by Nikki Smith
As he walks off, I realise I didn’t get a chance to ask him if he can remember what happened at dinner last week. Perhaps he’ll respond later when he sees my text.
I rub my hand over my face. Ali used to say I had a five o’clock shadow by lunchtime even when I had shaved in the morning. Another unwelcome genetic trait I’d inherited from my father. I know it makes me look worse than I feel and I hadn’t been surprised when Harry told me to go home. I’d hoped he would; I need the afternoon off.
I dial Sarah’s number as I walk back to the bus stop.
‘Ms Henderson’s office. May I ask who’s calling?’
I hesitate. ‘It’s Jack Reynolds.’ The line goes silent and there’s a long pause before the voice returns.
‘I’m afraid she’s not available at the moment. Can I take a message?’ The receptionist’s tone is supposed to convey this is only a minor, temporary inconvenience, but I know better; Sarah doesn’t want to talk to me.
‘When will she be available?’ I ask.
This time there isn’t any hesitation. ‘I’m afraid she has a very full diary today. Would you like me to let her know you called?’
I don’t answer.
‘Or I can take a message?’ she adds helpfully.
‘Yes. Can you tell her I rang and ask her to contact me? Say I’m waiting to hear from her. It’s urgent.’ I know she won’t call me back, but I don’t need her to. I only phoned so I could check whether she’s at work. She might not want to see me, but she can’t avoid me forever. Ali always told me I needed to stick up for myself more. I used to ignore problems and hope they’d disappear, I’m not going to do that anymore. Not after what happened. I know only too well how quickly things can go wrong when you’re not paying attention.
I get home and change out of my work clothes, digging around in the drawer of the coffee table for some brown paper. I take one of my books off the shelf in the sitting room and wrap it up, copying her name and address from the letter in my bag, sticking on a barcode label that I cut off a recent Amazon delivery. I wind Sellotape around the whole package and check it’s fastened securely before picking it up with my car keys and the form from the DVLA website that’s sitting in my printer tray. I’ve run through what I’m going to do in my head and just hope I haven’t forgotten anything.
I get in my car and retrace the route I took on Monday, turning into the building entrance and driving slowly past the parking spaces marked clearly in white lines on the tarmac until I spot the black vehicle Sarah got into on Monday evening. I pull over and write the details of her number plate on the form I’ve printed out and scan the completed document onto my phone, emailing it back to the DVLA with their fee, paying extra for the fast-track service. I hope it’s worth it.
I take a deep breath as I pick up the parcel off the passenger seat and walk in through the glass doors, which slide open automatically to let me inside. I smile as I walk up to the counter of the reception desk, glancing at the security barriers beside it.
‘Amazon delivery? I’ve got a parcel for a Sarah Henderson?’
The girl standing behind reception smiles back. A little courtesy goes a long way. The phrase pops into my head, unbidden. My father had made my mother repeat it like a mantra, even when her face had been so swollen I’d barely been able to make out her words.
‘I can take that for you,’ she says.
She doesn’t seem to notice my lips stick to my teeth as I speak. ‘I’m really supposed to deliver it in person. Can you tell me which office I should take it to?’
The receptionist’s smile fades. ‘All post is distributed internally,’ she replies. ‘I’m afraid I can’t let you into the building.’
I hesitate, pointing at the label. ‘Could you maybe give this person a call, so I can confirm it’s been collected? I really need to see a signature.’
She narrows her eyes and then presses a few buttons on the keyboard in front of her to dial an extension. I step away from the desk, pretending to look at my phone as I keep my eyes on the doors on the other side of the floor. Come on. How long does it take to get down a couple of flights of stairs? I glance back at the receptionist, who’s pretending she’s not watching me.
The barriers next to the reception are similar to the ones in my office; large metal blocks where you have to hold a security pass over a panel to get the prongs to revolve to let you in. They aren’t high. Not much more than a metre.
