See you there. X
Then kick myself for automatically adding the kiss.
I’m not quite sure how I survive the day at the bistro. We’re busy again with customers being particularly demanding, particularly obnoxious, or perhaps my tolerance levels are fading. I gaze out across the rooftops, instead of bumbling through this week’s order sheets. This is not how life was supposed to be. I should have made it to university with the grades I gained. I should be free, working in a creative field. Every day, living here in St Ives, the life and work of other artists is thrown in my face. I couldn’t bear to work in one of the galleries and this is why I hate Mark’s corporate events, declaring an ignorance to anything arty. It’s like shoving a bottle of whiskey in the face of an alcoholic, forcing them to sniff it before whipping it away again. Most of the time, I convince myself I’m good with this but it’s a farce, all of it. I hate my job – who am I kidding? At the moment, I hate my life. All I need today is another letter from my father, followed by another note from the lunatic, the same person or not – I don’t know what to think any more.
Finally, I slope away from the bistro to meet Nigel in The Crab, finding a table up the corner, feeling better with having my back to the wall. I’m considering pre-ordering our drinks when it occurs to me – I’ve no idea what Nigel’s tipple is. Will he perhaps ask for coffee? Or tea? I’m putting my money on tea, a pot-of-tea man all day. He’s a few minutes late already, which I surmise is unusual for Nigel. I check my mobile in case he’s cancelled and I’m sitting here for no reason. No messages. None from Mark either, which surprises me. Either he’s angry with me for some ridiculous reason, like his lying to me is somehow my fault, or there’s always the chance — he’s ashamed.
There’s a missed call from an unknown number and also a voicemail alert. I call up the voicemail. It really annoys me when people leave voicemails; it’s such a faff to deal with. Why not just hang up, text me instead? Or, as is more often the case, why bother doing either when you’re nothing more than a spammer? And there we have it: another silent message. I listen until the end of the silence, in case at the last minute there’s some life-or-death communication, and just as I’m about to hit the delete option, I hear something. Quickly, I choose the option to listen again, waiting all the way through the silence, and there again, at the very end, at the point of hanging up, I hear the breathing. Do spamming robots breathe? I listen to it again, then again and again. My imagination running away from me. My father, is this you? Is this you listening on the other side of the door as I lie curled up, bruised and lost on the floor? Too weak to move, too violated to stay put, hatred pumping through pummelled veins. Silent tears crying for my mum, knowing she couldn’t come. Or when you’d come looking for a fight, me pretending to be asleep, you looming over me? Is this your breathing?
I jump as a shadow falls over the table and look up to see Nigel. ‘Sorry,’ he says gently. ‘I’m late, aren’t I?’
Dark circles underline deep brown eyes and the words escape before I can pull them back. ‘God, you look awful, Nigel.’
He nods, removing his maroon and yellow scarf from under the collar of his herringbone coat. I watch mesmerised as he folds it symmetrically, before placing it on a napkin on the made-up table. ‘Sorry. I’m not the most tactful, am I? I just meant…’
‘Natalie. It’s fine. I’m not in the best place at the moment. Nothing you could say could make me feel any worse. I’m quite aware I’ve looked better – you couldn’t possibly offend me. Thank you so much for inviting me.’ He lowers himself into the chair opposite.
Instinctively, I reach across the table to touch his clenched, extraordinarily cold hand. ‘Don’t be silly. We’re friends, aren’t we?’ As I hear myself say this I cringe at my presumptuousness. We’ve barely shared more than polite chit-chat – I’ve had more conversation with our postman. ‘I mean, I know we don’t exactly do this very often, in fact, we rarely speak but even so… what I’m trying to say is, you’re having a bad time of it all and I want you to understand, you can talk to me. If it helps, of course.’ God, I made hard work of that. Shut up, Natalie. Why didn’t I just say no problem, Nige?
Nigel gestures towards the bar then begins to stand. ‘What can I get you?’
I’m about to say a gigantic G and T but stop myself. As much as I always believe in being myself, right now, I need to be more aware of making this man, out of sorts, feel comfortable. ‘A coffee? Hot, frothy milk but don’t call it a cappuccino, you’ll confuse them. Please.’
