Page 13 of Hooked On The One That Got Away
‘Oh,’ said Maeve. ‘So, I won’t see you again?’
Willow had to admire her friend’s frankness. Especially when it wasn’t directed at her.
‘You’ll find me,’ the barman said to Maeve. ‘If you want to.’
Then he sauntered off, snake hips in skinny black jeans.
‘Gadzooks!’ Maeve fanned her face. ‘I think my panties just knotted themselves into two half-hitches and a bowline.’
‘As long as you don’t agree to meet him at a crossroads,’ said Willow.
Maeve smiled and then became serious again. ‘It’s your decision,’ she said. ‘Whatever you decide, I’ll support you. I mean it. I love you.’
‘I love you, too,’ said Willow. ‘I need time, though. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ Maeve agreed. ‘Now, where’s that sexy devil with our drinks?’
Chapter Ten
Next morning, Willow shut off her alarm and lay there, staring at the ceiling. Since swimming had become a vital part of her life, she’d been out of bed soon as her alarm sounded, eager to get down to the river and dive in. Today, though, she hesitated. For one, she didn’t fancy the idea of swimming in a soup of human waste. And two, she didn’t want to return to the spot where she’d been fished up by Charlie. Not that he was likely to be there again – Willow was convinced it had been a one-off scouting mission for his work. But she knew herself well enough to know she’d be watching out for him, just in case. Which meant she wouldn’t be able to relax and enjoy the swim. And she couldn’t go back to her usual spot because of the swans. It was all bloody annoying.
To swim or not to swim, that was the question. Willow’s limbs began to itch with a desire to get moving. Swim it was.
On the way to the river, Willow decided. Shewouldgo back to the spot where she’d seen Charlie. It would be a good test for her to block out any thoughts of him and focus fully on the present moment.
She parked her car, and stowed her keys and phone in the swim buoy she’d bought when she’d begun river swimming andused once. It was an inflatable thing that attached around her waist and floated behind her, out of reach of stroke range. It provided dry storage for valuables and doubled as a flotation device if you got into trouble. It was also a foot long and neon pink, and when Willow had first used it, a group of youths loitering on the towpath had pointed and laughed at her. Willow had felt embarrassed enough by her obvious newbie status, so she’d shoved the buoy in a drawer, and trusted in the handy hole in the willow tree. Last time in this new spot, she’d hidden her keys under her car’s front wheel arch but there were signs all over warning that thieves were active. Willow had no wish to walk home in swim shoes. She got the buoy out of the drawer.
At the river’s edge, Willow scooped up a handful of water and gave it a sniff. Smelled like river. Didn’t mean it wasn’t an invisible stew of bacteria but until Willow knew that for certain, she wouldn’t allow herself to be put off.
Despite it being a fine, still morning, no one else was on the water. No swerving kayakers, or abusive rowers. No hissing swans. Just the usual occasional blip and bubble on the surface. Willow strapped the buoy around her waist, pulled on her cap and goggles, and waded in.
It only took a few strokes for her to relax and find her rhythm. Swimming really was a form of meditation – calming, freeing, steady. Willow made short work of the three miles towards the lock, so she paused there for a moment, circling slowly while treading water, enjoying the serenity, the sunshine.
The lock was at a safe distance, and Willow appreciated the aesthetics of what was a significant feat of engineering. She’d interviewed a lockkeeper who was retiring after sixty years of helping boats from one part of the river to the next. He’d told her all about pound locks and flash locks, weirs and sluices, the dams the Vikings had built, and Willow wished she couldremember more of it. Charlie would have remembered. That sort of thing fascinated him.
Willow recalled seeing the couple on the overbridge, fastening their love token to the railings. It made her think, reluctantly, about what Maeve had said the night before – that knowing why Charlie had left might give her closure.
It might, Willow conceded. But it might also bring her nothing but pain. Being angry at Charlie had helped Willow stop blaming herself but those doubts still nagged. If she asked Charlie to explain and he confessed he simply hadn’t been able to live with her anymore, then how would she cope, knowing the fault reallydidlie with her?
But that was only one possible answer, wasn’t it. There might be another. Was she willing to take that risk?
In the distance, Willow saw movement on the overbridge. Someone walking onto it, stopping there to lean on the railings and look down at the water. The sun was glinting off the surface, making it hard to see, but it looked like a young man. The way he’d folded his arms on the railings and hung his head; he seemed dejected. A sudden nasty thought – he wasn’t intending to jump, was he? She hadn’t heard of anyone trying to end it all by jumping off a lock overbridge but that didn’t mean people hadn’t tried.
Willow lifted up her googles to get a better look, and saw the young man run a hand through his hair. His shaggy, light brown hair …
Willow swam as fast as she could to the riverbank and clambered up onto the towpath. She ran to the lock, ignoring the wet slap of her swim shoes and the buoy flapping around her calves. She was puffing hard by the time she reached the overbridge but didn’t stop to catch her breath. The figure in the middle of the bridge had his head on his arms, turned away. But then the buoy shot out in front of Willow and tripped her.
‘Fuck!’ she exclaimed.
Charlie jerked his head up, startled.
‘Willow?’
The stupid thing was tangled around her leg. She couldn’t look more idiotic if she tried.
‘Hi. Yes. It’s me.’
Charlie approached cautiously. ‘Er, that’s not a bright pink colostomy bag, is it?’