There’s a pinging sound as the lift arrives on the ground floor. The doors slide open. Sarah steps out and starts to walk in my direction and then stops as she recognises me. She hesitates for a fraction of a second, then turns back towards the lift, but the doors have already shut. I begin to climb over the barrier, the bottom of my jeans catching on the metal edges. It’s harder than I thought. Sarah presses the button on the wall several times as she looks behind her.
‘You didn’t phone me back,’ I shout as I clamber over.
She ignores me, but I know she’s heard by the way she glances at the receptionist, checking she’s already calling for help.
‘Did you even look at what was in the envelope? Did you give it to Ali?’ I hop awkwardly as I land on the other side of the barrier, almost falling over, disregarding the shouts coming from reception.
An alarm sounds and a few other people appear, alerted by the noise. The lift doors slide open. I start to run. Sarah steps inside, waiting to be taken out of my reach. I’m so close. She shrinks away from me.
‘I just want to talk to you. I need you to tell me where she is,’ I say. Her expression doesn’t alter. She doesn’t understand how much Ali means to me. What I’ll do in order to see her. The doors close slowly as I get to them. I push the button repeatedly and bang the wall with my fist. A small crowd has gathered in the reception area and they’re all watching me. As the doors open again, Sarah’s eyes widen as I step towards her.
Before I can ask her if she’s spoken to Ali again, there’s a sudden commotion and I’m hauled backwards. Two security guards have hold of my sweatshirt and then I’m on the floor, my arms pinned down so I can’t move. Sarah disappears. The alarm stops ringing as they pull me to my feet and drag me towards the entrance of the building.
One of the guards speaks into his radio whilst the other holds onto me. I don’t fight him. There isn’t any point. I’ve got what I needed. She does know where Ali is. I could see it in her eyes when I stepped into the lift.
‘That’s your final warning.’ The guard who’s been talking on his radio stands in front of me. ‘Get up. You can’t come in here without authorisation. Next time we’ll have to get the police involved. D’you understand?’
I nod, the adrenaline that flooded my body now draining away.
They lead me out of the glass doors and walk either side of me until we get back to my car.
One meeting, Ali. That’s all I want. I’ve stayed away, I’ve been so patient and still you refuse to see me. You don’t understand I’m only trying to do what’s best for you. I had hoped I wouldn’t have to do this, but you really haven’t left me with any other option.
NOW
Alison
I stick my head under the bathroom tap and swallow thirstily. At least it’s Saturday and I don’t have to face going to work. A few droplets run down the side of the sink, and I make a bet with myself which one will get to the plughole first. Fat beads, like transparent snake heads detached from their bodies that slide between the tiny hemispheres, swallowing them in their wake. A smaller one finds a quicker path, a route designed for speed, and it slithers down with an unexpected momentum, overtaking all the others around it. They make me think of Sarah – I hadn’t seen her coming and I can’t shake the feeling that unless I can remember where I’ve met her before, she’s going to hurt me all over again.
I take my toothbrush out of its plastic cup and fill it with water, sipping some off the top so it doesn’t spill as I carry it. Setting it down on my bedside table, I get back under the covers, pul
ling them up to my chin and moving my feet around in circles until the sheet warms up enough for me to be able to stretch out. I hate having cold feet. I always used to warm them on Jack’s legs, using him as a hot-water bottle, but by the end we’d become so emotionally distant that although his body had been there, it had been like lying beside a stranger, and I’d felt colder next to him than I had been sleeping alone. I don’t want to think about that so I get up again and gather my clothes off the floor, where I dumped them the previous night; a faint smell of stale perspiration clinging to the material as I put them in the washing
basket.
I catch sight of the piece of paper as I carry my bowl of cereal into the sitting room. It’s creased where it’s been folded in half at some point, but now it lies open, in the middle of the grey cushion at one end of my sofa. I can see it’s his writing, even from a distance. I chew on a mouthful of cornflakes whilst sitting on the arm of the chair, staring at it. I wonder if it’s even really there, or if it will vanish when I try to reach for it, like Jack did yesterday. I decide if I can still see it when I’ve finished my breakfast, I’ll read
it.
