The Watcher (22 page)

And Gillian was longing for . . . John. She had sworn not to see him again, but she missed so much the feelings that he aroused in her. It was to do with the attention he gave her. His admiration. Most people would be susceptible to it, she said to herself, to soothe her conscience. Since she had met him, she felt stronger and less insecure. And that was what she longed for above all: the security he offered.

She had spent a long time on the phone with Tara the very day after she had visited John. Tara had not said a word in judgement, but Gillian could read between the lines that her friend did not see a relationship with another man as the solution to Gillian’s problems. And perhaps she was right.

Two days before New Year’s Eve, she decided to see John again. She would not go to bed with him, but she wanted to see him. Just see him.

She told Tom that she was going to visit Tara. He replied somewhat gruffly, ‘Again! You saw her just before Christmas.’

‘Three weeks ago! You can’t really claim we see each other too much.’

‘I wanted to go to the office for a few hours, actually . . .’

‘Becky still has a bit of a fever. I don’t want her to be here alone.’

Tom sighed. ‘If only there wasn’t so much work to do. Now’s a good time to clear the desk of all those things I haven’t got round to.’

‘Just today, Tom. Please give me this afternoon. Please. If Becky’s fever has gone tomorrow, we’ll drive to London and work all day. OK?’

‘If you say so. But please be back by seven. You know—’

‘I know,’ she interrupted. ‘Don’t imagine I could ever forget it. Tuesday. Club evening!’

He seemed to want to say something back, but he bit his tongue and clamped his mouth shut. That was how she saw him as she went to the garage: standing in the door with his lips pressed tightly together.

She arrived at John’s house in Stratford at about four o’clock, and even found a parking space not too far away. She rang the doorbell, but to no effect. She rang it again and then stepped back and looked up at the facade. The windows of John’s flat were in darkness. It seemed he wasn’t home.

She was an idiot. She had just not considered the option that he might not be in. What had she been thinking? That he had sat motionless in his flat since her last visit in mid-December, waiting for her call or visit, and had not budged just in case she suddenly appeared? It must be because of the deceptive festive atmosphere in this time between Christmas and New Year. Buildings still had to be watched this week – perhaps especially this week – and John had a security firm. He was simply at work this Tuesday afternoon. And she had stolen the hours, lied to Tom and driven out here all for nothing.

She slowly walked back to her car. She could not bear the thought of just driving home and spending the rest of the day in her own living room with the Christmas tree. She still had a little bit of time left. From her parking space she could watch John’s house.

She sat in her car, burying herself deep in her coat, trying to ignore the cold that gradually crept into her bones. It quickly got dark outside. The lights went on in many flats. A good number of windows were decorated with candles or Christmas wreaths. Even this rather desolate grey street suddenly looked cosy.

She wondered if life with John would feel different to life with Tom. Whether it would feel different in the long run. In this street. In the almost bare flat. Why would a man just throw a mattress on the floor and nail a hook into the corridor wall for his coat? Why live in such a reduced way? With no woman or children. Nothing like that in his past, either. Affairs, but nothing binding.

She looked up at his dark windows again. He would not get involved in anything. Not in marriage or a long-term partnership. He would not even buy decent furniture that might possibly have given him the feeling that he was settling into a flat. The way he lived, he could get up and go at any minute. Join a ship’s crew and sail the world. Emigrate to Australia and open an ostrich farm. Guide tourists through Canada’s national parks.

She smiled, realising what crazy variations she was coming up with, but her smile was weak and false. She knew that her ideas were not as mad as they had seemed at first. They arose from the image and impression he gave: of being flighty, not tied to anything or anyone, perhaps even incapable of forming ties. Untouchable and unpredictable.

A woman should never get emotionally involved with such a man, she thought. At least not if she didn’t want to end up falling flat on her face.

At twenty past six she knew that she urgently needed to make a decision. She needed at least three quarters of an hour for the journey home. Tom was relying on the fact that she would take over looking after their ill daughter at seven o’clock. What was more, she was now so bitterly cold that she would get a chill if she sat in her car any longer.

