Page 50 of The Elements

In a vain attempt to ward off my urges, and knowing that this usually has a soporific effect on me, I order a meal from a local Indian restaurant, but only pick at it, leaving most of the food in the fridge to be reheated for tomorrow’s lunch.

Finally, accepting my weakness, I take a long, hot shower, tie my hair back into a ponytail, and apply a little makeup before dressing in a pair of blue jeans and a simple white blouse.

Hanging a sapphire pendant around my neck, I examine myself in the mirror and smile.

I was a reasonably attractive teenager, but I became more striking in my twenties, and now, in my mid-thirties, I’ve somehow become beautiful.

Almost every heterosexual doctor in the hospital has hit on me at one time or another, but I’ve knocked them all back.

I’ve heard whispers that people think I might be a closeted lesbian, and it irritates me to think they believe I’d be so shallow as to conceal something of such little consequence.

For a while, I invented a boyfriend as my excuse to decline invitations for drinks, visits to art galleries, or trips to upcoming concerts.

My fantasy lover’s name was Jesse, he was two years younger than me, a windsurfing fanatic whose man-bun was something I ruthlessly mocked but secretly adored.

We met on a train when we were traveling separately toward Vienna and ended up spending the entire night wandering the city, telling each other the story of our lives.

I lifted the entire plot of our romance from an old movie, but if anyone noticed they didn’t mention it.

Jesse and I were together for a few years, until he left me for a younger woman.

You know things are bad when even your imaginary boyfriend cheats on you.

It’s not that I haven’t tried dating. When I was in my final year of medical school, I went out with a first-year student who was planning a career in thoracic surgery.

At first, I enjoyed his company, but as I got to know him better I realized that all he cared about was the money he would eventually make, the house he would eventually buy, the luxury holidays he would eventually go on.

He was only twenty but could spend an entire evening discussing his pension plan.

When he announced that he’d purchased a space in a cemetery’s memorial wall where his ashes would be placed after his death, and suggested we visit it together on a Sunday afternoon, I broke up with him.

Later, when I was qualified, I tried something completely out of character, having an affair with a married anesthesiologist some twenty years my senior, but try as I might, I couldn’t enjoy the sex.

Louise tells me that if I’m not careful, I’ll end up on the shelf, like the responsible eldest sister in a Jane Austen novel, but the truth is, I’d rather tie a noose around my neck than place a ring on my finger.

I spray a little perfume on my neck and wrists and, before leaving the flat, make sure to leave my purse on the dressing table in the bedroom.

I turn on the lamp in the living room as it will offer a welcoming glow when I, or we, return.

Also, I check there’s a can of Coke in the fridge.

I hate Coke and never drink the stuff, but on nights like these it’s important that there’s one waiting.

The building I live in lies on the outskirts of the city, fourteen stories high, and my apartment is on the twelfth.

I have far more room than I need, but a feeling of space is important to me.

I can’t be closed in. If the regulations permitted it, I would knock down every wall and turn it into a 2,500-square-foot studio apartment, but under the terms of my lease, internal reconstruction is prohibited.

When I first viewed it, I was hesitant to commit as the estate agent informed me that it had once been owned by a well-known footballer.

By a strange coincidence, I had sat on the jury for the young man’s rape trial some years earlier and worried that this might prove a bad omen.

In the end, however, I decided that it was too good to give up and, after all, the offense hadn’t taken place here but in the building opposite.

In the underground garage, I’m walking toward my car when I see Hugh Winley coming toward me.

Hugh moved into the apartment above my own earlier this year and, unlike the other residents, who tend to keep themselves to themselves, has an irritating habit of trying to engage me in conversation.

I’ve done my best to keep him at bay while not being rude, but he’s persistent.

A children’s television presenter, he seems to think that makes him something special, or that I should think he’s something special, which I don’t.

“Freya,” he says, picking up his pace to catch up with me. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“I’ve been working,” I say.

“Of course. Busy busy,” he replies, nodding furiously and pulling at the neck of his low-cut T-shirt to ensure that I can see the definition of his pectoral muscles. “I’ve hardly had a minute to myself lately either. I was at a reception for the Prince’s Trust last night and—”

“Can’t stop,” I tell him, not wanting to suffer his attempts to impress me by name-dropping whatever nineties pop star or self-aggrandizing former Hollyoaks actor he ran into there. “Another time, yes?”

He moves around rather deftly, inserting himself between me and the car door so I can’t open it without physically pushing him out of the way.

Like many men, he’s not trying to appear threatening but is making it clear that he has no intention of letting me leave until he’s completed whatever pathetic mission he’s on.

“Actually, I’m glad I caught up with you,” he continues. “There was something I wanted to ask you.”

I offer a deep sigh. It’s easier just to let him spit it out.

“Have you ever heard of Aladdin Stardust?”

I have no idea what he’s talking about. It sounds like some sort of Christmas pantomime, but as it’s only September this seems unlikely.

“No,” I say.

“He’s a David Bowie tribute act,” he explains. “Do you like David Bowie?”

I shrug as if to say, Of course, doesn’t everyone?

