Guilt

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  I take my phone out of my bag and notice my mum has sent a text: Okay, love? Want me to have them overnight?

  She must know I’ve got waylaid because I’m not back to pick them up yet.

  Would you?

  Yes, no problem.

  I’ll come for them at nine tomorrow morning.

  No rush, love. You know I adore having them.

  Thank you.xxx

  My mother’s a good egg really.

  Chapter Three

  WHEN WE GET TO HIS place, he busies himself filling the fridge with his purchases from the supermarket. I wander around, checking out his pad. It’s nice, even if a little indicative of his bachelordom, being all black and white. I know he didn’t design it like this – these new-build apartments are designed to appeal to professionals who don’t have a lot of time and energy to put their own mark on a home.

  The white kitchen features a granite breakfast bar at the far side and then there’s a tiny dining area beyond that with a black, glass dining table with matching chairs. There’s the obligatory massive TV on one wall and a long leather sofa – the kitchen, dining and living space all open-plan.

  I wander along the corridor and whisper, “Very nice.” His bathroom has a huge freestanding tub and separate shower. “Marketing pays quite nicely, doesn’t it?” I shout through.

  “It’s all right,” he shouts from the kitchen.

  I hear him wrestling with a corkscrew as I poke my nose around the door of his bedroom, which is immaculately kept. No sweaty socks on the carpet. No massive washing pile. Impressive. He could pass for a gentleman – and he didn’t even know he was going to have company this evening – unless I recently replaced the company he was meant to be enjoying tonight.

  I meander back towards the kitchen just as he’s pouring the wine. I see he has a wine fridge fully stocked, so I am assuming what we’re drinking isn’t Tesco’s last-minute finest.

  He hands me a glass and we toast to nothing. Touching glasses seems to be enough.

  “What are we drinking?” I ask.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I got a box of wine for my birthday off the boss. Various bottles, all reasonable in taste.”

  “Course you did.” It’s a bit better than the plastic toy I got from Hetty last Christmas. It was just a joke, but… you know. As for birthday presents… well, she’s always been crap at special occasions. She gives gifts randomly instead.

  He opens the door out onto the narrow terrace which he’s just about managed to squeeze two chairs onto. Somehow, we seat ourselves, though it is rather snug. Even with my coat on, I’m still freezing. I’m a summer child and hate the cold.

  “Are you cold?” he asks, sat there in just his black t-shirt, not bothered.

  “I’m all right, but I hardly think we’ll be drinking out here all night like it’s Marbella.”

  “That’s fine, I just wanted to show off my terrace at least once.”

  “What?” I peer at him. “You’ve not used it much?”

  “I don’t bring women back here.”

  “Ooh, so cool. Like that is it? You go back to theirs and then cut and run before daybreak.”

  He snickers in response, his eyes focussed on the still water of the canal while rubbing his fingers along that perpetually clean-shaven jaw. He looks unbelievably gorgeous in profile.

  “How are your parents?” I gesture towards the photo on his decorative mantelpiece. I spotted it when I walked in earlier. It pictures Sam on graduation day with his parents either side of him. “Still living in Surrey?”

  “Yep. They’re doing okay.”

  Sam’s always been a tough nut to crack, but with a little added pressure, he eventually opens up. It’s different through email, though; in his correspondence he gives a little more; it’s only face to face he retreats a little like he’s doing right now.

  “They’re not retired like mine, though. Just you wait. It’ll be a nightmare. They’ll be wanting to be involved in every decision you make because they’ve no longer got anything going on!”

  “Sounds awful.”

  “They’re not bad parents… they’re just…”

  “…not amazing?”

  “No, it’s hard to explain.”

  Sam throws back a big mouthful of wine, then stares at the canal with a hint of bitterness in his eyes. “Well, my parents are bad parents.”

  For quite a few seconds, I’m shocked. He’s never come out with something like this before.

  All he’s told me in the past is that his mum is a book editor and his father is in pharmaceuticals, hence how they maintain a seven-bedroom home in Surrey.

