Page 35 of Close to You
It’s only after all of that that I remember to check the membership system. It takes me seconds to find Yasmine. As she said, she signed up over the phone yesterday. The timing is curious, but I’m not sure what else to read into it.
Although we call it a ‘membership system’, it’s not quite true. We don’t sell memberships because there’s no on-site gym – we sell blocks of classes. Yasmine’s address is listed, which, if I’d checked in the first place, would have stopped me from having to drive aimlessly around her estate. If I’d done that, though, I’d have missed her walking along the streets.
Her phone number is also on file – although it doesn’t match the unknown 07 one that’s been texting me. I’m not sure if that means anything. There’s an email address, too – and everything seems as it should. I’m still not sure what to make of what I overheard from her call last night. It’s not as if I can do much in any case. I can hardly follow her everywhere.
I take a few minutes to watch what’s going on below, where one of the physical therapists has arrived. He has a roll of towels tucked under his arm and spends a minute or two chatting to Jess on reception, before heading off to one of the smaller side rooms. There are two more classes in the afternoon, with two more trainers. This somehow ended up being the business plan in that I’ve gone fromactuallydoing what I wanted to taking money from other people who are now doing it.
I turn back to the computer screen but can’t face the mundanity of it any longer. I never grew up wanting to put numbers into spreadsheets or fill in the blanks for invoices. I’m not sure anyone did. Instead, I change into the running gear I keep in the cabinet. I hesitate when it comes to the orange studio top but opt for it anyway.
It’s a warmer day outside today, though not by much. My breath spirals ahead of me as I start jogging along the pavement that leads towards the centre of Gradingham. The hedges that line the path gradually turn into low walls and houses set back from the road.
Gradingham has its moments during all four seasons. In the spring, the fields that surround it bloom with a golden yellow and, on sunny days, it feels as if the whole village is glowing. The summer means emerald green fields under endless blue skies. There are fêtes and beer gardens; with weekly barbecues at the cricket club. Autumn brings a rainbow blanket as the leaves change colour seemingly day to day. Even winter, with its glacial verges and biting cold, has its charm. When it snows, or the frost is particularly thick, these stone-clad buildings are coated in postcard-perfect white. I’ve lived here all my life and, I suppose, the window is narrowing for me to ever leave.
The houses turn into the High Street and I run along the deserted path before crossing the road at the end and heading back the way I’ve come.
With a job in fitness, everyone assumes that trainers enjoy activities like this. There is a degree of truth to that – but running is still horrible. Sometimes I crave a chip butty like anyone else and would rather have my feet up in a comfy chair.
I’m thinking of chips as I arrive back at the studio. My watch says I’ve done a fraction over 10km and I head upstairs to have a shower. In the time that has taken, I’ve received no further texts, calls or emails.
I waste another hour doing little but wondering if this is it from now on. Instead of any sort of conclusion to who was in the photo, or who took my car, I’ll live with this needle of paranoia.
I am working my way through a stack of receipts when an email arrives from Steven, the awards organiser. He has sent me a link to a website that is hosting a series of photos from the night. I skim through a badly written report and the list of winners to get to the pictures. Most of them are of individuals or small groups posing somewhat awkwardly. I’m in four – two of which are from when I was on stage getting the award; the other two were taken when I was looking the other way in a group shot. I go through each image looking for the man in the blue suit who looks like David.
He’s not there.
Almost all of the photos were taken in the early part of the evening, so it’s not necessarily a surprise. If he was only in the room for the moment the winners’ group photo was taken, then he wouldn’t be in any of the others.
I focus on the final ones in the set – but Steven’s photo was taken at a different angle than Jane’s. Some of the winners are looking to this picture-taker, while others – including me – are staring at someone else who had a camera. It’s all a bit of a mess – and there’s no sign of anyone who looks like David in the back. It’s only when I’m comparing his pictures to the one Jane sent me that I remember the circumstances. We were all ready to step away when she stopped us for one final shot. It was that one in which the man in the blue suit appeared.
I’m still scanning through the photos when my phone rings and the word ‘MUM’ flashes across the screen. It’s rare that she calls me – and almost all our phone conversations happen at pre-determined times. I’ll go into them with a literal list of things to mention because, without that, I’ll be stuck with a lecture about how my life is going nowhere and that things haven’t been the same since David left. That’s if she remembers David has gone.
I wince as I press the button to answer. It is never good news when she calls unexpectedly.
‘Hi, Mum…’
‘You’ll never guess who’s got cancer.’
I stumble over a reply. As opening gambits go, it’s strong.
‘Sorry…?’ I say.
‘Go on: guess.’
‘Mum, I—’
‘Iris. I just heard. Lung cancer. Never smoked a cigarette in her life. Still, we all breathed it in back then. She’s only two years older than me. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’
I don’t get a chance to ‘think’ because she’s off. There’s no time for me to tell her that I have no idea who Iris is because she’s busy explaining in intricate detail about how chemotherapy might or might not work and how Iris has been given three months to live. There’s a sort of glee to her telling, as if one of her friends having cancer is an indication that Mum herself has lived a good life because she hasn’t got it. Even if I could get a word in, I wouldn’t know what to say. I’ve learned with experience that the best way to handle these types of conversation is to let Mum talk herself out. Give it five minutes and she’ll move onto the weather.
That’s why I’m only half listening when all the hairs on my arm stand up.
‘Anyway, it was nice for David to pop in. I’ll never know why you got rid of him. Still, I suppose that’s the modern way, isn’t it? I just think that—’
‘You saw David…?’
Mum stops speaking and I can imagine her frowning with annoyance at being interrupted.
‘What?’ she says.
