June
Over the last few weeks, I'd experimented with different running routes and by June, I'd established a favourite. Every morning, I'd run down our road, pass Mr Wilson coming back from the park with his dog, swing around the house on the corner with the bright blue shutters, then through the wrought iron gates that marked the entrance to the park, and across the ornamental stone bridge over the carp pond.
After fifteen minutes, I'd be at the farthest end of the park, turning the corner by two tall oaks, one of which had been damaged in a storm and leant against the other, like a drunk leaning against a lamppost.
All through the previous month, I'd kept reading Abby's journal. As I got past the half-way point, I noticed the tone becoming darker. It seemed that Abby thought she was being followed, maybe even stalked. She had a series of silent phone calls and more than once, she wrote that she noticed the same dark blue car parked outside in the street, late at night.
Once, she'd gone out to confront him, only to watch the tail lights quickly disappear down the road and around the corner when she opened the front door.
Her relationship with Terry seemed to be strained too. She hinted that he'd begun to think of her as more than a friend. Reading between the lines, it seemed like he'd hinted that he'd like her to move in with him, and give up her work, maybe get a conventional job. Abby seemed undecided, unable to resolve her work with having a long-term relationship.
I was starting to think that maybe they'd gone their separate ways. That would explain why she'd moved out so suddenly, without saying goodbye to Terry. Perhaps she'd just decided to move on.
The other possibility was darker. Perhaps they'd argued, fallen out. Terry looked like the tough, silent type. Perhaps he'd lost his temper. For all I knew, Abby could be buried under our patio. Or perhaps I'd been reading too many crime novels recently.
In any case, my idle speculation made me all the more surprised when Terry called and said that Abby had been in touch.
"Really?" I said, unable to hide my excitement. She was alive! Assuming that Terry wasn't a violent axe murderer, of course.
"Listen, this thing you've got, that you said Abby left behind. Is it a journal?"
"Yes, a journal, exactly!" I blurted out. "Does she want it back then?"
"Yes, listen, if I come over, would you give it to me? I can pass it on to her, if that's okay with you."
I paused. It would be such an anticlimax, to simply hand it over to Terry and watch him drive off into the sunset without any closure, without a solution to the mystery.
"You know it's quite personal, I'd rather hand it over myself."
There was a silence on the other end of the line.
"It's not that I don't trust you," I added hastily, wary of hurting his feelings. "It's just that I feel like she'd want me to hand it over to her directly. It really is quite a private journal. Or you could give me her number, and I can organise something with her myself."
"No, that's okay, I understand," he said finally, although he didn't say it with any conviction. "I've got a number for her now, so I'll call her back and let you know."
The conversation left me with a mixture of feelings: excitement at the thought that I might actually get to meet Abby, but there was also a sense of loss as I realised that it would mean handing over the journal. I was about three-quarters of the way through it now, and I resolved to try and finish reading it soon.
--
It was a warm, sunny afternoon, much too nice to be inside. I dragged the reclining chair out of the shed, carefully positioning it on the patio so that I was facing the sun.
Terry had done a great job of clearing the trees overhanging the fence, and the corner had become a perfect sun-trap. I took a sip of my drink before picking up the journal, and started to read.
Things with Terry have got, well, more complicated recently. It used to be simple: he'd drive me to and from my appointments, we'd chat like friends do. He wouldn't pass comment on my lifestyle and I wouldn't comment on his.
But recently, things have changed. It was quite subtle at first. He'd say things like: "don't you ever get tired of seeing all these strange men in hotel rooms?" or "don't you ever wish you had a normal relationship?"
Last night, he finally said what I think he'd wanted to say for some time. We were driving back from an appointment, along the mostly empty roads, the darkness occasionally broken by an oasis of light as we passed a filling station or an all-night store. He'd been quiet, since we left the hotel and that wasn't like him. I knew him well enough by now to know there was something on his mind.
"Would you go out on a date with me?" he said suddenly, his voice breaking the silence.
"A date?" I replied, as if it was the first time I'd ever heard that word.
Perhaps I ought to explain something at this point. I had a difficult childhood with a number of stepfathers coming and going. And without going into too many details, let's just say some of them didn't treat me as well as others. So although I'm straight I've always had trouble in trusting men, and forming relationships. In fact, in a lot of ways, I prefer the company of women.
So my lifestyle, if you want to call it that, suits me perfectly. I make a good living doing something I enjoy and am good at, and have plenty of no-ties, anonymous sex without having all of the commitments, responsibilities and risks of a proper relationship. In short, I like being independent, which is why I was so taken aback by Terry's question.
Over the next few days, I went from feeling confused to feeling angry. Angry that he'd forced this decision on me, left me with the moral dilemma. Did he really see me as a girlfriend to take out on dates? Holding hands across the table at the local Italian restaurant while we talked about what kind of day we'd had? "Men, "I thought to myself. "Why did they always want to own you?"
I paused to take another sip of my orange juice. There was no breeze, and it was becoming a very hot afternoon, the sun beating down on me, warming every molecule of my body.
I was wearing the smaller of my two bikinis. It's quite skimpy, and I'm generally not confident enough to wear it out in public, but it's perfect for home use, especially with my newly trimmed bush. With my Irish genes and fair skin, it's all to easy to get sunburnt, and I squirted some factor twenty onto my palm applying a liberal layer to my pale skin. After all the jogging, my legs felt pleasingly taut and toned, and I took my time, making sure every inch was oiled. My fingers lingered over my inner thighs, applying the lotion in lazy circles and felt a frisson of pleasure as they brushed against my taut bikini bottoms.
I looked around guiltily before pushing my sunglasses up over my nose and continued the journal.
Some men do want to control woman. Take R for example. You remember that rule one was that I never let myself be tied up? Well, I was never one for playing by the rules all the time, and as he was a cop that I'd been seeing for years I was prepared to break it to indulge his fantasy, which always started the same way.
"Oh it's you. What do you want?" I'd say, answering the door to the hotel room, dressed in a slinky dressing gown, which I'd pull tight around my neck as he flashed his badge.
"Can we talk inside, Roxy?"
