Don't Come Looking by AJ Campbell (always you kirsty moseley .txt) 📗

he tell me? I’m his wife. He should’ve asked me to drive him.’

‘Why didn’t he drive himself?

‘Long story. And a few reasons.’ She sighs heavily. ‘I suppose I might as well tell you everything. Marc had an accident last Christmas. Only a small one, but he collided with another car which had a toddler in it. The whole incident scared him, and he lost his confidence. He stopped driving in the New Year.’

‘Were you in the car too?’

‘No. And I never told you about it because he asked me not to discuss it with anyone. I drive everywhere now, and he takes the Tube when he has to. So now I can’t understand why he didn’t ask me to drive him to the doctors. And why didn’t he tell me he was depressed?’

‘He gave you no clues?’

She looks at me like she’s depressed too. ‘With hindsight, maybe he did. He had mood swings and wasn’t sleeping, but I put that down to the stress of the redundancy. Being laid off can’t be easy. He was upbeat and optimistic most of the time.’ She thought for a moment before adding, ‘Or maybe that was the face he showed me.’

Jim knocks at the already open door. ‘Alright to come in?’

‘Don’t let him underestimate the pain he’s been in,’ I say to Sasha, pointing to Jim. ‘The sleepless nights are killing us both.’ I jangle the car keys. ‘I’ll be back soon,’ I say, kissing Jim on the way out.

Harry is sitting in the passenger seat and Luke in the back, both of them on their phones. ‘What time’s the exam?’ I ask when I get in.

Harry manages to pull his face away from the screen for a brief second. ‘Eleven.’ He returns his focus to the screen and adds, as if a second thought. ‘Thanks for doing this.’

‘No problem.’ I try to strike up a conversation, but that’s hard when you’re in fierce competition with a teenager’s phone, so I have to keep trying. ‘Looking forward to your party on Saturday?’

‘Sort of. Would be better if my exams were over. Why can’t I have been born in September like him?’ He gestures to Luke with a nod. ‘That’s why he’s way ahead of me. He’s nearly a whole year older. Proper brainbox.’

‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ Luke adds.

‘His mum took him for an IQ test before he started secondary school.’

‘You’re embarrassing me, Haz.’

Harry laughs. ‘One hundred and thirty-nine, he scored: very superior intelligence. Only one point off genius or near genius.’

‘Hazza.’

‘He’s a member of Mensa.’

I look in the rear-view mirror to a blushing Luke. He looks much older than his eighteen years – confident, without being arrogant – and the way he holds himself in a crisp white shirt, suggests a man in his twenties. Other than a couple of stifled grunts, it’s a struggle to get much more out of either of them.

Back at Sasha’s, I stay in the car before going into the studio, catching up on chores I’ve been putting off – a call to HMRC about a payroll tax problem for Mel and an erroneous entry on my credit card last month. I update our online supermarket delivery order then click onto Amazon and order a princess fancy dress outfit for Isabella for an upcoming party.

As I enter the studio, scented oils are burning; jasmine I think, and Jim is lying face down on the bench. Sasha is performing myofascial release on him. An alternative therapy she once used on me after a fight I had to defuse between two reckless females outside a pub in Soho a few years ago. After one of them walked off, the other, a slight woman with bubble-gum pink hair and dozens of piercings, verbally abused me. She was angry at life, and I sympathised. I was once like that. I tried to placate her, which backfired on me as she lashed out and pushed me against the front of a coffee shop next door. Unfortunately, I fell hard against the glass frontage. She was charged with assaulting a police officer, and I ended up with a bad back and three months physiotherapy with Sasha. But let’s look on the bright side; if it wasn’t for Miss Pink Hair, Sasha and I would never have met.

‘His hamstrings are extra tight this week. So are his glutes. This will be contributing towards the pain, I believe. I’ve concentrated on them this morning.’

‘Why’s that?’ I ask.

‘He needs to have regular breaks out of his chair. He’s not stretching enough. Art is going to be able to help here.’

Jim waves a hand up. ‘I am present, you know.’

Sasha profusely apologises then says to me. ‘Marc’s phone is over there if you still want to take a look.’ She nods to her desk.

I pick it up.

‘1066,’ she says.

I enter the code and spend the next fifteen minutes flicking through the contents, but nothing stirs suspicion.

Sasha taps Jim on the shoulder. ‘We’re all done. Make sure you stretch your legs as much as possible.’ She walks over to me. ‘Find anything?’

I shake my head. ‘Nothing untoward.’

‘Art can see you next Monday, if that suits. Jim can have his usual session with me and afterwards go and have a chat with Art about the best way to proceed.’

‘What time were you thinking?’ I ask.

She picks up her diary. ‘How about a session with me at two-thirty, then go and have a chat with Art at three-thirty. He’s a nice guy, and so good at what he does. He has a waiting list, but he’s agreed to fit you in as a favour. I’ll introduce you to him at the party on Saturday. You can’t help but like him.’

I pick up my phone and log on to my banking app. ‘How much do I owe you?’

‘Normal, please.’

‘You’ve been more than an hour.’

She gives me a look as if to say, so what, I owe you ten times that.

Sasha and I step outside while Jim is getting dressed. ‘I didn’t