by K. L. Slater
I think I’m going to have to get off at the next stop.
My breathing is becoming erratic; I can’t seem to drag enough air into my lungs. An impending sense of doom gathers like a dense fog between my eyes.
It’s a long time since I’ve had a full-blown panic attack, but I can still remember the sheer horror and force of how it feels. I can’t afford to slide into that, not here, in front of… I purposely don’t look at him again.
I focus instead on closing my eyes and getting my breathing under control. My back and hips are throbbing and all I can do is breathe through it, lifting my arms slightly to get some air circulating.
Breathe in, breathe out.
In. Out.
When the noise level around me suddenly ramps up, I open my eyes.
Shuffling, scraping, coughs and splutters pepper the hum of raised voices. Almost everyone is standing or getting out of their seats. I glance out of the window to see we’ve reached the Old Market Square, the tram’s final destination point on this route.
My eyes dart to his seat. He is standing now, reaching down for his bag and a large brown envelope from the seat.
He’s taller than I thought. Taller than Jack was.
He opens the flap of his satchel and pushes his phone in there before hoisting it over his shoulder and tucking the chunky envelope under his arm.
I want to stand up too, like everyone else, but I can’t. My lower back is throbbing, as if the bottom half of my spine has completely fused.
I feel a sudden urge to reach out to him, ask him for help. It would be the perfect opportunity to make contact, but something stops me calling to him.
The doors open and everyone begins filing off. I sit there watching them, and one or two passengers look at me curiously, probably wondering why I’m not moving.
My man stands up fully, and when there’s a gap, he steps into the aisle.
I can’t stop staring at him. Pushing away thoughts of Jack.
I feel my muscles tightening further, gripping my flesh like hot fists at the bottom of my back.
Passengers shuffle by me, and he gets closer and closer until… he’s right in front of me. I glance down at the envelope and see a name written in big black letters: JAMES WILSON. Poking out under it is the corner of his brown leather satchel, which bears the monogram JW printed in faded gold.
James. It suits him.
Finally, he turns and looks straight at me. Time stands still for a few seconds as our eyes lock.
His are a warm hazel, his hair thick and shiny.
I search his features for a hint of that special smile he’s given me before, wait for his fingers to flutter in a small, discreet wave.
But his eyes flicker over me and move on to glance out of the window beside me, and then he passes by me and the queue shuffles on behind him.
The last people get off, and suddenly I’m all alone in the empty carriage.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
LOUISE
Ten years earlier
After that first meeting with Martyn, Louise’s nights at home watching soaps and early bedtimes were suddenly a thing of the past.
During the first couple of weeks, she saw him three or four times, and they did so much together – a day trip to the coast, the cinema, dinner in various upmarket restaurants.
The third week, they sat together in a tiny cocktail bar in Hockley. There were only a few other couples in there, and classic Duke Ellington tracks played subtly in the background. The dimly lit bar shimmered with candles and fairy lights, adding a romantic and intimate air.
The waitress came over and Martyn ordered a beer.
‘I’ll have a Bellini, please,’ Louise said, possibly feeling the most sophisticated she’d ever done in her life.
‘On a work night?’ Martyn teased.
‘It is Friday tomorrow.’ She grinned. ‘So I’m allowed.’
‘I’ve never met anybody like you, Louise. Every day I find myself counting the hours until I can see you again.’ He looked at her, searching her face for a reaction. ‘I know some people would say it’s far too early, but I… I need to know if you feel the same way.’
‘I do,’ she whispered without hesitation. Her face burned with embarrassment and she felt glad of the low lighting, but she made herself say it. ‘I… I want to be with you all the time, Martyn.’
‘You don’t know what it means to me to hear you say that.’ He pulled her in close and sealed her lips with his. She felt breathless with desire.
The waitress appeared with their drinks and gave Louise a knowing smile. She placed Martyn’s beer and a tiny white coaster on the table for the Bellini before leaving them alone again.
They talked about everything that night. Martyn told her all about his gym business, explaining he was in the process of developing it into a franchise. Louise told him about her ambition to set up a corporate events company catering to small and medium-sized businesses.
Then they moved on to family.
‘So there’s just me, my younger sister Alice, and my mum,’ Louise told him. ‘Mum and Alice are close; I had more in common with my dad. I don’t think they really get me, you know?’
‘Story of my life,’ Martyn said, and then softened his voice. ‘You lost your dad?’
Louise nodded sadly, willing herself not to get upset. The last thing she wanted was to spoil this wonderful evening. ‘He died two years ago. He left me and my sister a small amount of money I haven’t touched yet. That’s why I’d like to set up the business; do something meaningful with it. Something he’d be proud of.’
‘I think that’s a brilliant idea.’ Martyn nodded. ‘In fact, I might be your very first customer if this franchise deal gets signed off soon. I’ll have plenty of wealthy investors and clients that I’ll need to look after and impress.’
‘Really? That sounds amazing.’ Louise took a sip of her Bellini and enjoyed the squeeze of excitement in her stomach. Martyn’s business experience was clearly going to be invaluable to her when she got her new business up and running.
