Page 45 of Close to You
‘That photo on my phone was of my ex-husband,’ I say. ‘He disappeared two years ago. I think he might have visited Mum yesterday, but I’m not sure.’
Veronica reels her head back in surprise: ‘Oh…’
‘You know what she’s like,’ I say. ‘She confuses what happened yesterday with what happened years ago. It’s probably nothing, but I figure it’s worth looking. Do you think you’ll be able to get me the footage?’
‘I can definitely ask. Do I have your details?’
I’m certain she does, but I give her my phone number and email address anyway – and then she turns to go.
‘There was one other thing,’ I say before she can get too far. ‘There was a framed ticket next to the TV. I’ve not seen it around. Do you know where it came from?’
Veronica shakes her head. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen it. I was dusting around there the other week and don’t remember anything.’
I thank Veronica for her help and then watch as she reverses out of her spot and heads towards the gate. She eases through and then they close slowly behind her, leaving only the faint whiff of petrol.
I lean on the hood of Andy’s car, peering up towards the CCTV cameras. There are two: one pointing at the pedestrian gate; the other at the road. It would be easy enough to sneak around if someone could be bothered – although it would involve a hike along the cliffs, which isn’t as easy as it sounds on the type of icy days we’ve had recently.
I am torn between the car and the bungalow, not sure what to do. It doesn’t feel as if Mum is in danger and yet I don’t know if I want to leave her alone. That should make the option obvious, except that I know for certain there’s no way we can tolerate one another for an entire night. I ration my time with her because I’d rather have quality over quantity. The more months pass, the more that seems an impossibility.
I wanted to tell her to hit the panic button if anyone other than myself or Veronica turns up – but there’s a chance she’d get confused and have a full-on meltdown at the postman.
It felt as if the autographed ticket had been left almost like a calling card. An act that was simultaneously thoughtfully kind and overwhelmingly chilling. Mum did tell David – and more or less anyone she’s met in the past fifty years – about her regret at not talking to John Lennon on the occasion she saw him. I’ve never been certain that it was actually Lennon she saw – although I’ve never voiced that. She probably wouldn’t talk to me for a month.
I make up my mind to leave – and it’s a chilly, solitary drive back to the studio to take my evening classes. I half expect Yasmine to walk in, although there’s no sign of her tonight. Regardless of that, my head is still not in it. I make even more mistakes and it feels as if my world is crumbling.
I say my goodbyes after the class and then lock up the studio before the drive home. I’m nervous to let myself into the flat, even though the locks have changed. Once inside, I turn on every light and poke my head into all the rooms, wardrobes and cupboards before feeling reassured that I’m alone.
It’s only when Andy’s text arrives that I remember I’m supposed to be meeting him.
Any idea what time you’ll be done? X
I send him a quick reply to say I’ll be about forty-five minutes and then have a shower before changing into something more appropriate than gym gear.
Before I leave the house, I’m careful to leave a succession of tells in case someone was to enter while I’m out. I set the oven door ajar by a few centimetres, leave open the door to the main bedroom and put the TV remote on the kitchen counter. All small, insignificant instances – but all things I wouldn’t normally do.
The roads are already a mottled white as I drive along the country lanes that link Gradingham to Kingbridge. It won’t be long before the entire area is a glorified ice rink.
The Kingfisher is a sprawling pub that is, essentially, in the middle of nowhere. It attracts people from both Gradingham and Kingbridge because of the quality of the food. In the summer, the beer garden stretches as far as people want to go. There are B&B rooms upstairs and, regardless of season, it always seems to be bustling.
By the time I arrive, Andy’s van is already parked underneath the old stables at the front of the car park. I slot in next to him and then head inside, where I find him sitting in front of a fireplace in one of the side rooms towards the back. His shirt sleeves are rolled up and he’s scanning the menu with his glasses on. He removes them when he spots me and stands, before moving quickly. He scuffs my chair out from under the table and waits for me to sit.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ I say, although I don’t actually mind. Sometimes, the gallantry is welcome… although David had similar moments, too.
‘My pleasure.’
I allow him to shuffle me in and then he takes a seat opposite. The fire is crackling away, spitting sparks into the air as a steady glow warms my fingers.
Andy asks how my day was, but I don’t particularly want to talk about it – and I’m only going to tie myself in knots if I go too deep anyway. Instead, I let him speak. He tells me how his youth football team has a big game on Sunday and it seems like he’s probably more excited than his players.
Even though we’re moving in together, we’ve not had the full ‘children’ talk yet. I suspect Andy wants kids at some point and I can easily imagine him being a terrific father. He’d be the type who’d ferry them around to whatever they want, whenever they want. If it’s football they’re into, then great; if it’s music, then he’ll buy him or her a violin and drive them off for lessons with whoever’s supposed to be good for that sort of thing. After what happened with David, I’m not sure if children will ever be for me. It was kids that led to it all, not that I can tell Andy the truth about that.
We eat and we chat. Time passes and, for a while, I almost forget about everything else. This is when we’re at our best. This is when I’m happiest. Ever since David, I’ve had to ask myself what I actually want from life and a relationship – and I figured it’s this. It’s companionship.
When we’ve finished eating, we head through the pub towards the games room at the front. There are a pair of pool tables, a darts board, plus a rack of board games crammed into a shelf at the back. Andy and I have often played pool here and I’m never sure whether he sometimes lets me win, or if Iactuallywin. He is exceptional on occasion, as if he spent his teenage years hustling old-timers in a grubby snooker club. Other times, it’s like he’s a left-hander trying to play with his right. I’m never sure which Andy is going to show up.
I’m busy waiting for Andy to line up a striped ball when a man comes across to the second, unused, table and crosses his arms. At first, I think he’s eyeing the table, wondering when our pound coins are going to run out. It takes me a moment to realise he’s actually staring at me.
He’s probably nineteen or twenty, wearing a tight olive jacket, with a baseball cap that sports a logo I don’t recognise. His hands are in his pockets but his upper body is arched forward, as if he’s an overly aggressive strutting flamingo.
