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Then I see him. I grip Rob’s hand tighter, my other arm reaching across and tugging at his sleeve.
‘That car,’ I say. ‘Over there. The driver…It’s Grant Webster, the man I gave your number to.’
Rob looks across the street. Parked down a side road on the corner facing us is a dark-coloured vehicle, a Toyota. The evening sun flares off the windscreen, but I’d got a good glimpse of him. The cap pulled low, the crooked nose, his thickset neck and burly shoulders. ‘Really?’ Rob says. ‘Should I go over and introduce myself?’ He pulls me towards the kerb and looks left and right before leading me across the road. But as we reach the other side, I hear the car’s engine start up and the headlights flash on main beam, dazzling us even though it’s not dark yet. Then, as we approach, the driver eases out of the parking space and turns right onto the main road, weaving through the traffic as he speeds off.
‘I must have been mistaken,’ I say to Rob, knowing that I wasn’t.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
BELLE – THREE MONTHS EARLIER
The sun was warm on her back. She stuck her legs out in front of her, admiring how smooth they were, how tanned they looked since she’d tried that new lotion. There were no orange smears, no streaky bits on her knees – just two long, slim golden legs ending in her pretty white sandals, with her toenails painted a delicate shade of pink. The denim shorts she wore were new, though she’d had the mauve, off-the-shoulder top since last year. Belle knew she looked good as she gripped the swing’s chains in her hands, tipping back her head, her hair flowing behind her. She also knew that a man was watching her from a bench as she and Jenny chatted idly about stupid mock exams, what they were going to do in the summer holidays, and how much money they each had to spend on Saturday when they went shopping.
‘I wish we could just stay here swinging forever,’ Belle said. ‘It’s so relaxing.’
‘Mmm,’ Jenny replied, though Belle knew her friend didn’t really mean it. While Belle breezed through school – her good memory, charm and speed-reading skills somehow always getting her top marks – Jen had to work for it. She seemed to spend twice as long hunched over her books as Belle, yet never quite matched up to her top grades.
‘Like, I’m so sick of school. I can’t believe we have another whole year to go.’
‘It’ll fly by,’ Jenny said. Belle glanced over at her, making a disgruntled face. Her best friend was wearing grey leggings and a baggy T-shirt that she’d seen her use as a nightie when she’d slept over. It had faded rainbows on the front and the glitter had long since worn off. She had several grubby friendship bracelets on her wrist that they’d woven together when they were about ten, and she refused to take them off. Her ears were pierced but she rarely wore anything in them, and as for make-up – no; Jen dotted on moisturiser in the morning and that was that. Her style seemed to favour the outgrown, as if she hadn’t noticed that she was a young woman now, not a little kid. Belle wondered if their friendship was also feeling a little small now, snug across the shoulders.
‘What are you going to buy on Saturday?’ Belle asked. ‘I could help you with, you know, a makeover, if you like. Get some cool stuff for summer. Where is it you’re going? Majorca?’
Jen nodded. ‘Mum and Dad have rented a villa halfway up some mountain. I’m going to be sooo bored.’
They chatted about the beach and water sports and bikinis and boys, and all the while, unknown to Jen, who was barely swinging now, Belle was glancing over to her left at the man on the bench. And he was glancing at her, his eyes darting up from the book he was reading. He gave her a little smile.
‘I’d better go,’ Jen announced. ‘Biology revision.’ She jumped off the swing onto the spongy tarmac and grabbed her bag that she’d left by the metal post. ‘See you tomorrow, yeah?’ she called out before walking off towards home.
Belle stayed on the swing, though she suddenly felt exposed, self-conscious, dangling there in her little denim shorts and sandals. Jen was always beside her – her crutch, her wing-girl, the one she talked to about inane stuff without being judged. A safe barrier between her and the world. Her stomach fluttered as the swing arced backwards and forwards, though she let it slow down, crossing her ankles instead of pumping her legs. Another glance told her that the man on the bench had closed his book, was dropping his coffee cup in the bin, was gathering his jacket. Was walking over to her.
‘Hi,’ he said as he approached. Belle’s heart joined in with her stomach as it lurched in her chest. For years, she’d been drilled not to talk to strangers, but that was when she was a kid. Her mum had been obsessive about it which, little did she know, had ended up having the opposite effect. Belle was desperate to talk to people, to this man. She was a woman now, an adult in a few months when she turned eighteen. Her whole life ahead of her. What was she supposed to do, never speak to anyone that she didn’t know for her entire life?
‘What are you reading?’ she asked him, glancing down at the book in his hand. Her best smile was fixed on her face. Not because she was forcing it, but because she couldn’t help it. Up close, she saw that he was a few inches taller than her, slim with toned shoulders beneath his fitted shirt that he wore over his jeans. His jaw was covered in a fine layer of stubble, something that boys her age found impossible, desperate as they were to grow it. Her mum didn’t know, but she’d kissed several of the lads at school, feeling repulsed by faces that felt as smooth as her own. He flashed the book at her. ‘Stephen King,’ she said, nodding approval. Not that she’d read any of his books, but impressions were important. She already felt drawn to him, the way he stood beside the swings, leaning against the A-frame, his eyes tracking her as she allowed herself to glide back and forth oh-so-slowly.
‘Your friend left you all alone?’ he commented, glancing at the empty swing. ‘Lucky for me.’
Belle laughed. ‘Join me,’ she said, grabbing the chain next to her. ‘It’s fun.’
‘I’m Jack,’ he said as he sat down. Not swinging as such, more scuffing his white trainers on the tarmac.
‘Belle,’ said Belle. She reached across to shake his hand, enjoying the feeling of his warm skin as he held onto it for longer than she expected.
‘I’m new to the area, so I’m just sizing up some nice spots to visit.’
Belle laughed again. ‘There are much better parks than this,’ she told him. ‘Like Clifton Downs.’
‘But then I wouldn’t be talking to you if I’d gone there, would I?’
‘How come you moved to Bristol?’ she asked, deciding to play it cool and not respond to his flirting. Not yet, anyway. It was easy to see he was a good deal older than her, but that didn’t matter. It wasn’t like he was ancient or anything, and she’d never had much in common with boys her own age.
‘For work,’ Jack said. ‘We have a…a branch here.’
‘Cool,’ Belle replied as her mind scrambled to think of something to say if he asked her what she did. At a push, she could pass for early twenties, so he’d probably expect her to have a job if he questioned her. But he didn’t. ‘Where have you moved from?’
‘London,’ he told her. ‘I’m back and forth between the two.’ She got the impression that chit-chat bored him. ‘So, what are you up to?’
‘Not much,’ Belle replied. ‘Just hanging about.’ She giggled then, pushing herself on the swing to indicate that was what she was literally doing.