She got out and walked slowly and hesitantly down the street. She was still hoping that he would suddenly materialise in front of her, so that her long, sad wait would make sense. She almost started crying at the thought of having to drive home now.

Suddenly she stopped. She had reached the end of the street and was standing in front of an Indian restaurant. It looked rather rundown, but at least the light behind the dirty window pane promised warmth. And sitting down in there would mean not having to drive home immediately.

Tom could go to the club an hour later, she thought, and pushed the door open resolutely.

The place was almost empty. A man was fumbling around behind the counter with a coffee machine that looked like it had seen better days and was now in urgent need of repair. A young couple sat at a corner table, staring silently into the middle distance. A few pine branches that had lost most of their needles hung in the window and silver baubles swayed from the chandelier in the centre of the room.

‘Are you open?’ asked Gillian.

The man, obviously from the subcontinent, looked up from the coffee machine and nodded. ‘Even if it doesn’t look like that at first – yes, we are. It’s rather quiet at this time of year. But then come New Year’s Eve all hell breaks loose.’ He looked at her more closely. ‘Good God, you look cold. What a bitter winter this year!’

‘Yes.’ She peeled off her coat. She was so cold that she could barely move her arms.

‘Well, I would suggest you take a nice strong brandy first. And I’ve got a lovely warm daal. It will do you good.’

She let herself collapse on to a chair, feeling with relief the blood flow back into her toes as they thawed. It was surprisingly pleasant to sit on her own in an almost empty restaurant. She could make a bit of small talk with the owner, without the need to have a serious conversation with anyone. She could surrender to the room’s warmth, eat, drink, or just look at the wall, which was all the pair in the corner were doing. Nothing was expected of her. Perhaps that was why it felt so good.

The owner brought her brandy and steaming soup. On a whim, Gillian asked, ‘Do you know John Burton? Does he sometimes come here?’

The man nodded. ‘Of course I know John. He lives in the street. He often stops by quickly to grab a bite.’ He looked at her with curiosity. ‘Are you a friend of his?’

For a split second it occurred to Gillian that John’s female friends might often turn up at the restaurant, having waited for him in vain. She wondered what the owner’s image of her was: perhaps a middle-aged woman who had fallen for handsome Burton, had frozen half to death waiting outside his house and was now hoping that he might come in here too.

She did not want to confirm that impression, so she said, ‘He coaches my daughter at tennis. That’s how I know him.’

‘Ah, right.’ You could see that the man wanted to hear more, but luckily he did not dare to ask.

‘Well, enjoy your meal,’ he said, and went back behind the counter.

The daal was spicy and very hot. It energised her. When she was done, she ordered a bottle of mineral water and took a newspaper from a pile left for customers. The paper was three weeks old but she read it properly, without skipping any lines. The couple were still silent. The owner did not say a word. He had turned on the radio. Jokes were being told.

Seven o’clock passed.

Half past seven passed.

Eight o’clock passed.

Strange how light she felt. Just because she had taken the freedom to ignore the expectations that others had of her.

It was almost half past eight. Gillian had read three newspapers, eaten a naan bread after her soup and drunk another bottle of mineral water. She felt good, although she knew that Tom was waiting for her at home, no doubt in a rage, and that they would inevitably have a fight. She knew that this was one of the reasons why she had gone to the restaurant and done something that was not like her at all and that she had never dared to do before. She had intentionally broken a promise. She had acted unreliably and selfishly. She had given another person – her husband – cause to worry. She was behaving in a way that she actually abhorred. But she’d wanted to do whatever it took to cause a fight. She wanted things to escalate. She was even determined to tell Tom about John.

How would he react? Gobsmacked? Aggressively?

Perhaps she wanted to end their marriage.

Although she was calm, unafraid and had the feeling that she was doing the right thing, she could not shake off the feeling that something was wrong. Something in the situation irritated her, but she did not know what it was.