Nigel raises his eyebrows, nods, then makes his way to the bar. A month ago I would never have imagined meeting Nigel for a drink, but there’s something almost comforting about him. Safe. Reliable. How Mark used to feel. That’s what it is. I watch him from behind as he orders at the old-fashioned bar with shiny brass pumps. A pub infamous for its historic long list of smuggler patrons, secrets and debauchery carved deep into the many heavy oak beams. Nigel’s long woollen overcoat hangs on rounded but broad shoulders. Tall and solid. Not unlike Mark from behind either, perhaps a little heavier in build, more solid than suave. I’m still staring at him when he turns to catch my eye. Feeling my cheeks blush, I smile. For the first time in weeks, he returns my smile before looking back to the bar.
I’m sure I catch a sparkle in those sad dark eyes as he places a large G and T and a whiskey tumbler on the table. This time I raise my eyebrows at him. Nigel takes a long swig from his tumbler before his bum even hits the seat and, for a moment, I am speechless. ‘Cheers, Natalie.’ He exhales.
It would be rude to object so I pick up my glass and do the same. ‘Cheers, Nigel, thank you. How did you know I drink gin?’
‘Morwenna’s party,’ he says. ‘I recall you seemed quite partial to it.’
I feel my cheeks heat and blush again. ‘Right,’ I say. Rapidly attempting to recall the events from that night. Did I do anything cringeworthy? Probably, everything I did was cringeworthy in the eyes of someone like Nigel. Then it all comes crashing back: it was yet another night of fighting with Mark. How come we’re still together? The bloody cashmere cardigan. With all the other goings-on, I’d completely forgotten about the cardigan mystery. I’m surprised he’s not brought it up again. I mean, where the hell did I leave it?
‘Did you ever find the cardigan?’ Nigel asks me.
So he does remember, of course he does, but is this guy a mind-reader or what? I shake my head. ‘Afraid not. Sorry about all that…’ I wave my hand ‘… stuff.’ Stuff? What has happened to my vocabulary of late? ‘Mo couldn’t remember Mark’s performance. I’d hoped you hadn’t noticed. How embarrassing.’
‘No need to be sorry. Certainly, no need for embarrassment.’
‘No?’
Nigel lifts his tumbler to his mouth, pausing, as if wondering whether to comment any further on the subject. ‘Not on your part anyway,’ he adds diplomatically. ‘Mark, on the other hand.’ He tilts his head to one side; I know he’ll say no more on the matter.
We finish our drinks, then Nigel surprises me once more in taking the liberty of fetching us a fresh round. Feeling the glow from the alcohol, I’m now wondering how I’ve so incorrectly understood him – he’s not so odd. In fact, he’s really rather nice. Easy to talk to, not anal, not difficult at all. ‘So let’s cut to the chase, shall we, Nige?’ I splutter. ‘How are you? Really. I mean, really, how are you? Is this another double, by the way?’ I hold up my glass. ‘You do realise I’ve to return to work after this.’
He smiles, rubbing an unshaven chin. ‘I’ve been considerably better, you could say. The police were here again earlier. I’m telling you this, but thinking, you already know. I believe Morwenna saw them arrive.’
‘Really? No. No, I didn’t know. She hasn’t mentioned it. I’ve not seen her today. How come they came again?’ I hope he doesn’t think we’re a couple of gossips, then again – why do I care?
‘Just crossing the t’s, dotting the i’s. I appreciate they’ve a job to d
o – the whole situation is understandably complicated, especially with there being no family. I’m trying to get it together, but it doesn’t help with them turning up out of the blue as they do.’
‘No, quite, I’m sure it doesn’t.’ I can’t think of anything else to say without it sounding like I’m prying. If I push him, he’ll probably crawl back into his flat, bolting the door for good. ‘So sad, this entire business, so sad. Truly. Horrible you’ve been pulled into it, too. You know, like you say – if there had been anyone else for her…’
‘Exactly. Still, it is what it is. Do you mind awfully, Natalie, if we don’t talk about me?’
This completely stumps me. I thought this was the reason for us being here.
‘I’m sure you have questions…’
‘No, I just—’
‘You see, this is the first normal conversation I’ve had in a long time. My life is anything but normal right now.’
‘Yes, of course. I completely understand. I only thought it might help, you know, to talk.’
