‘What?’ I stand up, backing away from him, but he stops me before I reach the door, his hold strong on my wrist, using the weight of his upper body to push me up against the wall.
‘Let go of me!’ I shout, struggling against his clumsy advances, his face so close to mine I can smell the aftershave on his stubbly chin. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘I’ve been out of my mind, Jo.’ He stares at me again, then releases me and backs off, his hands raised. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s been over two weeks. You run out of here, after—’
‘After what?’ I’d run out, away from here. Away from him.
‘Look, what happened that night . . .’ He hesitates, looks at me for his cue, but I say nothing. ‘If you’d have given me the chance to explain—’
‘Explain what?’ I ask, a hand to the wall, steadying myself.
‘Okay, that’s fair enough, but you do know what happened was just as much down to you as me. I’ve been getting a lot of mixed messages from you since . . .’
‘What happened?’ I ask, edging my way towards my exit, my path impeded by the small space and the clutter it contains.
‘I suppose I deserve that.’ He sits down behind his desk and looks across at me, my hand behind my back, now grasping the door handle. ‘Where have you been, Jo? Why didn’t you answer my calls? I thought I might never see you again. I thought—’
‘You didn’t call me,’ I tell him. ‘Unless . . .’ I think about the phone that was thrown away, the one that smashed on the tiles in the hallway. ‘My phone broke.’
Nick has closed his eyes to compose himself. ‘What’s going on, Jo?’
He stands up and I flatten myself to the door, turning the handle towards me.
‘Wait!’ he says, taking a step back and almost falling over a pile of folders. ‘Don’t run out again, please. Sit down. Let’s talk about what happened.’
‘I can’t,’ I tell him, my voice raised. ‘I don’t remember what happened. Nothing. Not you. Not this.’ I look around the room. ‘Nothing.’
‘I don’t understand what you mean,’ he says.
I feel the door handle in my grasp, the cold metal reassuring. ‘I had a fall, down the stairs.’
‘My god,’ he says, moving towards me to ask, ‘Are you okay? Are you hurt?’
‘No, except . . .’ My hand falls from the handle. ‘I have no memory of the last year.’
I move to sit down before my legs give way, refusing Nick’s offers of help and sinking down into the low chair as he takes the chair behind his desk. He’s far enough away from me now that I feel able to answer his questions, the solid desk a barrier between us. I hadn’t thought I’d tell him so much, but once I’ve begun it all comes out: the fall, my smashed phone, the hospital, my memory loss. I only stop when his hand reaches across his desk towards me. I warn him not to, the thought of his previous grasp on my wrist causing me to flinch. He apologises, says he won’t touch me again, he promises.
‘What do you think Rob did with your phone?’ Nick asks.
‘I told you, it smashed when I fell. Rob threw it away, bought me a new one.’
Nick raises an eyebrow. ‘I suppose he deleted my emails and messages as well as disposing of your phone.’ He pauses, then almost to himself he asks, ‘Oh god, do you think he read them first?’
‘I don’t understand.’ I can feel my headache returning, the confusion pounding through my skull, disorientating me. ‘You’re saying Rob has deliberately kept me away from here?’
‘From me,’ Nick replies, a comment which he savours, delivers with aplomb.
‘Are you saying you and I . . .?’ I can’t finish the thought, can’t verbalise something that feels so impossible, and yet has been consuming me for days now. Could I really have cheated on my husband? It feels wrong, entirely out of character, and yet—
‘You really don’t remember?’ he asks.
I shake my head and he tells me there have been a couple of ‘incidents’, a few months apart. He looks at me again and apologises for embarrassing me.
I stare at Nick, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘I need you to be more specific.’
‘Jo, please . . .’
‘When?’ I ask.
He tells me the first time was in February. We were in here, just the two of us, drinking, late one evening. Rose had gone home; I was upset about the situation at home. I kissed him. He tried to resist my advances, not because he didn’t want to, but we were drunk, he didn’t want to take advantage. It was something we’d both wanted for some time.
‘Just a kiss?’ I ask and he shakes his head.
‘Were we naked?’ I ask.
‘What?’
‘It’s important. Please.’
