Читать книгу If You Love Me: Part 1 of 3: True love. True terror. True story. - Jane Smith - Страница 7

Although my love life was pretty much a disaster, things were going well at work and I’d managed to save enough money for a deposit on a flat of my own. So when my flatmate, Connie, went to live with her boyfriend, I arranged to rent the spare room in my friend Cara’s flat until I could find somewhere to buy.

It was August 2011 and I was alone on what would be my last night in the rented flat Connie and I had shared. I’d already taken almost everything I was going to need in the short term to Cara’s place and stored the rest in the garage at my parents’ house in Devon. So all I had to do that evening was pack a small suitcase to take with me the next day. I was looking forward to buying a place of my own and starting the next phase of my life, and after having a nice dinner out with friends I was just thinking about heading off to bed for an early night when I heard the sound of breaking glass.

The flat was above some shops on quite a busy street, and my first thought was that there’d been a car accident. But what I saw when I looked out of the window was like a scene from a dystopian film. There were people running in every direction, most of them wearing hoodies and scarves that concealed their faces and some of them hurling what looked like bricks and bottles through shop windows. At first, I couldn’t make any sense of what was happening. Then, as I watched, with my back pressed against the wall beside the window so that I couldn’t be seen, a group of people started rocking a car from side to side, before stumbling backwards when smoke began to curl around it and then flames exploded out of it.

I was shaking as I phoned the police. ‘There’s rioting all over London,’ the police operator told me. ‘So it might be some time before anyone gets there. Just stay in your flat. Whatever you do, don’t go outside.’

I moved away from the window after speaking to her, and was crouched in the hallway when my phone rang. ‘Dad and I have been listening to the news,’ Mum said, sounding less worried than she would have done if she’d known the true situation. ‘Is there rioting where you are?’

‘It’s fine,’ I told her, walking from the hallway into my bedroom at the back of the flat and closing the door as I spoke, so that she wouldn’t hear the sounds from the street.

I didn’t know the neighbours, who’d only recently moved in to the flat next door. But after I’d reassured Mum, I knocked on their door and asked if I could sit with them for a while, because I didn’t want to be on my own. Something had been thrown through their living-room window just a few minutes earlier, and after they’d shown me the shards of glass that covered the carpet we sat in their bedroom, as far away from the street as we could get, and waited for the police to arrive. In fact, things had already started to calm down a bit by the time they got there, and I decided to go back to my place and try to get a couple of hours’ sleep.

It felt as though my head had only just touched the pillow when my phone rang again. It was Connie this time, and her voice was tight with anxiety as she asked, ‘Are you in the flat, Alice? It’s on TV. I’m watching it now. They’ve set fire to the shops underneath. You’ve got to get out.’

I’d been so tired I’d fallen into bed fully clothed and I was just grabbing my suitcase when there was a knock on the front door. The fireman who was standing there when I opened it told me, ‘We’re evacuating the building. They’ve fire-bombed the shop on the corner. You need to leave – now.’ So I followed my neighbours out on to the smoke-filled street, where the last of the rioters were being herded past the burning buildings and around the corner by police.

Someone had opened up a café a few doors down from the flat, to provide a refuge for people who’d had to be evacuated from their homes. It was about four o’clock in the morning by that time, and all the other people there looked as exhausted and dazed as I felt. Fortunately, the fire didn’t spread to my flat, and when the fire-fighters eventually got it under control, I was able to go back and try to sleep again for a couple of hours.

Someone from the letting agency was due to do an inventory later that morning, but I was so tired by the time he arrived that I left him to it. Cara was away for a couple of days, so she’d given me a key to let myself in to her flat, and although I had been planning to go there first to drop off my bag, being at work suddenly seemed like a much better option than sitting there on my own.

I worked at that time for a company that owned several art galleries, and when I emailed my boss to tell her what had happened and that I was going to be a bit late arriving at the office, she answered immediately, asking if I was all right and telling me to take the day off. I don’t think what had happened had really sunk in by that time. The adrenaline was still pumping around my body and although I was incredibly tired and shocked I wasn’t yet feeling particularly distressed, and my boss seemed to understand when I said I wanted to keep busy. So I did go in to work, and when I got there I was sitting at my desk talking to some of my colleagues about what had happened when Joe came over.

