Eye Contact (2 page)

Noon.

Though it might be tempting to loop back round and find the man with the sandwich, he knew that would be cheating. He had to do it properly – continue walking
all
the way across the park before he could turn back.

There were people on the path ahead of him. A young man came first, Chinese by the look of him, a little under six foot tall, spiked hair, slight build, listening to his iPod. Clean, white trainers. His clothes seemed too good for a student but he couldn’t have been older than early twenties. They drew closer, until Naysmith could hear the tinny beat from his earphones . . . but he passed by without ever looking up.

A moment later, a heavy-set woman in her fifties – somebody’s aunt. Greying hair, floral-print top, expensive bag. She had an aura of disapproval about her, steering herself towards the edge of the path as they came near each other and carefully avoiding his eye – her type often did. On another day, he might have felt a slight twinge of offence at this deliberate evasion, so determinedly keeping herself to herself – after all, there was nothing about him or his manner that anyone should find threatening. And yet, today, she was quite right.

Next were two younger women sitting on a bench – late twenties or early thirties, one fair-haired, the other a redhead. Both were smartly dressed, midday fugitives from an office perhaps. They were talking as he approached, catching up on gossip before they had to return to work. The redhead had her back to him as he approached, but her friend looked up as he passed, her eyes flickering to his for just a second before she continued her conversation.

She would be the one.

And now his pace faltered just a little as he bent his whole attention to her, taking in each detail, remembering, fixing her in his mind.

She looked to be of average height – hard to say while she was seated – with a relatively slim, athletic figure. Her grey trouser suit was presentable, if not flattering, and there was no ring on the hand that held her Starbucks cup.

He took another step . . .

Shoulder-length hair, straight, with cheap plastic clips to keep it out of her face, mousy with fading blonde highlights.

. . . another step . . .

Pale skin, delicate chin, high cheekbones, small nose, not too much make-up, pierced ears with small lobes. He burned her mouth shape into his mind, the slightly too pronounced pout of her lips, then gave the last seconds over to her eyes – pale grey-green with nice lashes.

And then he was past her. A fleeting moment, but that was all it took.

He
never
forgot a face.

One more glance at the watch – it was 12.07. She had twenty-four hours’ grace, and he had a meeting at three. Grinning cheerfully, he turned off the path and headed back towards the city centre.

Naysmith slept late next morning, and the hotel reception was busy with guests checking out when he came downstairs to catch the end of the breakfast sitting. He chose a table near the window and a nod summoned the attentive young waiter, who was immediately sent for coffee. The breakfast menu held no surprises, and Naysmith was already checking emails on his phone when the coffee pot was placed before him.

He ordered without looking up and finished tapping out a short reply to one of his subordinates. The dining room was almost empty now, just him and a few other late-risers – an overweight businessman tackling bacon and eggs, and an older couple looking around the room as they quietly ate their toast.

He poured himself some coffee and raised the cup to his nose, savouring the aroma before taking a sip. Heaven.

The place looked different this morning, sunlight from the windows infusing everything with a golden glow. He’d done his entertaining on the other side of the room last night.

The Merentha Group meeting had gone even better than expected. Jakob Nilsson, their dealmaker, was a large, friendly Norwegian with a vigorous handshake and a booming laugh – heftier and a little older than he’d sounded on the phone. He’d been refreshingly sensible about the numbers and they’d managed to agree terms there and then in his office. He wore a very good suit and Naysmith had taken to him almost at once.

Jakob’s colleague, Michaela, had turned out to be both intelligent and attractive in an understated way, with shoulder-length auburn hair, a guarded smile and dark, lingering eyes. She dressed with a classical elegance – black jacket, nicely tailored, with a simple cream blouse, and the confidence to wear a skirt. There was a quiet calm about the way she discussed their delivery requirements that he found oddly appealing, and he’d invited them both out for a drink. They’d started at a nearby bar on the waterfront.

‘So tell me,’ Jakob gestured towards him with his glass, ‘how did you come to be with Winterhill?’

Naysmith leaned back in his chair.

