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Read an excerpt from I Let You Go author Clare Mackintosh’s new thriller I See You.
I move my feet forward an inch and press myself into a gray overcoat that smells of wet dog.
A brief case jabs into my thigh.
Use the whole carriage!
My handbag has swung around behind my body, and I tug it in front of me.
A woman across the carriage sees me looking at them; she catches my eye and grimaces in solidarity.
I accept the eye contact fleetingly, then look down at my feet.
Among the legs I see a pair of sleek stockings; opaque black nylon ending in stark white trainers.
Ive never worn heels during the day.
Now Im old enough to know better.
An hour on the train on the way into work; another hour on the way home.
Tripping up broken escalators.
Run over by strollers and bikes.
For eight hours behind a desk.
Ill save my heels for high days and holidays.
The train stops and I push my way onto the platform.
I take the Overground from here, and although its often as busy, I prefer it.
Im not supposed to do the filing.
Youd better sort it out, then, Zoe, Graham said.
Hallow & Reed isnt a bad place to work.
Three years later, Im still there.
Is it a conscious thing?
Or some innate need to make themselves bigger than everyone else?
The train stops between Sydenham and Crystal Palace.
I hear a frustrated sigh from farther up the carriage but dont bother looking to see who its from.
I take off my glasses and rub at the dents they leave on either side of my nose.
It could have been anything from signal failure to a body on the line.
I hope its not a body.
Im sure its not a body.
Bodies are for Monday mornings, not Friday eve nings, when work is a blissful three days away.
Theres a creaking noise and then silence.
Whatever the delay is, its going to be a while.
Thats not a good sign, the man next to me says.
Hmm, I say noncommittally.
Simon cooks during the week, and I do Friday evening and the weekend.
Hed do that, too, ifl asked him, but I couldnt have that.
I couldnt have him cooking for us-for my children-every night.
Maybe Ill pick up a takeaway.
The customers are nice, for the most part.
I meet a fair number of recently separateds.
Sometimes, if I feel like it, I tell them I know what theyre going through.
Did it all turn out okay?
the women always ask.
Best thing I ever did, I say confidently.
Its what they want to hear.
It doesnt hurt to know whats out there.
Better the devil you know, isnt that what they say?
The final pages of theGazetteare all compensation claims and finances.
Married woman looking for discreet casual action.
Txt ANGEL to 69998 for pics.
I wrinkle my nose more at the exorbitant price per text than at the services offered.
Who am I to judge what other people do?
For a second I think my eyes must be tired; I blink hard but it doesnt change anything.
Im so absorbed in what Im looking at that I dont notice the train start up again.
He smiles and I make myself return it.
But my heart is thumping and I stare at the advert.
A web address reads:www.FindTheOne.com.But its the photo Im looking at.
Except I know how old she is.
I know shes forty.
Because the woman in the advert is me.
Not at their age.
The boy looked up, his swagger giving way to self-consciousness as he saw Kelly standing there.
Now, there was a way to make you feel old.
Kelly returned her look with a smile.
Better now its over, the woman said.
Roll on the weekend, eh?
The woman looked aghast.
Someones got to, right?
As the train slowed down for Oxford Circus, the woman began moving toward the doors.
I hope its a quiet one for you.Thats jinxed it,Kelly thought.
She glanced at her watch.
Nine stops
to Stratford: ditch her stuff, then head back.
Home by eight, maybe eight thirty.
The woman in the biggest bedroom, Dawn, was a nurse.
A handful of businessmen got on at Holborn and Kelly cast a practiced eye over them.
At first glance they looked identical, with their short hair, dark suits, and briefcases.
The devil was in the detail, Kelly thought.
The idiosyncrasies and appearance tics that made them stand out in a lineup of near-identical men.
Kelly watched them openly, dispassionately.
She thought he might look away, but instead he winked, his mouth moving into a confident smile.
Kellys eyes flicked to his left hand.
The yellow flash of a forgotten dry-cleaning tag on the inside of his overcoat.
Standing so straight shed put money on ex-military.
Nondescript in appearance, but Kelly would know him if they met again.