Perhaps I’m just imagining things, she thought.

Around twenty to nine, she got up, put on her coat, went to the counter and paid. The couple had gone. She was the last and only customer.

‘So, going home?’ asked the owner. She sensed that he could not work her out. Usually women who sat alone for so long would get drunk, drowning their sorrows, their man trouble, with a lot of wine or something stronger. They swayed when they finally left for home, back to an empty flat and a cold bed. Apart from that first brandy, Gillian had only drunk water and obviously read the paper with interest.

Let him think what he likes, she thought.

She stepped outside. It was cold. Snow had started to fall again. The fresh air did her good after the muggy atmosphere inside. It was nice not to hear the fast-talking radio voices too. Gillian took a deep breath.

As she walked to her car, she looked for her key in her handbag. As she did, she suddenly found her mobile and stopped. Suddenly she knew what had been disturbing her unconsciously the whole time: her phone. It had not rung one single time. And yet she would have expected it to start ringing every five minutes at least by a quarter past seven, with Tom trying to find out what was keeping her. Because he wanted to go. But also because he was worried.

She took out the phone, checking in the light from a street lamp that it was turned on. She looked at the display. There was not a single missed call.

Suddenly uneasy, she picked up her pace. Was Tom so mad that he would not even call her?

That was not like him.

She unlocked her car. It was ten to nine when she drove off.

At a quarter to ten she turned in at their drive. In the living room, the bay window that looked out over the garden was lit up. The curtains had not been drawn, which did not put her mind at rest. Tom hated to be ‘sitting there for all the world to see’, as he put it. It was just not like him to leave the light on and not draw the curtains.

She got out and locked the car. She felt queasy. She had felt so strong sitting in the restaurant in London and putting a question mark over her life with Tom, but now that she had to face her husband, she was weak at the knees. Driving home, it had occurred to her that he might have called Tara and already found out that he had been lied to. Gillian had not told Tara to cover for her. Tara might have got tied up in knots trying to make excuses.
Fetch Gillian to the phone
, Tom had probably said, and then Tara would have been unable to comply.

But she would have called me to warn me, thought Gillian. So that didn’t quite fit either.

And would Tom call Tara? Did he even have her number? Wouldn’t it be more likely that he would try his wife’s mobile?

She quickened her step. The sense of foreboding increased. It was snowing heavily.

She opened the front door. The entrance hall was lit up brightly.

‘Hello?’ she called out in a low voice.

No one replied.

He’s in the living room. He’s had a few whiskies and now he’s going to make a terrible scene, she thought with a sinking feeling.

‘Tom? Are you there?’

There was still no reply. She peeked into the living room. It was empty. She hung her coat on the coat hook and took off her boots. She went into the kitchen in her tights. The door to the garden was open. It was ice-cold in the room. A plate with sandwiches stood on the worktop, next to a knife and a cut tomato. There was a bottle of wine next to the sink. It still had its cork in it, but the corkscrew was nearby. It looked as though Tom had been preparing supper for Becky and himself when he had been interrupted unexpectedly. And had then not eaten or drunk anything. Had he decided to leave it all there and go and eat at the club? And take Becky with him, although she was actually still ill?

Why had he left the lights on? Why had he left the door to the garden wide open?

Gillian left the kitchen and stepped into the dining room.

She saw the figure crumpled half over one of the dining chairs and half on the floor.

It was Tom. He was lying across the chair, his face buried in the cushion, his legs splayed out at unnatural angles.

She moved towards him as if in slow motion.

A heart attack. He had suffered a heart attack. As he prepared the supper. He had gone into the dining room, perhaps to get a fire going in the fireplace or to lay the table, and he had collapsed.

She had always known it would happen. He had steered straight towards that fate with suicidal directness. She had not been able to reach him with her warnings and reproaches.

A throttled sound came out of her throat. God, why like this? She drives off to meet her lover and Tom suffers a terrible fate. Alone. Without anyone to help. He has to deal with it himself and cannot.