That Jack is just another.
That life is long and its adventures many.
I am philosophical enough to smile as I leave, but my heart is broken again when I walk past a man who is wearing something a little bit like Jack’s aftershave.
Dejected, I head to my favourite restaurant in Dean Street and grab a counter spot, eating a roast lunch with a bucket of wine and staring out at the street as people pass.
A matinee show after that, and a slow walk home.
I’m exhausted when I finally get to my front door, and in no mood to see a huge bunch of ranunculus waiting on my step. I know they’re from Jack without even looking at them, so I step over the arrangement, careful not to touch it with even the toe of my shoe.
I’ll deal with them in the morning. When I have more energy. Hell, maybe I’ll get lucky and someone will steal them to save me the hassle.
I stare at my phone as if it’s a lit fuse. I’m torn between switching it on and throwing it in the bin.
It’s cowardly, I know, but I leave it off. I send a quick email to my mother and grandmother, telling them I’ve lost my mobile and that they can contact me on email if there’s an emergency and then I go to bed without eating dinner.
I’m too wrecked.
The next morning, I am woken by his knocking at the door.
I know it’s him because who else knocks with their whole palm? As though they have a God-given right to disturb you whenever the hell it suits them?
I ignore him, but my throat is thick with more damned tears and my heart is spinning in my chest.
His voice is muffled but it speaks directly to my soul. Deep and dark. He’s calling my name.
I burrow deeper under the duvet, pulling the pillow over my head.
I can still hear him swear loudly.
Finally, though, he’s gone.
I stay in bed all day. I doze, and I stare at the wall, and then I doze some more. I have never been in love before, and I’ve certainly never had my heart broken. I have no concept if this is normal.
I feel as though I’ve been torn into a dozen pieces, ripped apart piece by piece, and as if my brain is too sluggish to remember how to rebuild me. Some time after dark my tummy groans. I’m hungry. That’s a good sign, surely?
I shove my feet out of bed, grabbing a pashmina as I pass my wardrobe and wrapping it around my shoulders. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the hallway mirror and grimace.
Pale face. Bed hair. Red-rimmed eyes. Puckered lips.
Ugh.
I haven’t grocery-shopped in days, but there’s a pack of soup sachets in my pantry. I check the date on them warily. Only two months past, and surely there’s enough sodium in these things to outlast a zombie apocalypse?
I tip the contents of one into a mug and stare at it while waiting for the kettle to boil.
It’s a proverb, I know, so it shouldn’t surprise me that it feels like I am waiting for ever, staring at the kettle, waiting for it to click off and signal that the water is hot enough. After several minutes I realise I haven’t turned it on at the wall.
I curse under my breath and rectify the oversight. The kettle immediately spurts to life. I drum my fingers as I wait some more and finally, when I can hear it’s near enough to boiling, I slosh a little water into the cup and whisk it noisily with a fork.
Halfway through the surprisingly not awful soup, I remember I told my mother I’d be available on email. I doubt she’s tried to contact me, but I feel honour-bound at least to take a peek. I open my laptop and wait for the emails to come in.
Jack’s I delete without reading.
Curiosity is burning in me, but I know he has nothing to say that will change what has happened. However he wants to make himself feel better, I won’t allow it. He did hurt me. He should be sorry. It’s not my job to assuage his guilt.
I force myself to concentrate on the other emails, to put Jack from my mind. There is one from Grandma and I smile weakly, imagining her typing it on the iPad I gave her for Christmas. It probably took her an hour.
Darling.
I’m worried. I can’t explain it in any way that makes sense—I’ve had the heaviest feeling in my heart for days.
I’m sure it’s connected with you.
Can you call me tomorrow?
Gma Xx
My heart squeezes with affection for her. And the sense that she and I are connected in some way floods through me.
Trust Grandma to just ‘know’ when things aren’t right in my world.
Everything’s fine. But I’ll call you tomorrow. Love.
