Page 57 of Don't Let Him In

And suddenly something happens. Paddy’s body language changes. It becomes sexualized. His groin brushes slightly against the back of Martha’s chair, not once but twice. Then he puts his hand on her shoulder and squeezes it. He pulls her shoulder back slightly toward him and he says, with a laugh, “Well, I’m not sure about that. But thank you. I’m so happy you’ve had such a good time.” And I can feel it, I can smell it, the want that is passing through this man’s body, the want of her, Martha, my girlfriend. I know that he is inflamed, engorged, that his ego is burnished, and his chest is puffed. I know what he is feeling because he is a man, and I am also a man. And I know that he has forgotten that I exist, that I have pixelated in his peripheral vision into nothing more than a blob.

“I hope you’ll come back again?” he asks, and his question is directed at Martha, almost entirely.

“Oh yes,” she says. “We’ll definitely be back.”

I see his fingers squeeze her shoulder again and I hear him saying, “Well, I hope so,” and there is a lustful edge to his voice and I’m not imagining it, I promise you. It’s subtle, but it’s there. And then there is a weird beat of silence and I see him press his groin once more against the back of Martha’s chair before taking his hand off her shoulder, performing a small bow, and then finally moving along to the next table.

I have never felt how I feel about Martha about any other woman. I do not want her to smile for another man, feel in awe of another man, be impressed by another man, have any interest of any description in being in the presence of any other men for the reason of their status, achievements, or talents. Especially not this man. This man who once spoke to me as if I was trash and who has somehow, despite being the same age as me, leapfrogged way ahead of me into the life I’ve always wanted for myself.

Martha looks at me curiously. “Are you OK?”

I nod, then say tersely, “I’m fine.”

Martha cocks her head slightly. “Are you sure?”

I nod again. And then I say, “I just think that guy was a bit inappropriate. The way he was touching you.”

“Touching me?”

“Yes. His hand on your shoulder.”

She laughs and I feel a pulse of anger go through me, but I push it down. “It was more than that,” I say. “He was pushing his groin against your chair. Acting like I didn’t exist.”

“Al,” she says sweetly, softly, “I think you’re overthinking it a little.”

“Well. I didn’t like it. I thought it was very unprofessional.”

Martha pulls my hands toward her across the table and says, “I love you, you know that?”

I smile and nod, allow a tiny smear of tears to spring to my eyes. “I do,” I say.

But the edges of my words are muffled and muted by the deafening thunder of Paddy Swann at the table across the aisle laughing overloudly at something his companion has just said. I turn to look at him, just as he turns to look at me.

Something dark passes between us in that moment, and I know that I am changed.

FIFTY-TWO

Ash goes back to work on 2 January. It is a pleasant day, if a little windy, and she is glad to be away from the house for a few hours, away from the man called Nick Radcliffe, who appears to be living with them now.

She unspools her scarf, unzips her bomber jacket, and takes the cup of coffee that Marcelline hands her.

“Happy New Year,” says Marcelline.

“Hmm,” says Ash. “Let’s hope so. I wish I could say that it couldn’t be any worse than last year, or the one before, but I’m not altogether convinced that will be the case.”

Ash tells Marcelline about the impromptu visit from Nick Radcliffe, the Boxing Day reappearance, her trip to Cambridge, her conversation with the hairdresser who told her that Nick Radcliffe was more than likely a psychopath, and the email she’d sent Laura, for which she was still awaiting a response.

“I’m hoping she’s going to write today,” she tells Marcelline, “when she gets back to the office.”

“Well,” says Marcelline, “I give you permission to check your email compulsively. In between”—she slides Ash a box across the desk—“sale tags.”

Ash knows the score. She needs to place sale tags on all the items they’resick of the sight of, which are then removed at the end of January. Ash had once given someone a 90 percent discount on a pair of pink faux snakeskin trousers during the summer sale because she didn’t want to look at them for another second.

She grabs the handful of tags and then pulls a box of pens toward her. The pink box catches her eye, and she remembers. What did Marcelline say had come in it originally? She peers at the box and sees that it has the same embossed rose on its lid as the one from Nick.

She waves the box at Marcelline. “Did you say that this had soaps in it originally?”

Marcelline pulls her reading glasses off her face, then looks at the box and back to Ash. “I think so,” she says. “Why?”