Is She Really Going Out with Him?

Chapter 7

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Neil Bradshaw, Bath. Serial killer?

Hedge trimming, rights and rules, Avon and Somerset

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Who is Mrs. Maisel actress married to in real life?

Neil’s dented gray ?koda pulls up outside my house. As he gets out of the car, he immediately trips over a paving stone, then laughs at his own clumsiness. Neil looks exactly how I imagine a tired, middle-aged divorced dad to look. If they were making an advert for KFC where the father is taking his kids out for a family bucket, they’d cast an actor who looked just like Neil. He’s average height, with thinning hair, a short beard, and a slightly round gut, but his face is attractive and he has kind eyes.

“Ready to catch some fish?” Neil asks jovially. Then he opens the passenger door for me and gives a flourish of his hand, as though he’s a footman showing me into a royal carriage. A few dozen brightly colored loom bands lie strewn on the floor of the car like confetti.

“What’s your story then?” Neil asks, once we’re driving.

“My story?” I ask.

“Yeah, how come you’re divorced? Don’t say if it’s too personal. I find it’s easier to blurt these things out, get it out of the way.” He tightens his hands around the steering wheel. “People assume I cheated on Sheila, and that’s why she left, but it was the other way around. I know there isn’t always someone else”—he glances across at me—“but there usually is.”

“Right,” I say. The question makes my chest tighten.

What was our story? That we were happy for fourteen years, busy and tired, but always a team. Then somewhere along the way, something changed. Dan got passed over for a promotion at work. He said he thought he would have achieved more by thirty-five, that he felt like he was on a treadmill, every day the same. He started losing his hair and when he looked in the mirror, he saw a middle-aged man. He told me he didn’t want to die having done nothing with his life, which hurt because our life, our family, didn’t feel like nothing to me. He became harder to live with, started drinking more, laughing less.

I found myself doing everything around the house and for the children. He was struggling to function, so I picked up the slack. Small things I hadn’t noticed before began to inexplicably annoy me: the way he dried himself after a shower, his inability to iron his work shirts, how he ran his tongue around his teeth after a meal. Sometimes I felt disgusted by him. I felt as though I were walking on eggshells, especially when he’d had too many beers. He was clearly depressed but couldn’t talk about it, and we were all drowning in his misery. I didn’t let myself question whether I had fallen out of love with him, didn’t admit to myself how lonely I was. I certainly didn’t confide in anyone how bad it had gotten.

Then one day, it was as though Dan woke up and decided to be the master of his own destiny. He quit his job, found a new one, stopped drinking, and started taking antidepressants. He shaved his head, bought books on nutrition, and took up cycling. Things looked hopeful for a while, but then I realized that among all the things he wanted to change about his life—his hair, his job, his waistline—I was on the list too. When he asked for a divorce, I felt relieved, and then ashamed, and then heartbroken.

But I don’t tell Neil any of this, I just say, “Dan left me. There wasn’t anyone else, though there is now.”

“Sorry to hear that,” he says, offering me a wine gum from the glove box by way of consolation.

“I’m fine, life goes on.” I hear myself repeating the line I say to everyone who asks how I’m doing.

“Well, clearly he’s a wanker,” Neil says, pulling a face, crossing his eyes, and sticking out his tongue. It’s unexpected and childish and makes me exhale a short, sharp dart of laughter. We move on to lighter subjects. Neil tells me about his job in IT and asks about my career in journalism. We talk about the children’s school and he does a funny impression of their new headmistress, her nasal, clipped voice. Slowly I feel myself start to relax.

When we arrive at the lake, Neil collects a cool box, rod, and canvas bag from the back of his car. I offer to carry something, but he says he’s “got a system.” We head through a wooden gate, which leads onto a footpath that hugs the bank of the lake. It’s an idyllic spring day. Wildflowers sprout along the side of the footpath, and there’s a bosky smell of new growth after a long winter. A couple with young children on bikes run past us, the man yelling at his son to keep away from the water. Neil and I share a look, gratitude that today, that is not us. As we stroll around the lake to find the fishing spot, Neil’s gait relaxes, like he’s an amphibian returning to his natural habitat.

Once we find the spot, Neil opens his case full of fishing tackle and shows me how to bait a line. He hums to himself, and I can see in his face that this is his happy place. “My grandad used to say fishing is like life,” he tells me, looking wistfully across the water. “You don’t know when you’re going to hook something good or when your line is going to break, but if it were easy, where would the satisfaction be? Fishing’s the thing that’s kept me sane this year.”

“I like that,” I say, returning his smile. Looking across at him, I wonder whether Neil is the kind of man who could grow on you. Perhaps beneath the scruffy cargo trousers and slightly tragic air, there’s a hidden sexiness just waiting to be discovered. Whether I could fancy him or not, he seems far more normal than any of those men I met online. Maybe this “dates picked by the kids” idea isn’t so crazy after all.