‘I like a challenge,’ he replied, allowing his eyes to engage Michaela’s for a moment, then returning to Jakob. ‘Winterhill gave me the opportunity to build my own department from the ground up, to run things the way I want.’

‘They are good to work for?’

‘Very.’ Naysmith smiled. ‘I usually do one day a week in the Woking office, but the rest of my time is flexible. I work the hours I need to and, so long as I keep delivering the numbers, the directors are happy.’

‘I read that you recently expanded into Germany?’ Michaela had the faintest hint of a Welsh accent when she spoke. ‘Business must be good.’

‘You’ve done your homework,’ he nodded. ‘Germany’s our second-largest market and one of our resellers was based in Hamburg. It made sense to acquire them, bring their expertise in-house. It also eases the workload for my UK team, who were getting quite stretched. I just wish more of our clients were like you – it usually takes a lot more than one meeting to get a deal memo.’

‘Ah, but we know what we want.’ Jakob laughed.

Naysmith smiled at Michaela.

‘So do I.’

By 7 p.m. it was clear that nobody was in a hurry to go home, so Naysmith suggested they all eat at a nearby hotel. He remembered the restaurant there as being rather good, and there was a comfortable lounge as well. He could get a room – that would save him the misery of the slow evening train home, and it would afford him a legitimate excuse to spend the night and be in Bristol the next day.

Dinner was surprisingly enjoyable. Naysmith had known some very dreary Scandinavians, but Jakob was well travelled and Michaela added some welcome chemistry to their talk. At first, he had wondered if Jakob was fucking her – there did seem to be a faint spark between them – but as the meal progressed he had revised his opinion. The big Norwegian was keen on her, and she enjoyed the attention, but that was as far as they had gone, or seemed able to go.

Conversation drifted easily from business to pleasure as they ate.

‘Oh, I wish I’d known.’ Michaela brightened as they discussed music. ‘There’s a place on King Street that has great live jazz most evenings.’

Naysmith shrugged. ‘Next time I have an evening in Bristol . . .’

‘Absolutely.’ She smiled.

It was perfect. He’d never have risked a deal like this over a woman – if she and Jakob had been an item, he’d have kept his distance. As it was, though, he had a pleasing evening, asking her lots of open questions, carefully empathising, and verbally fencing with Jakob over her, letting everyone enjoy the agreeable tingle of flirtation in their talk.

It was almost ten when Jakob went to retrieve his jacket from the cloakroom. Sitting with Michaela, Naysmith casually reached into his pocket and stole a glance at her business card. There were three telephone numbers on it. He leaned forward, closing the distance between them.

‘This is your mobile number?’ he asked her, indicating the card.

‘Yes.’ She answered quietly, without looking at it, allowing him to hold her gaze far too long.

It was so tempting, to put his hand over hers, to ask her back for a drink in his room, but he reluctantly decided against it. She had something special about her, something that he didn’t want to rush. He could imagine slow summer afternoons with her, seeing her shy smile when she woke next to him, someone he might actually enjoy listening to.

‘I’ll hold you to that promise . . .’ he pointedly placed her card in his pocket, then smiled, ‘. . . next time I have an evening here.’

And then Jakob had returned and the moment passed, with just a hint of regret in her eyes to assure him that he was right.

She was something to look forward to when he had more time . . .

He savoured that thought as his breakfast arrived.

Naysmith called the office later on that morning and caught up on some emails before checking out of the hotel just before eleven. It wouldn’t do to be early, but he was eager to be back up at Clifton Down by noon.

He told the taxi to drop him at Sion Hill, a little over a mile away from the park – intentionally distant. It was better to be careful even at this early stage, and he had plenty of time. He took a few minutes to walk out onto the Clifton suspension bridge, stopping at the halfway point, alone, far above the Avon Gorge with its ribbon of silvery water and its tiny cars hurrying along below. He looked south across the city, out to the pale horizon beyond, then closed his eyes and enjoyed the breeze, the tremendous sensation of height, like standing in the sky.

There was nothing he couldn’t do.