I switch my computer off and finish the soup. I’m exhausted, but not sleepy. I’ve dozed all day, so I suppose that makes sense. I turn on the TV and stare at it for a few hours before going back to my nest.
I wake up with the sun, and only the thought of Jack coming again spurs me on to get out of bed. I doubt he’ll be content to bang on my door a second time, and I don’t particularly want to press charges for trespass.
I dress in running gear—for a quick getaway rather than any genuine interest in exercise—and pull the door open. The breeze slaps me in the face. I take care to step over the flowers, resolving to deal with them when I get back—really this time. I lock the door and begin to jog around the corner and up the narrow laneway that leads to several cafés.
Only I don’t plan to stay in Hampstead. It’s too close to Jack.
I catch a cab into Soho and lose myself in the throng of people and busyness. But as I kick out of Tottenham Court Road and get pulled into the riptide of shoppers on Oxford Street I have to stop walking and grip the brick wall beside me for support.
The pain is visceral and sharp.
The realisation that it’s over—whatever we were, whatever it was—is deep and sudden. It ruptures my chest like barbed wire pulled at high speed.
I no longer want to be around people.
I move towards the road, lifting my hand and flagging down a cab. It pulls over on a double yellow, blocking a bus that lets us know its displeasure by sounding its horn loudly. I wave in acknowledgement and hurl myself into the back, giving my address and collapsing against the seat.
I must doze off because the cab driver speaks loudly as we arrive home and I’m startled as if from a deep sleep.
‘Thank you.’
I tap my credit card and step out. It’s early afternoon and my tummy groans with hunger. The breakfast I planned on didn’t happen and I have only just realised. I step over the flowers once more, promising myself I’ll throw them out soon, and push the door shut behind myself.
I’ve been home ten minutes when a knock sounds.
My heart thuds heavily.
I know it is Jack.
My eyes fly to the mirror opposite. I am still pale, but I brushed my hair this morning, and at least I’m dressed in something other than ill-fitting pyjamas.
‘Open the door, Gemma.’
My heart twists. I have never doubted my strength in all my life, but now...I don’t know if I can do this. Can I look at Jack, knowing I can’t touch him? That it is over? That we are over?
‘Gemma? I will stay here all goddamned day if I have to.’
I don’t doubt the sincerity of his statement.
Sympathy for my neighbours has me wrenching the door inwards.
And the sight of him causes me to suck in a huge breath. Because he looks so much like himself—so strong and powerful, so confident, so unaffected—that any lingering hopes I’ve nurtured of his being as destroyed by this as me die an immediate, suffocating death.
He’s staring at me. His dark eyes are haunting my face, dragging over my cheekbones, my lips, down to my throat and then back up again. He blinks as if to clear his thoughts.
‘You’re home.’
I frown, keeping my hand firmly tethered to the door, holding it in place as if my life depends on it. ‘Yes.’
He bends down and lifts the flowers. A pool of dark brown has formed on one s
ide of the waxed paper, where the overnight dew has set in. I look at the once-cheery blooms and am sorry for them. Sorry I gave them such a cold reception.
None of this is their fault.
I narrow my eyes, my heart pounding and breaking at the same time, like one enormous wrenching storm inside my chest. ‘What do you want, Jack?’
I see his throat bob as he swallows, and I resist the urge to make this easier for him.
‘May I come in?’
Just the question alone sets fire to my veins. It’s so unlike Jack that I am surprised enough to consider relenting. But I don’t.
I have seen his dark places. All of them. And he has birthed new ones in me.
‘No.’
Exasperation flickers on his face. ‘I reacted badly the other day. I’m sorry.’
He did. But it doesn’t change the facts. Perhaps at another time he might have found a softer way to let me down, but nothing will alter the truth. I love him completely, and when I told him he made it obvious he just wanted me to go.
The memories strengthen my spine and fire my determination.
