Her

I see her most days. Sometimes, I’ll be passing a shop window and I’ll catch a glimpse of her, reflected by my side; or a flash of red hair in a crowd makes my heart stop for a second. Sometimes, I’ll catch the scent of her favourite perfume, or hear her laugh in an empty room. Running on the heath, the only time I really feel alive, I crash through the autumnal leaves and hear her footfalls alongside mine, her breath keeping time with my own. Awaking from fitful sleep I feel her arm around me and lie there, silently, comforted. Then I wake for real, and I’m alone.

Things of hers keep turning up; a pair of silver pumps in the bottom of a wardrobe, a lipstick in the medicine cabinet, a hairclip under the sofa. Tangible reminders of her that I thought had been removed.

At work, disengaged and lying low, I re-read her old emails – memories of dates, of shopping trips, of shared confidences, or just the daily inanity of jokes and work gossip. Those who knew her at work don’t mention her; it’s too uncomfortable for them.

Whenever my mobile buzzes, a sense that it is her clutches at me. The disappointment is real when I see on its bright screen that it’s just a friend or workmate exhorting me to come out to the pub or to some party. I always make my excuses. At the best of times I was never interested in small talk, and these days I prefer to do my drinking alone.

Today, she’s been everywhere. Wrapped in coat and scarf on a crowded tube; smirking at me from the window of a bus; a photograph, tucked between the pages of a book. Perhaps it’s because it’s the anniversary of our first meeting, that awful house party in Acton. I’d gone outside to get some air and to escape those awkward, stilted conversations with awkward, stilted people. She was there, in the garden, fumbling in her handbag. She turned those pale green eyes on me and asked me if I had a light; not for the first time, I wished that I smoked. Still, we got talking, and for once everything seemed to click. She was beautiful, but approachable in a way no woman had ever seemed to me. She laughed at my jokes, and made a few of her own. Like me, she’d travelled, and a couple of happy hours passed as we compared notes on Bangkok, Brisbane and Beijing. By the end of the night, I had her number and we shared a clumsy, alcohol-fuelled kiss.

In a reminiscent mood, after work I take a short detour to the South Bank. We’d often met here at lunchtimes and walked back along the river, our arms locked. In those memories the sun is bright, and the river blue. Today it’s gloomy, and the water is the colour of mud. The imposing wheel turns above me, pausing to allow another batch of chattering tourists to board. I had taken her on a ride up there on one of our first dates; she turned out to have a fear of heights, but she didn’t hold it against me. Turning away, I notice a figure on the bridge, watching me. I almost raise my arm to wave, but she’s gone.

Walking home, I’m dogged by that familiar feeling of being followed. I don’t bother to look round though; I know that all I’ll see is a fleeting shadow, or a half glimpse of that pale face. It’s dark now, and rain is beginning to spatter onto my coat. I pass the illuminated windows of the Premier Inn; only one table is occupied in the spacious restaurant - a middle-aged man, dining alone.

As always, I turn on the television as soon as I get in. It’s a reflex, a need for the companionship of light and sound. I unload my desultory bag of groceries. It was always me who made dinner, I enjoyed it, but cooking for one doesn’t inspire me; once I’d try roasts, or homemade sauces, now I make do with pasta or a microwave curry.

I shower, standing under the head for twenty minutes, lost in thought. That dull ache is stronger than usual, and yet I feel a curious sense of expectancy. As I step out of the shower, I hear my mobile ringing in the other room. I don’t even need to look at the name on its display to know that it’s her.