Shed be quicker next time.
Instantly recognizable anddesperate though Kelly was to get homeimpossible to walk away from.
She was going to have to move fast.
Kelly jumped off the train just as the doors hissed behind her.
she yelled, breaking into a run and shoving her way between two elderly tourists dragging suitcases.
She could always grab a kebab on the way home.
Carl was legging it up the escalator.
Rookie error, Kelly knew, tak ing the steps instead.
Fewer tourists to negotiate and easier on the thighs than the jerky, uneven motion of a moving stairway.
Even so, Kellys muscles were burning as she drew parallel with Carl.
Kelly was aware of someone picking it up and hoped they werent going to run off with it.
But you dont see me.
Youre engrossed in your book; a paperback cover with a girl in a red dress.
I cant see the title but it doesnt matter; theyre all the same.
If it isnt boy meets girl, its boy stalks girl.
The irony isnt lost on me.
At the next stop I use the incoming swell of commuters as an excuse to move closer to you.
Some women disappear into the loos at lunchtime; touch up their makeup, add a spritz of fragrance.
Yourepretty, though, evenat the end of a long day.
That counts for a lot.
Not that its always about beauty; sometimes its exotic looks, or large breasts, or long legs.
Sometimes its class and eleganceall tailored navy trousers and tan heelsand sometimes its brassy and cheap.
Even the finest steak becomes dull when you eat it all the time.
Your handbag is larger than average.
It has slouched open,allowingme to see inside.
A walletsoft brown calf leather with a gilt clasp.A hairbrush, blonde hairs trailing from its bristles.
A reusable shop ping bag, neatly rolled into a ball.Apair of leather gloves.
Two or three brown envelopes, torn open then pushed into the bag along with their contents.
I crane my neck to read what is printed on the uppermost envelope.
So now I know your name.
Not that it matters: you and I arent going to have the sort of relationship that needs names.
I take out my phone and swipe up to reveal the camera.
A silent diet and youre mine.
The bend in the track simply means its nearly your stop.
Even as you shoulder your way through to the door, saying Excuse me and Sorry a dozen times.
And Im still watching.
CHAPTER THREE
Crystal Palace is where my train terminates.
As it is, Im the last to get off.
Perhaps it isnt me at all.
Perhaps I have a doppelganger.
Not a middle-aged woman with two grown children and a bit of a spare tire.
I almost laugh out loud.
I know it takes all sorts, but thats some niche market.
Between the Polish supermarket and the locksmith is Melissas cafe.Oneof Melissas cafes, I remind myself.
I stay on the opposite side of the road for a while so I can watch without being seen.
The insides of the windows are steamed up around the edges, like a soft-focus photo from the 1980s.
In the center, behind the counter, a man is wiping the inside of the glass display.
Im biased, I know, but I think so.
The bell above the cafe door jingles and Justin looks up.
All right, Mum.
I look around for Melissa.
You here on your own?
Shes in Covent Garden.
The manager theres gone off sick so she left me in charge.
Ive always known Justin was a good boy; he just needed someone to give him a break.
I was going to pick up a takeaway for tea.
I suppose the fryers off now?
Ive only just turned it off It wont take long to do some chips.
And there are some sausages thatll be thrown out if theyre not eaten today.
Melissa wont mind if we take them home.
Ill pay, I say firmly, getting out my purse.
I look up at the blackboard and calculate the price for four sausages and chips.
Simon comes out of the kitchen with a glass of wine.
I hand him the plastic bag from Melissas cafe.
Get a room, you two.
Katie comes out of the living room, her fingers spread out and her hands in the air.
Simon releases me and takes the bag into the kitchen.
She wrinkles her nose and I cut her off before she can start moaning about calories.
Theres some lettuce in the fridge-it’s possible for you to have yours with salad.
It wont get rid of your cankles, Justin says.
Grow up, you two.
And there is nothing wrong with her ankles.
I move to give her a hug, then remem ber her nails and kiss her cheek instead.
Im sorry, love, but Im knack ered.
The odd takeaway wont do you any harm-everything in moderation, right?
How was your day, honey?