* * *
The next evening, Martyn sent a cab to pick her up. He’d told her to dress up smartly and bring an overnight bag.
Her mother and Alice could be inquisitive, so Louise thought of an excuse that would satisfy them. She was twenty-three, she had nothing to hide, but she’d choose her own time to tell them about Martyn when she was good and ready.
‘A group of us from my hotel are going out for the evening and the manager is giving us complimentary rooms for the night,’ she mentioned casually as they watched TV together.
Her mother nodded in acceptance, but of course Alice had to be clever.
‘The hotel must be quite full,’ she remarked. ‘That brochure you brought home said there were only ten rooms in the entire place.’
‘Yeah, well we’re doubling up.’ Louise shot her a look that she hoped conveyed that her sister should mind her own business.
As per Martyn’s instructions, the cab took her to a brightly lit building displaying ornate Victorian architecture on the outskirts of the city. Louise gasped as he opened the door of the cab himself, dressed in a smart black suit and crisp open-necked white shirt.
She was speechless as he took her overnight bag. The best hotel in Nottingham, which she’d previously only seen in pictures, with the man of her dreams… Maybe she should pinch herself to make sure it was actually happening.
They checked in to the suite Martyn had reserved and then enjoyed a wonderful meal in the hotel’s top-class restaurant with wine and champagne. When they went back up to the room, Martyn unlocked the door of their room and gestured for Louise to walk in first.
She gasped and then squealed at the sight before her. Rose petals were strewn on the bed and lit candles dotted all around the room.
‘Louise?’
She turned to see Martyn down on one knee.
‘Louise, I love you, and I can’t bear to be without you. Would you do me the honour of
being my wife? Will you marry me?’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ALICE
Everyone else on the tram has got off, but I’m still sitting here.
I swallow hard and look up from my vacant stare to see an elderly man looming over me.
‘Are you feeling all right, love?’
‘Yes. Yes, thank you,’ I say, shuffling to the edge of my seat. ‘Sorry, it’s just my back, I—’
‘Oh, I know all about aches and pains, I put up with them all day.’ He grins good-naturedly. ‘You’ll be OK once you’ve had a good stretch.’
I know he means well, but I wish he’d leave me alone to get up in my own time.
I grip the metal pole behind my seat and hoist myself to standing, trying not to grimace.
‘There you go, see, nothing to it!’ he beams, continuing his ambling down the carriage. ‘Have a good day.’
I stand for a moment at the edge of the exit step. I can see above the heads of the people on the street. It’s only been a couple of minutes since James got off the tram, but that’s plenty long enough to disappear up one of the many streets snaking away from the main square.
I step down onto the pavement and am instantly swallowed up in the bustle of busy workers, all with somewhere to go. It’s still on the early side for shoppers, and half the shops aren’t open yet.
I look to the left. The big Debenhams windows are lit up, but its double doors are closed. Next door, the interior of a pizza restaurant is in darkness and I can just about make out the chairs still upside down on the tabletops.
My heart sinks as I look the other way, above the sea of heads, and I curse myself for not getting off at the same time as James.
I allowed myself to get lost in my thoughts of why he might have blanked me like that. He was probably embarrassed to see me there; it would have been most unexpected, after all.
I have an overwhelming urge to put things right, to try and explain to him why I was on the tram this morning and not sitting in my window as usual.
As I step forward, I catch sight of a man in a beige coat and stripy scarf emerging from Costa Coffee. I follow as quickly as I can, fighting against the flow of bodies until I have him in sight again.
He is cutting across the square, walking quite fast, clutching his takeaway coffee. His head is slightly down, against the cool wind, and he keeps his eyes on the pavement as he moves forward.
I’m going to lose him.
I speed up a little, pushing through the throng, but despite my efforts, he’s moving further and further away.
As I step onto Old Market Square, he approaches the front of the Council House. Soon he’ll disappear amongst the teeming crowd of people currently funnelling into the narrow confines of shop-lined Exchange Walk. He’ll be at St Peter’s Gate before I can even glimpse which direction he takes, never mind catch up with him.
I gulp in big breaths of air. A mad compulsion within me insists I must keep going. I don’t know where this drive is coming from.
And then he stops walking.
Right there at the edge of the square, he leans against the enormous art deco stone lion that lounges regally on the right-hand side of the Council House.
As I hurry towards him, I wonder… is he waiting for me? Has he realised I’m following him? And then, as I draw closer, my heart slips just a little when I see he is holding his phone up to his ear.
I’m close now, so I slow down in an attempt to regulate my breathing. There are several small groups of young people dotted around in front of the Council House steps, and I manage to linger incongruously on the fringe of a quiet huddle of French students.
Craning my neck a little, I have a good view of James. He’s wedged his satchel between his feet and is now talking animatedly. One hand holds his phone, the other is raking through his hair repeatedly in what looks like a nervous mannerism.
He frowns and opens his mouth to say something, and then clamps it closed again, as if he can’t get a word in edgeways with whoever the caller is.
