Page 43 of Close to You
He disappears through the back door of the garage into the house – and I dread to think of telling him that he’s going to have to do this plus another twenty-four miles if he wants to run a marathon. We’ve been training for five weeks and there’s no improvement.
There’s another flicker from over the road – but, this time, I dash across to the hedge. I round the corner just as David pokes his head around to check on me. I wish it was a surprise, though I’m not convinced this is the first time he’s followed me to Nick’s house. He’s wearing a green top I’ve not seen before, as if he planned this all along and is deliberately trying to blend in with the foliage.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask harshly.
David backs away until he’s deeper into the bush.
‘Did you follow me?’ I add.
He stumbles over a reply, though there’s not really a satisfactory one he can offer. If he didn’t follow me, then he went through my diary and used Nick’s address to get here.
‘Go home,’ I say.
David finally pushes himself out of the bush and straightens his clothes. ‘I, um…’
‘Gohome,’ I repeat. ‘We’ll talk then. I’m working.’
‘It’s just, um—’
I turn back to the garage, where Nick is re-emerging from the house with a water bottle. He looks both ways along the pavement, unsure where I’ve gone.
‘We’ll talk later,’ I hiss, before turning and hurrying back across the road.
The rest of my session with Nick is spent with half an eye on the corner, wondering if David will either return or didn’t leave in the first place. Nick doesn’t seem to notice, although I realise I’m probably harder on him that I might normally be.
We take breaks in between the exercises, talking about what he’s been eating and drinking since I last saw him. Wine definitely seems to be the bigger of the problems, seeing as he puts away ‘four or five’ bottles a week, which probably means six or seven. It’s not like I can stop him, so I simply explain how many calories are in a glass and then leave it up to him.
He’s aching by the end, so I tell him about ice baths, which is something he doesn’t like the sound of. He pays in cash and then I say that I’ll see him next week.
It’s only as I’m driving home that the anger starts to build. The sky is darkening, which matches my mood. Leaves drift across the road as a slow drizzle starts and I have to turn on the windscreen wipers. I’m driving too quickly and taking the corners recklessly as I boil.
When I pull onto the patch of land at the side of the building, I spot David sitting on the doorstep to my flat. Toourflat, I suppose. He’s still in the green top, although it makes him stand out against the cream door.
I cross the tarmac and stand in front of him, towering tall.
‘I’ll leave if you want,’ he says, unprompted.
‘What?’
‘I’ll move out and find somewhere else.’
‘Why would you jump to that conclusion?’
David shrugs and scuffs one of his boots against the ground. He is refusing to look anywhere other than the ground. It’s still raining, although it’s more of a mist. The air is damp and clings to my skin as if I’ve just got out of the shower.
‘Did you follow me?’ I ask.
‘No.’
‘Did you look in my diary?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
David sniffs and, as his shoulders start to rock, I realise that he’s crying. I have half an urge to sit on the step next to him for consolation, although the anger is still bubbling away. I’m caught between the two moods, unsure how I feel about it all. Unsure how I feel about him. The argument from earlier about his lack of contribution has been coming. Every time we get close, he does something like give me money, or cook me food. It always placates me – but not today.
‘I had a panic attack,’ he says. ‘I couldn’t breathe. I thought you were going to kick me out.’