‘It’s fine,’ I say, even managing to dredge up a smile. ‘Let’s just chalk it up to life’s experience and move on.’
He groans and shakes his head. ‘I don’t want to move on.’
‘And yet you ended it.’ I swallow, afraid I’m going to cry yet again.
‘I didn’t fucking end it.’ His eyes are earnest as they meet mine. ‘I didn’t mean to end it.’
My heart screws down inside me. ‘You freaked out when our story went into the papers.’
‘It was Lucy’s birthday,’ he says softly. ‘I think it’s fair to say I wasn’t in a good headspace.’
‘That night...’ I look over his shoulder, my throat thick and tasting acrid. ‘You used me to forget her.’ My eyes sweep shut. I can’t bear this anymore. ‘I thought you were there to see me.’
He takes advantage of my temporary weakness to push the door inwards, to catch my face with his hands and hold me steady, and then he kisses me as though his whole life has come down to this moment.
As though it is the most important thing he’s ever done.
He kisses me with hot, fiery need and I sob in my throat as I kiss him back—but only for a second. And then my hands are on his chest, pushing him, and my back is against the wall, holding me upright as my breath is dragged out of me. He stares at me for a moment and then pushes the door shut. The flowers are discarded once more, but inside now, nestling against my shoes.
‘You said you love me.’
He says it like a challenge. A cold line of truth that I can’t take back.
‘Yeah. I remember. I was there.’
His eyes narrow at my sarcastic retort. ‘And? Is it true?’
I screw my face up and drop my head into my hands. ‘Fuck you, Jack.’
He grabs me by the wrists, pulling my hands away so he can see my face, and he’s so close that I take comfort from his body even when I know I shouldn’t. When I know I should be demanding he get out of my house.
‘Because I’ve been thinking about love, and how it’s not something you can just walk out on.’ He pauses, perhaps waiting for his words to sink in. ‘You think you love me? Prove it.’
I suck in a breath and lift my eyes to his face. He’s stroking my wrists, his strong legs straddling me. Without him and the wall I think I’d slide to the floor.
‘Don’t walk away from me.’
‘Why should I stay?’ I whisper, the words coloured by a thousand shades of sadness. ‘You told me in black-and-white terms there’s no future. I can’t be with you. I sure as hell can’t work for you.’
He nods, but his hand lifts and strokes my cheek. ‘When I met Lucy I fell in love with her straightaway.’
I spin my head away, twisting it to the side, hurting as though he’s punched me in the gut. The pain is no less intense. I want to shove him away from me, but there’s such earnestness in his voice, and I am obviously such a glutton for punishment that I stay, my mind absorbing the fact that the man I am hopelessly in love with is now telling me about his wife.
‘But it was partly a selfish love. I loved her because she needed me. She made me feel like I was her entire world and I was addicted to that.’
His eyes hold mine, staring deep into my soul. I am exposed and self-conscious, because I find it hard to feel anything but resentment for his poor late wife.
‘I wanted to save her. She needed me and I thought that was what love was. I didn’t know it could be so different.’
The words form a crack. In my certainty and in my heart. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I feel like someone has cut inside me and excavated the very middle of my chest.’ He grabs my hand and holds it against him. ‘I’m empty here. I wake up and I can’t believe I have to get through another day without you.’
His eyes probe mine deeper, deeper, watching and waiting.
‘It’s been three days. I can’t do another one without you. I don’t know when you became my reason for being, Gemma, but you are.’
Tears are burning my throat. I look away again, swallowing, hurting, hoping. But my brain won’t let me be such a fool. Not again.
‘It’s just good sex,’ I say stonily.
‘I’ve had good sex,’ he dismisses with deep-voiced urgency. ‘I know the difference between that and what we are.’
My cheeks flush pink and I shake my head. ‘You think that now because you didn’t expect me to leave you. I believe you miss me. I believe you miss fucking me. I believe you miss me at work. But none of that is love.’
