Book Review: The Closer You Get

Synopsis:

They had the perfect plan to start a new life together . . . before it all went horribly wrong.

Ruby Dean and her boss, Harry, are in love. But they’re married to other people. So they agree to inform their spouses that their marriages are over on a Friday evening, and meet at a hotel later that night to start their new life together.

Ruby has wanted to leave her controlling husband, Tom, for quite some time. So she follows through. After work on Friday evening, she goes home and tells Tom she’s leaving him. She checks into the hotel where she and Harry planned to meet, and waits for him. And waits. And wait . . . but Harry never shows up.

Suddenly, Ruby has lost everything. Harry won’t answer her calls, and when she arrives at the office on Monday morning, she’s fired. She finds a cheap apartment in an undesirable part of town and tries to find another job, all the while wondering what happened and why Harry never showed up. Ruby thinks she’s hit rock bottom.

But things get still worse for her. Strange and menacing events occur — someone is sneaking into her apartment and following her home late at night. She knows she is going to have to fight for her survival.

Review:

Author Mary TorjussenMary Torjussen loved teaching Information Technology to teenagers for many years. But she also loved to write, so she decided to take a chance. She took a break from teaching, giving herself one year to write a novel and get it published. She succeeded with the publication of Gone Without a Trace, which was followed by The Girl I Used to Be. The inspiration for The Closer You Get came when she heard about a woman she knew who had an affair with a married man. He left his wife and moved in with her, but the relationship did not last and he ultimately returned to his wife. Torjussen says she pondered what would happen if two people who were both married began having an affair, contemplating whether one could “ever trust someone enough to be the first person to leave home?” She describes the novel she devised as “Love. Secrets. Jealousy. Manipulation. Twists!”

Her description is apt. The Closer You Get challenges readers to consider the question that propelled Torjussen to write the book . . . and other troubling questions, through the eyes of Ruby, a woman who endured disapproval and harsh judgment from her mother while growing up, and has seen the man she married become increasingly dogmatic, controlling, and cruelly critical as the years have passed. During the early days of their marriage, Tom was loving and attentive. Now he insists that everything be in accordance with his wishes and desires, and even demands that Ruby pay half of the household expenses despite the fact that he earns far more money than she does. He demands that she wear the FitBit he bought her, using it to check up on her activities. Ruby tells her friend and coworker, “He kept a check of everything I did, Sarah. Every step I took. I couldn’t bear it.” Ruby describes her life with Tom as being “like walking on eggshells. I lived in constant dread that something would set him off and had to quickly learn how to conceal my opinions. To silence my voice. He could got for ages being completely normal. He’d be friendly, funny, talkative, and kind. And then he’d switch. I’d feel the change coming, like the drop in air pressure just before a storm. Instantly I’d be wary, on guard, and kicking myself for relaxing.”

Even a fraction of doubt in someone means you can never really trust them.

In contrast, Ruby and Harry had undeniable chemistry from the moment they met when Ruby began working at his company eighteen months ago. They had long conversations, and he valued and respected her. Eventually, they acknowledged their feelings for each other, and vowed to leave their unhappy marriages, making a pact to launch a new, happier future together.

So when Harry doesn’t show up at the hotel where he booked and paid for the room they would share, Ruby is understandably shocked and devastated. She realizes she left a beautiful home and financial security for a man who didn’t even bother to tell her he changed his mind and decided to stay with his wife — after she trusted him to keep his word. As the days pass, she resents and is angered by Harry’s behavior. “In the pit of my belly was a growing fury that he thought so little of me that he couldn’t even be bothered to tell me it was over.” To make matters worse, she is summarily and humiliatingly dismissed from her job when she arrives at the office on Monday, and discovers that she has been blackballed so her prospects for securing another job are bleak. She confides in Sarah, and writes a letter to Harry when she is unable to reach him by telephone. Sarah vows to deliver the letter to Harry.