Apart from Graham making me do the filing.
Thats not your job, Katie says.
Neither is cleaning the loo, but guess what he had me doing yesterday?
That bloke is such an arsehole.
You shouldnt put up with it.
Simon sits next to me.
He owns the place.
Graham Hallow comes from the breed of men who inflate their egos by belittling the people around them.
I know this, and so it doesnt bother me.
For the most part.
To change the subject I pick up theLondon Gazettefrom where I dumped it on the coffee table.
What are you doing looking up escort services?
Katie says, laughing.
His feet are bare.
In one hand he carries his phone; in the other a plate heaped with sausage and chips.
Thats not funny, Simon says.
He takes the paper from me.
But seriously, why are you looking at chatlines?
His brow furrows and I see a shadow cross his face.
I glare at Justin.
Justin knows that, and takes every opportunity to stick the knife in.
Whether hes getting at Simon or at me, I can never be sure.
Dont you think that looks likeme?I point to the bottom advert, beneath Angels mature services.
For a second we all stare at the advert in silence.
No, Justin says, just as Katie says, It does a bit.
You wear glasses, Mum.
Not always, I point out.
Sometimes I put my contacts in.
Al though I cant remember the last time I did.
Maybe its someone playing a joke, Simon says.
FindTheOne.comdo you think someones signed you up to a dating agency as a joke?
Who would do something like that?
Have you called the number?
At 1.50 a minute?
You must be joking.
Her eyes are mischievous.
You know, for a bit of pocket money?
Go on, Mum, you might tell us.
The uneasy feeling Ive had since I first saw the advert starts to subside, and I laugh.
Im not sure who would pay 1.50 a minute for me, love.
It really does look like me, though, doesnt it?
It gave me quite a start.
Simon fishes his mobile out of his pocket and shrugs.
Itll be someone doing something for your birthday, I bet.
He puts his phone on speaker and taps in the number.
It feels ridiculous: all of us crowded around theLondon Gazette,calling a sex line.
The number you have dialed has not been recognized.
I realize Ive been holding my breath.
Thats that, then, Simon says, handing me the newspaper.
But whats my photo doing there?
It crosses my mind that its someone who doesnt like Simon; someone wanting to cause problems between us.
I dismiss the thought as quickly as it arrives.
Instinctively I squeeze Simons shoulder, even though he shows no sign of being bothered by the advert.
Mum, it looks nothing like you.
Its some old bird with bad roots, Justin says.
Theres a compliment in there somewhere, I think.
Jus is right, Mum.
Katie looks at the advert again.
It does look like you, but lots of people look like someone else.
Theres a girl at work whos the spitting image of Adele.
I take one last look at the advert.
I hand it to Katie.
My feet, I counter.
Ill do it, Justin says.
He dumps his own plate on the coffee table and stands up.
Simon and I exchange surprised glances and Justin rolls his eyes.
Youd think I never helped out around here.
Simon gives a short laugh.
And your point is?
Oh, fuck off, Simon.
Get your own tea, then.
Stop it, the pair of you, I snap.
God, its hard to know whos the child and whos the parent sometimes.
We eat on our laps, watching TV and bickering about the remote, and I catch Simons eye.
He winks at me: a private moment amid the chaos of life with two grown-up kids.
When the plates are empty of all but a sheen of grease, Katie puts on her coat.
Youre not going out now?
Its gone nine oclock.
She looks at me witheringly.
Its Friday night, Mum.
Where are you going?
She sees my face.
Ill share a cab with Sophia.
Its no different from coming home after a late shift at work.
I want to say that it is.
I dont, of course.
Have a good time.
But I cant help myself Be careful.
Keep your hand over your drink.
Katie kisses me on the forehead, then turns to Simon.
Have a word, will you?
she says, jerking her head toward me.
But shes smiling, and she gives me a wink before she sashays out of the door.
Be good, you two, she calls.
And if you cant be goodbe careful!
I cant help it, I say when shes gone.
I worry about her.
I know you do, but shes got her head screwed on, that one.
Simon squeezes my knee.
Takes after her mother.
