I Follow You Read online

  ‘I might just do that.’

  As they exchanged mobile numbers, Marcus watched Roger, still holding court at the other end of the table. The pilot had the attention of all the guests around him.

  He’s just a fucking pilot, for God’s sake! he thought to himself. He’s just a taxi driver that drives a cab with wings.

  Continuing to completely ignore Alex to his left, Marcus carried on talking to Georgie. He got up only to offer his guests more white, then red, then vintage port along with his pièce de résistance, his dazzling cheese platter.

  Georgie studied the assortment he held in front of her.

  ‘The Brie is sensational,’ he said. ‘And so is the Camembert – we get it from a specialist who really knows his stuff.’

  ‘No Brie, thank you, I’m—’ She stopped, sliced herself a tiny sliver of Cheddar and took a couple of sticks of celery.

  As the platter moved on to Alex Pedley on his left, he turned back to Georgie with a knowing grin. ‘No shellfish, no alcohol and no soft cheese? And on antibiotics?’ He waggled a finger in the air. ‘Could there be something you’re not telling me?’

  She blushed.

  ‘Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.’ He winked and patted his tummy, looking at her quizzically again.

  Relishing the fact that he knew.

  After the cheese, Claire served coffee and Marcus went around the table with a decanter of brandy, helping himself to a hefty quantity in a large balloon glass. He sat back down, engaging Georgie again, putting his hand on her arm. She withdrew it a little abruptly, stood up and yawned. ‘I’m sorry to be a party pooper, but we’re going to have to go.’

  Georgie walked around the table and up to Claire. ‘Thank you both so much,’ she said. ‘It’s been a wonderful evening, just flown by – I can’t believe the time! You’ve both been such charming hosts and your husband is great fun.’

  Claire smiled at her. ‘You certainly seemed to be getting along well. Perhaps we could all go for a drink or a bite after Christmas is over. It would be lovely to get to know you guys better.’

  Marcus let Georgie and Roger out of the front door. He watched Georgie as she climbed into their car, noticing Roger’s hand on her back.

  You don’t deserve her, mate, he thought. She’s much too good for you.

  12

  Saturday 8 December

  After their last guests had departed, Claire said to Marcus, with only the merest hint of jealousy, ‘You and Georgie seemed to be getting on rather well.’

  ‘She’s a nice lady, and I need to be sweet to her – she’s a possible future patient. She’s pregnant.’ Marcus, aware his voice sounded a little forced, topped up his brandy glass and sat down on a sofa more heavily than he had intended; some of the drink slopped over the rim, onto his hand, and he spilled the ash off the end of his Cohiba.

  Often, Claire wondered just what her husband was really thinking. There was a part of him that she didn’t know at all. Was that the same with all people – did we all keep part of ourselves private, concealed from the world, even from those closest to us? Yes, he was obsessive about things, especially about time – possibly, he was even on the spectrum – but he was a good father. She knew what a terrible start in life he’d had with his parents. His father had been a brutal womanizer who loathed him and abandoned him at a young age. His alcoholic mother was a constant source of embarrassment and frustration to him. She was obsessed with turning him into a concert pianist, despite his lack of interest or aptitude, and regularly dragged him out of bed at night to come downstairs and play the baby grand for one or another of the stream of men she brought home for sex. It was no wonder he behaved oddly at times.

  Once, early in their marriage, after a dinner party she tried hard to forget, they’d had a row and he’d disappeared for two days. All these years on, she still did not know where he had gone. But, to her relief, it had been a one-off, and for the sake of harmony she never spoke of it again. And if she was honest with herself, she knew she wasn’t a complete angel – she’d had plenty of opportunities at conferences with guys she’d enjoyed flirting with, but she’d never let it go further. She’d been determined to make their marriage work and had always resisted the temptation to stray, so far. Because she loved him.

  She sat down next to Marcus, with a glass of Baileys. ‘Wow, I think we managed to pull that off, somehow!’