Torjussen takes readers on Ruby’s journey to make a new life for herself. Returning to Tom and the home they shared is not an option, although his sudden consideration and kindness, coupled with requests that she come home, tempt her. Determined, she rents a dilapidated apartment and accepts a temporary position that will barely pay enough to cover her bills until she can secure suitable employment. Ruby quickly discovers two things. First, she does not know herself. She acceded to Tom’s wishes so consistently that she no longer even knows what kind of food she likes. She permitted Tom to make decisions for her, just as she allowed her mother to make decisions because her family “either did things her way or we suffered. . . ” Ruby enjoyed only a few years on her own before she met Tom and went right back to permitting someone else to manage every detail of her daily life for her. Now she is overwhelmed by the choices available to her, even while performing the simple task of shopping for food. “What did I actually like? My head started to hurt. I didn’t know. I just didn’t know what I liked. It hadn’t mattered what I liked.” Second, she quickly figures out that someone is stalking her. She returns home to her apartment to find that things are not as she left them. She can’t remember, for example, hanging her dresses in the closet. She thinks she may simply be forgetful until someone tails her in a vehicle she doesn’t recognize as she is walking home one evening. And she observes that vehicle pass by her apartment as she peaks out the window. But who is slipping into her apartment when she is away? And why?

Alternating with Ruby’s first-person narrative is that of Emma, Harry’s wife, who openly declares that she is going to “blow up” Ruby’s life. With that mindset, Emma sets in motion a series of events and circumstances that have lasting repercussions for all concerned. She has no intention of letting Harry leave her — “I desperately wanted Harry to stay with me. To choose me.” She also wants to ensure that Ruby is held accountable for her role as the “other woman.” And for a time, she believes that she has played the ultimate trump card and gotten exactly what she has wanted for so long. But revenge always comes at a price, and Emma has no idea, of course, of the lengths to which Tom will go in order to get what he wants.

Torjussen propels the story forward at an unrelenting pace. As it progresses, it is apparent that the characters are neither aware of the information that the other characters possess nor how they will use their knowledge in order to plot and scheme to achieve their own goals. Each character proceeds in accordance with assumptions that frequently turn out to be horribly inaccurate. And when they discover the truth and are forced to pivot, they continue to make choices that lead them in unplanned, unforeseen directions.

At the outset, Ruby is a woman with no confidence or voice who is wooed by a man with his own flaws. Emma is calculating and confident, but is forced to deal with the consequences of her own actions. Torjussen says she hopes female readers “will recognize behaviors in themselves and their friends and think about whether those behaviors are healthy or not. I think one of the things I noticed when I was writing about Ruby was just how poor all of her relationships were, even though on the surface she has a very ordinary life. Now she’s finally able to see the reality of her friendships and relationships and realizes she really needs to lay down some boundaries and keep away from some people altogether!” Indeed, the Prologue reveals that someone will end up dead and Torjussen gradually intensifies the action leading up to the revelation of how that death came about, as well as the aftermath. But in the process, she injects red herrings and shocking revelations that make The Closer You Get a first-rate thriller with a surprising, but satisfying ending.

Excerpt from The Closer You Get

Chapter 1

Ruby

The journey home seemed to take forever. I’d left the office early for a change, determined to get ahead of the evening rush, but still the traffic snarled to a halt within minutes. That’s not uncommon on a Friday evening, but it was usually a relief; this was the first time in years that I was impatient to be home.

It was a hot and humid summer afternoon in late June. The sky was overcast and showers threatened. The car’s air con was on full blast but my skin still prickled with sweat. The radio was on and I flicked from news channel to music as I waited for the cars ahead to move. I couldn’t find anything to focus on. My phone beeped and I glanced at the screen. It was a text from my husband, Tom.

Just left London. Back at 7 x

I read it and replied OK, then added X. I muted my phone and slid it into my handbag. I didn’t want to be disturbed: I needed to think.

Eventually the traffic started up again, with no indication of what had happened. There was no broken-down vehicle, no police cars or ambulance. Nothing but stationary traffic then a sudden release. I put my foot down on the accelerator, glad to be moving, to be on my way.

The railway station is a couple of miles from our house and on impulse I turned into its car park instead of carrying straight on home. I needed to check. I had to be certain.

As I drove in, I gave each car I passed a furtive glance. There was just the smallest chance I’d meet him on his way out; I wouldn’t have put it past him to have said he was on the train when he was actually in his car coming home from the station. I had no reason to be there and, if he saw me, he’d assume I was going somewhere or returning. The suspicion would always be there, no matter what I said. But maybe that didn’t matter now. The die was almost cast.

Still, when I finally saw his car I breathed a huge sigh of relief. He’d parked quite a way from the station entrance, and I remembered that morning, when he’d left the house at six for the early train. He’d been annoyed as he couldn’t find his wallet and would have to hurry. I was in bed, feigning sleep, my ears straining to hear what he was doing. Now I could see he hadn’t straightened the wheels before getting out of the car and pictured him braking sharply, reaching for his briefcase on the backseat, and then jumping out and slamming the door after him. I could see his expression, knew his face would be grim, his mouth narrow.