He looks at Justin, who is sprawled on the sofa, his phone inches from his face.
Are you not going out?
Broke; Justin says, without taking his eyes off the tiny screen in front of him.
I see the blue and white boxes of a conversation too small to read from where Im sitting.
Doesnt Melissa pay you on Fridays?
She said shell drop it round over the weekend.
you’re free to understand it, Simon had said.
No employer wants to risk taking on someone who might have their hand in the till.
I couldnt help but be defensive.
His parents had just divorced and hed moved schools.
Hes hardly a career criminal.
I didnt want to argue with Simon.
On paper Justin was unemployable, but if you knew him…
I went cap in hand to Melissa.
Deliveries, I suggested.
Justin was never academic.
He didnt take to reading like the other kids in preschooldidnt even know the alphabet until he was eight.
He left school with a GCSE in computer science, and a caution for shoplifting.
Melissa looked at me thoughtfully.
I wondered if Id overstepped the boundaries of our friendship; put her in an awkward position.
He can work in the cafe.
I couldnt find the words.Thank youseemed inadequate.
Minimum wage, Melissa said briskly, and on a trial period.
Monday to Friday, on a mix of earlies and lates.
Occasional cover at weekends.
I owe you one, I said.
She waved away my gratitude.
What are friends for?
Maybe you could start paying your mum some rent, now youve got a job, Simon says.
I look at him sharply.
Simon never gets involved in parenting.
They were almost adults in their own right, even when they didnt behave like it.
They didnt need a new dad, and thankfully Simon never tried to be one.
You dont ask Katie for rent.
Shes younger than you.
Youre twenty-two, Justin, youre old enough to stand on your own two feet.
Justin swings his legs around and stands up in one fluid movement.
Youve got a fucking nerve.
How about you pay some rent, before you dive in telling me what to do?
Two people I love, at each others throats.
Justin, dont talk to Simon like that.
Hes only making a suggestion.
Im not asking for rent.
I never would, and I dont care if people think Im soft.
How can he have a life, let alone put something aside for the future?
I want more than that for my kids.
Simon isnt letting it lie.
Are you looking for work?
I dont understand whats gotten into him.
Were not rich, but we do all right.
We dont need to take money from the kids.
Dad said hed lend me money for a car once Ive passed my test.
I feel Simon bristle beside me, the way he always does when Matt is mentioned.
Thats nice of Dad, I say quickly; loyalty toward Justin making me say somethinganythingin support.
Maybe you could consider taking the taxi licensing exam one day.
Im not driving a cab for the rest of my life, Mum.
The woman Matt slept with was exactly halfway between Katies age and mine.
Funny the details you fixate on.
Beggars cant be choosers, Simon says.
Its a good job.
I look at him in surprise.
Hes been quick to slag off Matts lack of ambition in the past.
Matt was at college, studying engineering.
That all changed the day I realized my period was so late it could mean only one thing.
Matt walked out of college and got a job that same day.
It was just la- boring, on a local building site, but it paid well enough.
The cafes fine for now, I say.
The right thing will turn up, Im sure.
Justin gives a noncommittal grunt and leaves the room.
Hell still be living here when hes thirty at this rate.
I want him to be happy, thats all.
He is happy, Simon says.
Happy sponging off you.
I swallow what I want to say.
It wouldnt be fair.
I was the one who said I didnt want Simon paying rent.
We even argued about it, but I wont let him.
Hes generous to a fault.
We have a joint bank account and weve never once worried about who pays for what.
But the house is mine.
Money was tight when I married Matt.
The odd meal out; even a summer holiday.
Then Matt and I broke up, and I was back to square one.
I swore Id never throw my lot in with a man again.
Mind you, I swore Id never fall in love again, and look what happened to that.
Simon kisses me, one hand cupping my chin and then sliding around the back of my head.
Ill be right up.
I drop the newspaper into the recycling bin, where the woman in the advert stares up at me.
I switch off the kitchen light and shake my head at my foolishness.
Of course it isnt me.
What would a photograph of me be doing in a newspaper?
Copyright 2017 by Clare Mackintosh.
