Nell （Present）
NELL
PRESENT
His thigh presses against mine as I sit on the bus.
I don’t think it’s intentional—the seats are small and he’s a large man—but still, it makes me uncomfortable.
I’d like to move my leg, cross it over the other one and turn my body away from him, toward the window. But I don’t want to cause offense.
The bus lurches around a corner and, thrown against me, the pressure of the man’s thigh increases.
My throat tightens and, overwhelmed by cloying claustrophobia, I stand up abruptly, needing to get away from him.
I wait for him to stand and move into the aisle, or at least move his legs to let me past and when he doesn’t, my only choice is to clamber over him.
My navy coat brushes his face and, hot with embarrassment, I mumble an apology.
I want to see his face but from where I’m standing, gripping the metal bar, I can only see the top of his shaved head and the tattoo on the back of his neck.
I’d had my face turned to the window when he’d sat down next to me but as I make my way to the exit, I notice that the bus is only a quarter full.
There would have been other empty seats, double seats, when he got on two stops back, so why had he chosen to sit next to me?
The bus brakes to a halt and I move to the door.
It’s not my stop but I prefer to walk the rest of the way to work than sit with doubts crowding my mind.
I step quickly off the bus then hang back as it pulls into the road, the wheels splashing in yesterday’s puddles, wanting to be sure that the man hasn’t followed me off.
He’s sitting at the window, in the seat I vacated, his head turned away, toward the interior of the bus.
Is it on purpose, so that I can’t see his face?
I try to guess his age from the little I can see of him and think he must be in his forties.
Some of the tension seeps from me. He’s not the right age.
I take my water flask from my bag and sip from it slowly as I walk to the office.
This feeling of being followed began a couple of weeks ago, out of nowhere.
There’s been nothing to back it up, no footsteps behind me, no strange man lurking in doorways, just a sense of eyes watching.
Sometimes, when the feeling intensifies, I spin on my heels, hoping to catch someone ducking their head, or doing a quick about-turn in the street.
There’s never anyone there, just ordinary people going about their everyday lives.
My mind, as I walk toward Brixton, is full of the day ahead.
Fridays are always busy at Drop In, the charity I work for, and apart from a hair appointment at lunchtime, I plan to keep my head down until I leave to meet Alex, my—boyfriend?
lover?—I’m never sure how to categorize him, even to myself.
It’s too soon to call him my partner. I’ve only known him a few months and for half that time, he’s been in the US.
At our ages, thirty-six for me, forty-four for him, “boyfriend” seems too casual.
He’s definitely my lover, but that reduces our relationship to sex and although that is a huge part of it, given that we only see each other every two weeks, it’s so much more than that. Simply put, he’s my everything.
The sky is a palette of grays as I cross the street at a green pedestrian light, breathing in the cool morning air.
There’s a sudden hiss from somewhere behind me and a bicycle comes hurtling out of nowhere, narrowly missing me.
A cry of fright escapes from me and I quickly cover the last few steps to the pavement, where I stand for a moment, my heart pulsing in my chest, my eyes following the rider until he disappears from sight.
The swish of his tires as they passed inches from me is still loud in my ears but I push down the anxiety bubbling inside me.
I cannot—I will not—start thinking that every such incident is suspicious.
I don’t usually arrive at work at seven in the morning but Alex had a late dinner last night and had gone back to his hotel to sleep there.
I’d felt uneasy all evening in the too-quiet house, and had slept badly without him beside me.
I’m already dreading Monday, when he’ll return to the US for his usual two weeks there.
Despite the man on the bus and the man on the bike, my spirits lift at the thought of seeing Alex tonight.
If someone had told me, just a few months ago, that for the first time in twelve years I’d soon be in a meaningful relationship, I wouldn’t have believed them.
But the proof is there; since meeting Alex I’ve begun, tentatively, to make plans for a future I never thought I’d have.
A future you don’t deserve to have, a voice reminds me, and immediately, my mood slumps again.
I shouldn’t be surprised. I always knew that my past life—when I was still Elle Nugent, before I became Nell Masters—would one day catch up with me.