‘You are very kind and thoughtful. But if you don’t mind…’
‘Not at all.’ I meet his eyes, feeling a little tongue-tied, which doesn’t happen too often. What are we to talk about now?
‘How is Daniel?’ he asks. ‘I’ve not seen him in a few days. No, that’s not quite true, he popped in a few days ago. I was in the middle of preparing supper at the time. He didn’t stay for long. Nice guy. But I thought he seemed a little distracted. On edge?’
I’m amazed, given the circumstances, Nigel even noticed. ‘Yes. Well, there’s been a few odd, shall we say, happenings at the house just recently. I think we’re all a little on edge. Which reminds me, I really ought to meet up with him later.’
Nigel looks embarrassed. ‘Yes, sorry, I’ve been a little self-indulgent, unaware of the predicaments of others. Completely selfish of me.’
‘Hey, stop beating yourself up. You’ve had your own stuff to deal with. Everyone understands. I wasn’t for one minute suggesting you should have been more attentive, not with… you know.’
‘I thought this was the point in Tommy. To help Daniel out from time to time. Or at least this is what his father told me.’
‘You’ve met his father?’
Nigel nods. ‘When he first moved in. Before your time.’
‘What was he like?’
I see Nigel’s mind ticking over. ‘A touch stern, slightly officious. It didn’t appear as if he wanted to be there, at the house. We only spoke for a few minutes. Knocked on my door to make my acquaintance. Explained Daniel had been through difficult times, something about this being a fresh start for him. Said he was proud of how well Daniel had coped with his losses, yes, that was what he indicated – loss. And because of this, he required support. In Tommy. His father was too busy to be directly involved, by all accounts. I remember thinking it strange. Then he introduced me to Daniel, who, and I could be wrong but thinking about it now, appeared slightly afraid of his father. He certainly wasn’t relaxed around him. But I’ve not seen him since. The father.’
‘Hmm, kind of makes sense.’ Daniel’s reluctance to talk about his father. ‘You should probably know, just so you don’t end up putting your foot in it, Daniel’s sister committed suicide when he was no more than a child himself. She was his elder sister by a few years. I believe he was only ten years old; she was only thirteen.’
‘Dreadful,’ Nigel says. ‘Poor guy. You rarely recover from such events.’
I notice Nigel look away; he’s clearly touched. ‘No. You don’t.’ Childhood scars rarely leave you. I can vouch for this. I’m not sure what’s worse: the initial heart-stabbing loss or the moment you realise, that’s it, you’re properly alone. That first Christmas, away from my father and foster homes, working at the hotel, they thought they were kind allowing me Christmas Day off, said I was too young to be away from my family. Unable to speak the truth, I wandered the rugged coastline, a sandwich in my pocket, watching the families walking off the day’s indulgences before I felt it a reasonable time to return to my live-in digs. ‘You know he went on to Cambridge?’ Is this the gin talking? In a bid to distract my mind, have I divulged more than Daniel would want me to? He’s never actually declared this to be secret.
‘Yes. Yes, I was aware. English Literature, I believe. He told me, whilst admiring my collection of books. In fact, he shared quite a lot that night.’
‘I’ve never really liked to ask the whys and hows of what happened there. At Cambridge, I mean.’
‘I’m sure I’m not speaking out of turn with how close the two of you are, you probably already know, he was asked to leave in his second year.’
I do know this much. I nod. ‘Uh-huh, what a terrible waste.’
‘Extreme anxiety can lead to paranoia, I believe. And past trauma can lead to extreme anxiety, all makes perfect sense now I know of his sister. When you add to this the alcohol and drugs—’ Nigel holds up his hand in defence ‘—not my words, by the way. Tommy’s. He said Daniel was a little partial to the pub scenes, merriments of Cambridge.’
‘Really? Gosh. I can’t imagine it. Daniel, the dark horse. I didn’t know about the paranoia either, yes, he’s a natural worrier but…’
‘Sometimes in the right circumstances worry can all too easily stretch to paranoia.’
Don’t I know it? ‘I guess so. Poor Daniel.’
‘Apparently his Cambridge time was followed by several months in therapy before he relocated to Cornwall, again, according to Tommy. Daniel hasn’t ever mentioned this himself, so perhaps best not to repeat it. Wouldn’t you say there’s probably a great deal more we don’t know about each other than what we do know about each other? Can I get you another drink?’
