Page 14 of Close to You
I then check the drawers and cupboards, wondering if I moved it and somehow forgot. I look in the oven and the fridge and then move into the living room. I try underneath the sofa cushions and then underneath the sofa itself. After that, I flick through the racks of CDs and then try the cabinet underneath the television.
Nothing.
I look in the bathroom and the spare room. I try my own bedroom, checking the wardrobe and then going through my drawers. I have my head under the bed when I’m sure I hear a creak from the living room. I hurry to the doorway and stare across to the sofa and then the kitchenette on the other side of the room.
There’s nobody there.
‘Hello?’
There is silence except for the echo of my own voice, which I realise could be in my imagination, too.
I find myself staring at the tissue box on the coffee table, wondering if it was on its side when I left. Then there’s my shoes next to the bed. Weren’t they straight, rather than askew? I can’t remember.
The Tigger pot is nowhere to be seen, but, not only that, there is no sign of anyone breaking in. The door was locked; the windows are closed and secure.
It’s almost half past five in the morning and nearly an entire day since I last slept. Yawn is building upon yawn, with tears of exhaustion running down my cheeks.
I can’t bring myself to unpack my night bag, though there is one final thing to check. I go through my top drawer next to the bed, pushing aside the obligatory underwear until I find my passport at the back. I flick through the pages, looking at the stamps and then settling on my own face. Nobody takes a good passport photo. The range of expressions go from ‘a bit like a corpse’, to ‘potentially deranged’. Mine was renewed a little after I got married. It was less than three years back, though it feels like an age. I was so different then. Perhaps others can’t see it, but I can. There was an optimism and hope about me during our wedding. It was the marriage itself that took that from me.
Underneath the passport is a little over £100 in cash, which is exactly what I remember having there.
I’ve been out of the apartment for less than a day. Could David have been in, taken the clay pot, and then driven to the conference, milled around, and then… what? Anyonecould, I suppose. The timings are possible if someone could get themselves in and out – however unlikely that seems.
I tell myself that things will figure themselves out in the morning.Laterin the morning. The pot will show up in an obvious place and I’ll not be able to believe I missed it. David’s mysterious twin will turn out to be some hotel worker who was caught at the perfect angle in the perfect light that makes him look like my former husband. I’m tired, that’s all.
I’m undressed and in bed when I poke my head out and check underneath for a final bit of reassurance. There is nothing there except shoes and empty boxes which once contained things like my phone.
As soon as I’ve laid down, the digits from the clock burn bright through the darkness. I’m transported back to the hotel room, knowing I won’t be able to sleep.
When I was younger, I’d always rest on my left side, facing the outside of the bed. After David moved in, we figured out that he did the same. I told him he could have that side of the bed and subsequently taught myself to sleep on my right arm. It now feels strange to sleep facing any other way.
I close my eyes, cuddling the pillow into my ear and, the next thing I know, the digits on the clock are telling me that it’s a few minutes after eight. It takes a groggy few seconds for me to realise that I’ve slept for two and a half hours. It’s hardly a good night’s sleep, but it will do for now.
It takes a few seconds more for me to notice the trophy on my side table and then everything that happened last night comes bubbling back to the surface like a dodgy kebab. I’m not supposed to be home; I’m supposed to be in a hotel. There was the phone photo of David, the missing pot from my kitchen.
I pull myself out of bed and amble bare-footed into the living room. I glance towards the kitchen, but my keys still sit on the bare counter. I’ve not pulled the curtains and light is spilling across the living room. I head to the window and stand, staring out to where the sky is blue. It’s going to be another cold, clear day. I turn to face the room but instantly spin back. Something feels wrong, though I can’t quite figure out what. There’s a partially collapsed wall to the side of my apartment, with a pile of bricks on the ground. I’m not sure why, but it started to fall down a couple of years back. I find myself staring at it, wondering what feels wrong. It’s like seeing a pensioner in skinny jeans.
I can’t come up with anything, so turn back to the room and head to the fridge, where I pour a glass of water from the filter. It’s cold and smooth and I can feel it clearing my thoughts. I can hardly call the police to report a missing pot – especially not when there’s no sign of anyone having broken in. I finish the first glass, so pour another, enjoying the fuzziness clearing. I’m going to go to the gym and run off a bit of the anxiety. I have some of my best ideas when my body is occupied and my mind is allowed to wander.
My gym bag is at the bottom of my wardrobe, so I grab that, slip into a tracksuit and then grab my house and car keys from the counter.
It’s when I get outside that I realise what’s wrong. It should have been obvious when I was looking through the window. The problem wasn’t the collapsed wall; it was what’s supposed to be in front of it. My carshouldbe parked outside my door – except that it isn’t.
At some point since I arrived home from the hotel three hours ago, it has disappeared.
Eight
I head around the corner of the block and look along both sides of the road. I’ll sometimes park my car at the front because it’s easier than trying to reverse between the various bins that people leave out. There are intermittent gaps in the cars from where residents have gone to work, but mine isn’t there. It won’t be – because IknowI parked outside my front door.
Back at the crumbling wall, I look for signs of broken glass, or some other indication that somebody smashed their way into my vehicle. I don’t know if things like hotwiring are possible with modern cars. What Idoknow is that the keys are in my hand.
Except there is a second set.
I hurry back inside, heading to the top drawer of the dresser at the side of my bed. I checked the obvious things – my passport and the cash – but it hadn’t crossed my mind to look for the other things I keep there.
I take everything out of the drawer, piling my underwear on the bed next to my passport and the money. My chest starts to tighten as I stare at the now empty drawer. I look in the one underneath, but there’s no spare car key there. I know where it was – and I know that it’s gone.
There’s no doubt now. The Tigger pot was a piece of clay with little monetary value. There was a chance it might have shown up in the coming days and I’d have remembered moving it. My car is another issue entirely.