‘I think I took my shirt off, undid my trousers.’ He looks down at his desk, moves some papers around before looking at me again. ‘Jo, do we really have to talk about it like this? What happened between us, it meant more than that.’
His body is naked, the skin smooth, contours highlighted by the weak light, my fingers reaching out to touch him, desire coursing through me.
‘We had sex?’ I ask.
‘No, you stopped it, just before.’ He looks away again, towards the wall next to the desk. ‘God, this makes it sound so sordid.’
‘And there was a second time?’ I ask. ‘When was that?’
‘A couple of weeks ago, the last time I saw you, but it was nothing. A misunderstanding. I kissed you, but it wasn’t what you wanted. Nothing happened.’
‘Nothing?’
‘No, not nothing, but we didn’t . . .’ He smiles at me. ‘I got the wrong end of the stick.’
‘What does that mean?’ I ask.
‘You only wanted us to be friends. At least, that’s what you said.’ He pauses. ‘Look, I think you were conflicted, feeling guilty. You ran out. I tried to contact you, but . . .’ He looks straight at me. ‘How did you find your way back here?’
‘Rose emailed me, we met up the other day.’ My tone is abrupt as I try to make sense of what he’s told me. I need him to be quiet for a moment. I was unfaithful to my husband; kissed another man and we almost had sex. And it was me that initiated it the first time. Oh my god, what have I become? Who the hell am I?
‘Jo?’ He leans forward, agitated. ‘I asked you why Rose didn’t say anything; she knew I was desperate to speak to you.’
‘She said you were stressed, maybe she was trying to—’
‘Don’t you defend her!’ he says, his hands tapping out a rhythm on the nearest pile of files. ‘She should have told me straight away.’ He’s silent for a moment, then he looks back at me and says, ‘Why did you fall?’
‘I just slipped,’ I say, but an image of Rob and me has been conjured by Nick’s words. We’re at the top of the stairs, Rob’s anger spilling over. He’s screaming at me . . .
‘And you don’t remember me?’ Nick asks, his eyes boring into mine, a trace of sadness in them, and an intensity I find unbearable. ‘Not at all?’
‘No,’ I reply. ‘Except . . .’
‘Yes?’ The drumming fingers are stilled.
I look around me, trying to find the right words. ‘It’s hard to explain,’ I say. ‘I just know something happened in here.’ I look at him again, his staring eyes, the passion with which he watches me, as though he wants to split open my head and see what’s really inside, and I think of Rob, how I’d wanted to do that to him, to release the endless secrets he keeps, but maybe those secrets were all mine. ‘I don’t remember anything; not really,’ I tell him.
Nick smiles at me, the tension falling away from his features. ‘A whole year lost,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I can’t believe it.’ He switches on his desk lamp, the weak sun through the small window not bright enough to illuminate the room, and for a second the pool of yellow light is comforting. ‘Must be horrendous.’
I tell him I should go, standing up from the chair and collecting my coat and bag from the corner where Rose had stowed th
em for me.
Nick watches me, then says, ‘I guess you need some time to process this.’
I open the door, allowing in the noise from the room beyond, feeling the protection it instantly brings, then I close the door behind me and walk across the crowded room, ignoring Rose’s calls, desperate to get outside, to breathe in fresh air. I don’t even look across at Thomas’s bar as I drive away, my mind filled with Nick’s words, still trying to make sense of them, searching for something recognisable as I relive his account of our affair.
February – This Year
The debrief with Nick and Rose has to be quick, the Job Seekers group running way over time today, and Rose has a bus to catch, she informs us, stuffing a pile of paperwork into her bag-for-life. Nick and I exchange a smile as we both stand to watch her go, her sturdy legs trotting across the empty room, cardigan billowing at her back, the door slamming shut behind her.
‘I imagine her sometimes, in her flat, eating alone, a pile of forms on her lap,’ Nick says, his short arms folded across his barrel chest. ‘You think she’s happy?’
‘Yes, I do,’ I say, smiling at him. ‘Probably more than most.’
Nick frowns at me then laughs, a deep sound that has become as familiar to me as Rose’s gummy smile. I walk out of his office but Nick calls after me. ‘Time for a coffee and a chat? It’s been a heck of a day.’
