Page 34 of Close to You
‘Oh, that’s lovely. What’s her name?’
I’ve not seen Yasmine since that time at the gym – and we’ve not talked of her. With that, I can’t take much more of these happy families so stand somewhat abruptly and announce that I need the toilet. I head along the hall into the bathroom and then lock the door behind me. I can hear the soft muttering of David and Mum, though can’t make out the words. I sit for a minute or do with my eyes closed, wanting to leave. I’m not even sure why. This is one of my mother’s better days – except there’s something about her being nice to someone else that will always rankle. I’m not sure I’ll ever get past the feeling that she likes literally anyone more than she likes me.
I’m not ready to return to the living room, so take off the watch and examine the back. It only takes a brief Google search to find the model David’s given me. I have to check the top five links to make sure there hasn’t been a mistake somewhere.
The watch is worth £3,000.
Sixteen
THE NOW
Nothing happening is worse than something happening.
Well, maybe.
I haven’t had any further texts overnight from the unknown number. Google throws up no matches for it and I decide against messaging or calling. I try searching for Yasmine’s name online, but there’s little information about her – and her Facebook page shows me only her name and a photo. It’s rather annoying when people know how to turn on their privacy settings. I probably should have called the number when I was following Yasmine – but it didn’t occur to me at the time.
It’s been a day and a half since seeing David in that photo at the awards. A day since my car was stolen. I woke up this morning expecting something to happen – more cryptic texts, or contact from the police. Instead, there is nothing. I potter around, making myself coffee and indulging with a couple of slices of toast. There’s still no sign of the Tigger pot and so, after that, there’s little to do other than work.
The windscreen on Andy’s car is frosty, but the heating deals with that in barely twenty seconds. If this was my car, I’d be impatiently outside with a bucket of hot water in an attempt to get things moving. That does make me think that whoever took my car must have done so not long after I parked it. If it had been left for long, it would have been an icebox.
It is only a short distance to the studio, but I drive as carefully as if I’m taking my test and there’s a mardy middle-aged singleton at my side. It’s partly because Andy’s car still feels like it’s trying to drive itself, but mainly because it would terrible if I had an actual crash while denying being involved in another.
By the time I let myself into the studio, one of the other trainers – Mel – is busy laying out the mats for her yoga session. It’s clear that almost nobody yet knows about my car being involved in the crash because we go through the usual small talk. One of the other trainers is off to Bermuda for Christmas, so we go back and forth about how strange the festive season will be if it’s warm. People start to arrive and Mel sets her whale music going, which is always my cue to move on.
I head up to my office and open the slats of the blinds enough that I can see out, while nobody should be able to look in. It gives me a view of almost the entire lower level, including the entrance and reception, and I spend a couple of minutes watching as more people arrive. I’m not sure what I’m looking for but, whatever it is, it’s not outside my window.
My desk is full of pads and pens, even though I rarely use them. Almost everything is done digitally, but I end up writing myself a list:
Someone who looks like David?
A brother?
I start to write David’s name and get as far as the capital-D before stopping myself. Even entertaining such a thought feels like a step to madness. Neither of the other two explanations feel particularly solid, either. David didn’t tell me about Yasmine at the beginning – but it’s not as if he concealed her identity for the whole time we were together. It was weeks, not years… although I have wondered if he’d have ever told me if I hadn’t brought it up.
I remember some of the things from David’s death two years ago with perfect clarity and yet, like anything, memories fade. Truth blurs with fiction and I’ve told so many fictions since what happened that I sometimes find myself believing the lies. I repeated them so often in the immediate aftermath that I sometimes lie awake at night trying to figure out what was real and what wasn’t.
But Idoremember how I killed him and what I did directly afterwards. I felt uneasily calm, perhaps as composed as I’ve ever been. It’s only now that I wonder whether it was an illusion and my mind is playing with itself. Perhaps I was never that collected and everything that happened did so in a crushing panic? Somehow, in among all that, I failed to notice that David was never dead…
That’s my fear – that the truth I’ve been telling myself for two years was never the truth to begin with. That’s why nothing happening is worse than something happening.
I’m scratching the scar on my neck again – and everything that has happened has seemingly left me slipping into old habits once more. I watch the lower floor for a while longer and then turn back to my list, though I still can’t bring myself to add David’s name to the bottom.
After getting through a few bits of admin, I take Andy’s advice and call a solicitor’s office. It’s the same one I spoke with when I was trying to figure out whether it was worth divorcing David. The person who answers the phone must know who I am as she puts me through to ‘one of the partners’ – Mr Patrick – almost immediately.
I tell him what happened, half expecting him to reply that he can’t help. I’m braced for the worst, but he’s calm and seemingly unruffled. Mr Patrick has one of those voices that’s as smooth as a Creme Egg left in a windowsill on a summer’s day.
‘I think what you’re missing is that the police have toproveyou were driving,’ he says. ‘It’s not the other way around. You don’t have to prove that you weren’t.’
‘I wasn’t,’ I reply.
‘And I’m sure they are rapidly coming to that conclusion.’
He tells me to leave it with him for now but to get in contact if I hear anything more from the police. I instantly feel better after hanging up. It’s obvious, of course. The one thing everybody knows about a justice system is that people are innocent until proven guilty – and so it’s clear that the police have to prove it was me driving. If they had any evidence of that – which they can’t because I wasn’t – then I would have already been charged.
I turn back to my computer and again look for details from the crash. In the time I’ve been speaking to the solicitor, a news story has appeared that names the pedestrian who was hit. ‘Trevor Barnwell, 52, from Gradingham’ was struck in the early hours of yesterday morning. It says that police are investigating the circumstances, but, other than that, there are few more details than before.
I spend the rest of the morning getting on with the smaller jobs I usually put off. I pay the cleaning bill and send out a couple of invoices, before a text arrives from Andy, who asks how I’m doing. When I say that I’m working as normal, he asks if I want to go for a meal that evening. I’m tempted to say no, if only because I’m in the mood to barricade myself away from the world. Instead, I end up agreeing because at least it will besomethingthat’s happening.
