Read Online Try Not to Breathe by Holly Seddon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Holly Seddon
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“That sounds all right.”
—
They arranged to meet the following Monday, halfway between Tunbridge Wells and Uffculme, just off the A303. Didn’t want it hanging over him, he’d said. Bob didn’t want to be seen talking to a strange woman near his home in case his new wife saw but he hadn’t returned to Kent since Jo’s funeral, and wasn’t about to now.
Alex sat in the arbitrarily chosen Little Chef roadside café, convinced she would be stood up.
If she were Bob, would she turn up? Almost certainly not. She’d probably drive up and down the road outside, trying to peer in, or perhaps she’d sit in her car in the car park, heart jangling, hiding behind a magazine whenever the Little Chef door swung open. She wondered if that’s what Bob was doing now. He was already late.
It was 10:20 a.m., and Alex could feel the dry rot settling in her throat and creeping to the back of her mouth. She had emailed Matt after putting the phone down on Bob. She had kept Matt up-to-date in a breezy, neutral email that had taken nearly three hours to write and rewrite. He hadn’t replied.
While she waited, Alex repeatedly clicked the refresh symbol on her iPhone inbox, but the number of unread emails stayed the same. Zero.
She felt out of place. She was out of place. Her trusted Moleskine notepad and Cross pen at perfect right angles on the table. With her iPhone positioned equally anally next to them, her Ted Baker dress and Chloe handbag she knew she stood out like a dismembered toe.
The plastic coating on the chairs was peeling off, the table corners looked like they’d been chewed. Discarded nappies had been piled in the corner of the toilet cubicle that she’d used upon arrival.
A doughy-faced young woman of around nineteen was walking around with a warm pot of thin coffee, refilling cups and glaring at people.
Behind Alex sat a foursome of pensioners, all with thick middles, nylon T-shirts and red, raw hands.
Three middle-aged men in badly-fitting suits sat alone at three different tables, all throwing back coffee, tapping away at old-fashioned mobile phones and shuffling dog-eared bits of paper around. Alex wondered who would ever buy what they were selling.
Bob was now forty-five minutes late, and Alex had received no emails apart from unwanted newsletters and irrelevant press releases. She didn’t want to harass Bob but she wanted him to know she was waiting, and that she understood and would be patient. She sent a text message:
Hi, Bob, it’s Alex. Just to let you know I’m at the Little Chef so just get here when you can, don’t worry if you’re caught in traffic, I’ll wait.
As she set her iPhone back down on the yellowing table, a short, dumpy man in overalls barreled through the doors. His graying dark hair had visible comb-marks where he had used gel or pomade and he had a speckled doormat mustache.
After waiting unattended at the “Wait Here to Be Seated” sign, he walked into the middle of the seating area, obviously looking for someone.
“Bob?” Alex asked quietly, doing the half-stand, half-stoop standard to these situations.
Bob spun around; his overalls were tight on his buttocks and his belly was like a block, swinging slightly later than the rest of him. He half smiled and walked toward Alex.
“Alex? Sorry I’m late…” He trailed off.
Alex gestured for Bob to sit down and looked around for a waitress. The plump, pudding-faced girl with mousy hair was nowhere to be seen but a friendly older woman with a blond bouffant walked slowly over, smiling.
“What can I get you, sir?”
Bob smiled, warmly. “Hello, err, yes, can I have a pot of tea and some Jubilee Pancakes please?” He looked awkward. “I’ve not had breakfast yet.”
The waitress—Valerie by her name badge—turned to Alex. “Can I get you anything else?”
“Actually,” Alex smiled, “I’ll have some Jubilee Pancakes too.”
The room seemed brighter, more sunlit. Alex had finally recovered from the
—
They arranged to meet the following Monday, halfway between Tunbridge Wells and Uffculme, just off the A303. Didn’t want it hanging over him, he’d said. Bob didn’t want to be seen talking to a strange woman near his home in case his new wife saw but he hadn’t returned to Kent since Jo’s funeral, and wasn’t about to now.
Alex sat in the arbitrarily chosen Little Chef roadside café, convinced she would be stood up.
If she were Bob, would she turn up? Almost certainly not. She’d probably drive up and down the road outside, trying to peer in, or perhaps she’d sit in her car in the car park, heart jangling, hiding behind a magazine whenever the Little Chef door swung open. She wondered if that’s what Bob was doing now. He was already late.
It was 10:20 a.m., and Alex could feel the dry rot settling in her throat and creeping to the back of her mouth. She had emailed Matt after putting the phone down on Bob. She had kept Matt up-to-date in a breezy, neutral email that had taken nearly three hours to write and rewrite. He hadn’t replied.
While she waited, Alex repeatedly clicked the refresh symbol on her iPhone inbox, but the number of unread emails stayed the same. Zero.
She felt out of place. She was out of place. Her trusted Moleskine notepad and Cross pen at perfect right angles on the table. With her iPhone positioned equally anally next to them, her Ted Baker dress and Chloe handbag she knew she stood out like a dismembered toe.
The plastic coating on the chairs was peeling off, the table corners looked like they’d been chewed. Discarded nappies had been piled in the corner of the toilet cubicle that she’d used upon arrival.
A doughy-faced young woman of around nineteen was walking around with a warm pot of thin coffee, refilling cups and glaring at people.
Behind Alex sat a foursome of pensioners, all with thick middles, nylon T-shirts and red, raw hands.
Three middle-aged men in badly-fitting suits sat alone at three different tables, all throwing back coffee, tapping away at old-fashioned mobile phones and shuffling dog-eared bits of paper around. Alex wondered who would ever buy what they were selling.
Bob was now forty-five minutes late, and Alex had received no emails apart from unwanted newsletters and irrelevant press releases. She didn’t want to harass Bob but she wanted him to know she was waiting, and that she understood and would be patient. She sent a text message:
Hi, Bob, it’s Alex. Just to let you know I’m at the Little Chef so just get here when you can, don’t worry if you’re caught in traffic, I’ll wait.
As she set her iPhone back down on the yellowing table, a short, dumpy man in overalls barreled through the doors. His graying dark hair had visible comb-marks where he had used gel or pomade and he had a speckled doormat mustache.
After waiting unattended at the “Wait Here to Be Seated” sign, he walked into the middle of the seating area, obviously looking for someone.
“Bob?” Alex asked quietly, doing the half-stand, half-stoop standard to these situations.
Bob spun around; his overalls were tight on his buttocks and his belly was like a block, swinging slightly later than the rest of him. He half smiled and walked toward Alex.
“Alex? Sorry I’m late…” He trailed off.
Alex gestured for Bob to sit down and looked around for a waitress. The plump, pudding-faced girl with mousy hair was nowhere to be seen but a friendly older woman with a blond bouffant walked slowly over, smiling.
“What can I get you, sir?”
Bob smiled, warmly. “Hello, err, yes, can I have a pot of tea and some Jubilee Pancakes please?” He looked awkward. “I’ve not had breakfast yet.”
The waitress—Valerie by her name badge—turned to Alex. “Can I get you anything else?”
“Actually,” Alex smiled, “I’ll have some Jubilee Pancakes too.”
The room seemed brighter, more sunlit. Alex had finally recovered from the
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