  He yawned and checked his watch. ‘Oh my God, it’s nearly two. We’re going to be knackered tomorrow.’

  She put an arm around him. ‘Chill, Mr Valentine, I love it after everyone has gone home and we can just relax. Life’s no dress rehearsal, isn’t that what they say? Enjoy each moment.’

  He gulped some brandy, then picked up the soggy stump of his cigar which, like the rest of him at this hour, was past its peak. As he relit it and blew out smoke, he said, ‘I’ll remind you of that when Rhys and Amelia wake us up in a few hours, all bright and demanding.’ He yawned again. ‘God, I’m desperate for sleep.’

  ‘It would be nice to have a lie-in tomorrow,’ she said, suggestively. ‘Like we used to before the children came along.’

  ‘Those days are long gone.’ He drank some more. ‘Oh God, I’m just so tired, I need to sort my life out.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Claire said, unsettled.

  ‘How did we get ourselves into such a bloody rut?’

  ‘We’re not in a rut, Marcus. I love our life, don’t you?’

  ‘Sometimes I don’t know what I really feel. I’m probably too fat to feel anything. Thanks for telling all our guests that, by the way. Calling me fat and that I was daft to go jogging. That made me feel really good.’

  ‘I didn’t say that, I said you were the wrong age to suddenly start going mad with the running and that you need to build up gently. I don’t want you injuring yourself and I simply thought, as we had one of the top cardiologists in Jersey in the room, and you don’t listen to me, it would be good to get her opinion,’ Claire retorted.

  ‘Really?’ He poured himself another large brandy. ‘Well, I tell you what I’m going to do about Lana Nela’s opinion. I’m going to go for another run in the morning. Just watch me. She can shove that opinion up her jacksie.’

  13

  Saturday 8 December

  ‘You and Marcus seemed to be hitting it off,’ Roger said, slurring his words, as he climbed out of the Golf.

  ‘Hitting it off? Not exactly. We had a few laughs – he’s quite a flirt.’

  ‘Really? Marcus? Pot and kettle?’ He laughed.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come on, my darling, you know how flirty you are!’

  ‘I so am not!’

  ‘Really?’ He grinned, giving her a look.

  ‘The guy on my right didn’t speak to me for ages – when we did talk all he did was tell me about himself, but he seemed a lot more interested in some of the other guests. The woman next to Marcus was really nice – Alex, I think – she’s an actress. But Marcus – well, I thought he was quite entertaining at first, but he was getting a bit lechy as the evening went on.’

  Roger grinned again and said nothing for a moment.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Tell me!’

  He shrugged as they walked up the stairs to their second-floor flat. ‘You seem to have that effect on men, look what happened to me!’

  She punched him playfully on the arm. ‘But you don’t just have looks, you have the seductive charm to go with it.’

  Roger flopped down on a sofa in the living room and yawned. ‘And look what happened – bun in the oven straight away and now you’re stuck with me!’

  In daylight, the huge window had a magnificent view across St Aubin’s Fort and the whole bay. Now they could see just the twinkling lights of the road and promenade, and the inky black of the sea beyond.

  ‘Stuck with you? Aren’t I just!’ She blew him a kiss. Then she frowned. ‘You know, Marcus aske
d me some really some odd questions. Oh and he guessed I was pregnant, probably his medic mind.’

  ‘Well, you are!’

  ‘Yes, I know! But how would he know?’

  ‘He’s smart. You weren’t drinking, for starters.’

  She nodded. ‘I told him I was on antibiotics – but when he really twigged was when I wouldn’t eat any soft cheese.’

  ‘Bit of a clue there,’ he said.

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘So, what questions were odd?’

  ‘Well, he asked me if I’d ever hated someone – like, hated them enough to kill them.’

  Roger shook his head, curious. ‘What did you reply?’

  ‘I asked him if he had and he gave me a very, very strange look. I actually thought for a moment he was going to confess to some terrible crime. Then he told me he’d hated his mother.’ She fell silent.

  ‘And?’

