‘See you tomorrow,’ I call, and she flits into the hallway with a wave, a gust of warm air hitting my cheeks when she opens the door. We’re on the cusp of summer, but the weather has been stormy and unpredictable all week, casting a gloom over the capital. The pale sun, occasionally visible through the cloud cover, bides its time, the turbulence not over yet. I wait until Bella has left the building and then, finally, I pick up my phone.
My skin vibrates. This isn’t something I’m used to. A run of flirty messages, none of them from my husband.
My heart thuds, it’s like he’s knocking on a door inside me, asking to be let in. I pick it up, unlocking it, and the world falls silent as I read.
How was your day?
You know, it’s not fair that you have that photo of me and I have none of you. I want to know who I’m talking to.
After Dr Alex Daniels mailed in his CV, I sent him a message. I told him I’d passed his application on to our owner and that I’d let him know if I heard anything. He got back to me a few days later to thank me but explained that he’d accepted another job, something closer to where he was living. It was mundane, boring, and uneventful, and yet I felt electric every time I heard from him. It was unthinkable to me to just… stop. So I didn’t. I told him I’d spent some time in Paris on my gap year (a lie), that I loved Toronto (I’ve never been), so I was sad that he wouldn’t be joining us (the truth). He replied, asked me about myself, and the conversation went from there…
Now we’re on to pictures.
Crikey.
I glance at my reflection in the mirror to my side, my tired eyes and frazzled hair not exactly up to the task of taking the picture of a lifetime. Which is when the thought occurs to me that there is something I can send him that would pique his interest. I glance at the camera on the desk, my stomach churning. I can’t do this, I tell myself, I can’t send him a picture of Bella. Can I?
Annabella
Now
My teeth chatter together, holding their own frosty conversation at the bus stop on Lavender Road. My limbs are frigid, the tip of my nose iced over, the scene around me near-frozen in a bleak cloud of grey. I rub my gloves against each other and remind myself why I am here. It’s January and my New Year’s resolution is simple: the truth.
My senses heighten, my head spinning to the right as I spot the red double-decker I’ve been waiting for, to lumber into view. It should be tied with a bow like a late Christmas present because, given what’s inside, that’s exactly what it is. I stay seated on the half-bench in the bus shelter, toes numb despite wearing two pairs of socks, unable to keep my eyes from forensically examining each passenger until – there he is.
Rick Priestley.
My next breath shudders from my chest and I clench my legs together. This is it. He sits on the top deck, second row back on the right, a workman in a paint-splattered hoody just in front.
I notice things about him from this distance I hadn’t before: the way he stares out of the window, the turn of his neck, the veins that protrude, a ligament under stress as he cranes to follow something that’s caught his attention.
The indicator fires and the driver spins the wheel into the kerb. Rubber squeaks against concrete. Fleshy, almost, as the hard surface refuses to relent. I push my mouth and nose beneath my coat to avoid the effervescent fumes as they fill the air with toxic perfume. It backfires when it comes to a stop and breathes a noisy sigh of relief. They always sound so tired, buses.
I flit my focus to the top deck just as he’s pushing himself to standing and let my pale eyes dance all over him. Part of me is almost tempted to wave, as though he might be aware that I’ve been following him. I smile to myself. I am always, somewhat perversely, excited to see him.
I follow his sharp haircut as it disappears below deck and my heart presses hard, knocking against my chest, as I wait for the doors to open. A few passengers are spat out before him, plastic bags and fold-up bikes negotiated through the gap and out into the wintery evening. He carries a briefcase, gripped to his side, and he steps from the bus to the road in the thick of the crowd. In the hubbub, a flustered woman grazes Rick’s arm as they pass. Her hit was light, inconsequential, but he shoots her a stern look in response. The woman gasps, apologises, blushes, lingers, explains that she’s clumsy and that she’s terribly, terribly sorry. He flashes her a picture-perfect smile. ‘No problem’, he says, lying through his too-white front teeth.
I hold my breath as he pulls away and, in the seconds that we’re uncomfortably close, I can’t help but notice how little he has changed. The same dark hair, smoothed to a side-parting, the same heavy brow and wide-set jaw, the same steely expression, taut and unforgiving. I cut the thought as it crescendos and tune into the sound of Rick’s shoes striking concrete, fifty yards or so ahead. My focus needs to be here. I shake my head once, quickly, and hone in.
He walks steady, sturdy, not particularly heavy or light. Average, I’d say. I wonder if that’s what he wants people to think. But you’re not average, are you Rick? It’s a cover. A guise. A façade to hide just how remarkable you can be when you put your mind to it. But people like Rick can’t hide in mundanity forever, no matter how much they practise. A leopard always shows its spots. He hides his with his disarming smile and dull-blue eyes, with a suit so banal you’d forget anyone in it, no matter how notorious. He’s styled this image of himself to hide what lies beneath. If he looked like a serial killer, I probably wouldn’t be so worried about him, but this man, this everyman, is so normal that he has to be hiding something. My imagination fires, invented images flashing as I follow him. Tabby. Make-up running down her face, pleading with Rick to let her go, clawing towards the front door with her one remaining arm, the other loose and broken by her side. She’s nearly there, she’s nearly free; then Rick rises in the background, bruised from their fight, and clatters her with blood-thirsty fists. Later, a woman sobs to the media, adding her voice to the many that didn’t see it coming. ‘I thought he was a nice man, he’s just, he’s so normal.’
The streetlights glow as I follow him in and out of the dark, past Neighbourhood Watch stickers and home security systems, discarded Christmas trees littering the pavements, the smell of pine needles hanging in the air. I slow slightly, fifteen or so paces behind, hands in my pockets, hood low. My breath quickens, the light hair on my arms bristling with anticipation. Which way? The same as last night, the night before? Part of me enjoys following him, but I am growing impatient.
I watch the way his feet move, note that the left overpronates a little, examine the way his free hand sticks rigidly to his side. I wonder if he senses me, feels me drawing closer, warmer. I let my gaze travel up his legs and catch a glimpse of red sock beneath suit trouser. Loud. Interesting. A glimpse of the real him. That tells me a lot. You want people to comment on that, don’t you? If only you were wearing red gloves, Rick. Red-handed, I think. Caught. Guilty. Twenty-five to life.
He swings back his garden gate and I hover in the dark beneath two orange orbs, watching. I am used to this ritual. First, he closes the gate behind him. Tidy. Then, he walks to the front door, whistling. An act. He pulls a set of keys from his pocket. Careless. He fits them into the top lock, then leaves it on the latch. Double careless. I take a few steps forward and scan the front of the black-bricked house; there are no cameras, no alarm, the windows are single-glazed downstairs and up. He thinks he’s untouchable. I hear the door bang as it closes behind him. I imagine the latch clicking into place. Home sweet home.