“He’s meant to be amazing. He has the voice down and even has two different-colored eyes, although, to be fair, they’re probably contact lenses. He’s playing next Thursday at this place nearby and I wondered whether—”

“I have surgery every Friday morning,” I tell him, which is untrue. “So I always get an early night on Thursdays. Sorry.”

“Oh, that’s a pity,” he says. “Then I guess I’ll have to give my spare ticket to some other lucky girl.”

“I guess so,” I say, brushing past him as I try to achieve something that really shouldn’t prove so difficult: gaining access to my own car.

“While we’re talking,” he says, and I have to hand it to him: he’s nothing if not determined. “Your nephew mentioned to me that he was interested in television. I told him I’d invite him on set sometime on one condition. That you came too.”

He smiles at me, a dazzling smile, and I can tell that not only is he accustomed to women falling at his feet, he’s absolutely convinced of his entitlement to such obeisance.

He’s good-looking in that boyish, nonthreatening way that defines children’s TV presenters, who generally look as if they were neutered at twelve, and I realize now that I’ve become not just a challenge, but an affront to his sense of self.

He simply refuses to be rejected. I almost suspect that if I agreed to go out with him, he’d cancel at the last minute, just to prove a point.

None of that matters right now, however, as I’m more concerned about what he’s just said. For, after all, I’m not an aunt.

“My nephew,” I repeat slowly, half a question, half a statement.

“We met in the lift last week,” he tells me. “At least, he said he was your nephew. I’m not wrong, am I?”

“No, you’re not wrong,” I tell him. “He did mention something about wanting to work in the arts. I just assumed he meant film or theater, that’s all. Not kids’ TV.”

His jaw clenches a little at this, but I mean, come on. This is a man who spends an hour five days a week with his right arm stuck up the arse of a glove puppet called Biggles.

“I’ll let him know,” I say, managing to insert myself into the driver’s seat at last. “I know he’s busy with school at the moment, but maybe we can set something up somewhere down the line.”

“Only if you come too!” he repeats, as I finally pull the door closed and turn on the engine. He remains where he is, watching me as I drive away.

I put this encounter out of my mind as I make my way toward Ramleigh Park.

It’s a pleasant, balmy evening, and the sun is starting to set.

Halfway there, held up by some roadworks, I glance to my left and notice a group of teenagers gathered on the street.

Two boys and a girl are playing Rock Paper Scissors and she apparently loses to both, because they whoop and holler and high-five each other.

When the trio walks away, turning down a side street, I wonder where they’re taking her, what consequence her loss involved, and only the aggressive beeping of the car behind me when the workmen allow us to drive on stops me from pulling in and following them to protect her.

When I reach the park, I find a parking space without difficulty. A couple of pitches have been set aside for games of football. Both are occupied, the first by children aged around five or six, the second by the older boys.

I glance at my watch. It’s seven fifteen, which suggests to me that they’ll probably finish on the half hour.

I wish I’d brought a book and am about to turn the radio on when my phone rings, an unfamiliar number showing up on the screen.

I press the red button to reject it, assuming it’s some cold caller, but when it rings again a few moments later I decide to answer in case it’s someone from work.

“Hello?” I say, waiting for the caller to speak, but there’s only silence on the other end. “Hello?” I repeat. “Who’s this?”

I’m about to hang up when a voice says, “Is this Freya?” and immediately I know exactly who it is and end the call, flinging the phone away from me onto the floor of the passenger seat.

I feel a burning sensation in the pit of my stomach, frightened that it might ring again, but, to my relief, it doesn’t.

When I finally build up the courage to retrieve it, I block the number on my text messaging service, on WhatsApp, and on the phone itself.

How did this happen? I wonder, panicking. How does he have my number?

I consider going home. The combination of my encounter with Hugh and this unexpected communication has disturbed me.

Perhaps the universe is conspiring to tell me that my plans for tonight are unwise.

Despite the inevitable harassment, the prospect of a wine bar seems increasingly enticing, but before I can decide one way or the other, I notice that the football has come to an end and the teams are packing up their belongings.

Immediately, I feel that intoxicating rush, that overwhelming thirst for revenge, that tells me I have no choice but to see this through.

The young kids leave first, whisked away by enraged fathers remonstrating with dejected five-year-olds over how they missed an open goal.

The older boys follow. Some hang around in groups, some leave in pairs, sharing messages or pictures that have come through on their phones while they’ve been playing.

Others begin walking home on their own. I scan them as they leave, waiting for the right boy to appear.

I don’t know who that is, but I will when I see him.

It takes almost ten minutes before he turns onto the path.

He’s of average height for his age, and neither skinny nor muscular.

He hasn’t put on tracksuit bottoms over his shorts, as some of the other boys have, and carries an enormous schoolbag on his back and a training bag over one shoulder.

His blond hair needs cutting—he keeps brushing it out of his eyes—and one of his knees is covered in mud.

He has AirPods in, and his head is moving slightly in time with whatever music he’s listening to.

Most importantly, he’s alone. Perhaps he doesn’t have any friends. It’s always better if they don’t.

I turn the engine on and allow him to walk a few hundred meters ahead. As he makes his way toward the traffic lights, I drive forward and pull up, waiting for him to reach me. When he does, I roll down the window on the passenger side and call out to him.