  Sam has a much-older sister his mother had from a previous relationship – and brother and sister are not in touch. He’s never said why and I’ve never been brave enough to ask.

  “So, they didn’t release equity from their mansion to help you set up home here, then?”

  He glances my way, giving me a small smile. “No… but… that’s not why they’re shit parents. Even if they offered, I wouldn’t take it. Not that they’d offer. It’ll probably go to a cat’s home if Mum has anything to do with it all. She’d love that. All Dad’s hard-earned, feeding cats. She’d call that revenge.”

  Ooh… dear. “Have they visited you up here, then?”

  “Oh yeah,” he reveals, which is news to me. More discomfort in his expression tells me he’s got a lot to offload and he’s been bottling it up. “They stayed at someplace posh out in the Wolds, but we met up for Sunday lunch and they basically moaned and complained about everything. They made me feel shit about my existence.”

  His hand’s shaking when he raises his glass to his lips again.

  “I’m sorry, Sam.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  “Why are they like that?”

  “Snobbery, jealousy… oh, any number of deadly sins. I don’t know. I think they know I remain out of their way up here for a reason. They’ve dropped plenty of not-so-subtle hints about me coming back home and getting a proper job in London, with a proper house and all that blah. To be nearby and look after them when they’ve finally drunk the family fortune.”

  I burst out laughing. “Who the fuck do they think they are? It’s like they’ve got airs and graces of aristocracy, demanding you set up a pile down there to keep with tradition or something. Bloody hell!”

  He presses his fingers to his lips, stifling a snigger. “They’re a bunch of twats.”

  I chuckle and reach out to tap his leg, trying to reassure him. “Listen, have you ever thought of getting in touch with your sister? She might be just like you; she might have escaped for a reason. Maybe you and she are just the same, eh?”

  He chews his lip, nodding along with every word I’m saying. “I’ve thought about it loads, but…”

  “…you’re afraid.”

  “…yeah…”

  “…that she might be like them, or she might even be worse? She might turn you away.”

  “It’s a risk. It’s the thought that, maybe, there’s a reason why we’re not in touch… but then…”

  “It could be that you’ll find someone who understands. It could be bloody awful, but it could also be the best thing you ever do.”

  “Exactly, you just get it, as always, you just get it, Liz.”

  I look around us and peer down at the drop beneath his first-floor flat. “As nice as the terrace is and all, can we get warm inside and can you please fucking feed me now?”

  “Sorry, I’m a shit host!”

  “No, you’re not. Don’t put yourself down so much, Sam. Believe me, even having my wine poured by someone else is a treat day, let alone being cooked for.”

  In a deadpan voice, he says, “I bought that food for you to cook for me. What did you expect? I’d buy food… and cook?”

  “Yes, actually. I bloody well did. Now scoot. Hop to it. I’m nasty with an empty stomach.”

  He tries but fails to hide his amused grin, chin to his chest as he carries our wine g
lasses inside and places mine on the breakfast bar, suggesting he wants company while he cooks. I remain standing by the counter, content to observe him at work. Meanwhile, he sets up a frying pan and a couple of pots on top of the cooker before dragging out steaks from the fridge. All the while, he’s got a great big smile on his face.

  “Okay?” he asks, showing me them as if he’s a proud father or something.

  I don’t know what happens to me, but when I see him looking at me with all that light and energy in his eyes, all while holding the steaks with comic pride, I can’t help myself. It just makes me so happy whenever I’m with him. I become suddenly overwhelmed…

  When he sees that there’s something wrong, he puts down the steaks and frowns.

  “What is it?”

  I find words difficult to find, even though I’m meant to be able to command the English language better than most.

  Eventually a small whisper escapes me: “What are we doing?”

  Resting one hand on the kitchen counter, he holds the other on his hip, looking down at the floor.

  I place my wineglass on the side and fold my arms. “Why did you suggest me for a job at your place? Why?”

  He shrugs, trying to seem flippant. “I told you. He asked me if I knew anyone, and I thought of you.”

