I spent the whole of the next day in a state of excitement, reliving the best moments of the night before, agonizing over when he might phone—would he ever phone? And what would I say to him if he did?
In the end, he called that afternoon, when I was just about to leave work.
“Hi, it’s me. Did you have a good day?”
“Well, you know—I was at work. I’ve still got your jacket.”
He laughed a little. “Yes. Don’t worry about that. Give it to me when you see me.”
“And when might I expect that to be?”
“As soon as possible,” he said, his voice suddenly quite serious. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you all day.”
I thought for a moment. “This weekend?”
A pause on the other end of the line. “I can’t this weekend, I’m working. And besides, I can’t wait that long. How about tonight?”
Saturday 24 November 2007
Christmas party last night.
I feel as though something has shifted in my life. For the worse, of course—just as I was starting to feel safer here, too. This morning I feel unsteady on my feet, and it’s nothing to do with any alcohol I did or didn’t drink last night. Truth be told, I haven’t drunk alcohol for more than a year—I don’t think I could handle it these days.
No: this morning the ground feels different under me, as though it might collapse at any moment. I’ve been checking the flat more or less constantly since I got up at four, and each time I had to hold on to the walls as I worked my way through the routine. I’m still not happy with it. I think I shall have to go and check it again in a moment.
Last night, I summoned up all my courage and went out. I started preparing for it early. In the old days, getting ready for a night out would have meant a shower, at least half an hour choosing a dress and shoes, doing my makeup and hair while drinking glasses of cold white wine, receiving and replying to texts from my friends. What u wearing tonight? No wear the blue one. See you later.
These days, preparing to go out means checking everything. Checking again. Then once more because I only started it at one minute past the hour. Then again because it took two minutes’ less time than it should have done. From the minute I got in from work last night until it was time to go, I was checking.
It was ten to eight by the time I made it out of the front door, which was a huge relief.
Already I’d missed the visit to the pub, but I’d be able to catch up with them—maybe they’d be walking to the restaurant by now. Mentally rehearsing my excuses for being late, I quickened my pace up toward High Street when I saw Stuart coming toward me. Despite the dark, and the fact that I was wrapped up in a long black coat with a scarf wrapped around my neck, he saw me too.
“Hello, Cathy. You off for a night out?” He had a dark brown jacket on, some sort of university scarf under that. His breath came in clouds.
I didn’t want to speak to him. I wanted to nod and give a vague smile, but he was blocking the sidewalk ahead of me. “Yes,” I said. “Work Christmas party.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “I’ve got one of those next week. Might see you out later; I’m meeting some friends.”
“That would be nice,” I found myself saying, as though some sort of autopilot had taken over.
He gave me a warm smile. “See you later, then,” he said, and let me pass.
I felt him watching me as I walked away. I couldn’t decide whether this was a good thing or not. Before, it had been a bad thing to be watched like that. I’d felt eyes on me all the time in the last few years, it was a feeling I could never seem to shake. But this time it felt different. It felt safe.
I wasn’t as late as I’d thought, because the office crowd was still busy having drinks, in a bar called Dixey’s. The place was busy even though it was still early, and the girls from work were already half-drunk, loud and excited and wearing next to nothing. I must have looked like their chaperone, their maiden aunt, wearing my chicest black pants and gray silk shirt. It