Chapter 64 Elise Vernon
Elise Vernon
They all look so young nowadays. I know that’s what all people my age say, but they do.
I used to sneak out of the house when I was fifteen, wearing a long coat so my father wouldn’t be able to see the obscenely short dress underneath, much like the ones the girls wear now.
Back then, in the noughties, our hair was poker straight, ironed with wide-plate BaByliss straighteners.
That’s all changed now; the girls these days look like hair models, with long, bouncy waves shimmying around their waists.
Durham city center was my stomping ground in my mid-to-late teenage years.
I barely recognize it now. Bar names have changed, some have shut down.
Music I’ve never heard before blasts from buildings; it’s barely even music.
But nothing makes you feel older than being sober, rocking up on a Friday night to collect your eighteen-year-old godson from a bar.
It’s a favor to one of my friends, Tally. Kit has this little job in town he’s doing alongside his A-levels. Collecting glasses, that sort of thing.
It’s at one of those pretentious bars, the kind that plays dreadful music, where drinks cost a fortune.
Even from the outside, it looks utterly dire; lilac uplighters attempt to suggest a classy ambience but fall drastically short.
What kind of name is “Innocence” for a bar, anyway?
I wouldn’t be surprised to see my twat of a father inside, to be honest. It looks like the kind of place he’d frequent, given that the clientele appears to be gaggles of impressionable women in their twenties.
Although, I hear he keeps one at home now.
Younger than me, apparently. Some kind of Instagram influencer named Demi, who is no doubt fleecing him for all she can get. He never learns.
Incredibly, I’ve managed to park just opposite the entrance. It’s busy. Kit finishes at 10 p.m., and I’m hoping he gets off on time.
After a few minutes, Kit scurries out, dressed in a tight black T-shirt and trousers.
A few months ago, Kit was a tall, weedy little thing (takes after his mother), but since he’s got this job, he’s been working out.
As a result, he’s developed biceps and abs and likes to show them off at every opportunity.
As usual, he has his head buried in his phone, looking up only briefly to locate the car.
“Well, lovely to see you, too!” I laugh as he opens the door and shuffles in without so much as a hello.
“Hiya,” he grunts back resentfully, in that way teenagers do.
Putting the car into reverse, I start pulling away. And that’s when I see her.
Clear as day. Walking out of Innocence. She’s alone.
I brake hard, and we both jolt forward.
“Jesus!” Kit shouts.
“I know her,” I say out loud, god knows why.
I don’t know what I expect Kit to do about it or why he should care.
But I can’t drag my eyes away from her. She sashays down the street in that carefree, confident way she’s always had about her.
But there’s something different tonight, something only I would notice because I know her so well.
Better than anyone, really. Her walk is quicker than usual, her head lowered slightly.
She’s trying not to stand out, but in doing so, she does, at least to me.
I know she doesn’t want to be seen.
Her long, honey-blonde hair looks disheveled. She wears a red, midi-length, floaty summer dress, the kind of thing you’d wear to the shops, not a trendy bar on a Friday night.
“Have you seen her before, Kit?” I ask, pointing at her before she goes out of view.
“Yeah,” he says casually, not understanding the gravity of my question. “She comes every Friday. Never see her in the bar having a drink or with anyone, though. Always meets up with Jack. I think she’s a manager or something.”
“Jack? Who’s Jack?” I ask urgently.
“Head of security. He’s the one who’s been training me.”
“Weight training?”
“Yeah! I usually go into work an hour early and we lift stuff in his apartment. He lives above the club. Dumbbells, kettlebells, all that…”
And with that, he goes back to burying his head in his phone. Only, he’s wrong. Very wrong. She’s certainly not a manager at Innocence.
I smile as she hurries into the shadows.
Rule #8.
Looks like patience really is everything.