One or two of the French students have noticed me now. The girl nearest to me swaps her shoulder bag onto the other side, as if I might nab it any second, and another nudges her friend to indicate my ominous presence.
I don’t care. I’ve come this far; I’m not passing up the chance to possibly see where James works, or at least where he goes next. That way something constructive will have come out of this crazy journey into town.
I watch as he abruptly pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at the screen. He looks a little shocked, and I wonder if the other person has hung up on him.
I get ready to start walking, but he doesn’t move. He rakes his hair again and leaves his hand there, at the top of his head, staring down at the cold grey concrete in front of him as if he’s waiting for an answer to some vital question to show itself.
He squeezes his eyes shut briefly and then his jawline sets. He looks as if he’s steeling himself to deal with something unpleasant.
I wonder if it’s a work matter, if he’s in some kind of trouble with his boss. That’s the sort of look he has on his face, as if something bad is on the horizon that must be faced.
One of the French students turns to me and says something. Her face is pale, thin and twisty. I haven’t a clue what she’s saying – sadly I studied German, not French, at school – but I get the gist of it.
Who are you, why are you standing here with us? Or something similarly challenging.
I glare back at her, reflecting her animosity, and take a step back from the group, but I make sure my eyes don’t leave James for more than a second or two.
Slowly he reaches down and picks up his bag, slips his phone into it. I watch as he takes a big breath in, as if he’s steeling himself for something, and then, as suddenly as he stopped, he’s on the move again.
I scuttle around the group of students and head after him, down Exchange Walk. He steps out onto St Peter’s Gate and turns left. I follow suit, and catch the back of him as he makes another quick left turn, disappearing from view.
I wait a second or two outside a silver jewellery shop and then head for the corner of the tiny street on the left where he turned. It’s a dead end, but up at the top, there’s a rather grand, glossy black door complete with a large brass knocker.
When I’m satisfied he must have entered this doorway and isn’t going to unexpectedly emerge again, I sidle up and read the brass plaque that’s attached to the wall on the right-hand side.
Emperor Knight.
I think this must be where he works.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
On the tram on the way back home, I feel encouraged that I’ve seen James’s possible workplace.
I’d have thought a solicitor would have to look smarter than he did, although he probably wears a suit under his usual beige mac. I certainly spotted a tie.
It’s a good career, though, if that’s what he does for a living. I can’t imagine anyone dreaming of being a lawyer unless it’s one of those glamorous ones who deal very publicly with celebrity divorces. But it takes all sorts, I suppose.
A few years ago, when Mum was well and I had no problems to speak of, I landed my own dream job purely by accident.
Three years earlier
I found myself with time to kill in the middle of town, waiting for Mum to finish scouring every clothing shop in Nottingham for a new jacket to wear at a friend’s wedding, so I wandered into Moderno, the big contemporary art gallery in the city centre.
I’d always liked coming here, loved its big, open creative spaces and the leafy terrace café. If you felt like being less visible, there were stairs at the back that led to the lower floors, where a warren of small, intimate rooms packed with art offered a quieter experience.
You could easily while away a few hours in Moderno, although it wasn’t usually to my taste in its selection of exhibiting artists. I generally found the pieces too eclectic, and the exhibitions were often verging on the bizarre and unfathoma
ble.
My own preference was for artwork that was original, of course, but with slightly more commercial appeal. I loved a stunning landscape or portrait pieces that ordinary people adored enough to save up for and hang on their walls to live with day after day.
Pieces that meant something to them, were evocative of their personal happiest times or distant places visited.
Not wanting to limit myself to one kind of art – just as avid readers enjoy a broad sweep of book genres – I’d always made the effort to seek out all kinds, and so it seemed a perfectly pleasant way to kill half an hour while I waited for Mum to appear with her elusive jacket.
The gallery wasn’t busy that day, so there was plenty of time to linger and contemplate some of the unusual clay sculptures in the main gallery. I moved on to an exhibition on the far side that explored graphics, music and poetry from the Far East. I was reaching for the headphones to enable me to listen to a curator’s opinion on it when I heard a familiar voice behind me.
Turning and peering through a suspended trio of giant monochrome prints depicting ruined cities, I saw my old university tutor, Montague Forster, chatting to the suited gallery manager I’d seen on my previous visits.
Using the prints as a useful cover, I walked down the middle of the gallery and lurked around closer to where they stood.
‘When does your friend need someone in post by?’ the gallery manager asked Monte.
‘Well, The Art Box is scheduled to open at the end of the month, so ideally in the next week or so, if possible.’
My breath caught in my throat and I fought a splutter.
Lots of people in the online art appreciation groups I was a member of had been chatting about the opening of a hot new gallery called The Art Box. Owned by legendary Dutch sculptor Finn Visser, the exclusive boutique gallery would be the first offshoot of his award-winning sculpture gallery, The Steel Box, which was located in Sheffield. The fact that he had chosen Nottingham as the location for his next art venture was a massive coup for the city.