Joe held a senior position as head of a department at the company I worked for, and although I knew vaguely who he was I hadn’t ever spoken to him before. ‘I heard about your experience this morning,’ he said. ‘And I just wanted to make sure you were okay.’ He seemed genuinely concerned, so I assured him that I was fine, apart from being tired and finding it a bit difficult to process what I’d seen – the overturned cars, smashed windows, looted shops and people running riot through the streets. ‘I still think you need to go home,’ he said. ‘You’ve had a shock and when it catches up with you, home is the best place for you to be.’

He was right about the shock catching up with me. The adrenaline was already starting to subside and, as it did so, I was overcome by an almost paralysing weariness. So Joe got me a taxi, which the company paid for, and half an hour later I let myself in to Cara’s flat, with barely minutes to spare before exhaustion finally kicked in.

I sent Joe an email before I fell into bed, thanking him for the taxi and telling him he’d been right about home being the best place, which he answered immediately, saying, ‘It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. Just have a good rest. Joe X.’

I don’t sign off emails or texts with a kiss, except to family and close friends. But I know a lot of people do. So it probably wouldn’t have seemed particularly odd that Joe had done so if it hadn’t been for our relative positions at work and for the fact that we’d only spoken to each other for the first time that morning – although I was too weary to wonder about it by then.

I had just finished reading Joe’s email when Cara’s mum phoned to check that I’d been able to get into the flat and that everything was okay. It was while I was talking to her that the impact of the whole traumatic experience finally hit me and I had to end the call because I couldn’t stop sobbing. Then I went to bed and slept without waking until the following morning.

Joe made a point of coming to see me the next day, to ask if I was feeling better and if I’d managed to sleep. He sat on the edge of my desk in the large open-plan office for about half an hour, talking about what had happened and studying the diagram he asked me to draw to show exactly where the flat was in relation to where the rioting had kicked off in the street below.

Part of my job involved setting up exhibitions of paintings and sculpture at various galleries around the country, and although I hadn’t had any direct contact with Joe before then, he was ultimately responsible for my team. So there was nothing unusual in the fact that we were both included in the emails that were sent round to everyone a couple of days later suggesting we should all meet up for a drink after work one evening. We didn’t get the chance to talk to each other on that occasion, however, because I was held up at the office and didn’t make it to the bar until after Joe had left.

Meanwhile, what only a determined optimist would have referred to as my ‘love life’ was barely ticking over. Anthony, the married man I was ‘seeing’, had only been to my flat once during the few weeks prior to the night of the riots. But, based on the emails and texts he occasionally sent me – and on a great deal of wishful thinking – I still considered myself to be in a relationship with him. Not that my situation with Anthony had any relevance to how I felt about Joe. Although Joe was friendly and seemed very pleasant, I wasn’t interested in him in that way. So I was surprised to receive an email from him one day when I was doing some research in a large art gallery in London, asking if I’d like to meet for a quick coffee after work.

‘Unfortunately, I can’t,’ I emailed back. ‘I’m meeting some friends.’

His answer came almost immediately. ‘That’s a shame. I’m going to Berlin in the morning. I’ll be away for a week. Of course, we could always meet there for coffee …!’ To which I responded in the same jokey manner and was flattered when he suggested we should have a drink when he got back.

I did see him the following week, after his trip to Berlin, but he didn’t say anything about the emails or about getting together for a drink. So I sent a text to my best friend, Sarah, asking whether she thought I should mention it to him, and she answered, ‘Go for it! Just see what he’s like. You’ve been really miserable and you deserve to be happy.’ And when I texted Joe, he suggested meeting for a drink after work a few days later.

Apart from those few emails and texts, we’d only ever spoken to each other about work and the riots, so I don’t know what I was expecting to happen when we did meet up. I still believed I loved Anthony, even though we saw each other only rarely by that time. But although I wasn’t ready to admit it to myself yet, I think I already knew, on some level, that we weren’t going to have a future together, and I often wished I could have the sort of normal, uncomplicated relationship with a nice, single guy that most of my friends had.

I’d only really had one serious relationship before I started seeing Anthony – which had lasted several years before we split up. So the prospect of having what seemed to be a date with Joe made me both nervous and excited. In fact, I was so agitated on the day itself that I barely ate anything, and as I made my way to the trendy, expensive club where he’d suggested we should meet, my stomach was rumbling noisily.