I force myself to meet his eyes and am instantly burned by the lie I’ve just told. Because I love him enough for both of us.
‘How can you say that?’
It is a groan that perfectly echoes my own frustrations.
‘How can I say it? You’re the one who said it! And I think you spoke the truth. I think that’s how you feel.’
‘I was wrong. An idiot. I hadn’t expected to love anyone ever again, and after two years you blew up my whole world. Everything I thought I knew and wanted exploded in front of me. I fucked up. I fucked up. I should never have let you walk away from me. I should never have let you quit.’
I swallow, my mind rushing to comprehend what he is saying, my brain working overtime trying to pick faults with his rationale.
‘I don’t believe you. You had so many chances to make this work. I think you can’t stand that I’ve left you, but that’s not the same as wanting this—us.’
‘I wanted to convince myself that I could contain our relationship. That we could be lovers and work together without any emotional fallout.’
I nod, and then I shiver. I realise belatedly that I haven’t turned the heating on and the house is frozen.
‘I know that. You did a great job. You were able to flick a switch and turn yourself off when it suited you. That’s not love either.’
‘No,’ he groans. ‘I couldn’t. That’s the problem. From the first time we kissed you have been all I can think about. That whole trip to Tokyo I was counting down the minutes till I could see you again. God, when you walked into the boardroom and you were so fucking cold—as though you could barely remember my name, let alone the fact I’d made you come against the wall of my office... Gemma...you’ve had me since then. I have been yours completely.’
A sob is silenced by my throat.
His voice is gravelly and I hear his sincerity, but my brain doesn’t buy it.
‘I’m messed up. I know that. What happened with Lucy was a shitstorm I never braced myself for. There are going to be days when I don’t cope as well as others. Days when I am reminded of the tragedy of her loss.’
‘I know that,’ I whisper. ‘That’s natural.’
‘Lucy’s birthday—it’s hard. It’s a day that should be spent celebrating her chalking up another year and instead I just... I really feel her absence on those days.’
His e
yes are bleak when they meet mine.
‘The hardest part about realising I love you is accepting that I’ll always feel like this. Like I’m betraying her by being with you.’
‘No.’ I shake my head, sadness for him filling me up. ‘I don’t want that. I don’t need you to choose between Lucy and me. We’re different, and how you love us is different. You never have to hide that sadness from me. Don’t you get it? I love all of you, Jack, and that means loving your grief and your sadness. Loving you even when you are lost and alone. Loving Lucy, too, and honouring your relationship.’
His eyes are wide, as though he has never imagined I could say that.
‘She’d have been as pissed off as all hell at the way I’ve jerked you around,’ he mutters. ‘She’d have been glad I’ve fallen in love with you. She would have liked you.’
He strokes my cheek, his lips close to mine. So close. I breathe in deeply and can almost taste him.
‘I like you,’ he whispers against my mouth. ‘I like the way you drink almost as much coffee as I do. I like the way you can’t hold a tune to save your life. I like the way you don’t put up with my bullshit. I like the way you use that magnificent brain of yours and make me exhausted just trying to keep up with you. I like the way you see me and know that beneath all the fucked-upness there’s something about me that you actually like. That I’m worth loving.’
He is. He is worth loving, and I do completely. But it is all so complicated.
I bite down on my lip, staring at him through new eyes. ‘I just don’t... I braced myself for this to end. But for me it was never just sex.’
‘No.’ He cups my cheek, his smile a secret communication from his heart to mine. ‘It was definitely never that.’
He kisses the tip of my nose, like he did after my parents’ party, and as then my heart soars.
‘I know there are no guarantees in life or love, Gemma. I know that better than anyone. But I’m not going to waste another second when we can be together. You mean too much to me. So? What do you say?’
‘About what?’ I ask, my lips twitching into a smile.
‘Let’s do this.’
‘Do what?’ I prompt, shaking my head slightly, feeling a sense of bemusement wrapping around me.
Off Limits Page 17