Page 77 of Every Silent Lie
I got an Uber halfway. The Tubes were all cancelled.
No shit. Might be something to do with the two foot more of snow that fell during the night.
I like walking.
Don’t do it again.
I smile, getting momentarily distracted by a company memo that lands in my inbox. I scan it quickly and get back to Dec.
What are you doing tonight?
I place my phone down and press my lips together. It’s a long, painful ten minutes before he answers.
I wish I could say seeing you. Unfortunately, I have a corporate function I have to show my face at. I’ll call you.
I deflate in disappointment, worried I’m forming an unhealthy attachment. But isn’t that what falling in love is? Almost an obsession? Being consumed? And I’m certainly that.
Completely.
I spend the last hour of my day obsessing about obsessing, while trying to break down an email from Thomas. It’s an essay, a long, detailed waffle about nothing in particular, but ends with a show of appreciation for bringing his wife’s and son’s recent spending splurges to his attention. “That’s it?” I say to my screen.
I fire back a quick reply, asking if Barbara and Anthony will be paying back the non-business-related spends. Something tells me I’m hoping. “Oh Thomas, how you stress me out,” I murmur, hitting send. His reply is immediate and short. “Seriously?” I blurt at my screen incredulously. “No, it’s doesn’t need to be handled delicately, Thomas,” I say as I reply. They’re taking the absolute piss out of you, your company, and me. Anyone else would be fired for gross misconduct. Oh, Thomas, grow some fucking balls. I continue hammering away at the keys, my teeth gritting as I do. “And I’m sure you appreciate the impact this could have on my reputation as a CFO,” I mutter as I type. “You’ll make me a laughingstock, Thomas, and I can’t have that.”
I push my keyboard away and lean back in my chair on an exasperated exhale, running my hand through my hair. No one will hire me if I’m associated with a financial shitshow, and that’s what this is heading for. I growl to myself and stand, gathering all my things, wondering what on earth I’m going to do with my night after I’ve been to see Mum. I can’t go to the bar. Don’t want to go to the bar.
Leaving the deserted building, I brace myself for my visit, wishing I’ll get more from her today but knowing deep down I won’t. It’s been a long time since I’ve looked forward to seeing her, because I no longer see my mum. Telling Dec about my parents was the first time I’d really talked to anyone about them. I dreaded it but felt an incredible release with every word I shared. I may not have physically lost Mum like I did so suddenly with Dad, but I lost the essence of her when Alzheimer’s was diagnosed. She just went downhill so unfathomably fast, not really giving me time to get my head around it. And then Dad went so suddenly, too, and my world felt like it wasn’t crumbling, but crashing down. And there was nothing I could do about it. I miss them. So much. And even though it’s always the same when I visit Mum, I know Dad would want me to try and find even just a glimmer of the woman she was past the shell of a woman that lies in that bed wilting away. And yet, somehow, devastatingly, my existence in her life has been completely blocked from her memory.
Mum won’t get better, and Dad will never come back. I didn’t think it could get any worse.
I swallow down the lump growing and trudge through the snow, pulling on my gloves and hat. It's eerily quiet for six o’clock in central London, the darkness illuminated by the endless sheet of white. It’s also eerily beautiful. I slip down a side street—feeling bad for spoiling the perfect blanket with my boots, the crunch of my soles and the rustle of my bag on my shoulder the only noise.
Until I hear something behind me.
I look over my shoulder, scanning the space, but I’m the only living soul around, my steps the only ones in the snow. I peek up at the lamppost, seeing more snow falling. My footprints will soon be a perfectly even sheet of snow again.
Dropping my eyes, I reach into my bag for my phone when I hear it beep, looking back over my shoulder again, certain I can hear crunching footsteps behind me. But . . . nothing.
I turn right at the end of the street and pick up my pace, an odd shudder reverberating down my spine as I open the message from the unknown number.
Should I expect you home this evening?
I frown, my brain on the lag, but then click, laughing. “Silly old man,” I murmur. “Unfortunately, yes, you can expect me home.” I type out a reply and save his number before I pocket my phone.
A collection of dull thuds sound behind me, and I look back over my shoulder once more, slowing to a stop when I find the street empty again. I don’t like the ice that glides down my spine. “Hello?” My eyes scan the deserted street, my shoulders naturally bunching up around my ears as I back up, slowly turning around and increasing my pace.
It comes again, thudding, as if someone’s jogging in the snow. I swing around.
I don’t see the hand sailing toward my face until it’s too late.
The force jerks my head violently, and I stumble into the road, my landing soft, cushioned by the snow.
“Hey, you! Attack!” someone yells, a woman.
“Fuck,” I curse, blinking the black dots from my vision, my cheek exploding into angry flames. Realisation hits me as hard as the back of whosever hand that was, and I frantically scan around me, my heart catching up and commencing a panicked banging in my chest. The street’s empty, no one in sight. I spot my bag a few feet away, buried in the snow, and my phone buried a few feet the other side of me. “What the hell?” I whisper, struggling to my feet, my legs like jelly. “Shit.” I wince, feeling at my cheek, my cold hand freshly unburied from the snow actually soothing it.
“Hey, are you all right?” A woman appears in a cardigan and leggings, her feet in UGG slippers.
“I’m fine.” I circle on the spot, searching, shaken. Nothing. No one. But when I look closely, I see a second set of footsteps heading around another corner. And on even closer inspection, I figure whoever was following me was walking in my footprints—the bigger feet swallowing up the imprint of my smaller feet. “Thank you for scaring them off.” I smile, and it’s strained.
