by Rosie Fiore
How could I say no? She knew I was home – my car was outside and the living room lights were on. And it would be good to see her. We needed to clear the air, resolve things and end them properly.
When I opened the door to her, I was momentarily surprised. She looked gorgeous. She’d come from work, so she was smartly dressed, but I’d somehow forgotten how tall, slender and elegant she was. She gave me a shy smile and brushed past me as she came into the flat. She was wearing a silky black skirt that ended just above her knees and a pair of high heels that I didn’t remember seeing before. She’s tall anyway, and the shoes made her as tall as me. Her blouse was white, a sheer thing that also looked unfamiliar. She went through to the living room and I stopped in the kitchen to get her a glass of wine and me another beer. When I came into the living room, she’d sat down on the armchair, back straight, knees together and hands resting in her lap, as if she was in the headmaster’s office awaiting a reprimand.
I handed her her drink. ‘How have you been?’ I asked carefully.
Unlike Helen, she didn’t seem particularly interested in small talk or banalities.
‘Bit shit, actually. I’m not terribly sure what happened last week, but we somehow seem to have gone from quite a happy place to. . . I don’t know what you’d call it? Broken up? Is that what happened? And I’m not quite sure why.’
She looked up at me, her green eyes wide. Her face was calm and her voice low and even, but there was a pinched look around her mouth that told me that coming out with that had cost her dearly, and that she was close to tears.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘For what?’
‘Hurting you. You don’t deserve it. You’ve been nothing but kind and generous to me, and I have taken huge advantage.’
‘Before last Thursday night, I wouldn’t have said so.’
I behaved badly. I’m sorry.’
‘Apology accepted. Now can you tell me why?’
‘Things. . . get to me,’ I said finally. ‘Work. . . work is frustrating and it makes me angry pretty much all the time. And the girls. . . I feel like I’m not doing a good job at the office, and I’m not doing a good job at home. Just. . . failing everywhere. And now I’m failing you too.’
I dropped my head into my hands and rubbed my face. I felt like a monster, lying to this good, kind woman. I couldn’t look at her.
Suddenly, I felt her hand between my shoulder blades. She’d crossed the room and sat beside me on the sofa. She gently rubbed my back, muttering in a low and soothing voice, as she might do for a sick child. ‘I know, I know,’ she said. ‘But you’re not failing anyone. You’re doing as much – more – than anyone could be expected to do.’
I took a deep, shuddering breath and kept my face buried in my hands. She leaned in, resting her head on my shoulder, and continued to rub up and down my back rhythmically. I could feel the coolness of her slim hand through my shirt, making a trail on my hot skin. I leaned slightly into her touch. She sensed my response and pressed herself closer to my side, sliding her arm around my waist. She used her other hand to tug my fingers away from my face, her touch gentle but insistent, and she turned my face towards her. She was very close to me, and I couldn’t focus on her at all, just sense the bright circles of her eyes and the sweet warmth of her breath. I kissed her.
I eased her back on to the sofa, pressing the length of my body against her. Then I rolled us so she was on top of me. She was hesitant at first, but then her soft hair fell over my face and her lips were warm. She could feel my body respond, and I sighed against her mouth. After a moment, she pulled away and stood in front of me. In a fluid motion, she unbuttoned her skirt and let it slither to the floor, then peeled off her shirt so she stood before me in her brief black pants and bra. She was breathtaking. I had to make it stop, I thought, as she slid back into my arms, her pale skin smooth and cool against me.
Afterwards, she lay with her head on my chest. We were silent for a long time. Eventually, she said, ‘I’m not giving up on you, Sam. I know you tried to push me away, but it’s not going to work. You and the girls need kindness and consistency right now, and I’m good at that. So you can be flaky and horrid if you must, but I plan to stick around.’
‘You’re very direct,’ I said.
‘Well, I think there’s no point in games at this point,’ she said, playing with the fingers of my left hand. I felt her fingertips brush lightly over my wedding ring. I drew my hand away and sat up.
