Page 30 of Close to You
‘Right.’
He pecks me on the cheek, gives a wave to one of the other trainers, and then spins on his heels and heads out the door. This is typical of our relationship. We’ve never been the type of couple to live in one another’s pockets, or put on over-the-top displays of public affection. After David, I like that. We spend more nights apart than together, which is why moving in is such a big change.
I feel myself starting to shiver with the mix of the opening and closing front door and my sweaty T-shirt. There is a private shower in the staff area at the top of the stairs, but I have the urge to shower at home and barricade myself away from the rest of the world.
I head for the stairs, ready to grab a hoody from the upstairs office when my phone beeps. It’s a text from an unknown 07 mobile number and I almost delete it without bothering with the content. It’ll only be some company telling me I’m eligible for compensation over some injury I’ve never had.
Except it isn’t that. The message is far simpler and far more chilling:
Miss me? X
Fourteen
I stare at my phone, reading the message over and over, as if expecting something more substantial to appear. I move away from the steps, back towards reception, and turn to look at everyone who’s left. There’s only Jess behind the counter – and she’s busy talking on the phone.
Who is this?
The reply comes almost instantly:
Nice top. You always looked good in orange.
I shiver, spinning the entire way around, although not seeing anyone I’d missed. Jess is making notes from whoever she’s talking to and, as far as I can see, there is nobody else in reception. I hurry to the glass doors at the front and step outside, feeling the chill as I stare out into the darkness.
There’s nobody there.
WHO IS THIS?
There is no instant reply this time. I hurry inside and up the stairs, phone in hand, willing it to buzz but simultaneously hoping it doesn’t. When I get into my office, I lock the door behind me and sit in a darkness that’s broken only by the glowing light from my phone.
Could it be Yasmine? She knew I was wearing orange. She can’t know the truth, but I suppose it was her pregnancy that was the beginning of the end for David and me. I’m not trying to absolve myself from the blame – I know what I did – but everything might have played out differently had it not been for her.
It was only after David’s disappearance… David’sdeath… that I found out precisely where she lived in Kingbridge. Her house is relatively close to the police station where I was questioned earlier. Despite what she said about seeing me in the news, she’s chosen to drive all the way to Gradingham for a spin class –myclass – when she could’ve signed up for one much closer to her home.
I call the number that texted me, but it rings and rings without reply or a voicemail message. I think about sending another message, though realise it will achieve little. Whoever sent it knows who I am already – and, if he or she wanted to reveal their identity, I’d already know.
I change out of the orange studio shirt and then put on a winter coat and cap before leaving the studio. I could be anyone.
Andy’s BMW is parked perfectly in the car park, as if he got out and measured the gap on either side between the car and the lines to ensure he was in the centre of the space. I spend a few minutes trying to readjust the mirrors and getting the seat in the right place. The car is so big. Usually, ‘BMW’ and ‘wanker’ would go hand-in-hand, which is why it felt strange when Andy bought one. I suppose I’ve joined the club now, at least temporarily.
I deliberately avoid the road on which my car is – or was – buried in a verge, instead following the country lanes around the edge of the village until I hit the main road. It’s a steady drive to Kingbridge, although Andy’s car feels like a surging behemoth that constantly wants to move faster than I’m willing to go. Like trying to wrestle a sleeping bag back into one of those impossibly small pouches.
It’s as I pass McDonald’s that I start to feel a little lost. Yasmine lives on a newish estate towards the back of the police station, but it’s a labyrinth of dead-ends and unhelpful signs. I can feel more curtains twitching as I drive into the third cul-de-sac and have to turn around at the end. The pitchforks will be on standby as someone with too much time on their hands gets ready to kick off because a stranger has parked outside their house.
It’s on my next pass along one of the main connecting roads that, almost inconceivably, I spot Yasmine walking a dog. I was looking for a familiar house – but here she is herself, bundled up in an unbuckled coat over the same yoga pants and bright shoes she had on at the studio. Her hair is high in a ponytail and I’m so surprised to see her that I almost swerve towards her without thinking. I manage to catch myself and continue driving past, watching as Yasmine tugs at the dog’s lead, oblivious that I’m so close.
I end up parking at the end of a row of cars and watch in the mirror as she waits for her dog to sniff a lamp post.
I wait until Yasmine passes and then get out from the car as quietly as I can. I pull the hood up over my head and start to follow her.
Things would be easier if it wasn’t for Yasmine’s dog stopping at almost every bush, lamp post, wall or patch of grass for a sniff and a wee. The animal seems to have an infinite bladder and Yasmine doesn’t appear to be in much of a hurry as she pauses each time until he or she is ready to move on.
It’s dark and the paths are largely deserted, so I find myself ducking behind hedges and hovering behind cars. To an untrained observer, I must look like some sort of flasher waiting for a moment – though Yasmine doesn’t ever look behind.
After a while, she turns into an alley. I have to hurry to close the gap, not wanting to lose her when she gets to the other end. It’s only as I turn into the alley myself that I realise it isn’t a passage at all. There’s a small green that’s hidden by the surrounding bushes and Yasmine is sitting on a bench underneath a street light. Her dog is off weeing on the fence as I almost walk into the bench. I angle backwards, narrowly stopping myself from toppling over.
It makes no difference as Yasmine is on the phone, oblivious to how close we are. I can’t back off now, so continue onto the grass, my head down, trying to maintain a gentle pace.
‘…really got it coming to her,’ Yasmine says to whoever is on the other end of the phone call.
