Strangers on a Bridge. Louise Mangos

Sara and I always split after the basketball court, and the guy had gone by then.’

      Oliver pushed the bag to one side, picked up the electronic toy and continued his clicking. I dragged my eyes back to the road from the mirror, biting my lip. How had he recognised Oliver? Had he seen us together at some stage? I wondered what Manfred was still doing in our village and guessed he had more business appointments there. I shrugged and indicated to turn up the hill towards home.

      Carrying the shopping from the garage to the house, my mobile beeped. I put the bags down and checked the message.

      Thanks for coffee the other day. He hadn’t signed it, but I knew it was Manfred. I hadn’t put his number in my contacts because I didn’t think I’d hear from him again.

      I answered: But you paid.

      He texted: Thanks for everything that went with the coffee.

      I assumed he meant being able to talk to me. I wasn’t sure what to reply. You’re welcome seemed too gushy.

      I texted simply: That’s okay.

      When he texted back: We must do it again, I didn’t respond.

      I picked up the shopping and paused to collect the post from the mailbox beside the door. In the parcel section underneath the letterbox lay a bunch of roughly picked marguerite daisies, stalks torn and bruised. Tied together with a stem of barley grass, it looked like a gift a child might leave. I often gave the farmer’s wife a bag of the boys’ outgrown clothes, and on more than one occasion had helped shoo the cattle back behind trampled fences. Their thanks often came in the form of a carton of fresh eggs from the farm.

      ‘Were the cows out again this week?’ I asked Oliver, knowing he and Leon were often enlisted to help put them back in the field. ‘Looks like the farmer’s kids have left us a gift.’

      I took the marguerites with the post. Later that evening, as I began preparing dinner, I studied the flowers sitting in a glass of water on the bench in the kitchen and narrowed my eyes.

       Chapter Twelve

      Climbing the stairs to our bedroom that evening, I felt drained. Generally priding myself on self-control, I wondered whether something was shifting in me because of recent events. But as I walked into the bedroom from the bathroom, Simon put down the book he had been reading, playfully pursed his lips and opened his arms to welcome me into a hug. I had been about to spill the beans about meeting Manfred and the coincidence of Oliver seeing him in the village, but filed the thought away for another time. Simon’s suitcase was open in front of the wardrobe, displaying a few half-packed items. I didn’t want to sour the mood by mentioning Manfred. Simon would be leaving in a couple of days for London and wouldn’t be back until the following Saturday.

      I shed my clothes, letting them pool at my feet, and crawled onto the bed, curling myself gratefully into his embrace. He kissed my hair and moved his hands to gently stroke my back and shoulders. I pressed my lips to his chest and felt his erection pressing against my thigh. I caressed him, and we began our familiar ritual of lovemaking, my passion rising as we touched each other tentatively where we knew the fires would ignite. Simon manoeuvred himself over me, sinking his hips to mine. I gasped with pleasure. He raised his face to the ceiling with eyes closed, exposing a day’s blond stubble on his throat, revelling in the first slide into that special place. My hips rose to him as we moved together. I felt the familiar pressure clenching in my lower belly as Simon’s movement became more urgent.

      Then a loud beep. My mobile phone. I had left it in my jacket pocket hanging on the back of the door. It caused my already thumping heart to miss a beat. My eyes flew open. Simon stopped moving and looked at me with a frown.

      ‘Ignore it, Al. Who the hell messages at this time of night? And since when did you become so reliant on your mobile? It can wait.’

      ‘I know, it’s okay,’ I whispered.

      But, of course, it wasn’t okay. Of the few people I knew had my number, none of them would text at this time of night. But then again, it could be a wrong number… Simon resumed his slow lovemaking and closed his eyes again. I concentrated hard on recalling that rising sense of ecstasy, wanting to be right back in my passion. The phone beeped again. It was probably only a repetition of the same message, but I slammed my head back into the pillow.

      ‘Gah!’ I gasped.

      The passion drained from me like water through a sluice gate, replaced with a feeling of self-loathing and frustration.

      ‘Al. Honey, what’s the matter? What’s with the weirdness? If it’s to do with your mobile, can’t you ignore it?’

      I shook my head, biting my lip as Simon pulled away. I remembered Manfred telling me he’d got my number from the hospital, and I couldn’t think why he would text me now, unless he was feeling desperate again …

      ‘Al, you seem so preoccupied at the moment,’ Simon continued gently. ‘Maybe I can help ease your anxiety,’ he added with a smile.

      He reached for me again, but I put my hand against his chest.

      My passion had gone, and with a sigh Simon lay on his back.

      ‘I’m so sorry,’ I whispered.

      ‘Me too, Alice, me too,’ he said as he patted my hip, rolled over, and turned out the light. ‘I have a long day tomorrow. Let’s get some sleep.’

      I turned on my side, hugging my knees. A frustrated tear dribbled across the bridge of my nose. I couldn’t work out why I was feeling so jumpy.

      When I heard Simon’s regular soft snore, I climbed out of bed and took my mobile phone out of the jacket pocket. I clicked open the message:

       I miss your wise words. And your arms around me.

      I should never have hugged Manfred, should never have let him touch me. I thought perhaps I should block his number, for both our sakes. What would Simon think if he found out I’d met him?

      But not knowing whether he would go back to that dark place without my support was somehow worse than knowing. I shivered. I needed to know he was going to be okay.

       Chapter Thirteen

      ‘I’m sorry, Fraulein, I am not normally allowed to give information about the patients, but I can really say we have no record of Herr Guggenbuhl. I cannot tell you if he was referred to a specialist because his name is not in the system.’

      The medical receptionist’s hands lay unmoving on the keyboard of her computer, my eyes willing information out of her. The Post-it notes and papers had been removed from the area around the counter affording a clear view of the office. Manfred Guggenbuhl had become a ghost patient. There was no record of my bringing him in. I was sure I had signed a document relating to his admission. Maybe my German was just too atrocious. Maybe they thought I was a tourist, and hadn’t kept my details, even though I had given my address and telephone number. Surely it wasn’t so unusual to hear English spoken in this canton with so many international corporations taking advantage of its tax-haven status.

      ‘How about in the hospital patient records? Is there anything?’ I asked, knowing I was repeating a question that had already been answered.

      The nurse’s hands remained immobile.

      ‘The hospital’s computer system is linked everywhere. When I type his name, any patient records from all departments will show. This name did not show anywhere. I’m sorry. I am also a little embarrassed to say that we had a few computer problems when the hospital opened,’ admitted the woman.

      That explained the Post-it notes, now absent from the glass