I head out later than usual this morning, mostly because I couldn’t sleep last night—checking my phone every half hour, imagining it was ringing when it wasn’t—but also because I’m hoping to avoid the runner. If I continue along our road to the end, then dip down, I should be able to cut out the section of the beach where I’d have met him, like chopping off a dead tree branch.
As I start to run, I fret that perhaps I should have left at the same time because now he could be anywhere along the route. Then again, he might have set out later too because of me. Impossible to judge. And I’m tying myself in knots trying to.
At some point over the past week, my life changed from autopilot to survival mode. I feel like one of Will’s Xbox characters, running, jumping, high on adrenaline. With every corner I turn, every new stretch of road I enter, I look about me, convinced there’s a danger I can’t see.
What would I do if I came face-to-face with her? She would be stronger, faster than me. I wouldn’t stand a chance. Maybe I should start running with pepper spray. But surely nothing would happen to me here, in broad daylight? And yet there are those shocking news stories—assaults in parks, shopping malls…
It’s colder again today, fine rain in the air that’s sharp on my face. Zipping up my jacket, my mind turns to fretting about Fred. I haven’t spoken to him or so much as glimpsed him since Saturday, when we walked home from his parents’ in silence.
I turn down the alley that leads to the seafront. I don’t like this one—it’s dingy, overgrown; I can’t always see where I’m putting my feet. I’m only five steps along when I spot a dark shape at the end, blocking the light. It’s him. He’s come this way to avoid me.
Instantly, I shrink, recoil, considering retreating around the corner, but I can’t do that. I’ve every right to be here, so I force myself to press on, grateful for the distraction of my headphones. And then, as we get nearer to each other, I try to make light of it. It’s clear we’re going to have to stop because it’s too narrow. “Well, this is awkward,” I say, laughing, pausing my music.
He doesn’t acknowledge me, other than to squeeze past. I think of Fred ignoring me last week when I smiled at him. “No need to be rude,” I call after him, as he pounds up the hill.
That stops him. He turns, hands on hips, catching his breath. “Your friend embarrassed me. I was with business associates.”
He’s so puffed up I want to pop him with my fingernail. “Well, I’m sorry if we made you look less important than you obviously are.”
He flicks sweat from his brow and then to my shock puts his middle finger up, before turning away. I stare at his wet back. “You’re pathetic!” I shout.
“And you’re a wrinkled old hag!” he shouts back. “Much better from a distance!”
His words reach me like a body blow, stealing my breath. I don’t want them to—hate myself for allowing it—but I can’t stop them. They’re wrapping themselves python-like around my heart, embedding there so that for the rest of the day, week, month, year, my life, they can repeat over and over, on days when I’m feeling low.
“Damn it!” I kick the wall, crying in frustration. He’s carrying on with his run and his day, just like Fred. They’re carrying on and it’s me lugging the python around until I’m so small and weighed down I can’t get up in the morning.
I have to carry on running—continue what I set out to do. I even set off down the alley a few paces, but I’m shaking and my legs feel stiff. The rain is coming down heavier. Defeated, I walk slowly back up the hill, my heart hammering as though I’m still running.
As I unlock the front door, I notice Fred’s leather sneakers are gone from the shoe rack, and Alice’s ballet flats are gone and Will’s football boots too.
Upstairs, as I undress for the shower, I’m still shaking. Stepping under the spray, I fight the sensation, the contraction in my heart, but it comes anyway and I feel myself becoming that little bit smaller still.
You’re a wrinkled old hag. Much better from a distance.
* * *
“There you go, Gabby,” Claire says, handing me a coffee from her tray of mugs.
“Thanks, Claire.” I smile at her as she offers a plate around. It’s our monthly meeting. I’ve got the whiteboard set up—a few things to say; admin, reports. Otherwise, the most exciting thing happening is that we’ve got triple chocolate chip cookies.
Shaun enters late, taking a seat with a scrape of his chair, drumming his fingers as though bored already. He resents these meetings, where we can’t get away from the fact that I’m chairing them. He’ll do everything he can to undermine me, so I give him my best smile and ensure he gets extra cookies. Sometimes it helps to do with him exactly what I did with the kids when they were small.
By the end of the meeting, I feel drained from the effort of deflecting him—the way he watches me constantly, hoping I’ll trip up.
Back at my desk, I stare at the screen, another headache threatening. So I decide to take an early lunch, craving fresh air, even though it’s still raining outside. As I stand up, my vertigo returns, the floor wobbling, the table turning upside down. I know from experience that I’ll have to wait for it to go.
When I’m convinced the world’s back up the right way, I head out, my mind clouded with thoughts of Shaun.
If I gave him orders, he’d call me a bitch. But when I consider his feelings, I’m weak. It doesn’t matter what I do, I’m wrong. The only thing that would make it right would be him being the boss.
I’m halfway along the street, checking all around me, scanning the horizon, when Jam rings. Sheltering from the rain underneath a bakery’s canopy, I take the call, inhaling sugar, butter. Even when Jam’s not with me, I can smell food that’s bad for me.
“Hey you,” she says. “What you up to tonight?”
“Nothing. Why?” I look up and down the road, certain that Ellis is here somewhere, watching me.
“Because, well, don’t freak, but there’s something I need to tell you.”
Cars are driving sluggishly along the road, wheels hissing on wet tarmac. I wait for a van to pass before speaking. “Tell me now. I don’t want to wait until later.”
“You have to, hun. It’s not the sort of thing I can say over the phone. And besides, I think Nate should be there.”
I frown. “Nate? What’s he got to do with it?”
She pauses. “Just come straight from work. Eat at ours. About six?”
I nod.
“Gab?”
“Yes,” I reply.
We end the call and I continue along my way, not knowing where I’m going until I’m standing in there, smelling aniseed, coffee. That’s all I get in the time allowed because now Paige is tilting her head at me, her nose ring catching the light. “Hey there, what can I getcha?”
I see baklava, hummus, olives and then gold boxes of pralines with red ribbons. This month’s special: half price. Guilt chocolates and still Fred sold me short.
I stare at her name tag and imagine telling her who I am and what’s she done and how all this has made me feel and how I’m shrinking by the hour and how would she feel if this were her mother because we must be about the same age, and then she chirrups, “Spoiled for choice?”
She seems so young it disarms me. I leave, not knowing who I feel sadder for, her or me, but when a truck thunders by and splashes a puddle up my legs, I decide it’s me.
I’ve no idea where to go for lunch. How am I supposed to make even the most basic decisions, knowing there’s something so awful awaiting me tonight that Jam—who has no boundaries—can’t tell me over the phone?