‘Get a grip,’ I told myself severely as I pushed my way through the almost solid tide of commuters heading in the opposite direction, towards the train station from which I’d just come. ‘It isn’t really a date. You’re just meeting a man you barely know for a drink.’ It was true that I knew almost nothing about Joe, except that he was clever and seemed to be universally liked and respected by his colleagues. But, for some reason, I’d been looking forward all day to what I kept reminding myself was just a casual drink.

I’d been delayed leaving work and was a few minutes late by the time I arrived at the club and climbed the stairs to the rooftop bar where I was due to meet Joe. There was still time to stop for a moment in front of the long mirror on the landing, though, and when I did so I was horrified by the red-faced, flustered-looking woman staring back at me. ‘Well, that’s a good start,’ I told her. ‘He’s going to be thrilled when he sees you!’ Then I imagined what he might say, which made me wonder, anxiously, what I would say to him. What would we talk about? What if he thought I was boring – as well as being an unattractive shade of puce and suffering from severe, and very audible, digestive problems? What if he made a quick excuse and fled as soon as he could do so without appearing to be downright rude?

‘For heaven’s sake, calm down,’ I told the woman in the mirror, silently. ‘You can do this. People don’t normally dislike you. You can hold a conversation and have fun. You’ve got some really nice, intelligent friends who wouldn’t bother with you if you were boring and stupid. You just need to move away from the mirror now and believe that everything will be all right.’

When I stepped out on to the roof of the building a couple of seconds later, it was as if someone had suddenly turned up the volume on the muffled buzz of conversation that could be heard from inside. In fact, the bar was full of people, and as I scanned them in search of Joe I could feel the knot of anxiety tightening in my already protesting stomach. ‘Perhaps he hasn’t arrived yet,’ I thought. ‘Maybe something’s kept him late at work. Maybe he won’t come at all.’

Then I saw him, sitting on a sofa with his head bent over his phone. Just a split second later he looked up and saw me, and as his face broke into a smile the knot in my stomach unravelled and I suddenly felt completely calm. After that, even the awkward bit was easy – those seconds when you’ve spotted the person you’re meeting but still have to cross the ground between you, not knowing whether to maintain eye contact and keep smiling inanely or look away until you’re within hand-shaking or cheek-kissing distance.

Joe stood up when he saw me, and as soon as I was close enough to be able to hear him above the laughing chatter of the crowd he leaned forward and said into my ear, ‘I’ve got you a drink already. A gin and tonic. I hope that’s okay?’

‘That’s perfect,’ I said, sinking on to the sofa beside him. ‘Thanks. And hi.’

On the relatively rare occasions when I go out on weekday evenings when I’m working, I don’t stay out late. But Joe and I were still in the bar four hours later, laughing and talking as though we’d known each other for years. He was funny and charming, and the more we talked, the more struck we were by how much we seemed to have in common. Everything I liked, Joe liked – and had something interesting or insightful to say about it. We laughed at the same things, had the same list of countries we wanted to visit, admired the same people, loved the work of the same artists, had read or wanted to read the same books, had the same opinions about films we’d seen, and loved or loathed the same foods …

That first evening I spent with Joe was quite possibly the best evening of my entire life. I don’t know whether I lacked self-confidence any more than anyone else, but I could hardly believe that someone like him could be so obviously attracted to someone like me. The hours just flew by, and when he leaned towards me, put his hands very gently on my cheeks and kissed me, it felt like coming home.

‘I don’t want this evening to end,’ he said, voicing the thought that had been going through my mind for the last couple of hours. ‘Will you come back to my place tonight? Let’s agree not to have sex. Just come home with me – for a sleep-over.’ Tiny lines radiated out from his eyes when he laughed. ‘I just want to go to sleep knowing you’ll be there when I wake up. I know it sounds crazy, but I think I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Alice. I’ve never felt this way before.’

And maybe it would have sounded crazy to anyone who might have been listening in the bar that night. But it sounded perfectly sane to me, and it didn’t even cross my mind to say anything other than, ‘Yes, I will go home with you. I feel exactly the same way. I can’t explain it, but I feel as though I’ve known you for years, not just a few hours. I …’ I can’t remember now what I was going to say before Joe kissed me again and pushed every thought out of my head.

Agreeing to go home with Joe that night was completely out of character for me. That might sound unlikely in view of the fact that, of the few things you already know about me, one is that I was having an affair with a married man. But it’s true. It was something I wouldn’t even have dreamed of doing in normal circumstances, or if it hadn’t felt as though everything in my life suddenly made sense.