  “I’m going to ask you again, Sam. What are we doing? I’m a married woman, remember?”

  We enter some sort of standoff. He stares at the floor, trying to think of something. I’m willing him to say anything.

  “You said he’s away in Copenhagen overnight. Lately you’ve seemed, I don’t know, lonely. You’ve been texting and emailing a lot. I just thought you might want some company with him being away.”

  My chin begins to wobble but he doesn’t see it. He’s staring at his own feet and I quickly use my hand to fix my jaw back into place.

  All kinds of thoughts begin to run through my head, but the main one is that I’ve somehow ended up spending time with Sam this evening. I guess it’s like that whole thing with cause and effect, I suppose. Sam’s only telling me the truth: my husband is out of town and I am at a loose end. My best friend is truly happy in her relationship and doesn’t need me anymore. She’s happy, and I’m not. I can’t just rock up to her house and lay my woes at her feet, not when she’s worked so hard to get to where she is right now.

  I start shaking… because I’m scared.

  At first, I decide I’m scared because I’m experiencing all these feelings for him and I know that they’re wrong. However, when he turns his back on me and stares out of the window, both of his hands clenched into fists, I realise I’m more upset about him being upset. I’m more concerned about him than I am about myself. I’m upset because he’s upset, and because I’m the one upsetting him, if that makes sense.

  “Does he make you happy?” he eventually asks, with such ferocious venom, there’s now no doubt in my mind about what’s bothering him. It’s both bolstering and blisteringly heart wrenching to hear him speak in this way.

  “What do you mean?”

  He turns and folds his arms, standing firm and tall, resolute. His dark-green eyes tell me he’s angry and upset, a whirlwind of emotions dancing inside them.

  “Does he make you happy?” he repeats.

  His eyes… I can’t escape them. The entreaty in them. The pleading. He’s asking me to be honest. No, he’s begging me. He’s desperate to hear the words. He needs to hear the truth.

  Well, the truth is, I’m burning inside for Sam. I can’t help it. It’s been this way for too long. The nights when it’s all been unbearable and I’ve felt so alone and unloved… I’ve lain in bed and thought about his smile and the scent of him. I’ve gone over conversations we’ve shared and little moments… because thinking about him makes me feel happy again.

  My chin wobbles in an ugly fashion and I know in my gut the answer to his question. He knows it, too because he can see how much he’s upsetting me.

  It’s the nights my husband gets home from training… and I can smell alcohol on his breath. The socks he leaves everywhere. I even once went on strike, but his pile of dirty socks just kept growing.

  He boasts to his mates about our kids and about his clever wife, but once the doors close on our home, he’s different.

  It’s that sinking feeling I’m experiencing right now, presented with the question, are you happy? I need not ask myself again. I know the answer. I feel the answer. My every waking moment of the past couple of years has been pervaded by the devastating reality of not feeling loved. Gage doesn’t make me feel loved. There, I admitted it, even if it was only to myself.

  Sam doesn’t wait for me to answer. He walks slowly towards me and slides his fingers against mine, taking my hand in his. I shut my eyes and a shiver courses through my entire body, shaking me to my very core.

  He steps closer, moving further into my space. He strokes a finger across my cheek and the shock of his touch makes me draw breath and my eyelids feel so heavy, I can do nothing but close them.

  “For how much longer are we going to ignore this?” he whispers, leaning in to smell my hair. I always wear my hair up so as he moves in close, I can feel his breath against my ear.

  My cheeks are burning and my breasts ache to feel his body push against them. I want his hands to touch me, his arms to hold me and his lips to kiss my throat.

  “Tell me, Liza,” he begs, “how much longer are you going to leave me in agony?”

  My eyes snap open and I see the pain in his as he stands looming over me, beckoning some sort of response from my lips.

  “I didn’t know you felt the same way. I never thought a man like you—” I sound so weak and feeble, but I wouldn’t be managing any words right now at all if I weren’t so affronted. How could he think I’ve been purposely causing him pain?