‘From a purely practical perspective,’ she said, ‘you need help. How have you managed this week? You must have had to leave work early every day.’
‘My mum and dad. . .’
‘You can’t ask your mum and dad to look after the girls. They have to drive forty-five minutes to get here, and your poor mum’s only just stopped using her walking stick.’
I remembered my mum’s pale, tired face and I knew she was right.
‘But. . .’
‘Frances and Jonah have missed the girls like mad. Let me pick them up on Friday. I have to work on Thursday evening, but we could have dinner all together on Friday. A barbecue, maybe, if the weather holds?’
I could see what she was trying to do. She wanted to get us back to the place we had been as quickly as possible, get things back into a steady routine. She’d decided that was what I needed to help me get over my. . . How would she explain it to herself? My ‘blip’? My ‘fugue state’? I could see she’d thought it all through and decided that she was on my team, like it or not, and that somehow she was going to make it all okay.
I should have said no. I should have told her that we couldn’t be together, that I was in no position to be in a relationship with her. But Friday was the day I was going to spend with Helen, and after that, I might have a better idea of where we were headed and what would happen between us. And on top of that, a terrible, evil, small and selfish part of me knew that if the girls were at Lara’s, I wouldn’t have to rush back as I would have had to do if they were with my mum and dad. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Thank you. That’s amazing of you. Only, I’m doing this course at work at the moment and it finishes late. I might not make it back for a barbecue on Friday. But at the weekend, for sure.’
She looked a little disappointed, but she smiled, kissed me and slipped off the sofa to get dressed. ‘I’ll see you on Friday then,’ she said, smiling broadly at me as she stepped back into her skirt.
‘Friday,’ I said. ‘Definitely.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Sam
I rang her doorbell and she came down immediately, as if she had been waiting for me. She wore black leggings and a baggy T-shirt with a denim jacket, as the day was unseasonably overcast and blustery. We greeted each other without touching, and in silent agreement walked towards the park. We took it slower up the hill this time, but ended up sitting on the same bench, looking out over the city.
I let the silence grow for a long time, and then I said, ‘So, Judy contacted me.’
I felt her stiffen beside me, as if she was suddenly alert.
‘How?’
‘The night you went missing, I posted an appeal on Facebook. It went viral, as these things do. Made it to Australia. She saw it and rang me.’
‘How is she?’ I couldn’t read any emotion in her voice. I glanced over at her, and she was resolutely staring out at the horizon.
‘She seems well. Loves her garden and her dogs, she says. Still lives close to your parents.’
I saw her swallow.
‘They’re fine too,’ I added quickly. ‘Getting older, Judy says, but okay.’
She allowed herself a nod.
‘She’s not angry with you. She misses you terribly, but she understands why you went.’
Again, she didn’t reply.
‘She told me. . . a lot of things, Hel. About Lawrence, and what he did to you. . . and her.’
She exploded. ‘She shouldn’t have done that.’ She jumped up from the bench and walked away. She stood a few yards off
, her back to me, her arms tightly folded. I could see the muscles in her calves flex and she tipped up on to her toes, ready for flight.
‘She was trying to help me understand,’ I said as calmly as I could, walking up behind her. ‘She didn’t do it to betray a confidence. She just. . . well, she reached out to someone who shared her experience.’
‘The experience of being abandoned by me,’ she said tonelessly.
‘Yes.’
I took a careful step closer. I didn’t want her to run away, although I was unsure what I would do if she tried. Grabbing her and wrestling her to the ground would be counterproductive.
After a long, long moment, I saw her relax, ever so slightly. She let her heels drop to the ground.
‘I stayed here, you know. . . when I first came to London.’
‘Stayed where?’
‘Greenwich.’
‘I thought you lived in that shared flat in Willesden Green.’
‘I moved there after about a week – I found it on Gumtree. But I started out here. I came to London in such a hurry. . . I. . . left Australia suddenly. There wasn’t time to plan in detail, or do much research.’
I smiled wryly. ‘You? Doing something without planning? Unimaginable.’