‘I should probably get home,’ I reply, turning back to see he’s holding up a bottle of whiskey.
‘Rob due home soon?’ Nick asks, an almost imperceptible upwards inflection in his voice. ‘Or have you got ten minutes?’
The office has grown dark around us as we’ve talked, late afternoon turning into early evening, one ‘coffee’ following another, just the weak light of the Anglepoise lamp to illuminate the chaotic room. The single pool of yellow light has lent the room an intimate feel, and I’ve kicked off my shoes, stockinged feet resting on the edge of Nick’s desk, my legs lifted up from the low chair where I currently lounge, a mug of coffee laced with whisky, my third, in my hand. I drink it back, the coffee cold, but the alcohol still burning my throat.
‘I don’t even like whisky,’ I say, laughing to myself.
‘You seem to be managing,’ Nick says, his eyes creasing into a benevolent, possibly admiring, gaze.
‘How am I going to get home now?’ I shake my finger at him, noticing the way the blue flecks in his grey eyes catch the low light, as does the hint of blond that passes through his mousy-brown spiked-up hair. ‘You’re a very bad influence. I thought you were a moral man.’ I pause. ‘Come to think of it; I thought I was a moral woman.’
‘There’s no way you’re driving home,’ Nick says, standing up from his chair to pour me another. ‘May as well finish this.’ He pauses, bottle poised. ‘Unless you’re expected somewhere?’
I laugh, raising my mug for him to fill. ‘By Rob? I doubt he’s even home.’
‘Bad as that?’ Nick asks, topping up his mug too then perching on the edge of his desk. ‘Guy’s an idiot, neglecting you.’ I notice he glances down at my legs, my skirt ridden up to my thighs, but I make no attempt to readjust it, enjoying the confidence his appraisal arouses within me. ‘Wanna talk about it?’ he asks.
‘Not much to say,’ I tell him, but I do, everything spilling out of me as the coffee sloshes around my mug.
‘So Fin’s still living with a friend called Ryan . . .’ I say. Nick raises an eyebrow. ‘No, nothing like that,’ I tell him, but he smiles. ‘It isn’t!’ I repeat. ‘And Sash is living with Thomas . . .’ I point in the general direction of the bar. ‘And my husband, who is at least partially responsible for all this, spends every waking hour at work.’
Nick steps forward and takes the mug from my slack grip. ‘Yeah, maybe you’ve had enough.’
He helps me up from the low chair, then puts my feet back into my shoes and my arms into my coat as I laugh at the ridiculous way my limbs seem to be misbehaving.
‘There!’ he says, still holding me up. ‘Respectable again.’
I lean towards him, our faces almost touching. ‘I never noticed your eyes before,’ I say, laughing at the cheesy comment, then I lift my hand to touch the side of his face, the roughness of his chin catching the soft skin of my palm. ‘You know, Nick . . .’
‘Jo . . .’ Nick steps back, regards me for a moment, his expression confused. ‘I’m not sure we should—’
‘Shush . . .’ I place my finger to my lips, then press the same finger to his mouth. ‘Don’t say anything.’
We kiss, his mouth covering mine, an urgent, desirous kiss. He holds me to him, tighter and tighter, then he pushes me back towards the wall, his hands all over me, working their way under my skirt, then my tights, his fingers exploring my skin now. I try to think of Rob, our home, our marriage; but I want to escape all that, to be me again: Jo, who is desired for who I am, not some trophy for Rob to admire, the perfect wife who cooks his dinner and waits for him at home. He says I’m everything to him, but he’s never there, and although we still make love some nights, I don’t ever feel like I do right now; abandoned and desired. As I give in to that thought I begin to act rather than think, Nick’s passion arousing my own until I almost convince myself it’s him I want. My breaths come short and sharp, and soon it will be too late to stop.
‘No!’ I draw back, gasping for air, pushing him away. ‘This is wrong. I shouldn’t. It’s not fair to Rob. He’s never cheated on me. It’s—’
We look at one another, then Nick nods, turns away and pulls on his shirt. ‘You can’t drive,’ he says, turning back as he fastens his trouser belt.