  There’s torment in his eyes and his mouth hangs open for a few seconds before he finally says, “I never thought a woman like you…”

  I’m expecting him to throw me out, toss me into the cold and turn his back on me. I am after all a married woman who basically just admitted she’s in love with someone else and always, deep down in the bottom of her soul, has been.

  This thing with Sam has always been there. I am limited in experience that’s true, but I do have male friends, so I know that men and women can be just friends with nothing else involved, but with Sam it’s as though he’s my happy drug and all I need is just a couple of whiffs now and again and I’m okay once more. Nobody else has the capacity to fix me like he does. I only need half an hour with him and I feel like me again.

  “I know that it’s important to you,” he says, trembling as he takes both of my hands in his, “but more than that, I want to say this because it’s absolutely true.” He lifts my chin so I have to look up into his eyes. “I’ve always loved you,” he tells me, his body shaking next to mine, his breathing uneven and ragged. I can barely see through unshed tears, blinking over and over to no avail, but even though I can’t see straight, I can hear everything, from the pain in his heart, to the agony of our situation… to the truth which has always been staring us in the face.

  “Sam,” I barely manage, my head bowed, my heart and soul so tormented and yet the happiest of their misspent lives.

  He comes closer, ever closer. He holds his hand against my cheek and wipes away a tear poised on the edge of my lashes. When his mouth brushes against my cheek, my heartrate climbs and I shut my eyes tight, trying to hold my breath in case I overdose on all this.

  Then when his lips gently brush against mine, I turn into him. It’s so natural. It feels so right. I wrap my arms around his shoulders as his soft mouth presses against mine, his touch plunging my heart and mind towards something else… like bliss. The heat scorching my groin makes me so light-headed, I can’t even begin to list all the things that are wrong about all this, because all I know is that I’ve never wanted anything more.

  Sam holds me in his arms, kissing me, and kissing me. The first ti
me his tongue dips inside my mouth, I groan in a way I’ve never groaned before. It’s the cry of a desperate woman, it’s my plea for him to take me because I’m so tired of feeling unhappy and he’s the only thing that seems to take the pain away. The way he kisses me is the way I should’ve always been kissed.

  “I love you,” I whisper, holding my hands in his hair as he kisses my throat.

  My words seem to give him boundless confidence and he lifts me onto the kitchen counter, sliding his hands around my back to stroke my bottom and pull me tight against his body. I spread my legs around him, my pleated skirt sliding up my thighs.

  He pushes his hips between my legs, his body ready to give mine pleasure. I’ve never ever had a man wanting me so much. This is what it should be like. This is not some cheap, lusty screw. This is love. He growls as he kisses me more deeply than I’ve ever been kissed, pulling and tugging my body closer and tighter into his.

  “I need to kiss you everywhere,” he groans, fighting with and almost ripping my blouse in a bid to kiss my shoulder. I gasp with pleasure when he manages to finally sink his teeth into my flesh.

  “SAM!”

  He hears my cry and returns his lips to my throat, his hands now on both of my buttocks, pulling my groin towards his, our bodies tight together, only our clothes in the way of our love.

  I forage for skin under his t-shirt and stroke his back, crying out when he squeezes my painful breasts without warning. He lays me down on the breakfast bar and I pant as he undoes the buttons on my blouse, kissing my throat even as he works open my shirt.

  He bites my nipple through my lace brassiere and I reach for his belt, tugging it open, then his button and zipper. I release him and gaze with wonder at his beautiful penis. He’s so gorgeous, I can’t help myself stroking him, groaning from my core as I feel the satin skin covering so much hardness in my hand. I’ve been in love with him for so long and I’ve ignored it. I’ve treated him like something unobtainable, even though he’s been here all this time, within reach.

  He pulls down the lace of my bra and sucks my nipple into his mouth, forcing a deep, animalistic growl from me. I pull him close and tug my knickers to the side. He holds himself at the entrance to my body and looks down at me, begging with his eyes.