What Lies Between Us(51)

It’s plausible, I suppose, but I get the feeling he is holding something back. ‘So do you message a lot of random women out of the blue then?’

‘No, no, not at all,’ he protests. ‘You just looked friendly.’

Looked friendly, I repeat to myself. Friendly, like an old reliable dog you want to approach and pet. ‘And you got that from my photograph?’ I ask. ‘You saw it and thought, “Oh, this older woman looks friendly, why don’t I say hello?”’

‘Well . . . yes. I’m sorry, I’ve offended you, haven’t I? That wasn’t my intention.’

‘I’m at work now so I’d best go.’

I log out of Facebook so that I can’t be casually tempted to check whether he is messaging me again. But it doesn’t stop me from thinking about him.





CHAPTER 43





NINA


TWO YEARS EARLIER


Ignoring Bobby didn’t last for long. In fact, I managed just a day. Maybe it’s the antidepressants working their magic after all, but talking to someone new adds a little brightness to the clouds above me. In such a very short space of time, I’ve come to look forward to hearing from him.

And for the best part of a week, the messages have bounced back and forth between us like a table tennis ball. Barely a waking hour has passed since we haven’t chatted or made each other laugh. I like him, he’s fun. Sometimes I resent our jobs for getting in the way of our conversations. But I am still none the wiser as to what he wants from me.

I’m no stranger to talking to men through dating apps and websites, but the conversations dry up quickly and I block them if they send me a photo of their penis. Bobby seems different. He appears genuinely interested in what I have to say. There’s quite an age gap between us but we share a lot of similar likes and opinions. We are also both quite independent souls, even if his Facebook photos indicate he’s a lot more gregarious than I am. However, there are questions I want to ask him, but don’t.

Where is this going? With two billion active Facebook users online each month – I’ve researched this – why did he decide to strike up a conversation with me? Each time I’ve broached the subject, his answer is vague. And that makes me suspicious.

Last night I found myself thinking about what it might be like to meet him in person. I played the whole scenario out in my head, from the French restaurant on the Wellingborough Road where I’d suggest we meet, to the bar where we’d enjoy a nightcap, before he’d drive me home and we’d smooch in the car like teenagers. I quickly realised how silly I sounded and shook my head until the fantasy evaporated. And that’s the reason I’ve made a decision to put an end to this. While my head is fragile and I need chemicals to balance me out, I must protect myself. Mid-conversation, I have simply stopped talking to him.

Bobby must have sent a dozen messages yesterday before he realised I was no longer responding and stopped. But I awoke to find another two this morning asking if I was okay and claiming he was worried about me. I can’t recall the last time a man said that, even Jon. I want to ignore this new message, hoping that he takes the hint and gives up. But whoever he is, whatever his game, I decide to end this like an adult. I shouldn’t ghost him; I’m not a cruel person.

My fingers hover above the phone’s keyboard before I eventually type, ‘Hello.’

‘You’re there!’ he replies, and I can feel his enthusiasm. ‘This was going to be my last message. When you didn’t reply to the others, I was worried that I was getting on your nerves.’

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’ve been busy.’ I correct myself. ‘No, that’s not true. I haven’t been busy. I’ve been avoiding you.’

‘Why? Whatever I’ve done, I’m really sorry.’ He adds a frowning face emoji.

‘You’re not telling me the whole truth, are you?’

He is usually quick to respond – his replies take seconds. This time, it’s minutes. A nervous feeling emerges from the pit of my stomach and slowly crawls up the back of my throat. I both want – and don’t want – the truth. The longer he takes, the more afraid I become.

My phone pings again. ‘No, I haven’t,’ he replies. ‘I’m sorry.’

I sigh. Even though I knew it in my heart, I’m still disappointed. He’s probably sitting in an east European Internet cafe hoping I’m one of those desperate, gullible lonely women he can get money from in the promise of a future that’ll never arrive. I used to think these women were stupid to fall for it, but after a week of speaking to Bobby, I understand why. When you think you’re making a connection, even with a complete stranger, your imagination can lead you astray.

‘So who are you then?’ I ask.

‘I am who I say I am,’ he replies, which adds to the confusion.

‘Why did you start messaging me?’

‘Will you meet me so we can talk about this in person?’

‘Meet you?’ I frown as I type quickly. ‘No! Why on earth would I want to meet you when you’ve just admitted you’ve lied to me?’

‘I haven’t lied to you, honestly, Nina. But I’d rather explain face to face than by message.’

I shake my head and offer him an ultimatum. ‘You either tell me now what you’re playing at or I block you and we never speak again. It’s your choice.’