Page 8 of Close to You
When I look at the clock again, it’s a few minutes after one. Another hour has zipped by, as if I’ve blinked forward in time.
There’s a bump from the corridor and I hurry across the room until I’m pressing my eye to the spyhole. The hallway is bloated from the fisheye glass, though the only thing of interest is a messy tray of room service left on the floor outside the opposite door.
I return to the bed and sit, then lie, then sit, then stand. Nothing is comfortable.
I slept next to David for long enough – I married him, I killed him – and yet, two years on, he’s seemingly here again. Is it a twin? A brother? A cousin? It’s not as if he didn’t lie about his family once. More than once.
As I lie on the bed and stare at the dimpled bumps of plaster on the ceiling, I can only think of the night it all happened. There was so much I never knew about my husband and now, I suppose, there might be one more thing.
Four
THE WHY
Three years, nine months ago
David pulls out my chair and waits for me to sit before tucking me in under the table. He texted me three times after we went our separate ways that first night – and, after two weeks of messaging back and forth, we’re finally on a proper date.
The waiter comes across and David says something in Italian to him. Or I assume it is Italian – it’s not as if I understand. The waiter takes my coat and then disappears off without a word to me.
‘What did you say?’ I ask.
‘I was asking about wine. I’ve heard they’ve got a good cellar here.’
‘Oh…’
‘Are you a wine drinker?’
‘I’m not much of a drinker at all, really.’
He nods knowingly: ‘Of course. I should’ve realised, what with your job and everything.’
David reaches for the table water and pours some into my empty glass. He’s in jeans and a sports jacket, which, for most people, would look like some sort of middle-aged cry for help. For him, it works. There’s a sophistication about him. As I thought when I first saw him, he is almost exactly a decade older than me. That sort of age difference has never done anything for me before – but I figured there was no harm in going out to dinner together. It’s not as if I’m getting any younger – and, besides, there are so many dickheads out there that it’s rare to stumble across someone I actually like.
I don’t bother correcting him about the fact that I’ve never really been able to handle my alcohol. If he wants to think it’s because of my job, then fair enough.
The Italian place he chose for us to eat is one that I’ve walked past for years without ever really noticing it. I checked the prices once and decided it wasn’t for me. I’m not saying Domino’s is the pinnacle of culinary excellence – but Iamsaying a pizza shouldn’t cost £20. The inside is all faux Mediterranean, with the walls covered with prints of olive groves and sprawling, sun-drenched shores. If that doesn’t set enough of a mood, there are plastic grapes hanging from fake trees in the entranceway, plus glass jars filled with pasta lining the walls.
I’m still eyeing the menu when I sense David watching me around the large card that serves as a menu.
‘Did you go to university?’ he asks.
I suddenly feel self-conscious, wondering if this is something that might matter to him.
‘No,’ I reply.
‘It’s all a bit overrated anyway,’ he replies. ‘Some of the best people I know are self-taught and self-made.’
‘I’m trying to get into personal training,’ I say. ‘I’ve done the courses and am running a few classes at some of the local gyms.’
I don’t mention that my main gym is closing.
‘What’s your end goal?’ he asks.
‘My own studio.’
He nods approvingly: ‘I like people who dream big. Have you always worked in fitness?’
‘I’ve done a few things – waitressing, a bit of secretarial stuff. Nothing that took…’