Five minutes later, I take my empty bowl into the kitchen, refusing to give in to the temptation that tries to persuade me to look at it straight away. I wash up, stack the bowl in the cupboard and wipe some crumbs off the counter before going back into the sitting room. It’s still there.
I take a deep breath and pick it up. Black fountain-pen ink on thick, cream writing paper. Jack never skimped on quality. If he did something, he did it properly. He’d done that with my engagement ring – designed it himself and chosen the diamond to have set into it. I look down at my bare fingers. It wouldn’t fit me now, even if I still had it. They’re too swollen, like the rest of me.
His cursive script loops across the page; the familiarity making my chest constrict with a pang of bitterness.
Ali,
When I last saw you, I told you I loved you. Much has happened since then, but I need you to remember how we used to be and what I said to you. I wish you’d write to me.
Jack
For a moment, I am numb. Intense anger and frustration sweep over me and I feel physically sick.
I read it again, picking at a piece of chapped skin on my lip with my teeth. He’s referring to what he said to me yesterday on the stairwell and I’m struck by the thought that he must have come here afterwards to leave this for me. I thought I was safe here. I don’t understand how he’s managed to find me.
I retrieve the second letter from where I’ve filed it in my notebook in the kitchen, taking it into the sitting room to put it next to the one I’ve just read. Definitely the same writing, but not the same paper. No dates on either letter, and I realise, no postmark on the envelope. It must have been hand-delivered. Which means he must have been here. In my flat. The thought makes me run to the toilet and retch, bringing up mouthfuls of half-digested cornflakes. I grip the plastic seat until my stomach’s empty and pull off some loo roll to wipe my eyes and mouth, sitting down on the floor to catch my breath. If Jack’s been here, I need to work out how he got in and if he’s left anything else for me to find.
An energy possesses me, my earlier headache and lethargy forgotten. I start by pulling the cushions off the sofa and shove my hand down the gap at the back of the chair, feeling for anything other than seat fabric. I unzip the grey cushion covers and take them off. I empty every cupboard in the kitchen, making sure I’ve run my hand over the shelves in each one. I drag my clothes out of my wardrobe and drawers, pile them onto the bed and search every pocket. I strip off the bedlinen, unfolding the spare covers and sheets from the drawer under the bed and shake them out to check nothing is hidden in the folds of material. By the time I finish, my flat resembles the scene of a violent burglary, but I’ve found two more letters. One tucked underneath my T-shirts, and the other stuffed into a pocket of the navy dress I never wear as I no longer fit into it. I used to have so many dresses, but I got rid of them all; I only have this one left.
As I tidy up everything I’ve removed from my drawers, I find a small red glove amongst my socks. I can see without trying it on it’s far too small for me, and I can’t find the other one to make a pair. It looks familiar; the panda face that’s stitched in black and white across the red wool is strangely comforting, its faint scent familiar. I tuck it back where I found it. It must belong to me, but I’ve no idea what it’s doing amongst my socks. I wonder if it’s something else Jack’s left for me to find.
I pick the letters up and smooth them out on the floor next to the ones I’ve already read. Five pieces of paper if I include the one I ripped up and threw away. I unfold the one that I’d found in the pocket of my dress.
Ali,
I don’t know if you’re reading this. I’ve got so many questions. Why didn’t you talk to me? Please write.
Jack
I don’t focus on the words and concentrate on reading the last letter. This one looks older; it’s folded together so tightly that the paper splits apart to leave a hole across the middle when I open it.
Ali,
Why?
Jack
They make no sense. He’s leaving them for me to find but runs away when he has a chance to confront me face-to-face, even though that’s the last thing I want. He knows what he’s done. He knows we have nothing to talk about. He’s caused me enough pain already.