There was a twitch at the corner of her mouth. Not a smile, but almost. ‘Stupid, I know. I didn’t know many areas in London, but I’d heard of Greenwich. Because of the. . . you know. . .’ She gestured up the hill behind us, towards the Observatory. ‘Meridian. And the Mean Time.’
‘Of course.’
‘So I googled “budget hotel in Greenwich”, and I ended up here, on my first day in London.’
‘Right here?’
‘Right here,’ she said, gesturing to the bench behind us. ‘It was the second night I’d ever spent on my own. The first was on the flight over. The second night was in this funny little hotel down the hill from here.’
‘Second ever night on your own?’
‘I moved straight from my parents’ house to a place with Lawrence. Then. . . the refuge, then the flat I shared. Never alone. Always someone else there. So the freedom of that little room in the hotel. . .’ She paused. ‘I’d have stayed longer if I could have afforded it, but I needed a proper place to live and a job.’
It felt like it was significant, so I prompted her. ‘And you came up to the park, that first evening?’
‘I couldn’t sleep. I was all screwed up from the jet lag. It was still light, so I put on my running things and I ran into the park. And when I got to the top of this hill and saw this view. . .’ She gestured out at the city. ‘It was all there. Everything. Infinite possibility. And all of it was mine. It felt like I was being reborn. I was so scared, but. . .’
‘But what?’
‘Excited. So excited.’ She drew in an unsteady breath. I stepped alongside her so I could see her face. She was looking out, her eyes restlessly combing the skyline, as if she’d gone back six years, to that day when she could have had anything, done anything, been anything. And, like a blow to the gut, I realized that she had gone back. She’d retraced her steps to the place where anything had been possible. Before me.
Then, to my surprise, she turned to me. ‘I wrote to you.’
‘Did you?’
‘I’ve been working on a letter to you. For months. Ever since I left. I don’t know if I would ever have posted it. . .’
‘A letter saying what?’
‘You can read it, and then you’ll know.’
‘When? When can I read it?’
‘It’s in my flat,’ she said and then she stepped closer to me and looked directly into my eyes. ‘Do you want to come back to my flat?’
As soon as she closed the street door, we grabbed each other. It was less kissing, more wrestling – aggressive, rough and urgent. We stumbled up the stairs, unwilling to let go of each other, and she fumbled with the keys to unlock the door. We fell into the room and I half registered that it was empty and flooded with clean light. Then I guided her backwards and pushed her on to the single futon, pulled off her Converse sneakers and her leggings, and unzipped my own jeans.
At around three in the afternoon, Helen stood unsteadily and walked over to the little open-plan kitchen. I rolled on to my back and stretched. The little futon was narrow and we’d been entwined on it for several hours. I watched her as she sliced bread and made us cheese and salad sandwiches – a scraping of butter for her, a thick layer for me, no cucumber for her, extra tomato and a little sprinkling of chopped onion for me. She was still naked, and I could see the imprint of my fingers on the back of her thigh. Her body was different and yet the same. She had gained weight, but it sat beautifully on her, and her trim, athletic figure was now a bounteous hourglass. She was softer and curvier, but the smooth, firm texture of her skin was the same, the sound she made when she came was the same, and the delectable, sweet scent of her was as it had always been.
She put the sandwiches on a single plate, swept up the crumbs, tidied all the ingredients away, and then brought the plate and a bottle of water she’d fetched from the fridge back over to the futon. She pushed my leg aside and sat down, putting the plate between us.
‘I only have one plate. Sorry. We’ll have to share,’ she said, biting into her sandwich.
‘I don’t mind sharing.’ I propped myself up on one elbow and took a gigantic bite of my sandwich. ‘Oh my God,’ I said thickly, through the mouthful, ‘that may be the best thing I have ever tasted.’