My stomach tightened at the thought, and I quickly left the car park. I needed to get home.

Our house looked dim and unwelcoming under the cloudy sky. Automatically, I parked in my regular spot on the road outside the house and quickly looked around. There was no sign of anyone. I’d made sure I was home before my neighbor Oliver arrived. Usually, he and I got back from work just after six and we’d have a chat there on the path between our houses before Tom came home. I was glad he wasn’t there that afternoon, but worried he might turn up at any time. I didn’t want anyone to witness this.

I reversed my car up the driveway to the garage, then went through the garden gate at the back of the house. I opened the kitchen door and listened, but the air was still and all was quiet. I took the key to the shed from its hook and went back outside.

For just a second, when I was unlocking the shed, I held my breath, my stomach tilting at the thought of what I was about to do.

Two large suitcases stood there, just where I’d put them at eight o’clock that morning. Quickly I moved them into the trunk of my car, checking the driveway each time in case I was disturbed. Another bag followed: my cabin bag that I’d bought for my last trip abroad. I hadn’t thought then that I’d use it for this journey, too. Then there were other bags that I’d put in the shed that morning containing towels, bed linen, my hair dryer and toiletries. My laptop. None of my books were there; I didn’t have room in my car to take them. I’d pick them up another day. Last to go into the trunk was a box file with all my documents: my birth certificate, our marriage certificate. Deeds to the house. Insurance. Bank statements. My passport. It had surprised me how much I’d had to take and how much I’d been able to leave. Each time I put a bag into the trunk, I closed it afterward, just in case. I was being paranoid, I knew. Tom wouldn’t be here just yet. I had more than an hour to go.

When everything was in my car, I rearranged the shed so that it didn’t look as though the bags had been there and quickly swept the tiled floor, in case there were tracks in the dust. Then I moved my car. There was space for a couple of vehicles on our driveway, but one had to park behind the other and it could be a nuisance trying to get out in the morning. Long ago I’d gotten used to Tom’s having priority. Now when I parked back on the road outside our house, I noted the irony that by doing something that he’d told me to do, I was able to easily escape.

Back in the house, I put the shed key on the hook by the back door, and stilled it with my hand. I didn’t want anything to give me away.

The kitchen was clean and tidy. It was a large room with French doors that looked out onto the garden. The patio was a sun-trap and a riot of color with all the flowering plants I’d put into pots and hanging baskets. When we first moved in, this room and the garden had been my pride and joy. Back then I’d had fantasies of long lazy Sunday lunches with children running around on the lawn afterward, of Saturday-night dinners with friends, of late weekend breakfasts reading the newspapers in our dressing gowns and planning our day. Things hadn’t exactly worked out like that.

Gradually, insidiously, the kitchen had become the only room in the house that was truly mine. Even my books had been relegated to the spare room. But here I could do what I wanted, decorate it however I liked. Over the years, though, cooking changed from a pleasure to a chore, something I really enjoyed only when Josh, my teenage stepson, came to stay.

Standing in the kitchen for what might be the last time, I panicked and for one mad moment I wondered whether I should cook something for Tom’s dinner. He probably would have eaten it, too. Of course, I didn’t. It would be too weird. What would I cook, anyway? An everyday dish to remind him what he wouldn’t have again? Something special for a momentous occasion?

What I should have been cooking was written on a notepad on the fridge door. Every week Tom put together a list of meals. Tonight’s was Thai curry. My hands were damp with stress as I opened the fridge door and saw all the ingredients there, waiting. That curry hadn’t a chance of being made now. There was plenty of food, though; it wasn’t as though he’d starve, and the wine rack held dozens of bottles. There would be fewer tomorrow morning, I knew.

I walked from room to room, running through my mental checklist, double-checking I’d taken everything I needed. It was as though I was leaving a holiday home, a place I’d always known I would leave one day. Though I’d lived here for nearly twelve years, now I could see how little space I’d taken up.

On the mantelpiece in the living room was a recent photo of Josh; his expression made it clear he hadn’t wanted his dad to photograph him. Another was of the three of us, taken at Disney World on our first holiday together when Josh was seven. I’d been with Tom for two years then. Josh was beaming at the camera in this earlier photo and I looked happy, too. Well, I was, then. I reached out to touch it. My face in the photo was unlined, free from worry. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt like that. A couple of days before, when Tom was in the shower, I photographed the recent photo, then zoomed in on Josh’s face in the earlier one and clicked. I planned to get copies printed as soon as I could.