‘I don’t think you’ve met my wife.’ Jack’s arm had been around my waist and he’d smelt of the aftershave he reserved for special occasions. I’d looked at the woman he was introducing me to and wished I’d worn something else. This outfit was too tight, and I’d known she’d thought the same from the way her eyes had flickered over my figure before resting on my face.
She’d smiled. ‘No, I haven’t. I’m Steph.’
Someone had tapped him on the shoulder and he’d turned around, leaving me alone with her. I’d barely been able to hear anything above the noise of the music. I’d wished they’d turned it down at the office parties. But I knew most people wanted to celebrate.
She’d lifted her glass in a toast.
‘Cheers. To Butler Reynolds. Or something.’ I’d thought she was already drunk but had raised my empty flute towards hers. ‘Jack talks a lot about you,’ she’d said.
I’d smiled. ‘All good, I hope?’
She’d nodded.
I could see him at the bar with Harry. I hoped he wouldn’t be long.
‘He’s a great guy,’ she’d said. ‘I was sorry to hear about your … difficulties.’ I’d tried to keep my face expressionless, but she’d noticed me stiffen and had bitten her lip. ‘Oh. I hope I haven’t said anything out of order. We tell each other everything in the office. It’s difficult to keep things private when you’re as close as we all are.’ She’d smiled, and I’d sensed a look of triumph in her eyes as I’d forced myself to smile back. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, lowering her voice, ‘I won’t say anything to anyone else.’
I’d stared at her, brushing a piece of non-existent lint off my too-tight black dress. It seemed to have shrunk since we’d arrived and now I barely had room to breathe.
‘They’ve done amazingly this year. So many new clients,’ I’d replied, determined not to let her see she’d unsettled me. ‘Jack loves being here.’
He’d walked back towards us, holding a glass of champagne for me and I’d stepped away as he’d gone to put his arm round my waist. His forehead had creased as he’d noticed my movement.
‘Harry wants us for a photo,’ he’d said. ‘Sorry, Steph, d’you mind? We’ll be back in a minute.’
He’d ushered me over to where Harry was waiting and as I’d glanced back I’d seen Steph looking at me, no longer smiling.
I kneel on the lounge floor, trying to organise my thoughts into some kind of logical order. Eventually the sharp tingle of pins and needles forces me to get up and I stamp around the room, trying to get the blood circulating again. Should I go
to the police? I could tell them he’s found out where I live. That he’s been here. But all I have to show them are his letters and I don’t know if that’s enough to make them believe me. Without a date on them, there’s nothing to prove they weren’t sent years ago and as they don’t have a postmark they won’t be able to trace where they’re from. They won’t believe me if I say I’ve seen Jack in the library and I know he’ll just deny it. They’ll want proof.
I rip a piece of paper out of my notebook in the kitchen and fold it into a tiny square. Opening the front door, I put the paper inside the hinge of the frame, holding it in place until the last minute before I shut it. I’m careful not to squash my fingers. When I open it, the paper falls out and drops to the ground. I’ll know if someone has been in my flat.
I test it several times. It works, but I can see the paper when it drops onto the carpet. Most people wouldn’t notice it, but if I do, Jack certainly will. I try making the square smaller, but it doesn’t stay in place. It isn’t reliable enough. I think of something else.
Standing outside my flat with the door shut, I stick a small piece of sticky tape at the top, so one end is stuck to the door and the other end to the frame. Now when I open the door the piece of tape comes unstuck. I can see if someone’s been in and they’ll be completely unaware of it. The tape is practically invisible to anyone who isn’t looking for it.
I stick it in place every time I leave the flat for the next few days, trying not to think about how many times Jack’s been inside without me knowing. Each time I return it’s exactly as I left it. No one’s been here. To be completely certain, I line up some pens on the kitchen table in a particular order so I’ll know if they’ve been moved. I balance balled-up pairs of socks on top of one another in a fragile pyramid designed to fall over if anyone opens my chest of drawers. I won’t let him back into my life.
