Nell （Present）
NELL
PRESENT
As soon as I leave the office on Monday evening, all my senses tell me I’m being followed. Hoping I’m imagining it, I cross over the road. But the feeling persists and I can’t stop myself from quickening my pace, then breaking into a jog.
As I approach the bus stop, I pray for the bus to arrive so that I can jump straight on and when it doesn’t, I push my way through the queue to the back of the shelter and try to calm my racing heart.
A man arrives seconds later, as out of breath as I am, and I shrink down, making myself small but fixing him with my eyes so that I’ll be able to see if he searches for me among the other passengers.
He doesn’t look my way but I’m not fooled; it’s exactly what I’d expect him to do, to act as if he wasn’t following me.
He takes a phone from his pocket and keeps his eyes on the screen a little too intently.
His age—late twenties, early thirties—adds to my unease.
With the collar of his coat pulled up around his ears and his head bent over his phone, it’s impossible to see his face.
I register what I can: solid build, dark hair and lashes, straight nose, a glimpse of stubble, scruffily dressed.
It could be him. I only caught glimpses of him in the past; he would be a stranger to me now.
He must be able to feel the intensity of my gaze on him but he doesn’t look up and when my bus comes along and he doesn’t follow me on, my anxiety deepens because, again, it’s exactly what I’d expect him to do if he knew that I’d seen him. Abandon pursuit.
I arrive home, so unsettled by the experience that I roam the house for a while, unable to relax, double-checking that the windows are locked, annoyed that my day has been spoiled.
I’d been having a great Monday until I left work.
I’d done something I rarely do on workdays; after having a quick sandwich at my desk, I’d gone out for a coffee and a pastry, and it had been lovely to be away from the office for a while.
I force myself to make dinner and as I’m eating it my phone rings, piercing the silence with its shriek.
It’s lying next to me on the island but instead of reaching for it I physically recoil.
I’ve only shared my cell phone number with Alex, Sadie, and Romy but there’s no caller ID and my heart, which had started racing, plummets.
My mind flies to the man at the bus stop.
I slide off the barstool, wanting to put more distance between me and my phone.
Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t answer an unidentified call.
But the simple act of being on my feet makes me defiant.
I will not be afraid, I refuse to be afraid, I tell myself.
Snatching up my phone, I accept the call and wait for the person to speak.
“Nell? It’s Béatrice.” Even before Béatrice identified herself, the sound of a woman’s voice coming down the line made me weak with relief. “Alex gave me your number, I hope that’s all right?”
“Of course.” I swallow a shaky breath. “How are you—and Victor?”
“We’re good, thank you. How are you? Did you have a good weekend?”
“Yes, I had some friends over on Saturday, which was lovely. But it was a bit awkward at times,” I find myself adding.
“Oh, why was that?” Béatrice asks.
“It’s just that one of my friends, Marcus, has made it clear that he likes me,” I say, a part of me wondering why I’m telling her.
But I don’t have a female confidante apart from Romy and I can’t really speak to her about Marcus.
“It’s really strange because he knows about Alex, yet he still seems to think I might be interested. ”
“I’d introduce him to Alex as soon as possible,” Béatrice says. “When your friend sees how besotted the two of you are, he’ll understand.”
My cheeks flush with pleasure. “I hope you approve of our relationship?”
I sense her smile. “I do, one hundred percent. You’re perfect for Alex.
He’s been so happy since he met you. It’s funny, because I used to think he and Inès—you remember Inès, my friend who works for the French Consulate, you met her at ours?
I always thought she and Alex might get together because she was wonderful after Ariane died.
Alex stayed with us for several weeks, and Inès was the only person who could make him smile so I was always begging her to come round and cheer him up.
I thought they might be falling for each other but then Inès met Maxime and that put paid to any thoughts I might have had about the two of them. ”
“When did she meet Maxime?” I ask.
“About eight months ago, I think. It was a couple of months before Alex met you but she didn’t tell us about him until after Alex had told us about you. I think she didn’t want to upset him in case he’d begun to have feelings for her.”
“Did he? Have feelings for Inès? Sorry, it’s probably none of my business,” I add hastily.
Béatrice laughs. “Don’t worry—I did ask him and he was shocked by my question.
‘Absolutely not’ was his answer. He said that he really liked her as a friend and enjoyed her company but that she wasn’t his type at all.
And now that he’s met you, I can see why.
You and Inès are chalk and cheese. Both lovely, but chalk and cheese. ”
“I really like her,” I say. “She’s good fun.”
“That’s good to know because I was calling to invite you over on Wednesday evening, if you’re free and I’m going to invite Inès too. I thought it might break up the week for you, with Alex still being away.”
I heave myself onto the barstool, my mind racing. If I’d remembered that Béatrice was going to invite me to dinner I might have made an excuse. But I’d forgotten and I’m unable to come up with anything fast enough.
“Thank you, that would be lovely,” I say, knowing Alex will be pleased I’ve accepted his sister’s invitation. “But are you sure you’re not too tired?” I add, remembering that she’s pregnant.
“No, not at all. I’m in what they call the golden period, that lovely time between three and six months. Come straight from work.”
“Great—can I bring anything?”
“Just yourself.” Béatrice’s voice is warm. “See you Wednesday. Bye, Nell.”
I stare at my phone, my anxiety levels rising.
It isn’t that I don’t want to go to dinner with Béatrice and Victor, it’s that I don’t want to come home after the dinner.
I’ll take a taxi like I always do on the rare occasions I’m out at night.
But it’s one thing to check the house for an intruder at seven thirty in the evening and a completely different thing in the early hours of the morning.
And dinner at Béatrice and Victor’s always finishes after midnight.
I push my plate away, no longer hungry.