She grinned at me, and took another huge bite herself. I liked this version of Helen – she was earthy and sensual in a way that was new to me. Impeccably controlled Helen would never have walked around naked, made sandwiches and eaten them on the bed. If the sandwich hadn’t been so utterly perfect, I’d have thought this was a completely different woman. She finished her sandwich, carelessly swept crumbs from the edge of the futon on to the floor and lay down, pulling me on top of her again.
After that time, I think I must have passed out from sheer exhaustion. I woke up a little while later. Helen had tidied away the plate (and swept up the crumbs on the floor, I noted). She was dressed again, in her leggings and T-shirt, sitting at her kitchen counter on a high barstool, writing something. I struggled into a sitting position.
‘Everything okay?’ I asked. I blinked around blearily, looking for my phone to check the time. She nodded but didn’t say anything, just kept writing. I saw that she had picked up my clothes, discarded in a trail across the floor some hours before, and folded them into a neat pile beside the futon. My phone and keys rested on top. I grabbed my phone. 5.30. I saw there was a text message from Lara and I felt a pang of something. I knew it should have been guilt, but it felt more like irritation.
‘Weathers good so we are having the barbecue,’ she’d written. ‘Not sure what time you’ll be back but be great 2 see you.’
I knew I was being petty, but the missing apostrophe in ‘weathers’ and the ‘2’ instead of ‘to’ got on my nerves. I must have frowned, because Helen said, ‘Problem?’
‘No,’ I said, clicking out of my messages. ‘Just something I have to sort out.’ I reached for my clothes and began to dress. It seemed like the right thing to do. ‘What are you writing?’ I asked, pulling on my socks.
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Just something I have to sort out.’ She smiled at me teasingly as she echoed my words, and slipped the pages between the covers of her Filofax. She hopped off the barstool and came over to me. ‘You’ll need to get back,’ she observed.
‘Not immediately,’ I said. ‘We could have dinner.’
‘What about the girls?’ she asked. ‘Who’s looking after them?’
‘A friend,’ I said shortly. I expected her to ask which friend it was, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep my temper if she did. She had no right to ask who was caring for the children she’d walked out on. She didn’t ask.
Once I was dressed, I realized there was little point in staying in the flat. It was spart
an in its appointments, to say the least. Other than the futon and the barstool, there was almost no furniture. Helen wasn’t lying when she said she had only one plate – she had only one of everything. I had a strong feeling that I was the first person other than her to have entered the space since she’d moved in.
‘Shall we go out and get a bite to eat?’ I said, going over and slipping an arm around her waist.
‘Sure,’ she said, leaning into me momentarily. That moment of closeness, the softness of her against my side, the tickle of her hair against my neck – it was more intimate than the sex we’d had that afternoon, more loving, and, if I dared to think it, more hopeful. I kissed the top of her head and went to the bathroom to use the loo and splash my face with water. I wished I had a smart shirt to put on, and some aftershave. I was taking my wife out to dinner, after all.
I opened the bathroom cabinet and with a pang saw the products Helen used, lined up neatly on the shelf. There was her usual moisturizer, body lotion, face-wash and brand of deodorant. She had a new make-up bag, with shades I assumed were better suited to her blonde colouring, and a couple of bottles of perfume. I sniffed them cautiously. I recognized neither of them. She’d clearly decided that Helen Day would smell different from Helen Cooper. But as I’d just experienced, the essence of her came through. She was still my Helen. There was little else in the cabinet – a packet of contraceptive pills (this didn’t surprise me), and a single gold hoop earring, resting on the bottom shelf. She must have mislaid the other one. I closed the cabinet softly, careful not to make a sound, and went out into the main room.
We left the flat hand-in-hand and strolled down the road.
‘What do you fancy eating?’ I asked.
‘Don’t know,’ she said. ‘Up to you.’
‘Well, what’s good around here?’
‘No idea. I haven’t eaten out much around here. I can tell you what’s likely to be on special at the Sainsbury’s Local if you like.’
I imagined her coming home every night from SSA, making herself a meal for one, sitting alone in that empty flat. It made no sense. To have given up what she had, what we had. . . for this? I walked a little quicker, grasping her hand firmly.