  ‘He changed the subject, quite abruptly. Later, he kept on and on about him knowing I was pregnant. I mean, he’s not odd in an Edouardo way.’

  ‘Edouardo – the caretaker at the hotel?’

  ‘Yeah, not like that. Marcus is more quirky than weird. I think he was pretty smashed to be honest. Claire suggested we all meet up for dinner, us four. We’re going to need friends with young children soon!’

  ‘Yeah, he’s definitely quirky but he’s a good man with a big heart, he’d do anything for his friends, and he’s very highly respected at the hospital – he’s probably the obstetrician you should have.’

  ‘Oh my God, no – I’m having Kath Clow – but I might take him on as a client. He told me he’s got back into his running recently and was asking all about how fast I do the parkrun – I’ve a feeling he’s going to try and beat it!’

  ‘I think that’s just him, he’s very competitive and a stickler for punctuality. Not that you’d know it tonight with the time we all ate, I was starving.’

  ‘Me too! Oh, and he also wanted to know how you and I met, and what was my favourite song.’

  ‘And what is your favourite song, my sweet bride?’

  ‘As I told him, Van Morrison, “Queen of the Slipstream”, the song we’re going to have for our first dance.’

  Roger looked at her lovingly. ‘Gets me every time I hear it. The first song we ever danced to. The song that was playing when I proposed to you. If I’m driving somewhere and it pops on the radio it makes me feel happy.’ He put his arm around her. Then with his free hand he lightly patted her tummy. ‘Look, darling, I hear what you’re saying but especially with your previous cancer scare, Marcus would be the best person on the island to go and see about checking out our Bump.’

  ‘No thanks,’ she said flatly, ‘I’m having Kath.’

  She nearly added, but didn’t, something about Marcus making her feel uncomfortable. She couldn’t put a finger on it. But it was a bit like looking at a flat, calm, enticing ocean then noticing the red flags along the beach.

  14

  Sunday 9 December

  After the impeccable tidy-up before their guests arrived last night, it had only taken a few hours for the kids to turn the living room back into a tip again today, with toys strewn everywhere. Rhys was pedalling around on a big, yellow tractor and Amelia had arranged a highly messy dolls tea party on the floor, alongside Cormac who was on his play mat, hammering away at the keys of the toy marked with animal symbols.

  Marcus normally played golf on a Sunday morning with his regular partner, Nick Robinson, but today he had blown him out with the excuse that he’d ricked his back. But in truth he wanted to go for a run – to try to shake off his hangover, he’d told Claire, but that wasn’t the whole reason.

  Now he lounged back on a sofa, soaking his left foot, which had a painful blister on the big toe from his exertions this morning, in a bowl of warm, salted water. By his side was a large dish of peanuts, which he was steadily munching through. On his lap was a medical paper by a surgeon at Sloan Kettering in New York on a new early surgery procedure for cervical cancer, which the man had pioneered and had a good success rate.

  But Marcus kept putting it down and looking at his phone. Looking at the photographs he had taken of his guests last night. Although only one interested him.

  Georgie.

  He zoomed in on her. Stared at her, fixated. God, she reminded him so much of Lynette.

  Claire, curled up on the sofa opposite him, was reading a Sunday supplement. A rugby match was playing on the television, but Marcus only glanced at it intermittently, his focus was on his phone. He clicked on various posts related to his new obsession, the online running community.

  His right calf was hurting badly – poetic justice, he wondered? He’d strained a muscle attempting to better his 3-mile run of yesterday – more accurately, his 3.1-mile run. Things had changed a lot since his own athletic days. This new running community he had discovered referred to distances in kilometres – and 5K was the equivalent of 3.1 miles. He’d limped most of the way home, slinking in through the back door so that Claire didn’t see him, not wanting more earache from her about his fitness. But she’d noticed him in pain later on and had just given him a rather sad, knowing look.

