Page 7 of Cuckoo

I fidget, wringing my hands and tapping my feet as a light chill nips at my cheeks. One bench down from me, a man is swigging from a can of cider, and he keeps side-eyeing me as though I’m invading his personal space. He’s wearing an oversized coat, an unruly beard covering the lower half of his face. He groans and grumbles to himself audibly. I self-consciously shift myself to face away from him and he begins muttering under his breath. I feel tense, alert, ready to run at the first sign of confrontation. He’s getting louder and begins rocking slightly. I don’t dare look over in case it spurs him on but manage to catch a little of what he’s saying.

‘Crazy bitch sitting next to me… sitting next to me here in my space. Bitch… Crazy bitch.’

I’m just about to get up and find another spot when thesound of clapping reaches my ears and I look up to see the group giving themselves a round of applause, the trainer high-fiving them and telling them he’ll see them next week. I get up from my bench and hurry over to him, all too eager to leave the bearded man behind.

‘Hey!’ The trainer smiles at me as I approach. ‘Looking to join in next time?’

‘Oh! No, no, sorry. I mean, maybe. But that’s not why I’m coming over. I was just wondering if you have ever trained my boyfriend. I think he did one of your classes last summer?’ I hold up my phone and he frowns at the photo of Noah on the screen.

A kernel of hope blooms in the seconds for which he doesn’t reply. Is he trying to remember the exact time he last saw Noah? Or maybe—

‘I’m sorry, I don’t recognise him… definitely not one of my regulars,’ he eventually says.

‘Oh,’ I reply, my shoulders sagging. ‘Okay, thanks anyway.’ I turn to walk away.

‘Mad Martin’s Moves, look me up on Instagram, every Tuesday at three or Saturdays at eleven!’ he yells after me.

I hurry away, embarrassed. What if Noah finds out I’ve been asking all around the common for him like some petty, jealous girlfriend? Perhaps the bearded man was right and I’m losing my mind.

Chapter Seven

22 September 2024

Dear Diary,

The weirdest thing happened today. I bumped into Wine Aisle Guy. As in, literally physically bumped into him on the street. It’s so wild when this happens in London– I mean, in a city of so many people, what are the statistical odds of walking into somebody you know? Fate seems to be working its magic once again. It’s as though I’m living in some sort of rom-com. I actually burst out laughing at how ridiculous the situation was, and then he did as well, which I think broke any tension there could have been between us otherwise. ‘Are you stalking me or something?’ I joked, and he laughed.

‘Something like that.’

He is still the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. You know when you meet someone for the first time and they’re so gorgeous, but then you see them the second time and they look less good? I can’t really explain it any other way, but they have lost that first-meeting sparkle? Well, it wasn’t like that with Noah at all. If anything, he sparkled even more. So after this chance encounter in the street, we went to a nearby coffee shop.‘Because it would be rude to walk into you in the street and not offer you coffee and cake in damages and compensation,’ he said, ignoring the fact that I was technically the one who walked into him.

We went to a place where he seemed to know the owners well. They were Scottish and had that easy banter you get between proprietors and regulars, and I could feel them eyeing me with interest for turning up with him. Noah told me a little more about his family, I got his number, and we’ve been texting a lot since then.

He’s a great listener; I can’t remember the last time anyone gave me so much space to talk and breathe. I know it sounds stupid as I only met the guy the other day but I really like talking to him. He makes me feel happier. I haven’t felt like this in ages, it’s as though I’m just waiting for reality to come and pop my bubble. I hope things continue to go as smoothly between us as they have so far. (Though, hopefully, with fewer surprise encounters. Knowing my luck, next time I run into him I’ll be dressed in my old scraggly leggings…)

Claire

Chapter Eight

Back at home I’m pacing the tiny kitchen area, the walls blurring as I scurry back and forth and back and forth like a drugged lab rat. I’m dizzy with panic. Since my failed high street hunt I’ve tried calling Noah seven times now, and each time the phone rings out. I glance at the bottle of his favourite white wine I bought on my way home from Clapham Common, thinking we would sit down, talk everything through. I am angry, yes, but the wine is a sign that I want to work this out and listen to his side. The bottle now taunts me from the kitchen counter.

I don’t drink very often. Never alone at home. I didn’t go to university, so those formative years spent getting drunk and playing messy drinking games evaded me. Occasionally I’ll have a glass of wine with Noah when he’s had a hard day, or at work events, but Sukhi doesn’t drink much either so usually I keep her company on softies. Deep down, drinking reminds me of Mother; of cleaning vomit from the carpet and the smell of bile.

But now my fingers are itching for something to do, and I find myself twisting off the bottle cap and pouring out a large glass, taking a gulp. It goes down easily, smooth and mellow. I swig more down, closing my eyes and letting the warmth hit my belly. I feel tears welling. I take another sip.

In what seems like no time at all, I’ve drunk half the bottle and decide to text Noah again. My concern about coming across as neurotic is long gone together with my sobriety.

Is this why Mother always argued with the men she dated?

WHERE ARE YOU NOAH? Call me, we need to talk, wtf is going on?

I hit send, and watch my words disappear into the cellular ether. A single tick blinks at me, mockingly, indicating that my message has been sent but not received. He’s switched his phone off.

Rage builds in me and I storm over to the bed, ripping the drawer out of his bedside cabinet and searching through it feverishly for clues as to where he’s been going every day, all day. My drunken forage turns up nothing of interest, nothing bizarre or odd or out of place. I move to the wardrobe, rifling through everything, pockets all probed. Nothing.

An hour later and the flat is a mess. I’ve torn the place upside down and can find no evidence of Noah being anything other than truthful. I sink into the dining chair and take another deep gulp of wine. The last drawer in the house to go unchecked is beneath my fingertips, a small side drawer in our kitchen table. I use it every day, so I know there is nothing of Noah’s in there. But still, I decide to torture myself and open it.

Chapter Nine

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