A narrow footpath wound its way up to an open expanse of grass, scattered with benches where people could sit and take in the view of the bridge. An enthusiastic young Labrador came bounding towards him as he crested the hilltop and he stooped to make a fuss over it as its owner, a large woman in her forties, hurried forward, vainly calling, ‘Sammy.
Sammy!
’

‘I don’t think he heard you.’ Naysmith grinned, rubbing the dog behind its ears.

The woman shook her head, catching her breath. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t be, it’s fine,’ he laughed. ‘Are you all right, though? Looks like he’s been giving you quite a workout.’

‘I never thought having a dog could be so exhausting.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘It’s worse than going to the gym.’

‘Better company though.’ He gave the dog a friendly pat and stood up. ‘You wouldn’t have the right time, would you?’

The woman quickly frowned at her watch. ‘Twenty to twelve.’

‘I’d better get along.’ Naysmith smiled. ‘There’s someone I have to catch up with.’

The footpath led down through a stand of overhanging trees, then out to the main road. He crossed over and walked up a long hill, admiring the tall houses that looked out over the park.

Somewhere, a bell chimed noon. Seven minutes to go and her twenty-four hours would be up. He gave them all this grace period, a head start, so they had the chance to disappear before he came looking. She could be anywhere now, but that just made the challenge more interesting. And of course, she didn’t know he was coming.

At the top of the hill, the road bent round to the right and he followed it, measuring his pace, resisting the temptation to hurry.

A buzzing in his pocket slowed him and he cursed under his breath. Taking his phone from his jacket, he looked at the name on the screen, sighed, and diverted the call.
Not now.

Switching off his phone, he cleared his mind of everything but her, summoning her face from his memory, recalling her eyes, the small nose and straight, shoulder-length hair. A sense of calm spread through him as he focused on her image.

He was just a couple of hundred yards from the corner of Stoke Road. It was 12.06, but he waited, willing the second hand on his watch to crawl right round to the top before he looked up.

12.07 – and the game was on!

Quickly, his eyes swept the park, studying the various distant figures for anyone that might possibly be her. He crossed the road but ignored the path, cutting straight across the grass in the direction of the bench where she’d been twenty-four hours before.

Picture her now, slim figure, about five foot six, mousy blonde . . .

He moved purposefully towards the middle of the park, his gaze flickering left and right – it was vital that he saw her before she saw him – but there was no sign of her as he drew near the bench and found it deserted. He paused for a moment, then sat down where she had sat, placing his palms flat on the rough grey wood of the seat and leaning back.

It would have been her lunch hour. He turned his head, looking out over the park stretching away into the distance, then considered the buildings to his left, the shops and offices he’d passed on his walk yesterday.

Thoughtfully, he stood up and started back along the tarmac path, retracing his route from the day before. Still alert, he scrutinised every approaching figure, but the sky was overcast now and it was colder – the park was quiet today.

He reached the road and waited at the busy junction until he could cross over, his eyes drawn to the crescent of four-storey buildings that curved down to Whiteladies Road ahead of him. A bridal store, sports shop, Indian restaurant . . .

Picture her now. Smart grey trouser suit.

His eyes drifted up to the second-and third-storey windows. Some had net curtains – obviously flats – but as he walked down the hill he began to see more with vertical blinds, sterile fluorescent lights and stencilled business names.

She worked in an office.

He drifted slowly down the road, relaxed but watchful, stopping now and then to peer through the windows of cafés and sandwich shops – anywhere that workers might visit on an overcast lunchtime. His gaze flitted around the people on the street, resting longer on anyone slim, anyone about five foot six, anyone with mousy hair . . .

By 1 p.m., he began to sense that he’d missed his chance. Her lunch hour would be over and she’d be back at work. He looked up and down the road, lined on both sides with offices. There was no way of knowing which one she was in, or even if this was the right place to search. It was a daunting challenge, but he found the prospect pleasing.

Tired of walking up and down past the same shops, he turned his back on the park and followed the road as it sloped down in the general direction of the city centre. He decided to look in on the second-hand bookshop he’d passed the day before and see if it was open. Crossing the street, he continued to watch the people around him, just in case . . .