But as I drew closer, she reared backward. “Don’t lie to me. Why are you lying? She’s gone. She’s never coming back. Where’s Richard? I need Richard. I can’t lose him, too.”
I was frightened by the madness in her eyes. It’s still there, sometimes.
She doesn’t say anything else. Just stays there, head bowed, shoulders shaking. And eventually, when it becomes too much to stand, I get up from the table.
“I need to get ready for work,” I say to her bowed head, but I’m not sure she hears me.
Fourteen
Jack works ina smart, glass-fronted building between London Bridge and the Shard. Thanks to Google, I’ve established the office hours. And with Street View, I’ve identified the ideal position to watch from: across the road, concealed enough that he won’t spot me, but close enough that I can keep one eye trained on the entrance. I’m primed, ready to move at the first sign of him. Google, however, didn’t give an accurate depiction of the throngs of people currently pouring out of every conceivable doorway. Five thirty p.m. on a Friday evening, and it’s like standing in one of the seven circles of hell. I’m being buffeted from all angles. I don’t often get things wrong, but I’m beginning to wonder if this was a mistake. It will be almost impossible to spot Jack from here.
There is also the very real risk that Jack might spot me before I spot him. It’s a risk I’m willing to take. I’ve weighed up the pros and cons of this particular jaunt, and I’ve crafted a backstory should the need for one arise. I’m here meeting a friend. What a surprise to see him—yet another fateful coincidence! I hadno ideathat he worked in the City. Small world, and all that.
Plus, I can’t deny that the thought of his spotting me in the crowd sends a small thrill of pleasure through me. I’ve done my hair specially—blow-dried so it falls in soft curls round my face. I look younger. Innocent.
It was so much easier with Freddie. We worked together, so I had access to his calendar. All it took was a few clicks, and his workday spanned before me in colorful little squares. I tried not to do it too often, of course. I respected his privacy. But when those first few niggling doubts about his fidelity began to creep in, I found it hard to resist.
With Jack, it’s harder, which in some ways makes the whole affair more exhilarating. It has, however, necessitated my need to be here, right now, on this busy London street. Jack’s WhatsApp habits have really begun to grate on me. He’s left me no choice, really. What did he expect me to do with response times like that?
I push through the crowd so I’m closer to the door, sanitizer clutched firmly in my hand. I’ve applied it liberally, but there are too many people, and I have no idea where most of them have been. I’ll need to scrub my skin in the shower later. I only hope this is worth it. The air smells like alcohol, with just a hint of promise.
I’m right by the door now. Someone knocks into me, and I whirl round and snarl, “Watch where you’re going.”
The malice in my voice causes the man—clearly drunk—to raise his hands. “Sorry. No need to get so aggressive about it.”
“My boyfriend just died, arsehole,” I say, and I ripple with pleasure as I watch his face crumple.
“I’m sorry. I am,” he says, and backs away. I thrust my tongue into my lower lip at him, making as ugly an expression as I can, then turn back to the door. I’m in full view of the lobby now. It’s expansive, smart. A few people are making their way through the turnstiles, none of them Jack. I can’t have missed him. I’ve been here for an hour already. Hisstatus continues to go from online to last seen. I picture him sitting at his desk way above me, and I wonder if he can sense that I’m here. I hope so. Like there’s some invisible thread binding us together.
And then, suddenly, there he is. Walking through the lobby with three colleagues. Laughing, joking, jostling. My eyes snap instantly to the woman. She’s walking too close to him, overly familiar. As I watch, she reaches out, touches his arm. So lightly, it could almost have been an accident, were it not for the fact that her hand goes straight to her hair after, tucking a stray strand behind her ear. It’s the self-conscious gesture of a woman eager to be noticed. I can’t blame her really. He’s exceptionally attractive, and there is something about a widower that seems to drive women wild; but she’s barking up the wrong tree. Jack is mine. And if she continues with these wanton displays of flirtatiousness, I will have to make that clear, in no uncertain terms.
But Jack—to his credit—doesn’t reciprocate. He turns to say something to one of the other men, hanging back so she’s left at the front of their small pack, walking alone. At leasthehas a sense of honor, of loyalty.
They’re so close to the door now that they’re going to pass right by me when they exit. I turn so I’m angled away from them, facing the street, and hear the door slide open behind me. They’re so wrapped up in their conversation that they don’t notice me. One of them brushes past so close it lifts the hairs on the back of my neck. I can smell the woman from here. Her perfume is too sweet. Sickening.
They begin to move as one, and I follow, always keeping at least two strangers between me and them. They’re adept at navigating these crowds, and I’m at a disadvantage. I nearly lose them twice. After a few minutes, they turn off the main thoroughfare and toward a small pub at the end of a quiet road.
I hang back, watching from the corner. When they reach the door,Jack stands back, allows the woman to enter before him. A prickle of annoyance. They disappear inside, and I deem it safe enough to approach.
I peer through the mottled window, but it’s packed inside, and I can’t make them out. It’s one of those old boozers that London used to be famous for. Old stable partitions carve the pub into segmented booths. Dark beams run along the low ceiling. It’s dark, dingy. It looks dirty. I wrinkle my nose and wonder—for the umpteenth time today—if this is worth it.
Then I think of the woman. How close she was to him. It’s worth it. I need to remind him that I’m not just some faceless woman at the end of a phone. I enter through the very same door, though there’s no one here to open it forme. I’m blasted with a wall of noise, hot air, the putrid scent of spilled beer. It’s so crowded, I can’t see them anywhere. I edge round a man toward the bar. I’m going to need a prop.
After some deliberation, I settle for a pint of beer. I don’t like beer—it bloats me, and I dislike the way it lingers on the breath—but I don’t intend to drink it. This is another tip I gleaned from Marcie. She discovered that men have an affinity for women who act like them. She was brilliant at it, put them at ease just enough to make them think she had an edge to her. Just enough to stop them from viewing her like she was somehow less, simply because she had better personal hygiene, no ugly appendage between her legs, and no obsessive love of football or pints.
I pay for the beer, then stand with my arm against the bar, scanning the room. Still no sign. I tip a bit of the drink onto the floor, just to make it look convincing. It fizzes there for a second before seeping into the nasty carpet. A man to my left stares at me as though I’m insane. I ignore him.
And then, from behind me: “Iris?”
This is it: my big moment. I gather myself, fixing an expression of charmed surprise, and swing round to face Jack. “If I didn’t knowbetter, I’d say you were stalking me,” he says, and his eyes sparkle with amusement.
“I could say the same about you.” I keep my tone light, voice steady, but, truthfully, he takes my breath away. He looks adorably rumpled from his day in the office. Being this close to him again…it’s intoxicating. “Didn’t you turn up at my work the other day?”
“Touché.” He grins. He looks genuinely thrilled that I’m here, which shouldn’t be a surprise, but those ugly thoughts do have a way of making you doubt yourself. “What brings you up this way?”
“I was meeting a friend.” It comes out so smoothly, I almost believe it myself. “She had an emergency and had to shoot off. So here I am.” I raise the beer.
He assesses my choice of drink, and his eyebrows lift with approval. Hook, line, sinker.