‘Love to but I absolutely have to return to work. To be fair though, thinking about it, Daniel has mentioned the therapy before. I only assumed it was following his sister’s suicide.’
‘Yes, from what I gathered, this was the first stage in therapy, not the last. From what Tommy also told me it’s been a fairly frequent occurrence in his life. I hope I’ve not made you late, by the way. I’d forgotten normal people work.’
‘Nigel…’
‘Soon. I’ll go back soon. I assume that was what you were going to ask?’ I smile at him. ‘Just a little more time to sort myself out, then I’ll return. Anything to keep on the right side of you and Morwenna.’ He smiles and I wonder again how wrongly I have considered this man. ‘Meant in the fondest of ways, I’ll add. Thank you for today, Natalie. I needed it more than I realised. You can’t possibly imagine how much you’ve helped me. Forcing me out of the flat.’
I go to reach for his hand then stop myself. ‘Don’t be silly. It’s been fun.’ And it has. I’m also leaving here with a whole new perspective on this man. ‘Any time – you’ve my number now, so message me. We’ll do this again.’ As I say this I squirm, with Mark entering my conscience, but he’ll just have to deal with it.
‘I may well take you up on the offer.’
‘For sure.’ As I stand to put on my coat, the gin races to my head, reminding me I’ve only eaten toast from this morning. ‘Take care, Nigel.’ I bend to kiss his cheek, which is warm; as I straighten up, Nigel reaches for my hand.
‘Before you leave, Natalie, perhaps you should see this. I’m sorry, I withheld it from you.’ He pushes a piece of card into my hand. I know what it is; I’ve been so desperate to ask. As I’d noticed before in his flat, the postcard has handwritten words on the one side and when I turn it over, the same printed words.
HOW OFTEN DO YOU THINK – I WISH I’D?
‘How often do you think, I wish I’d?’ I look up to meet Nigel’s eyes to find him studying me. He shrugs. I have to bite my tongue, desperate to ask more; he must know what it means, surely? But also so ambiguous, so transferable to any of us too? Somewhere in Nigel’s eyes I catch the door closing. ‘Another time,’ I quickly say. ‘Maybe we can talk about it.’
‘I’ve nothing to discuss
.’
‘Aren’t you bothered?’ I can’t help myself.
‘That’s not what I meant.’ Nigel finishes the dregs in his tumbler. ‘Look, Natalie, we all have our pasts. Each of us. But I’m not the one you should be talking to.’
I find myself sitting back down. ‘What do you mean?’
‘This isn’t too complicated. We have all received notes. Yes?’ I nod. ‘Given that it is ludicrous to believe it’s one of us sending notes to ourselves, maybe it’s Mark you should be talking to. Do forgive me if I am upsetting you in suggesting this.’
‘Mark?’
‘For one thing, he’s the only other connected person with a key to the house.’
‘Yes, but the house isn’t locked in the morning, is it? We leave it for the postman, which means anyone can come in.’
‘Yes, yes. I suppose. But even so. It has to be someone connected to us all, does it not?’
‘I guess so.’ For some reason I don’t mention the fact that Mark has also received a note.
‘Just be careful, Natalie, is all I’m saying.’ Nigel reaches out and clasps my hand. ‘Sometimes people aren’t quite who we think they are.’
As I leave the pub, I can’t ignore the shiver running through my spine with Nigel’s words. Not only because of what he’s suggesting, but because his spoken words felt ever so close to the note I received. Things are not always what they seem. Stop it, Natalie. Stop it. You’ve made a new friend in Nigel today – don’t tarnish it with your own veiled paranoia. He’s concerned about you, no more, and Mark is an obvious mention, nothing more. At the end of the day, aren’t we all under suspicion? Mark has undoubtedly changed in my eyes from the man I believed him to be when we first met. Nigel isn’t the man I’ve supposed him to be either, albeit nicer. Turns out Daniel’s a bit of a dark horse. And Morwenna has shared secrets with me I’d never have believed of her. Then, there’s one other, my father, and he’s most definitely the darkest horse of all. With a history of playing mind games – the time he spread the most vicious rumours between Mum’s friends, allowed them to believe she was some kind of husband thief, even convinced himself of his lies, so beat her black and blue for it.
I Know You're There Page 23
