Into the Darkest Corner Read Online Free PDF Page A

and at that moment he looked up from his newspaper. He didn’t smile for a second, just met my gaze, and I thought about what might lie behind it. It felt like the beginning; as though this was the turning point. I had had the chance to walk away, and I had stood my ground. Now came the reckoning.
    When he smiled, I found myself crossing the foyer of the gym to where he sat. “Hello,” I said, thinking how lame it sounded. “I saw you in the pool.”
    “I know,” he answered, “I saw you too.” He folded the newspaper and laid it carefully on the table next to his coffee. “What are you having?”
    Walking away didn’t seem to be an option anymore. “Tea, please.”
    I sat down as he stood, fitting into the seat opposite his, my heart pounding. However long I’d spent in the locker room after the shower getting ready, in case he was out here, it wasn’t enough.
    A few minutes later he came back with a small tray with a teapot, cup and a jug of milk. “My name’s Lee,” he said, offering me his hand.
    I looked up into a pair of very blue eyes. “Catherine,” I said. His hand was warm, his grip firm, and hours later when I lay in bed I could still smell the scent of him, faint, on the palm of my hand.
    The fact that I couldn’t decide on anything to say almost made me laugh—normally it was difficult to shut me up. I wanted to ask if he’d enjoyed his swim, but that sounded inane; I wanted to ask if he was single, but that was too direct. I wanted to know if he’d been waiting for me. All of these questions, and, I realized, I already knew the answers. Yes, yes and yes.
    “I’ve been wondering what your name was,” he said at last. “I tried to have a guess, but didn’t get anywhere near it.”
    “So, if I don’t look like a Catherine, what do I look like?”
    He hadn’t broken eye contact with me for a moment. “I can’t remember now. Now I know you’re Catherine, nothing else is good enough.”
    His gaze was almost uncomfortable, and I felt myself blushing under the force of it, so I concentrated on pouring my tea and took my time stirring it, mixing a little milk, then a little more, until it was exactly the right shade.
    “So,” he said, with a deep breath, “have you not been back to the River since I last saw you, or have I just been unlucky and missed you?”
    “No, I haven’t been back. Just been busy doing other things.”
    “I see. Family things?”
    He was fishing to see if I was single. “Friend things. I don’t have any family. Both my parents died when I was at university, and I’m an only child.”
    He nodded. “That’s tough. All my family live in Cornwall.”
    “Is that where you’re from?”
    “A village near Penzance. Moved away as soon as I could. Villages are grim places sometimes—everybody knows your business.”
    There was another brief pause, until I broke it. “So, do you just work at the River?”
    He grinned and downed the last of his coffee. “Yes, just at the River, three nights a week. Helping a friend out, mainly. Will you have dinner with me later?”
    His question came out of the blue; the look in his eyes showed the hint of nerves that his voice hadn’t given away.
    I smiled at him and drank my tea.
    “Yes, that would be lovely.”
    When I got up to leave, the card with his phone number in my jacket pocket, I felt his eyes follow me all the way to the door. When I turned to wave, he was still looking. But he did at least manage a smile.

Saturday 17 November 2007
    My weekends are a curious mixture of relaxation and stress. Some weekends are good; others, not so. Certain dates are good. I can only go food shopping on even-numbered days. If the thirteenth falls on a weekend, I can’t do anything at all. On odd-numbered days, I can exercise, but only if it’s cloudy or raining, not if it’s sunny. On odd-numbered days, I can’t cook food, I can only eat cold things or heat stuff up.
    All of this is to keep my brain placated. All of the time,