Sitting in the bar that night with a nice, uncomplicated, charismatic, interesting single man with a good job and a great sense of humour, it felt as though I might find love in my love life after all. Even more important, perhaps, was the fact that, by the end of the evening, I didn’t despise myself as much as I had done until then, because if someone like Joe could like me, there might be hope for me after all.

Sitting there with Joe that evening just felt right somehow. I’d met a lot of sleazy execs over the previous few years, the sort of creepy guys who prey on junior colleagues – people like Anthony, in fact, although I didn’t realise that at the time. But it was clear that Joe wasn’t the sort of person to take advantage of anyone. I’d heard people at work talking about how he’d helped a colleague who was going through a difficult time in his personal life and how if it hadn’t been for Joe’s intervention the man would have lost his job. ‘He stuck his neck out for Barry when he didn’t have to,’ someone said. ‘It’s the sort of thing he does.’ Everyone seemed to like him. And now, apparently, this genuine, kind, intelligent person liked me.

One of the many things Joe told me about himself that first evening was that he was married, although he and his wife had been separated for more years than they’d been together. ‘We got married too young,’ he told me. ‘We didn’t have any children and there wasn’t any property to be divided up – we both have jobs that enable us to support ourselves more than adequately financially. So although we haven’t seen each other for five or six years, we just never got around to divorcing.’

Then I told him about Jack – the boyfriend I’d lived with for several years after I left university and who had broken my heart – but not about Anthony, because I didn’t want him to judge me or change his mind about liking me. In fact, by the end of that first evening Joe liking me was so important that I lied to him and said there hadn’t been anyone since Jack. That’s the trouble with doing something you know is wrong: you end up doing more wrong things – like lying, for example – because you don’t want people to find out about it.

When we left the bar, we took a taxi back to Joe’s immaculate terraced house in a tree-lined street in an expensive part of south-west London. We didn’t have sex, as agreed. We just talked and talked into the early hours of the morning, more than I’d ever talked with anyone in my life before. And the more we talked, the more we found we had in common, and the more I felt as though I’d known Joe for years, which is the way he said he felt about me, too.

I don’t believe the happy-ever-after love stories of Hollywood movies. But I did start to wonder that night if maybe sometimes they weren’t as far-fetched as I’d always thought they were.

The next morning, Joe drove me to work, where I spent the rest of the day trying to concentrate on what I was supposed to be doing. And when sex was added to the agenda that evening, it was as perfect as every other aspect of our new relationship seemed to be.

For the next two weeks, we spent almost every night together. I was supposed to be flat hunting, which was why I’d been staying in my friend Cara’s flat since the day of the riots, when I first spoke to Joe. So I didn’t have much more than a suitcase full of clothes to transport when I moved in with him a couple of weeks after our first date at the bar. It sounds crazy now, to have taken such a major step after knowing him for such a short period of time. But it just felt right. Whatever we tell ourselves, I think most of us do hope we’ve got a soul mate out there somewhere and that one day we’ll find each other and live happily ever after. So when you think you’ve actually met your soul mate, why would you wait?

Although Jack and I had been together for years and I did love him, at no time during the course of our relationship did I ever feel what I felt with Joe almost from day one. When Jack and I split up, I’d got involved with Anthony almost by accident, because I was hurt and lonely and had begun to wonder if anyone would ever care about me again. For the last couple of years before I met Joe, and particularly after Jack dumped me, I hadn’t wanted to feel anything. Joe and I didn’t tell people at work that we were seeing each other. But that was our choice – at least, I think it was ours, rather than his, although I can’t really remember now. I did tell my friends, though, and was touched by how happy they were for me.

When I met Joe, it felt as though I’d been swept up by a whirlwind and that, suddenly, I had a future again. When we were together in the evenings we talked almost incessantly, and about everything, including when and where we would get married – ‘I know the perfect place for our wedding,’ Joe told me – where we would live, and how many children we would have.

The ‘perfect place for our wedding’ turned out to be a small town in France Joe had visited with his wife a couple of years after they’d got married. He described to me how he had stood on the steps of a church there one day during their holiday, looking out towards the mountains, and felt a sense of peace he’d never experienced before or since. ‘I can’t wait for you to see it,’ he said. And I told him I couldn’t wait either, while silently berating myself for wishing we could get married somewhere he hadn’t already visited with the wife he would first have to divorce.