I looked around for my iPad. It had been my thirty-sixth birthday a few months before and Tom had bought it as a surprise. It was a newer version than his, though, and he used it more than I did. I remembered he’d charged it up the night before; he must have taken it on the train to London with him. It didn’t matter. He could have it. My pulse quickened. None of this mattered now.

I checked that the driveway was still clear and quickly ran upstairs. The bathroom looked just as it always did; I’d left everything that we both used. My toothbrush and toiletries were gone from their cabinet. I knew he’d note their absence. The linen cupboard was still full; I’d taken some of the bed linen and towels we used in the spare room, but intended to start afresh as soon as I could.

Our bedroom looked just the same, though of course as soon as Tom opened the drawers and closets he’d see the gaps. I couldn’t take everything, but it was pretty clear that things were missing. My heart thumped at the thought of Tom searching this room later, opening doors and drawers to check what I’d taken, furious that I’d gone, that he hadn’t realized I was preparing to run. That morning I’d had only an hour or so to pack and of course I couldn’t make lists in case they were found, so for the last couple of weeks I’d been memorizing items like in a children’s memory game. I’d lie in bed each night going through the lists in my head. When I drove to work I’d test myself, saying the items out loud, frustrated when I couldn’t remember something.

On the landing outside the spare room was a plastic bag that Tom had filled for the charity shop several months earlier. It had been his birthday and I had bought him some presents. He’d hinted at these for a long time, a book on a photographer he loved, a new camera case, and a Paul Smith shirt he’d bookmarked online.

“Interesting choices,” he’d said, and set them to one side. My stomach had dropped. I should have known not to buy anything without his agreement. Permission, even.

He thanked me for the gifts, but something about his expression had made me say, “What? What is it?”

He’d just shaken his head and said, “Nothing. I was just thinking how it’s a shame that when you’re an adult you don’t enjoy birthdays anymore.”

I’d spent a fortune on Tom that day, on a whiskey-tasting session for him and his friends in the daytime and a meal for us in Liverpool in the evening. I hadn’t wanted to and I couldn’t really afford it, but I’d done what I thought would please him. It wasn’t enough. Of course it wasn’t enough. And just a few days later the plastic bag had appeared on the landing. “Drop that off at the charity shop for me, will you?” he’d asked. When I’d looked inside, my gifts were there and I’d wanted to cry. I hadn’t touched it and the bag remained there, a symbol of everything that was wrong with us. Now I felt like kicking it out of the way but knew he’d see that as a sign of victory, so I stepped past it and went into the room.

I looked around. Apart from the books on the bookcase there was nothing here that I wanted. I’d come back for them later. Next to the bookcase was a closet for our winter jackets. I hadn’t packed mine as I wouldn’t need them for a few months. And then I realized I’d forgotten to pack something on my list and grimaced. I thought I’d remembered everything. There was a box on the shelf in the closet, squashed behind the spare pillows. I hadn’t seen it for a long time; I’d never felt strong enough. How could I have forgotten it?

Just as I reached for it, I heard Oliver’s car pull up into his driveway next door. His car door slammed and I pushed the box back behind the pillows, so that it was out of sight again. If Oliver saw me go down the drive to my car, he might see me and come out to chat. If he saw my car, full to the brim of my belongings, he’d want to know what I was doing, where I was going. I couldn’t risk that. I’d come back for the box another day.

Downstairs I paced the living room as I waited for Tom to come home. My heart thumped at what lay ahead but I had to do it. Now that I’d found the courage to go, I just wanted to get it over with.

I checked the clock. Where was he? I pulled my phone from my bag. There were no messages. I looked up the live departures page of the railway website; his train had arrived on time. He would be here soon. I tried to do some deep breathing, to count my breaths, but it just didn’t work. My breathing was too shallow; I could hear myself pant.

And then he was here, driving up the road, past my car, and turning into our driveway.

My knees buckled and I sat down suddenly. All of my senses seemed heightened with stress and my skin prickled furiously as I heard the bang of the back door, his voice as he called my name, his hesitation as he realized dinner wasn’t cooked.

And then the living room door opened.

Chapter 2

Ruby

Tom stood in the doorway, his tall, solid body almost filling the frame. His dark hair was damp with the heat of the day, his shirt crumpled now after the journey home. He could tell that something was up the moment he saw me. I was sitting on the sofa, frozen. His eyes darted around the room, but I was the only thing that was out of place.