I retrieve my shoe from under his desk, buttoning my blouse as I stand up. ‘I’ll find a taxi outside,’ I say, pulling on my coat and slinging my bag over my shoulder.
‘Can we talk about what just happened?’ he asks.
I shake my head and walk towards the door, but he follows, grabs my wrist. I look down at his hand, and he lets go, stepping aside. I leave his office, closing the door behind me.
The room beyond is empty, only the light from the computer screens to guide me around the tables and chairs. I’m disorientated, the darkness and the effects of the alcohol combining to confuse me, but I walk fast. Then the door behind me is thrown open again, the weak yellow light spilling across the carpet towards me. ‘Wait!’ Nick calls after me. ‘Jo, please. Let’s discuss what’s just happened.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I call back as I stumble, banging into a chair, my shin throbbing from the impact, but I don’t look back.
‘Jo!’ Nick calls after me. ‘Don’t leave like this. We need to talk about it. Jo, please!’
I pull open the door to the street, the intake of cold air in my lungs beginning to sober me up, although my head still spins, the view of the artificially lit street tilted on a twisted axis. I shake my head to clear it and hurry on, past the closed shops and empty offices, even faster now, the throbbing pain in my shin causing me to limp, a dampness between my legs I try to ignore. I don’t look back until I’ve turned the corner. Then, glancing back to see no one is behind me, I stop and rub my shin, although the pain is good. Real. Appropriate. I slump against a wall, almost falling, reaching out a hand to steady myself as a couple with a small dog look over at me with obvious disapproval.
Disorientated by my flight, the direction of which seems irrelevant, I move on, away from their stares, on and on in a state of panic until I finally must stop, my lungs screaming at me, my leg throbbing with pain. I look around me, noticing a rough-looking bar across the busy road: The Limes. Thomas’s bar. The curtains in the flat above are half closed, but there’s a light on behind them. If I could see Sash, drink some coffee, sober up enough to drive home, I might be able to face Rob. I try her mobile, but it goes straight to voicemail, her chirpy greeting bringing more tears and renewed determination to find her. I cross the road, a hand raised in apology to the driver who brakes then swerves his car around me. I reach the door to the bar and pause to gather m
yself, rehearsing my excuse to Sash; a friend who was poorly and had to go home, a meal abandoned, a long queue for taxis, a few too many drinks. When I peer through the glass door, the interior looks deserted. I almost turn back without trying the door, but when I do I find it’s unlocked.
Inside, the bar is empty. The door swings closed behind me cutting out any outside light. I stumble across the room, a chair leg tripping me up, the heavy mahogany of the bar hitting me as I turn the corner too early into a dimly lit corridor at the back. There are so many doors: a cupboard, a stock room, the stinking gents’ toilet. Then I spot a flight of stairs, a sliver of light at the top from an open door. She’s still awake. Thank god. I trip again as I climb, crying out then lifting the palm which saved me from the dusty step to cover my mouth. I look up at the door above me, hoping Sash will have heard me and come out. It’s so careless, leaving the place unlocked, typical Sash, and Thomas by the looks of it. Anyone could have wandered in, just as I did. At the very least I need to tell her that. I dust myself down, shaking my head to try to clear it. Listening for sounds of life, I almost lose my resolve again, but the light is on and I’m so close now. I just need to get to Sash and I’ll be fine. I’ll ask her if we can go somewhere, get a coffee. The door is ajar; I just need to call her name. If no one’s there I can leave the way I came. I push open the door to reveal one room, a bed at the centre. I hadn’t expected that, assuming there would be a hallway, or the sitting room first, but I’m already in the room and someone is stirring, turning over in their sleep to see who has walked in. At first I fear I may have walked in on them both, joined as one in an embrace, or worse, but as my eyes adjust to the light I can only make out Thomas, his back turned. I shrink back into the shadows, still looking around for Sash, but she’s not here. I should run out the way I’ve come, back to the safety of the dark street, but I don’t. Maybe it’s the alcohol, dulling my senses, or the shock of what I’ve run from, or what I’ve run to, but I’m transfixed by the beauty of that naked body. Oh the exquisiteness of it, a smooth curve of taut skin, the muscles beneath defined, moving slowly, flexing as Thomas turns to me.
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