Our peaceful moment of reflection is fractured when a man on a mountain bike sweeps past, causing two ducks to launch themselves off the footpath and into the water, disturbing Neil’s line. He scowls at the cyclist, and I realize this might be a good opportunity to bond with him about our mutual dislike of the sport.

“Bloody cyclists,” I mutter with a pantomimed eye roll.

“Right, cycling is such a cult these days,” Neil says, taking the bait. “When people invented bikes in China or whatever, they were just a method of getting from A to B; no one shaved their legs to improve their ‘aerodynamic performance.’ This cult of fitness, selling all this unnecessary kit to people—it’s maddening.”

“I completely agree,” I say.

“Sheila’s new bloke is a cyclist,” Neil tells me as he winds in the fishing line. “He’s this middle-aged guy with a bigger gut than mine, but he shaves his legs, as though that extra mil of wind resistance is going to make all the difference. Wanker.” Neil’s friendly face is now blighted by an ugly sneer. Is that how I sound when I talk about cycling? Is that how I look? The thought stops me in my tracks.

“I did nothing wrong, and now this guy gets to put my kids to bed at night,” Neil goes on. “I’m relegated to Weekend Dad because Sheila wanted to fuck some guy she met at a marketing conference. How is that fair?”

“I know, it sucks,” I say. Now I feel bad for bringing up bikes.

“Sorry for swearing.” Neil shakes his head, then lets out a slow exhale. “You want to have a go at a casting?” he asks, holding the rod toward me.

“Sure.”

Now that we’re back to fishing, Neil’s happy demeanor returns. He launches into a lengthy explanation about lead drops, spigots, and cast trajectories, but he might as well be speaking Greek. From his demonstration it looks like you just give the rod a bit of a flick, then lob the end into the water.

“You want me to hold on behind you, do one together?” Neil asks, and I suspect this might be one of those moves men pull, like standing behind you to guide your pool cue.

“I think I’ll manage on my own,” I tell him.

“Okay, wait there a sec,” he says, then leaves me holding the rod while he goes to get something from the cool box. Just as I start to think I might almost be enjoying myself, my phone pings, distracting me, then the name on the screen makes me scowl.

Will Havers

Can I get a heads-up on a theme for your first column? I need to write mine.

No “please,” no “thank you,” no “sorry for bothering you on a Sunday.” Typical. Holding out my phone with one hand, I decide to take a selfie with the lake in the background. Maybe I could get a shot midcast; that would give him a clue. Lifting the rod with one hand, I give it a quick backward flick, and then I’m about to launch it forward toward the lake, when there’s a guttural scream from behind me.

“AGGGGGHHH!” Neil yells.

I spin around to see him crouching on the ground, the fishing line attached to his face, the hook embedded in his cheek, with a streak of blood dripping down into his stubble.

“Oh God, oh no, what happened? Was that me?” I cry, quickly pocketing my phone.

“Never cast when someone is standing behind you,” Neil says with an agonized groan.

I feel like that’s something he probably should have mentioned in the initial briefing, because this is definitely not the kind of hookup anyone is looking for on a first date.

—

As we walk briskly back toward the car, I offer to drive Neil straight to the hospital, but he insists he’s fine. He says he’s done this before, it’s only a small hook, he just needs his wire cutters so he can cut the end of the barb before removing it.

“Are you sure you should be doing that yourself?” I ask, feeling slightly faint whenever I look at the bloody hook attached to his cheek.

“I’m fine, it just hurts to talk,” he says, clutching his jaw. I can’t think of anything appropriate to say, so we walk the rest of the way in awkward silence.

As he bends down to climb into the driver’s seat, Neil lets out a deep groan.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?” I ask, but he slowly shakes his head. As Neil fiddles with the sat nav, I take the opportunity to scroll through the photos on my phone. The selfie I took by the lake came out surprisingly well, so I send it to Will with a fishing rod emoji. Even if we are now secretly at war, I need to present a veneer of professional cooperation, lull him into a false sense of security. He replies with a thumbs-up, which I can’t help feeling underwhelmed by as a response. Then a few minutes later another message from him, a screenshot of one of his old Teen Girl columns, “How to Talk to Boys.”

Will Havers

In case you need a refresher.

“What’s so funny?” Neil asks, and I realize I must have laughed out loud.

“Nothing, sorry,” I say, guiltily stowing my phone in my bag.

As Neil turns the car onto an A road, we approach a group of cyclists riding two abreast on the road in front of us. Neil slows the car.

