. There are some places who make money by charging people for photos. Between you and me, they just throw them in the bin. The only time I make money is the referral fee I get when my contacts take on a model I’ve referred to them. So you’ve got nothing to lose.’
‘Sounds good. I’ll give you a call,’ I reply, not really having any intention of doing so, but wanting to get to work.
We go our separate ways, and I walk up the high street in the direction of the office — with a spring in my step that surprises even me.
3
Mandy and I try to meet once a week if we can, usually after work and usually in one of the cocktail bars in town. We’ve been pretty good at keeping in touch regularly since school, and I think there’s an unspoken truth that we both try our best to keep it that way.
We’ve always been pretty close, but I think it’s one of those friendships that’s matured in recent years. I’ve found myself feeling comfortable telling her almost anything. She knew I was going to break up with Kieran even before he did. To be perfectly honest, I think she probably saw the warning signs earlier than me. She’s good like that. She always knows the right thing to say or do. And that’s why I plan to ask her about that weird encounter with the photographer guy earlier this morning — Gavin Armitage, according to his business card — and whether she thinks I should take him up on his offer.
I’ve been thinking about it all day. On the face of it, it seems a bit weird to go up to a random woman on the street and ask her if she’d like to become a model. But then isn’t that how these things are done? After all, the people working in the industry know what sort of look they’re after. If they see someone who they think would be a good fit, why not? Headhunting’s done in almost all industries — it’s a large part of my job, after all — and where else would you find potential models than out in public, where there’ll be a greater number of people?
Having said that, it still doesn’t feel right. It’s not me. Men have always considered me attractive, I guess, but I’ve never even thought about using my looks to my advantage. I’ve always seen that as a bit demeaning. After all, there’s far more to me. The thought of posing in a seedy photography studio for some guy I don’t even know doesn’t rea
lly appeal to me all that much. But then again, neither does spending the rest of my life in HR, struggling to deal with management’s constant reshuffling and ‘restructuring’ of departments. Being paid to tell people they’re being made redundant is never nice, particularly with Christmas just round the corner, and I don’t want the job to desensitise me to people’s real lives.
I make a promise with myself that I’m going to turn my thoughts to happier subject matter, and I enter Zizi’s Bar with a smile on my face. I spot Mandy sitting on the other side of the room — she always tries to grab one of the booths — and wave to her, gesturing to ask her if she’s got a drink. She holds up two glasses — margaritas from what I can tell — and beckons me over.
‘We actually got here in time for happy hour,’ she says as she hugs me and hands me one of the glasses. ‘Two for the price of one.’
‘Bonus,’ I reply, shrugging off my coat and scarf. ‘So, how’ve you been?’
‘All good here,’ she says, as she does every week. ‘And you?’
Some people might see that as dismissive, even nosy. You don’t give, you don’t get. But I know Mandy. This is her way of saying Don’t worry about me. I’m more worried about you.
‘Yeah, I’m alright,’ I reply. ‘Well, y’know. Getting there anyway.’ Even though I had plenty of time to come to terms with the breakup of the relationship, I still feel bad knowing that Kieran saw it as a bolt from the blue. I feel bad for him. ‘I’m keeping busy with work. That all helps.’
We chat for a little while longer, and soon find ourselves on our third cocktail. I feel my stomach rumbling and think about heading home for dinner. But there’s something I need to speak to Mandy about first.
‘I meant to say. I had a bit of a weird experience earlier,’ I say, before recounting what happened.
Mandy raises an eyebrow. ‘Seriously? People still do that?’
‘Well yeah, I guess so. I dunno. It just seemed a bit odd. I wasn’t expecting it.’
