Page 28 of Close to You

‘Is that it?’ Yasmine asks.

‘Eden’s your daughter?’ I reply, not entirely certain.

‘Do you care?’

‘She’s my niece.’

Yasmine snorts, shakes her head and then spins and walks away without another word. I watch her go, not following because I have no idea what to add.

When I get back inside, I almost miss Andy sitting near the front desk. He’s wrapped up in his wool coat that he got from a charity shop. Sometimes, he never seems to stop talking about the bargain he found. I’m probably imagining it, but the retail price seems to get higher with every telling, while the amount he paid gets lower. If it goes on much longer, it will end up with the woman behind the till paying him to take the coat away.

He stands as I spot him: ‘Where’d you get to?’ he asks.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You rushed right past me on the way out.’

It’s only now that I remember I’m supposed to be meeting him after my class. There’s still a towel in my hand and I dab at my forehead. I’m saved from having to give him a proper answer because a couple more people from my class exit through the barriers and say goodbye on their way out.

Andy loosens his scarf and fiddles with his watch. In contrast to the age difference between David and me; Andy is a year younger than I am. He is baby-faced to the point that he sometimes gets ID’d in pubs. It wouldn’t be quite so annoying if I was ever asked to prove my age. Instead, I’m constantly waved through by people younger than me who definitely do not view me as one of their own.

‘How’s the packing going?’ Andy asks.

‘Oh, right… um…’

‘You look upset.’

‘Did you hear about the hit-and-run?’

‘Of course. Everyone’s been talking about it in the shop today.’

‘It was my car,’ I say. ‘Someone stole it after I got back from the hotel. I was interviewed by the police.’

His smile dims and fades until even he can’t do anything other than frown. He knows the implication instantly: ‘They think you were driving?’

‘I’ve been bailed pending further investigation.’

He stares, eyes widening until he manages: ‘I don’t think I understand…’

‘I drove back from the hotel overnight because I couldn’t sleep. After I parked and went to bed, someone stole the car. I phoned up to report it, but whoever took it had already hit someone by then.’

I know that this is a long way out of Andy’s comfort zone. He’s the type of person to see the good in everyone. He believes in rehabilitation instead of punishment. He’d make a terrible politician because, as the public demanded fire and brimstone, he’d try to placate them with a journal-published report about the value of community reintegration versus prison costs. It’s who he is.

‘Did you talk to a lawyer?’ he asks.

‘No… I just… told the truth. I thought…’

Andy nods, but there’s disappointment in his eyes; like his newly trained puppy has done a wee on the living room carpet. ‘You should probably get a solicitor,’ he says.

‘I will.’

I’ve sometimes wondered why Andy and I are together. I certainly like him, though I often think it might be because he’s my shield. Nobody is going to look at me as a murderer while my boyfriend is busy giving up his time for a scout troop.

‘I think I need a quiet night by myself,’ I say.

This seemingly comes as no surprise as Andy tightens his scarf.

‘I’m looking forward to Saturday, though,’ I add.