“Look at these wankers, taking up the whole road. Shall we have some fun?” he says with a smirk, dried blood at the corner of his mouth. Then he revs the engine and accelerates right up behind the cyclists before dropping back just in time.

“What are you doing?” I ask, panic seizing my insides. He might be joking, trying to scare them, but it’s dangerous and not at all funny.

“We’ll show ’em who owns the road, eh?” he says, revving again. One of the cyclists swerves into the hedge, another turns around to shout at us, but Neil only edges closer, the bumper almost tapping one of the cyclists’ wheels. I cover my face; I want to scream. He’s trying to kill them. This will be attempted murder, and I’ll be an accomplice.

Neil opens his window. “Get off the road, wankers!”

“Oh God!” I yell, bracing myself for a crash. All the cyclists now swerve into the bush, in genuine fear for their lives, and Neil gives them the finger, cackling with glee as he accelerates away.

“Jesus, Neil, you could have killed someone!” I say, heart racing as I struggle to catch my breath.

“I wasn’t going to hit them,” Neil says. “Just make ’em think twice about taking up the whole road.”

—

I’m still shaking when Neil drops me home.

“Well, we’ll have to do this again properly,” Neil says, pulling up to the curb.

“You’re sure you’ll be able to deal with the…face issue?” I ask while wondering if I should be calling the police

“Yeah, it’s a scratch.” He shifts his body toward the passenger seat, then looks bemused to find me already on my front step, giving him a brisk wave.

“Good luck then, must dash, desperate for the loo. Thank you for today! So, so sorry again about the hook-in-the-face situation.” I call down the steps as I fumble with my bag, looking for my house keys.

Shutting the front door behind me, I take a long deep breath, then google “How to anonymously report a crime in the UK.” Of all the information I’d hoped to be researching after a first date, this is not it. I find a number for Crimestoppers. Should I pretend to be one of the cyclists, report the incident along with his registration plate? He might get a warning. Only I don’t know his registration plate because I’m not Nancy sodding Drew. Plus, if he gets a call from the police, he might know it was me. He might lose his license, it might jeopardize his custody agreement, so that he’d get to see Tilly and his son even less than he does now. He might kidnap Ethan in revenge. The whole plot of Taken flashes through my mind. I would not be as skilled as Liam Neeson in getting my child back. I take another deep breath. Was he really going to hurt those cyclists, or was he just trying to impress me? Maybe the hook injury skewed his judgment. Perhaps it’s best I give him the benefit of the doubt.

The children aren’t back from Dan’s yet. Still feeling rattled, I pace the hallway then find myself opening the door to the garage. I’ve hardly been in here since Dan left; it holds too many negative associations, reminding me of all the evenings he chose to spend in here rather than with me. Surveying the dusty floor, I try to envisage this as something other than Dan’s workout space.

I am seized by a sudden need to be busy, to distract myself from thinking about Neil and those cyclists. On a whim, I pull down a huge turquoise all-weather rug from the rafters. I bought it years ago to cover our chipped patio, but Dan deemed it “too girly.” Unfurling it, coughing at the dust, I lay it out on the garage floor. It instantly softens the room. In the far corner, beneath a tarpaulin, I see a wooden chair leg that I recognize. My chair. I found it in a junkyard. It had these beautiful carved wooden legs and a high round back, though the material was stained and threadbare. After watching some online tutorials, I reupholstered it in bright blue Liberty-print fabric. It’s shoddily done, the fabric too baggy around the seat, but seeing it makes me smile. I remember being so proud of this chair. When we repainted the living room, Dan moved it out here “for safekeeping,” then never got round to putting it back.

With a burst of energy, I clean the dust off, then heave the chair through to the living room. I pack up the play kitchen and all the long-forgotten toys, then move them out to the garage. Pushing my Liberty-print chair into the empty space, I add my Tbr pile onto the empty shelf beside it, then stand back to admire my new reading nook. I feel a disproportionate sense of achievement. Why have I not done this before? I make a promise to myself—I will only use the nook for reading, no scrolling.

An empty picture hook hangs on the wall above the chair. There used to be a photo of Dan and the kids here, but he took it with him, and I haven’t replaced it. Suddenly inspired, I go to the downstairs cupboard and find what I’m looking for. It’s a framed photo of Lottie and me on our bikes as children. She had it enlarged and framed for me when she found the print in an old album. We’re probably eight and four, both freewheeling with our feet off the pedals. It’s a great snapshot of childish joy, but I never hung it because I don’t like how I look in the photo. You can still see the fading bruises on my face from the cycling accident I’d had a few weeks before. But now I look at it with fresh eyes, and I see a girl who got back on that bike, even though she’d been hurt. I hang the photo above my chair, to remind myself that bruises heal, and I do not hate bikes.