  ‘Rhys! Be careful!’ she shouted, as the boy crashed into a marble plinth on which sat a bust of John Harrison, the man who’d built the first marine chronometer. Claire had bought it for Marcus as a Christmas present last year, from a vintage fair. She leaped out of her chair and just saved it from toppling.

  ‘I really don’t think we should have it in here, Marcus,’ she said. ‘It would be a lot safer in your study.’

  ‘I’ll move it,’ he said, barely looking up from his phone as she sat back down.

  ‘What are you looking at so studiously?’

  ‘Weight-loss sites,’ he fibbed.

  ‘This would make a good photo,’ she said with a grin. ‘You trying to lose weight with your foot in a bowl of saltwater while you stuff your face!’

  ‘Huh,’ he grunted and chucked another handful of peanuts into his mouth. He focused back on his phone, now opening RunMaster and entering ‘Rocket Girl’ into the search.

  She had 534 followers. He didn’t understand all the social media apps well enough to know whether someone could tell if they were being looked at, but his real name and position as a consultant was disguised from his patients – his identity on RunMaster was Dr Runboy. There was an option to follow her. He hovered his finger over it but decided against. Just in case she noticed. He didn’t want Georgie to think he was stalking her.

  Instead, he looked up her activity. And saw that she, too, had done a run today. An hour earlier than him, and once more she was the fastest of today’s runners. Part of their route again coincided. And, when he’d checked his stats, he’d been last or close to the bottom of each segment, as before. He brought up the times for the St Aubin to St Helier section, and was listed as one from bottom for today. But the runner below him was so slow it didn’t exactly motivate him.

  He logged out and began a trawl for her name on social media. He found Georgie on Instagram. She had 2,300 followers, and seemed, from the photographs, to be posting a daily image of pre- and post-running exercises with short written tips beneath. She had 1,553 followers on Twitter and 4,784 on Facebook. All the same kind of stuff, with occasional pictures of herself and Roger on their travels. Clearly laid out in her bio were her up-and-coming races and her personal best running times.

  So, you’re really consistent here, Georgie. Same time, same days. Very similar routes. It’s not that hard to find out a whole lot of info on you. Like today, out at 8.30, over to town, round St Aubin’s Bay, back up the old railway line. Like the same day last week, and the week before, and like the day I first saw you. I don’t think it’s going to take much for me to find you again on one of your runs. You’ve got the same Instagram name as you have on your RunMaster and your Twitter, and no doubt countless other social media profiles. You overshare! How do I know all this? I don’t need to be a dete
ctive, do I? I know where you are racing next, what your best times are, your kit all laid out flat and your running number. Nice pics, good times, happy families.

  He tried to focus back on the rugby. Normally it was a game that gripped him, but right now his mind drifted as he watched it, not caring which team won. He was feeling in need of a drink. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was only 4.20 p.m. There was over half a magnum of a superb Chambertin left over from last night. It was unlikely to remain in prime condition for another day.

  He stood up, carefully removing his foot from the bowl, hobbled over to the kitchen area and removed a glass from the drying rack. Filling it almost to the brim with wine, he went back to the living room, put the glass on the coffee table in front of him and sat back down, placing his foot, gratefully, back in the bowl.

  ‘That’s about two hundred calories,’ Claire said, glancing up, cheekily.

  ‘Yep, well I burned off some of them walking to get it.’ He focused back on his phone. On Georgie Maclean. But he wasn’t looking at her times, he was looking at her photograph. He expanded the image.

  Then enlarged it some more.

  He stared at her face for a long time, drinking repeatedly from his glass, then hovered his finger over the ‘follow’ button. Wondering. Should he? Would she work out it was him? And thinking . . .

  You might be number one now, Georgie, but I know you’re pregnant. And in a few months’ time you won’t be running so fast, whilst I’ll be a lot slimmer and a lot fitter!

  The wine had gone straight to his head. Making him feel confident. Invincible. Competitive.

  He looked across at Claire; she was engrossed on her laptop. He hit the button.

  Dr Runboy is now following Rocket Girl.